A/N: ...And another Hetalia story. I'm really popping these out lately, eh? And of course, they're almost all focused on Canada. Who I absolutely adore despite the fact that I'm American. Also, I don't watch hockey but I stumbled upon thise fact and fell in love. The incident with Cashman really did happen.

"Relax, Luddy, you don't have anything to be worried about!" America threw the German Nation a cheeky grin, one arm slinging itself around the taller man's shoulders.

On Germany's part, he was rather controlled in his response. With one hand, and a rather disdainful look, he lifted the arm from his shoulders and shoved it back in the American's general direction. "I am not vorried, Alfred. I vas merely asking how Bervald thought Mattvew vould do. And do not call me 'Luddy'!"

America wasn't deterred in the slightest when his arm was shrugged off. In fact, he used the now free hand to his advantage and grabbed himself one of the coca-cola bottles from the middle of the table. Normally, the table wasn't used for anything but World Meeting's but today it had turned into a snack bar. It would probably stay like that until the Winter Olympic's were over too.

"Sure, sure, 'course you're not worried. I mean, what do ya have to worry over? Mathew's gonna be cinch for you to beat!" America wasn't being mean or putting his brother, almost twin, down on purpose. He was just stating what was, no doubt, the truth of the matter as hand. After all, Canada might have invented hockey (a feat that he still didn't understand) but he was far too mild-mannered to actually be any good at the sport. America had won their match by two whole points!

A sigh escaped from Germany, blue eyes rolling at the exhuberant Nation, before he turned his attention back to the Swede. Honestly, he wasn't worried about how he was going to d. His team was made up of some of the best players in his county, plus himself, so there would be no way that a Nation such as Canada could beat him. He was just using good battle-strategy and gathering some information on his enemies strategies.

"Vell Bervald?" Germany raised a pale brow in the other man's direction. "You have experience vith Mattvew's hockey team, ja? Any advice before my match?"

Sweden lazily looked over the two Nation's nearest him. They both had a rather pompous air of confidence around the. America because he had already beaten his brother once and Germany because he thought that he had secured an easy win for the next day.

It was rather amusing, even to him, because niether Nation knew what was in store for them the next day. Not that the faint flicker of amusement was betrayed on his face; no, that stayed as stoic as ever. "Y's. I d'."

Silence. Germany pursed his lips together slightly, one hand swishing through the air to gesture the Swede to continue.

His team had been loosing. Completely dominated on the ice, like they had never even seen a puck before let alone scored a goal. And it wasn't by one of the stronger Nations, such as Russia or Germany or even America (who was decidedly not as good as the other two), but by Canada.

Canada. Mathew. The ghost that haunted the World Meeting's and that most people never saw. Sweet, polite, mild-mannered Canada who Sweden had never even thought about loosing to before.

But he'd been full of himself and he and his team had almost lost badly. They would have lost badly if Canute's stick hadn't gotten lodged in Cashman's mouth; quite a feat and one that Sweden wasn't entirely sure was not on prupose. Canute was known for playing dirty when he was backed into a corner so it wouldn't come as a surprise if he'd been aiming for his opponment's mouth.

Not that he would ever say that out was still a part of his team after all and he wouldn't let his name be so disheveled.

Expertly untying the laces of his skates and slipping them off, only for them to be layed neatly beside the bench he was sitting on, Sweden replayed the scene in his mind. There had been a lot of blood, red spewing just everywhere, and a huge commotion as the entire Canadian team rushed towards Cashman. Canada himself was right up there at the front of the group, worry plastered on his face.

The offending hockey stick had clattered to the ground, blood splashing from it onto the ice. And then Canada and one other member of his team, Sweden wasn't entirely sure which one, had each grabbed an arm and hoisted Cashman over their shoulders to take him off to the emergency room.

That had been almost three hours ago.

The sound of the locker room door opening, soft footsteps entering the room, broke him from his thoughts. Looking up, he saw that Canada was standing several feet away from him. The blond's violet eyes were narrowed, blood that obviously wasn't his smeared on his jersey and across his face, and mouth pursed in a thin line.

It looked like the face the Northern Nation had pulled while he was on the ice.

"C'n'd', h'w's C'sh?"Sweden questioned. It was evidently the wrong question, though, because the moment the words left his mouth he found himself pinned back against the wall. The normally mild-mannered boy had curled his fists into his jersey, one beneath each shoulder blade, and leaned foreward so that their faces were only inches apart.

"How's Cash? How's Cash? Do you know what a stick to the mouth does? It nearly ripped out his tounge! Ripped it straight out of his mouth! He had to get fifty stiches, Berwald! Fifty!" Canada spat the words out like they were venom-coated, the full-force of his arctic winds behind each syllable.

For a moment, long and tense, Berwald couldn't think of anything to say. And then, face still neutral, he was blinking and sticking up for the man responsible. " 'T w'sn't 'n p'rp's'."

Wrong words. Again.

A snarl ripped itself from that Canadian's throat, face dangerously close to Sweden's own. The hands fisted in Sweden's jersey yanked forewards before and then back, slamming him into the wall again. Only he wasn't done at just that.

Pain exploded in Sweden's face as a pale fist came in contact with his jaw. His head snapped back and he could taste the blood welling up from where he'd bitten his tounge. Canada dropped his other hand and snarled again.

"I know it wasn't an accident, Berwald."

America might have lost in the first match but that just meant that Canada would be all the more determined not loose in the others. Hockey brought out something in Canada that only war brought out in the other Nations; something violent and fierce and terrifying.

So it was with a simple shrug that Sweden told Germany exactly what would happen to him.

"Y'r g'nn' l'se."