Summary: This installment kind of takes place outside of the others in the series, but it ties in with them here and there. Really branching out now to Mikael Stahl's POV. Featuring Dean Portman, Wolf Stansson, and of course Gunnar. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I suppose I kind of own Mikael Stahl...but not really, since his brother and the whole universe they live in belong to Disney.

Author's Note: Is it wrong to be intrigued by your own brain's invention? After that last installment, I just had to explore Mikael Stahl a little more. This piece is like a glimpse behind the scenes of my own Sympathy Series, which is itself like a glimpse behind the scenes of the MD2 film. Hope you enjoy!

Sympathy for the Icelanders: Part VI

Other Side of the World

My first observation was that Los Angeles was hot. And crowded. Even after successfully navigating my way through the airport and to the hotel, it was still a struggle to reach the housing facilities for the Jr. Goodwill Games hockey teams.

And no sooner had I finally gotten directions that would at least take me to Wolf Stansson, than I turned a corner and ran headlong into a tall young man with short black hair. We both staggered back a couple of steps after the surprise impact, and I uttered a short curse in German. He did the same, only in English.

At least he was quick to apologize. "Hey, sorry about that, I totally didn't see you." At a glance, he looked nineteen or twenty, but I was willing to bet his actual age was a handful of years younger than that – especially if he was here as a competitor in the Games.

"It's all right," I assured him. "I should have been watching more closely, too; it's been a long day of travelling."

"Really – where are you from?" he asked, probably curious about my accent.

And since he seemed genuinely interested, I answered, "I just flew in from Hamburg, Germany. I think I still have a few hours before the time difference hits me."

"Are you here for the Goodwill Games at all?"

"Partly. My brother is here competing."

"Wow, man, you like flew over from the other side of the world. That's a long way to go just to watch your brother play."

He sounded so very impressed. How could I best phrase the honest truth? "I've seen him play. Let's just say I've always wanted to come see California, and it's a happy coincidence that he's here at the same time."

"What sport is your brother competing in?"

"Hockey," I replied, not thinking anything of it; however, it definitely triggered a reaction from my companion. He practically looked embarrassed.

"Oh, dude, sorry about that…My name is Dean Portman, and I actually play for Team USA hockey. We beat Germany a couple nights ago, so they're out of the tournament. I'm sorry you missed getting to see him play."

I was still stuck on his first revelation. An American player? Well, this was suddenly interesting! I may not have seen the first matchup between Iceland and America, but word of that lopsided victory had reached me even in Hamburg.

"That's not a problem," I said at length. "My brother doesn't play for the German team."

He blinked as he processed that last bit. "Huh? How does that work if you're from Germany?"

"I live in Germany now, and I was born in Berlin," I clarified, fully enjoying the ironic turn this conversation had somehow taken. "But I grew up and spent most of my life in Reykjavik, Iceland."

All the friendliness remaining in Portman's countenance suddenly turned brittle. So I smiled my best smile and stretched out my hand in a formal introduction.

"My name is Mikael Stahl."

And oh, yes, I could tell he knew that name. It made me wonder distantly what sort of reputation Gunnar had built up for himself here at the Goodwill Games.

Dean shook my hand, but only with grave reservation. "Seriously? You're his brother?"

"I'm afraid so; I can remember when my parents brought him home from the hospital."

"And is that a good memory?"

"I still haven't decided."

He shook his head, bemused. "Sorry, it's just…you actually seem pretty cool. But your brother and his Iceland buddies have not been our favorite people here at the Games."

"So?" I shrugged. "He's never been my favorite person, either."

That particular comment was met with confusion, so I elaborated, "Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"One younger sister, yeah."

"And is she ever your favorite person in the world?"

Now we had an understanding. He smiled grimly. "I'll be you know Sanderson pretty well then, too."

"Olaf? Oh, yes. I've known him long enough that he might as well be related to me."

Portman's eyes were smoldering with competitive fire. "Boy, I can't wait to have another shot at those guys the next time we play them…" But then suddenly he stopped, as though remembering exactly who he was talking to. He forced out another poor apology. "Sorry – you're probably not the best person to say that to, huh?"

Finally, I couldn't hold back my laughter any longer. "You don't have to worry about me getting in your way. I've played hockey, so I understand that, on the ice, Olaf and Gunnar are fair game. It is a violent sport; if they can't take the hitting, they should not play." I knew they'd be able to handle anything this kid could throw at them, though. Wolf would have made sure of that.

"They used to beg me to practice with them when they were younger," I reminisced. "And anytime I did, I was never gentle or easy on them. My mother did not appreciate that, but the boys never complained. And they were never seriously hurt."

"So you don't play hockey anymore? You sure you're not gonna join their team at the last minute?"

I chuckled again. "Wolf would probably like that, if I could; unfortunately for him, I'm pretty sure I am too old for these Games. But, no, I haven't played organized hockey in years. Now I play professional handball for a team in Hamburg instead."

"You mean like handball against a wall?" He was confused again.

"No, I mean team handball, with a net and a goalie. It is popular in Europe, but I don't think you have it here in America. Like hockey, it's very fast-paced and precise."

I could tell he still didn't know what I was talking about, and I was debating over whether or not to go into more detail – until I caught a glimpse of Stansson himself walking away from us down the hall. So I quickly excused myself instead and moved to overtake my former coach.

"Wolf!" I called out, clearly catching him by surprise.

His expression when he turned and saw me was a difficult one to read, yet he shook my hand cordially enough. "Mikael. Gunnar didn't tell me you were coming."

"He doesn't know; I thought it would be more fun to surprise him."

"And distract him, while you're at it?"

"Come on, Wolf," I half-joked. "You're not still sore that I chose handball over hockey, are you?"

"Why shouldn't I be?" came his stern response. "You had real talent."

"Gunnar has more."

Wolf could have disputed that statement, but he chose not to. "Potentially, yes. Gunnar has a better build for hockey, although I will say you were a better skater at his age."

"I'm still a better skater than he is; it's the one thing I've really kept up with."

"I'm happy to hear it." His words were affirming, but not his tone. Nevertheless, I followed him back to his office and took a seat across from him, placing his desk between us.

Contrary to whatever rumors may still be circulating, I did not quit hockey because of Wolf Stansson. I just happened to quit while he was my coach. I still love hockey and do skate for pleasure whenever I have the chance; it would please me very much to see Gunnar pursue the sport farther than I elected to. He truly could go far, if he so chooses, and I know Wolf is fully aware of this as well.

After engaging me in more small talk for a while, he broached a new topic. "The Atlanta Olympics are in two years. Are you going to try out?"

I nodded slowly. "I would like to, yes."

"And for which country?"

"Iceland, of course. As happy as I am to be off that island now, I still consider it my homeland."

"But you are half German, and Gunnar told me you had recently applied for permanent citizenship in Germany. You could easily represent them as well, especially considering your father's athletic accomplishments there."

"True," I conceded, a little taken aback by his sudden reference to my father's football career. "I'm sure Germany has a better chance of medaling, too. Speaking of medals, I was at your game earlier this afternoon; the boys look good, Wolf. They certainly have grown up quickly."

"Physically, perhaps; but in other ways, believe me, they are still as immature as ever."

"Oh, I would never doubt your word on that. I think Olaf in particular may need at least another twenty years before we can say he's grown up."

But then Wolf's attention was drawn to something over my shoulder, and I turned to look for myself. Speak of the devil…there stood Olaf Sanderson in the doorway with a decidedly mischievous gleam in his sharp blue eyes. I grinned right back before I could stop myself, and for that moment, I could almost pity my little brother. Almost.

I hadn't seen Gunnar since he'd left the ice with his teammates last night in defeat. I had gone to the match, of course. And while I could hardly vouch for the officiating crew, I had to admit those Ducks had put together an impressive comeback victory. I could only imagine the mood Stansson must have been in afterwards, though.

Personally, I had been nervous as soon as I'd seen Team USA's backup goalie skating out toward the net. No coach would dream of making a substitution like that without a damn good reason; and having done his homework on Gunnar Stahl, Bombay apparently had one.

Now I was wide awake at an ungodly hour of the morning, bound for the one place where I knew I would be able to find my brother. Not only was he right where I expected him to be, back on the practice rink; he was also doing exactly what I expected to find him doing – going through the repetitive motions of a penalty shot. Over and over.

I stepped out onto the ice and called to get his attention. "Gunnar!"

His head snapped up at the sound, but he seemed to relax a little when he saw that it was me skating out to join him. "I thought you were Coach. What are you doing here?"

"Is that how you're going to greet me every time I see you from now on? I just wanted to check on you; and since I knew you'd be here, I figured I might as well keep you company for a while, too."

"I'm not exactly in the mood for company right now." He used his stick to gesture down toward my feet. "Where did you get the skates?"

"Borrowed from one of your big-footed teammates," I explained simply. "Have you been out here all night?"

"Practically."

I shook my head. "Your sleeping patterns are going to be so messed up when you get home, little brother."

"I'm sure." He sighed, his shoulders sagging. "I'm still just trying to figure out what happened last night."

"Simply put? They made an adjustment, you didn't; so they won."

"Yeah." He processed my words stoically, then wound up and took a strong slap-shot toward the net from where he stood. It went in, stick-side corner. "Mikael…what do I do about Coach?"

The question surprised me more than it should have. I suppose Gunnar has never really failed Wolf before this, whereas I've been living in the shadow of that man's disappointment for several years now. I took plenty of time crafting my response to him.

"For now, the best thing you can do is just weather the storm and keep your head held high. I would say don't allow him to interrupt your work ethic at practice…but considering where we are right now, I don't think that's going to be an issue for you."

Gunnar listened to me, but his eyes never left the ice. "Are you sure he's not the reason you stopped playing hockey? Or at least part of the reason?"

"I'm sure," I answered honestly. "Gunnar, in many ways Wolf Stansson is a very effective coach; and in other ways, he's a manipulative bastard. But I'm afraid you'll find a lot of people are like that, no matter where you go or what sport you play."

He just nodded, so I continued, "I only left hockey because I can't be two people. I played two sports obsessively for years; but by the time I was your age, I knew I would have to drop one of them if I wanted to have any chance of playing the other at a professional level. I saw a better future for myself with handball, and so far I have no reason to regret that decision. Especially not when I can see that my little brother has the potential to be better at hockey than I ever was."

I had hoped that last comment would spark some kind of life in him, but if anything, he just seemed to droop even more. With his head hanging so dejectedly low, his hair prevented me from reading his expression. His hair is the same dark blonde color as my own, but he has always worn his longer. I like to keep mine short, styled much like Olaf has his.

I abruptly changed the subject. "Hey – has Mom told you to cut your hair yet?"

"No."

"Well, she should; it's getting way too long."

Predictably, he rolled his eyes, but at least I had distracted him for a moment with the thought of something other than hockey. And I finally noticed then how red and bloodshot his eyes were; the dark circles gathering under them made my brother look half dead.

"You know what we need to do? Find you a cute date for tonight – something to take your mind off your own troubles."

He just shrugged, hardly enthused by the idea. "Somehow I don't think that's very likely to happen."

"Not with you looking like a zombie, it's not. Come on, Gunnar, you need to clean up and get some sleep."

"I know," he sighed. "I'm just…not ready to go back there yet."

He sounded so thoroughly defeated that I truly did feel sorry for him; however, I knew he would gain nothing by avoiding his teammates. Maybe he would feel brave enough to face them once he was rested.

"Why don't you come back to my hotel room, then?" I offered, feeling uncommonly generous. "You can crash there for a few hours, and I promise I won't sit on you."

I think he almost smiled at that. "No, not now…maybe later, though?"

"Sure thing."

He looked thoughtful now. "How much longer are you staying in Los Angeles?"

"Just two more nights, then I'll leave the morning after you all do. I'm going to make a couple of other stops in San Francisco and Seattle before heading back to Hamburg."

Here I half expected him to insist that I should make an extra detour to Reykjavik for a familial visit; when there came no such petition, I was left having to convince myself that his indifference didn't actually bother me.

I briefly gripped the back of his neck in an attempt at reassurance before cautioning, "But seriously, Gunnar – you really should clear out of here before any reporters show up. Trust me."

He nodded, picking up on my earnestness for once, and I knew he was being truthful when he answered, "I will. Thanks, Mikael."

I stayed long enough to go through some complex passing drills with him, still so familiar to me that I could do them without thinking, and then left with the promise that I would see him and Olaf at least once more before their team departed for Iceland the following night. I went out through one of the side doors, and stepping off of an ice rink made the Los Angeles summer heat feel even more oppressive.

But just as I rounded the building, I noticed a familiar teenaged girl with blonde hair walking up to the front entrance. It was the American goalie who had stopped Gunnar's shot last night. I almost rushed up to stop her, knowing she was bound to see Gunnar if she went inside; but something stopped me.

Who could say what would happen? Maybe it would do him good to speak with her, or maybe she would have better luck cheering him up than I had? She was certainly pretty enough, and I had seen Gunnar watching her from a distance last night while the Americans celebrated their victory.

Perhaps he would end up with a date for today, after all.

Author's End Note: So there we have it: Sympathy Part 6 ends right where Sympathy Part 3 begins. If you're not familiar at all with the sport of team handball, I highly recommend looking it up on youtube. It's pretty cool. Also, for my fellow Americans, when I mention Mikael and Gunnar's father being a "football player," I mean it as "soccer player." I figured we might as well give their whole family a varied but impressive athletic history. Next up, I'm trying to gather enough material in my head for another installment from Gunnar's POV, after his date with Julie. Wish me luck, and thanks for reading!