Summary: Immediate sequel to "Frozen Hell." Find out why Iceland is heads above the competition. This time featuring Olaf Sanderson, with appearances by Wolf Stansson and Gunnar Stahl. Oneshot, still Julie's POV. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Don't worry, I still own nothing.

Author's Note: We're back, and with more Iceland goodness for all! Bit of a different taste this time around, but I trust it'll keep you entertained all the same. Enjoy!

Sympathy for the Icelanders Part II:

Heads Above

Why wasn't I tired? After a less than pleasant evening stuck in an icebox with my least favorite team's star player, I could only sleep a mere two hours before waking up again, and with no desire to go back to sleep. How strange.

Granted, I had slept a little bit while in that hellish storeroom, but I was trying not to think about that right now. Trying really, really hard not to think about it. Unfortunately, I still had in my possession a very physical reminder of what had transpired over the last ten hours: a black sports jacket.

Dean Portman, who'd been the one to find me there, and my roommate Connie had both insisted that I "burn the disgusting thing as soon as possible," but I could never bring myself to do something so drastic. What I really wanted was to return the jacket, as it seemed only the proper thing to do, but what I really didn't want was to see the garment's rightful owner. It would be too awkward.

Although, he had mentioned that their practice went from six-thirty until nine o'clock this morning. It was eight forty-five now. If I hurried, maybe I could make it to the rink, catch him just long enough to drop it off, and leave as fast my two goalie legs could carry me. It was worth a shot.

Yet as I walked briskly over to the stadium, a nagging sensation in the back of my mind persisted that there was another reason I wanted to go, something much more than a common sense of obligation. After a long day yesterday and an incredibly long night, I knew Gunnar had another rough day ahead of him; so deep down, I guess part of me just wanted to see how he was doing.

Since when had I gotten so soft toward him? I honestly don't know, but it was quite an unsettling revelation.

I presently arrived at my destination and walked on instinct toward the ice rink where I could distinctly make out the sounds of a hockey team hard at practice. I hurried over to a nearby window and cautiously peered out onto the rink. Yep, that was Iceland, all right. At the moment, they appeared to be reaching the end of a scrimmage, white jerseys against black.

My eyes unconsciously scanned the crowd for Gunnar and eventually found him playing for the black team. There were no names or numbers on the practice jerseys, so it was his hair that gave him away; I probably wouldn't have been able to pick him out otherwise. And he seemed to be playing well enough – a little sluggish at times, perhaps, when the puck was far from him, but at the end of a long practice, that much could be expected from anyone. He would be fine.

I couldn't help feeling somewhat like a spy as I watched them play, although the experience hadn't told me anything I didn't already know. They were good, plain and simple: expertly disciplined and well-trained in all the essentials of hockey. But one thing still puzzled me exceedingly. Where was their coach?

Indeed, Wolf "The Dentist" Stansson was nowhere to be seen. Yet as nine o'clock rolled around and players started making their way off the ice, my conundrum was resolved when another player in full gear and a black jersey skated out from the far tunnel onto the ice. It was Stansson. But whatever did he mean by showing up like this now, when practice was over?

The Viking Chief called out a few words in Icelandic, and I watched, still perplexed, as Gunnar Stahl suddenly turned aside from his path toward the haven of the locker room and rejoined his coach at center ice. All the other players left them.

Being the sole audience to whatever was about to transpire caused me to shift on my feet uneasily, though I could not yet understand why. I would soon enough.

Stansson tossed a single puck down in between them, and the two Icelanders bent over for an unofficial face-off. Then the proverbial light bulb went on as I finally realized they were going to play each other – actually play one-on-one, as a coach against his finest pupil. I held my breath and leaned anxiously forward into the glass. This should be good.

The two combatants crossed sticks, and the game was on. I'm not sure what they were playing – it was probably something reminiscent of Three-Bar – but I did know instantly that this game had absolutely zero rules. As if on some sort of unspoken understanding, they were playing with no holds barred, and Stansson was a veritable menace.

I had never seen "The Dentist" in action during his brief career in the NHL, but I cannot imagine it would have been much different from what I was seeing now. "Violent" is the only word I could possibly think of to describe the scene. This grown man, with a lifetime of aggressive hockey experience to his credit, was exercising no restraint whatsoever as he played a "friendly practice round" with his own star player.

Gunnar was being thrown around on the ice like a rag doll. Stansson made it look easier than the way Stahl and his teammates had walked all over Team USA in our first matchup, and while I could tell the younger man was genuinely trying to put up a good fight, it was just as obviously a futile effort.

He was already exhausted – from both grueling practice routines yesterday and this morning, and from an exceedingly late night with little sleep, which I'm sure Stansson knew nothing about. I fervently hoped Gunnar had found something else to eat before practice besides that disgusting thing that was once a protein bar.

As the "game" dragged on, I felt sick. Was this even legal? Yes, I suppose it was still "hockey" in the technical sense, but it was still entirely uncalled for. And no doubt Gunnar would still be expected to put up a stellar performance in Iceland's official game later that same day. Good God, how long could any player put up with this abuse before it all ended in bitter mutiny, like Goldberg had suggested for our own team only a few days prior?

I mean, I love hockey, and there are many things I would be willing to endure if it meant improving my game…but not this. Never, ever something like this. Was it pure devotion to the game that drove Gunnar to it? If so, then maybe Iceland truly had deserved to win their first game against us. Maybe. When we played them in the championship, however, it would be a fresh start for Team USA, and anything was possible.

Suddenly, I was aware of a new presence looming up behind me – a very tall and vaguely familiar presence.

"Come to watch the show?"

I literally cringed, my first instinct telling me to bolt. Now there was another voice I would know anywhere. The accent was thicker than the one I had heard so often last night, and I idly wondered if the young man still on the ice worked harder at that than the rest of his colleagues, as well.

Don't break a nail…

What, oh what, in the world had I done to deserve a close encounter with each of the two Iceland players I had humiliated during our first encounter? Maybe the Powers That Be wanted to teach me some valuable lessons, like gentleness and humility? Nah!

But for as much as I despised Olaf Sanderson, I suppose I should have been more troubled by his discovering me like this. As it happened, I was just relieved to finally have someone to interrogate.

"What's going on out there?" I demanded without ceremony.

He paid no heed to my brusqueness, only answered simply, "Gunnar gets a little special attention from the coach today."

"Hmph," I snorted. "Special attention is usually something that makes your teammates jealous of you."

Olaf laughed, that same braying, obnoxious laugh we'd all come to hate him for and cheerfully rebuked, "Oh no, we don't envy him. Trust me."

I was still hopelessly confused. "Then what the heck is your coach doing?"

The tall Icelander simply grinned his typical, mischievous grin and turned his attention back to the pair of contestants on the ice.

"He's making a champion."

Horrified, I could only watch as Gunnar was once more ruthlessly checked into the boards; he landed on his knees, and I could see him slowly shake his head. Stansson started yelling.

"What's he saying?" I asked, too intrigued to care that I probably wouldn't like the answer.

Olaf leaned in closer to me, but his eyes remained on his two countrymen. "He says, 'Hit me hard, or I swear I'll hit you harder'."

I felt my face pale. "But…isn't he worried Gunnar will get hurt?"

"No, not really. Coach isn't actually trying to hurt him, but he will make Gunnar see stars if he doesn't improve soon."

"But this is the Jr. Goodwill Games – for teenagers! Not the NHL."

"It's never stopped them before."

"Before?" I echoed. "You mean they do this often?"

A nod, but no reply.

I sighed, frustrated beyond expression, and glanced up at the clock. "They've been at this for fifteen minutes already. How much longer will Stansson keep him out there?"

Olaf shrugged. "Half an hour, maybe. Less, if he's lucky."

"But don't you guys have a game this afternoon?"

"Yah, and he will play."

I was appalled. "Like this?"

My blonde nemesis chuckled, plainly enjoying my revulsion of the whole affair. It was all just another day for him. "Gunnar will still get a couple hours of sleep. He'll survive. Besides, we're only playing Italy; it should not be hard."

Yeah right, I almost bit back, for I knew the sleep would do Gunnar little good. If anything, it would probably just serve to make him sore right before their game.

"But why would Coach Stansson do that?" I retorted hotly. "I thought Gunnar was your best player?"

"He is – and this is why. Coach pushes him harder and demands more from him than any of us, which is exactly why Gunnar is heads above everyone else here. After doing this a few times, he's not afraid of anyone else on the ice; at least, not in our age group."

My curiosity spiked. "How old is he?"

"He just turned sixteen last month."

So Stansson was essentially beating up a kid, then – someone less than two years older than myself. I couldn't explain it, but I felt a sudden surge of indignation. This man was cruel! He practically made Captain Blood look like the Easter Bunny.

"Is that all? Sixteen?"

"Most of our team is fifteen or sixteen," Olaf explained more fully. "I'm the oldest, at seventeen."

I was genuinely surprised. "But you guys all look like you're twenty."

He shrugged. "Size does help us make the team, I suppose; but Gunnar is good enough that even if he were only half his size, he would still make the team."

I slowly nodded and took this opportunity to observe my visitor with a new eye. He did have the fair Scandinavian blonde hair that Gunnar lacked, and his eyes were an even brighter shade of blue. But what amazed me most was how Olaf Sanderson could sound like such a transformed person – actually not a jerk – while talking about his longtime friend.

"He is good," I conceded in an attempt to revive the conversation. "I wouldn't be surprised if he ends up being the lead scorer for the entire tournament."

"He already is," my companion informed me, "and first in assists."

Wow. Where did he get all those stats? Probably from a proud coach, I'd imagine. "Do you know who's second in scoring?" I mentally crossed my fingers, hoping it might be Banks or one of my other teammates. Turns out, all I had done was set myself up for disappointment.

"I am," Olaf answered with a smug grin.

I returned his sardonic smile with one of my own. "So in other words, Gunnar helped you get there?"

Unfortunately, that didn't appear to faze him. "It works both ways, you know. I'm also second in assists."

Dang it! With all the statistics overwhelmingly in his favor, I was rapidly running out of comebacks. "So you're the perfect team then, huh?" Sorry, it was the best I could come up with.

"You could say that," he replied easily. "We know each other too well, have played together too long. I know what he's going to do out there, and the same for him."

I watched again as the subject of our discussion was slammed into the boards by his own mentor. It hurt just watching him. Maybe I wouldn't have minded so much if it had been Sanderson himself, instead?

"Have you ever done this?" I asked, gesturing out to where Wolf Stansson was pounding his star player to a pulp.

"Only once, over a year ago; and hopefully never again."

You shouldn't worry about that, I wanted to tell him. You're mean enough already.

I never had the opportunity, though, for just then there was a loud crash out on the ice, and Olaf and I both winced when we saw the younger of the two men sprawled flat on his stomach. He made no move to get up right away. I might have heard a low groan, but then again, it could just as easily have been my imagination.

"I should go," my companion said at length, once Gunnar had pitifully regained his feet. "He will probably need me to tuck him in bed after this."

Before I could think better of it and stop myself, I laughed aloud at the image that sentence conjured up; and Sanderson, when he saw how my amusement had been sparked, grinned right back and threw me a none-too-subtle wink. Rather the opposite of Gunnar last night.

But, boys will be boys, I suppose. I shook my head, wrestling to keep the warmth from rising in my cheeks, and he turned to walk away. Only then did I remember the whole reason I'd come there in the first place.

"Wait!" I shouted, darting off to catch up with him. "Olaf, wait!" Oh, good Lord! Since when was I on a first-name basis with this chauvinistic idiot? Clearly, last night in the storeroom had not been good to me. Perhaps I'd not yet even realized the full extent of the damage?

But, on the bright side, Olaf had stopped to wait for me, a look of evident perplexity scrawled across his face. I hurried up to him and awkwardly thrust a black bundle into his unsuspecting arms.

"Um, here," I stammered in a rush. "Could you give this back to him for me? Please? It's…uh, it's his."

I trailed off without waiting for a reply and turned on my heel, leaving him standing there clueless. I could already feel another hateful blush creeping into my cheeks, and I was not going to stick around long enough to see him figure out what the mystery object was. The past twelve hours had already been weird enough without having to suffer through that particular conversation. He would probably hear the full story from Gunnar later on, anyway.

But would Sanderson tell his friend about our little encounter this morning? My stomach twisted in awful trepidation. It was hard to say. I suppose he would have to offer some sort of explanation as to how the jacket came into his possession. Ah well. Nothing could really be worse than last night, anyway.

Yet one thing was invariably certain: Olaf Sanderson possessed a tremendous amount of respect for his team captain, and for him, that was saying something. Of course, I'd probably still wish the big brainless oaf dead the next time I saw him play, but that was a different matter altogether. For my own part, though, as I stepped back out into the California sunshine, I didn't know whether I should respect or pity Gunnar Stahl.

Perhaps a little of both.

Author's End Note: And so, that's that. A bit extreme with Stansson and Gunnar, perhaps, but I can totally see it. Just depends on your perspective I guess. Feel free to let me know what you think, and keep an eye out for the concluding Part 3 of our series - "Melting Ice" - coming soon to a fanfiction site near you. Trust me, if you've read the first two, you definitely won't want to miss it. Later!