August, 1998

Despite his cool demeanor, Erik couldn't help the slight wobble of his knees as he carefully stepped out onto the slick ice. The black socks and thick padding he wore hid his trembling legs, but he still made sure that he schooled his expression to one of indifference; internally he was relieved that they weren't paying him any attention.

It didn't take much more than a cursory glance in their direction for Erik to know he wasn't going to get along very well with his new teammates. He had a sinking feeling that they would be able to see how nervous he was, and that they wouldn't be full of support and advice. They were all highly experienced players, and he had only just been recently recruited because of his deft skill with his fists. He was nothing more than a punching bag for their rivals and a bodyguard for themselves.

They taunted and jeered at one another, ignoring his rather lackluster appearance behind their tight-knit gathering. He felt only slightly better when he didn't fall flat on his face after gliding up to their party. He had been skating for most of his life, but "most of his life" didn't amount to much when he was only twenty-one and most of the others were hitting their thirties.

Erik's fledgling good mood petered out when he accidentally shouldered one of the other men. The man, ridiculously short and stocky, made an about face with a practiced ease that came with years of skating. He looked Erik up and down with nothing short of disgust before snarling: "Watch where you're going, Grocery Stick."

Erik frowned in confusion. He was fully aware that the other German was calling him a name, but he didn't quite understand what that particular insult was even insinuating. He reared his head back and questioned, "What?"

The man grinned at Erik's evident confusion, and elbowed a fellow team member in the chest. "Looks like we've got us some fresh meat." To Erik he said, "I said to watch where you're going. Last thing this team needs is another goddamn bender."

"Are you insulting me?" Erik demanded. His gloved hands jerked at his sides. The other men may have very well been speaking in the same language too, but it was obvious that there was a whole other language barrier for Erik to cross; their hockey lingo far surpassed his own. Either way, Erik wasn't one to take an insult lightly. If ever.

The man mimicked Erik in a high-pitched one before he grinned. "We don't need any pussies here either. We have enough on the side to keep us sated."

The other men laughed. Erik just smirked humorlessly, his lips twisting in personal mirth. The smaller player, too preoccupied with chuckling and nudging in all his jocular glory, hadn't noticed that Erik had started to shirk his mitts one by one. The others, however, let their laughter slowly trail off in mild confusion.

Trask, the gold-embroidered surname on the smaller man's back, turned round in the near silence. He glanced down at the ice, where Erik's mitts lie on either side of his body, and then back up to Erik's tilted head. He perked a brow in amusement. "You really think you can start a fight that won't end with you eating your own teeth?"

Erik offered nothing more than a slight shrug as he pushed himself a little closer. "I'm counting on you trying."

And, with nothing more than a grimace of exertion, Trask did try. Erik easily dodged the fist, and countered with a bare-knuckled one to the center of Trask's unprotected face. He could feel his bones crackling, but nothing more than a familiar ache rippled up his wrist as the smaller man buckled under the blow.

Trask grabbed blindly for the front of Erik's jersey, but he neatly stepped out of the red-handed reach. Instead, he looked up into the stunned faces of the others with an expected look.

He blinked once.

"Well?"

TBC...

Please Review.