Hello! Here's chapter 2 for you. It's up rather quickly because I kind of want to get the gist of the story started, but updates will probably be about once every 5 days or so. Thanks to those who reviewed/alerted/favourited etc. I hope this doesn't disappoint!
And a quick note: for the reviewer who asked, yup, I'm a Vancouverite. What can I say, I couldn't resist putting my city in there.
As the puck flew past him, all Alfred could do was watch in awe. The Swede had one of the most powerful slapshots the American had ever seen. The puck was little more than a dark blur as it whizzed towards Team Alfred's goal.
Damn, he cursed wistfully. It would have been nice to win against Tino and Berwald for once. He didn't usually like playing with the duo due to their synchrony. The way the two-man team moved on ice made it almost seem as though they could read each other's minds.
Alfred nearly shut his eyes as the puck raced towards his somewhat petite goalie. A shot like that, at that speed, would be a difficult one for even a pro to spot and stop in time. The Scandinavian team had won, he was sure. Well, at least it wasn't to Ivan.
The puck never made the net. Before the American had even realized what had happened, he had the disc and his goalie yelling at him to go go go! The goalie had dived just in time, deflecting the puck off of his stick towards the two person team's star forward before the other team had even realized they hadn't scored.
The blonde raced down the ice, stick in hand. Falling snowflakes stung at his unprotected eyes, clouding his less-than-perfect vision momentarily. Still, Alfred managed to dodge the menacing forward-turned-defenseman with some fancy all-American footwork and puck handling. Now, only one barrier remained between Alfred and the game. Just one shot, that's all I need.
Quickly, he shot the puck as hard as he could in the general direction of the net, hoping his reduced accuracy would be enough. He really, really hated to lose.
Tino reached his glove up, trying to bat away the potential tiebreaker. Instead of falling back at the ice, however, the puck flew past his outstretched hand, sinking deep into the aged white netting as the Finn fell backwards.
"Goal!" Alfred sang in glee, throwing his stick into the air in his excitement. Berwald skated back into his team's zone to help Tino up, patting him on the back as he did so.
Calming down slightly, Alfred skated forward, removing his glove and offering his hand to his opponents. He may have enjoyed winning, but America made it a point to win graciously; at least, when he remembered. "Good game guys, you really had me worried there," he grinned.
"Y's, w'll, n'xt t'm w'nt be s' e'sy," Berwald countered good-naturedly. "Y'r g'lie, h' sav'd y' th' g'me." The tall man gave a nod to Team Alfred's other member, currently removing the nets from the metal goalposts.
"Nice shot, Alfred," Tino smiled wistfully. Alfred knew Finland also took losing hard, not that his team did it often. The nation did a good job of hiding it, however. Berwald noticed the hint of dejection in his 'wife's' voice and wrapped his arm around the smaller man in comfort.
"Nah, just blind luck," Alfred answered kindly, speaking only partially out of pity. "You'll get me next time, I'm sure. Half the time when we play you shut me out!"
"You Americans and your exaggerations," Tino laughed. "It was a good game though. Next time on our ice, yes?"
"You're on!" Alfred shook the Finn's hand for good measure.
The opposition began to skate over to Alfred's teammate for more congratulations. Instead of following, Alfred skated over to where he'd dropped his stick. Bending down, he picked it up, studying the worn wooden handle. He absently noticed some of the black tape around the blade was beginning to come undone.
Instead of standing immediately, Alfred remained crouched for a few seconds. Impulsively, he wound himself up and sprung into an impromptu victory lap.
As he raced around the frozen winter pond, the blonde marvelled at how well his skating had come along. Just a few winters ago the only ice time the American managed to rack up was largely spent with him on his derriere. Time after time he would go home and throw his skates near the door in a heap, swearing he'd never go near the cold, unyielding ice again. The aches and pains he always felt the morning after such a skate seemed to solidify the idea.
Yet here he was, nearly as confident on the smooth surface as he was in runners on a track. Despite his attempts to give up the sport and his laments about skating being too difficult, Alfred came back, time after time.
It felt good to work at something. Everything came rather easily to the American, at least so it seemed. For him to struggle at something and slowly improve was a difficult lesson. However, the feeling Alfred felt when he finally excelled at hockey was incomparable. Though there were other sports he preferred, hockey would always hold a special place in his heart.
He might never be the best, as he was at so many other activities. Still, being able to do his best while holding his own against some of the finest hockey nations in the world was enough for Alfred.
As the soft flakes falling increased in size and intensity, Alfred slowed to a stop in front of the hockey bag, now fully packed. His goalie sat ontop, resting his head on his hands.
"Hey, nice save back there," Alfred grinned sheepishly, realizing he'd ignored the other half of his team in the ten minutes since their win.
"Nice goal, eh?" his goalie replied good-naturedly, lifting the heavy helmet off of his head. Damp dark gold hair spilled out in waves, messy from their confinement. "Way to win us the game, hero," he half teased, violet-blue eyes alight from their win.
Alfred ruffled the smaller man's hair, causing him to shy away and pull out a red tuque. He jammed it haphazardly on his head, waves still peeking out from underneath to frame his face.
"Hey, you're my hero today. I thought for sure we'd lost it." Alfred shook his head, gazing at his teammate. "I could barely see the puck, let alone have stopped it. You were amazing."
The dark blonde blushed slightly at that, though his fair face was already flushed from the bitter wind. "That little shot? Jones, you've gotta learn to have some faith in me, eh? I know what I'm doing." He grinned and threw his arm around the American. "Don't worry about what's behind you, Alfred. I'll be there, looking out for you."
Grinning, Alfred clasped his shoulder in thanks before they both stood up. America heaved the heavy, well-worn hockey bag onto his back as the other man carried their hockey sticks. Together, Team Alfred began the long walk back home in the December weather.
There was a fair distance between the pond/hockey rink and the safety of the warm cabin. Unfortunately, that afternoon the farther they travelled, the more the wind seemed to pick up, though they pushed ahead. Alfred did have an excellent sense of direction, after all. Still, the wind and snow continued to blow, making progress more and more difficult as time passed.
Eventually, Alfred had to admit that they had unwittingly found themselves in the midst of an early snowsquall.
Damn, I can't see a thing! The American tried to clean the wet snow from his lenses, but when he put Texas back on, there was no discernible difference. Alfred stared at his gloved hand, slowly extending it from right in front of his face to as far as his arm stretched. After eight inches or so, it was no more than a dark outline.
The wind howled and echoed in a multitoned voice as it blew loose snow from nearby drifts into the boys' faces along with fresh snow. Alfred reached out for his partner, hoping to feel what he could no longer see. He grasped; only wind and snow greeted his touch.
Damnit! he swore internally. How could he expect to find someone in this storm? The conditions were nearly whiteout. His unruly blonde hair stuck to his head, making him regret wearing just the pair of red and blue earmuffs for head protection.
Running out of options, he shouted the name as loud as he could. As before, only the wind and snow cared enough to answer. Alfred wasn't surprised; he couldn't even hear his own voice against the howling.
Desperate, the American heard a slight break in the unrelenting gales and screamed the name again, hoping against hope for some kind of response.
Nothing.
But he was so small, Alfred thought in panic. He may claim the snow was his home, but America doubted his friend could actually survive these conditions. No. Alfred couldn't give up.
Gathering his quickly sapping strength, Alfred yelled again, ripping his throat raw as he stumbled, desperately searching for footprints, any footprints. Finding none.
No. NO.
___
Alfred shot up from his resting position, the name still on his lips.
His cheeks were flushed and streamed with salty tears.
The pillow he had been resting his head on was soaked with the same tears, causing the normally bright blue to dampen to a darker navy with moisture.
His throat was raw and his voice seemed hoarse, though the American was loath to use it.
Oh god, how could I ever forget? he screamed inside. He could feel his heart thundering, nearly shattering with every beat.
My...brother.
Mattie.
Heh...well there's chapter 2. Hope you enjoyed it!
