Summary: Having a surrogate coach changes many things, as the Vikings are about to find out. AU for MD2. No romance this time, just a lot of fun with the boys from Iceland. Not related to my previous fics, but still featuring my OMC, Mikael Stahl. Rating for some language. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: No ownership or profit on my part, never fear.
A Surprising Substitution
Chapter 3
The final straw came when he opened his eyes a second time to find Gunnar's arm draped carelessly across his chest. Then it was definitely time to get up – for both of them. Mikael made sure his brother's waking was as startlingly unpleasant as his own had been.
"What's your problem?" groused Gunnar when he was conscious. "And what were you doing in my bed anyway?"
For a handful of seconds, Mikael just stared at his brother. "Are you really such a heavy sleeper that you never noticed I was here with you all night? Good grief, you are going to be in so much trouble when you start drinking. I woke up with you hanging all over me, and you didn't even realize it – all without any help from alcohol."
"Sorry, I must have been dreaming you were someone pretty."
The only thing that protected a smirking Gunnar Stahl from more serious bodily harm was the fact that his new coach needed him well enough to play hockey in about eight hours.
There was no formal practice the same day as the Championship, but Mikael still brought the team together for one last meeting in order to reveal his findings from the previous night. He attempted to keep the information practical by explaining how he would personally try to take advantage of the weaknesses he had seen if he was the one playing. They took it well, considering he was throwing a lot of information at them all at once.
But as the players cleared out to start heading over to the stadium, Mikael held Olaf back to talk with him alone. He even nodded for Gunnar to depart with the others.
"Am I in trouble already?" Sanderson joked after the rest of the team had left. "The game hasn't even started yet, so that's a new record for me."
Mikael shook his head, already feeling exasperated. "No, not yet, but we still need to talk. All right, listen, we both know how Wolf likes you to play – but I'm not Wolf."
The blonde teen rolled his eyes, now that he understood the purpose of this conversation. He even made to walk past his coach out into the hall, but Mikael stopped him with an unyielding grasp on his arm.
"Now wait, just hear me out before you go start a mutiny. I'm not necessarily asking you to hold back; I just want you to be smart. Please? I need you on the ice, not in the box; or even worse, out of the game completely. So go ahead and hit people, hit them as hard as you can. But can you try to keep it legal for me? Or at least questionable? The refs will already be watching you for anything flagrant. And I just spent all night watching the tapes myself, so don't even bother trying to plead your innocence."
The inner battle was evident on Olaf's face until he finally acknowledged, "Okay, fine, I'll try. But just like you, I'm 'not making any promises'."
Mikael released his arm. "That's good enough for me. Portman will be back in the game tonight, so he ought to keep you occupied. You can probably get away with more if you focus on someone your own size, whereas the smaller kids may get the refs siding with them out of sheer pity. Now come on, let's go catch up with the others."
Stahl grabbed his own team sweatshirt, and they were off. Sanderson cast another sidelong glance in his direction as they walked along.
"Are you going to wear that same hoodie during the Championship?"
"Probably." The older Icelander shrugged. "It's the only long-sleeved shirt I brought for a summer trip to Los Angeles. Can you blame me? I was planning to attend the Championship, but I didn't realize I'd be spending quite this much time on the ice."
"Or maybe you just want to rub it in Wolf's face that a handball player is coaching his precious hockey team. He probably has a suit jacket you could borrow for tonight."
Mikael made a face. "No, thank you. I'd much rather stay comfortable and be able to think clearly."
"Says the man who's going to wear rented skates through the entire match?"
A look of genuine sorrow flashed across his coach's face. "I do miss my own skates. But again, how was I to know that I'd need them? I'll use blade guards on when I'm on the bench, but wearing skates will help me stay focused on the game. And besides that, I don't like the idea of you kids all being taller than me."
Olaf chuckled. "I suppose you want to preserve the natural order of things, huh? The pecking order?"
"Precisely. Especially if we're going to be on TV."
The chuckling transformed into a burst of sudden laughter. "I just realized your parents are going to freak out when they see you on the bench with us tonight. Do they even know you're in Los Angeles?"
Mikael shook his head, grinning in turn. "No, they do not. It'll be quite the surprise for them, don't you think?"
Both teams went through their warm-up routines on the Arrowhead Stadium ice prior to the long-awaited Championship; both coaches then gathered their players around the bench for pep-talks before the dropping of the first puck.
"All right, guys," began Mikael. "I don't know how Wolf usually gets you started; but before anything else, I want you to just stop, look around, and take this all in. You're playing in the world championship for your age group, which is no small feat. I won't even tell Wolf if you allow yourselves a quick smile to appreciate the moment. And keep in mind, you're not just representing your country here; you represent your teammates, your schools, your families…everything that's home. 'Iceland' on three."
After the customary team cheer, Gunnar remarked, "That was awfully patriotic coming from someone who fled the country at his earliest opportunity."
Mikael rolled his eyes. "Is that really all you got out of my moving little speech?"
"I'm just saying it's kind of ironic." Gunnar donned his best innocent face, and his brother smacked him on the helmet for it.
"Oh, be quiet. Just get out there and play like we all know you can. Remember, Wolf will be watching."
The Dentist himself couldn't have asked for a better start from his team. Within a few short minutes, Gunnar and Portman were already hounding one another, and Sanderson scored on a wrap-around shot to put the Vikings up one to nothing.
Bombay sought to respond by putting the inventor of the knuckle-puck, Russ Tyler, into the game; but the Icelanders reacted by swarming him with three defenders as soon as his skates touched the ice, exactly like Wolf had instructed them to do. Even so, Tyler managed to get open long enough to tee up his dangerous shot. Marria imagined Wolf suffering an aneurism as he watched from afar, until Gunnar suddenly threw himself bodily in front of number fifty-six to dislodge the puck and put an abrupt end to the shot. Even Mikael couldn't help feeling proud of his brother's reckless devotion on that play.
Uberjavik then snagged the stray puck, advancing it down toward Team USA's net. Once across the blue line, he let the puck fall back behind him to where Olaf was waiting for it, and the taller teen passed it off to his teammate Vries on the Vikings' signature fake move. Again the maneuver was a success, with Vries' goal increasing Iceland's lead to two.
One early surprise from Team USA was that a previously injured Adam Banks had returned to the lineup. When the talented American stepped in for the first time, Sanderson was on him in a heartbeat, no doubt anxious to pick up where their last encounter had so violently ended. Banks quickly took control of the puck and brought it straight up the center, in spite of his relentless Icelandic shadow. Yet when the smaller teen tried to spin away, Olaf simply lowered his shoulder and sent Adam sprawling flat on his stomach instead. The officials allowed the contact to pass without penalty, despite a chorus of protests from the American bench, and play continued.
When Sanderson next returned to his own team for a breather, Mikael greeted him with an approving smile and clapped him on the shoulder. "Thank you. I could tell you wanted to do much worse."
Olaf shrugged off the commendation. "Whatever, just don't get all mushy on me. That's what you have Gunnar for."
Meanwhile, back on the ice, Robertson was trying a little too hard to make something happen for Team USA all on his own. The cowboy's dizzying moves only took him so far before a couple of Vikings sandwiched him, freeing the puck. Amssalik grabbed it, and there wasn't a single soul standing between him and Goldberg. Normally that would be considered a breakaway opportunity, but with Mendoza on the ice at the same time, it was more of a race.
Although the American speedster was able to draw even with Amssalik across the far blue line, he could do nothing but trip his opponent in a last, desperate effort to prevent the goal. It wasn't enough. Both skaters fell in a tangled heap of limbs, and their momentum carried them into the net, along with the goalie and the puck. It certainly wasn't pretty, but the goal counted.
Now trailing by three, Bombay called for the Flying V – only to be thwarted again when the Vikings responded with a defensive V of their own. All five American players were knocked down, resulting in a ridiculously easy goal for Olaf off a pass from Gunnar. Team Iceland now led four to zero, and all within the first period! Things had rapidly gone from bad to worse for the Americans, and so far, it appeared they had no answer to counteract Stansson's well-established game plan.
The Bash Brothers came out on a veritable rampage to start the second period. Gustav still got off a good shot, which Goldberg saved. Ken Wu then brought the puck back onto Iceland's side of the rink and scored Team USA's first goal of the night after executing a figure-skating jump to evade defenders, cutting the deficit back down to three points. Elated to finally have something substantial to cheer about, the predominantly-American crowd celebrated the goal with uncommon enthusiasm. Little Ken himself even picked a fight with Wiesel, the Viking goalie, causing far more embarrassment than harm for the Icelander before the refs finally drew them apart.
In hindsight, Mikael would readily admit after the match that this was where things had started spiraling out of control.
Inspired by Ken's show of bravado, the Bashes put on yet another wild display, and the crowd fed off of their exuberance. The two biggest Americans even went so far as to skate right in front of the Viking bench, knocking blonde heads together as they went past. Letting one of them get away with it was bad enough, but Mikael wasn't about to let it happen twice. No one messed with his team like that – even if the team had only been "his" for two days.
Without giving a second's worth of consideration for what the referees or spectating parents might think, he lashed out with one arm and grappled the second Bash Brother to go by. Portman would have hit the ice hard if not for Mikael's iron grip on his shoulder pads.
"Hey! Don't make me come out there." The fierce look in Mikael's eyes proved his threat was hardly empty.
But before a stunned Portman could decide how to react to that, the officials were prying him free of the Icelander's grip. All provocations considered, the referees couldn't get too upset with Mikael, although they still issued a stern warning to remind him that he was not, in fact, allowed to make physical contact with players on the ice. The Bash Brothers, meanwhile, were ushered into the penalty box alongside Wu.
Play resumed as normally as possible after that bizarre interruption, and Mikael paced behind his players with far too much pent-up energy.
"Olaf, go hit someone for me!"
Sanderson jumped up from the bench, grinning and eager to comply. "You still want me to keep it legal?"
His coach drew a visibly deep breath. "As much as you can bear to, please."
Unfortunately, the Vikings' top enforcer selected Connie Moreau as his next target. She was enough of a scoring threat to warrant the extra attention, but now she could scarcely regain her balance before he was knocking her off her feet yet again. It was as though he'd forgotten about every other player on the ice. When Olaf lined Moreau up for a full check, however, Robertson leapt off his own bench and literally lassoed the Icelander from behind in order to protect his petite teammate.
Looking on, Mikael hid his eyes behind his hands for a moment, too disgusted with the whole affair to watch Olaf extricate himself from the rope. Who the hell kept a rope on-hand during a hockey match, anyway? All the same, his words weren't exactly sympathetic when his brother's best friend returned to the bench.
"Yeah, you were pretty much asking for that."
Sanderson glared back at him, his cheeks still burning with humiliation. "I didn't do anything against the rules, just like you asked. If she's going to cry every time she gets hit, she shouldn't play hockey," he growled.
"I agree. All things are equal out on the ice, and she shouldn't expect any special treatment because she's a girl. But in all fairness, you did kind of make yourself out to be the villain here. No wonder someone came swooping down to rescue the damsel in distress." The young coach's tone darkened. "I'd have strangled the kid myself, though, if that rope had ended up around your neck. I can't believe they didn't throw him out!"
Not soon enough, the second period came to a close, with the score still standing at four to one in favor of the Vikings. While Coach Bombay addressed his players on the subject of pride during the break, Mikael was about to put his own spin on the matter.
"Bloody refs have lost all control of this game!" he exclaimed in angry frustration once his team was behind closed doors. "God knows what they'll let slide before the end. Any idea where a coach can register a formal complaint?"
"I don't know about that," answered Amssalik, "but I wish you had left the bench to finish the job with that Bash Brother. That by itself would have been worth the trip here!"
"Yeah, but then what?" challenged Gustav. "At the very least, he would have been thrown out of the game."
The taller teen shrugged. "Coach still would have been proud."
"Proud?" Mikael scoffed. "If Wolf hadn't survived that surgery, he'd be rolling over in his grave right now. I mean, come on, a freaking figure skater? Have you no pride? That kid tried the same stunt last time around, and you stopped him dead on his skates. Which brings me to the first change I want to make going forward. Gunnar, Olaf – great job out there, but now I'm putting both of you permanently on defense. I'm not too worried about offense, but so help me, we are not going to blow this lead! We'll beat them the same way Russia beat you: by getting a big lead and then digging in deep defensively."
His players responded with grim nods of comprehension.
"Now, we should expect them to come out with a lot of energy to start the third period, even if it's just a final act of desperation; so we've got to stay focused and weather the storm, whatever that may look like. Don't let them get into your head. Just maintain discipline and keep doing what's worked for us all game long. And remember, if we win, Wolf owes me big; but if we lose, he'll probably kill me as soon as he can walk again – if not before. So please don't lose."
As the rest of their teammates began filing out to return to the ice, Gunnar and Olaf hung back to catch a moment alone with Mikael.
"You don't seriously want us to stay back the entire period, do you?" protested Gunnar.
"Yes, I do," his brother confirmed, not yielding an inch in the resolution. "You two have had your time in the spotlight. Your teammates can handle things well enough on offense from now on, but I don't want to see either of you on the American side of the ice again for the rest of the night. So get back there and stay back there – or else."
"Or else what?" Sanderson prompted.
"Or else I'll take a few shots at your heads myself!" Mikael called back as he walked on ahead, leaving his two best players to tag along behind him.
Olaf leaned over to his friend as they followed their coach back to the rink and whispered, "Do you think he means with a puck or with a handball?"
"Either way, I don't think it would be very much fun for us."