"Love all, trust a few,
Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy
Rather in power than use; and keep thy friend
Under thy own life's key: be check'd for silence,
But never tax'd for speech."

—William Shakespeare, All's Well that Ends Well

All's Well that Ends Well

It was the knotting in his stomach and intestines that woke Mark in the black, inky hours of night that had not yet bled into a pre-dawn gray. He felt as if all the grease he had so unwisely gobbled was boiling inside him, begging to steam out of him at once. Feeling the acid start to blaze a trail up his throat, he knew from miserable years of living with a sensitive stomach that he had less than a minute to make it to the bathroom before he made a very disgusting and smelly mess all over the hotel room's carpet.

With as much speed as he could muster through the fog of nausea and haze of sleepiness, he leapt out of bed and hurried into the bathroom, grateful that his bed was the one closer to the bathroom. He didn't waste the time it took to flip on the lights or shut the door behind him. As it was, he barely managed to lift the lid of the toilet before he vomited up the semi-digested remains of his unhealthy lunch and dinner, the amalgamation of which would probably be enough to have him swear off greasy foods for a month. Perhaps, because his guardian angel had a perverse sense of humor, this was supposed to hammer home the importance of moderation.

His throat burned, and Mark wondered how many years he had left with his esophagus before all the acid from his sensitive stomach destroyed it entirely. His shoulders heaved, and his whole sweaty body spasmed as another pool of sick landed in the toilet.

Stupid, Mark thought, calling himself nine kinds of idiot before continuing with his mental reprimand, you know that you puke if you have too much grease, too much sugar, too much dairy, too much fiber, or too much of anything really. Why do you inflict this suffering on yourself all the time, huh?

Every organ inside of him was on fire, but his skin was so cold that he couldn't help shivering. Each particle in his body felt absolutely wretched, and he couldn't prevent the tears from welling in his eyes, though at least he could restrain them from trickling down his cheeks. He felt so alone, and he wanted someone beside him for comfort and morale support, but that was pathetic and selfish, he told himself sternly. There was nothing anyone could really do to help someone who was barfing except control their urge to throw up in sympathy.

As if Mark's desperate, instinctive desire not to be alone had summoned him, Rob could be heard shuffling toward the bathroom in his slippers, asking, voice thick with sleep, "You all right, Mark?"

Never been better, Mark thought and might have said if his mouth had not been preoccupied with spewing something beside sarcasm.

Apparently deciding for himself that Mark was far from all right, Rob turned on the lights—causing Mark's eyes to blink in shocked pain as the bright rays stabbed into them—and crossed over to the toilet. He yanked off the blue cotton bathrobe he had draped around his shoulders and wrapped it around Mark's instead. The extra fabric, warm from Rob's body heat, stopped Mark's shaking, as Rob knelt beside him and patted his back gently.

For what seemed like an eon but was probably no more than a minute or two, Mark continued to vomit intermittently into the toilet bowl. Then, when his stomach and intestines no longer felt like clenched fists shooting out flames inside him, he got to his feet, Rob alongside him with a hand outstretched to catch him if he wobbled.

Mark flushed the toilet, eager to erase all evidence of his sick experience, while Rob ran a washcloth under a jet of warm water.

"Let's get you cleaned up," muttered Rob, rubbing the cloth over Mark's chin and cheeks, so Mark could feel some of the lingering dirtiness of retching losing its grip on him and some heat seeping through the pores of his chilled skin. "Is that better?"

"Yeah." Mark nodded and could feel the acid on his teeth and tongue as he spoke.

"Good." Rob squirted toothpaste onto Mark's brush and then thrust it between Mark's fingers. "Here. This will get rid of some of that nasty aftertaste."

As Mark brushed his teeth, tasting the rottenness of semi-digested food being replaced by the freshness of mint, Rob filled one of the paper cups from the complimentary stack on the sink with cold water, saying, "Drink this when you're done brushing. We can't have you getting dehydrated."

Mark nodded, and, a minute later, he spat out his toothpaste, rinsed his mouth with water from the tap, and then downed the water in the cup that Rob had set out for him.

"Thanks," he said, dumping the cup into the trash.

"Don't mention it." Rob shrugged off his roommate's expression of gratitude. "I'm sure you'd do the same for me if our positions were reversed."

"Of course." Mark managed a somewhat tremulous grin. "Well, I guess we both should be getting back to sleep now."

Rob's eyebrows lifted in the manner they typically did when he deemed that a person he was conversing with had made a statement of at best dubious intellectual merit. "You should go back to bed. I should get Doc from down the hallway."

"Why would you need to get Doc?" Mark's forehead furrowed, not approving of the road down which this discussion was cruising.

"What an incisive question. Let's all think really hard about that one, shall we?" With a look of exaggerated contemplation, Rob scratched at his chin. "I suppose that you did just throw up your innards all over our toilet. Maybe that's why it would be a good idea for you to get some medical attention, Magic."

"What's Doc going to tell me that I don't already know?" Mark asked, swallowing his impatience by reminding himself that Rob, mocking as he was, was sincerely concerned for his welfare and didn't deserve to be scorned for that. "Will he peer down my throat with a little flashlight and tell me that, yes, indeed, I have barfed? What a useful piece of information that would be."

"I'm not a doctor, so I can't tell you what he'll say, but he might be able to determine whether you've got the flu or food poisoning." His face stern now, Rob folded his arms across his chest. "Information like that is worth waking up Doc for, even if you're too stubborn to admit it."

Biting back a wry commentary on how Rob was an excellent person to criticize others for bull-headedness, Mark countered with all the serenity he could summon, "Rob, we know it's not food poisoning, because we ate the same food all day, and you aren't sick. I know it's not the flu, since, if it were, I would still feel awful, and I don't. It's just a one-time reaction to cramming my stomach with too much greasy food."

"I still think that we should get Doc to deliver a proper diagnosis." Unswayed by Mark's logic, Rob shook his head. Seeing his roommate open his mouth to dispute this, he went on in a terse tone, "If you're right, Mark, then it will be no big deal, and, if you're wrong, it will be better to learn that sooner rather than later."

"We shouldn't wake Doc up in the middle of the night for anything less than an emergency." Mark widened his eyes emphatically. "That would be rude. Anyway, we don't want Coach Patrick catching you out of bed after curfew when you already had an argument with him about it tonight."

"Coach Patrick's room is at the far end of the hallway." Rob rolled his eyes. "He's not going to catch me out after curfew, and, even if he did, he would melt into a puddle of paternal concern the second I explained about your sickness."

"Herb will catch you, then, before you have a chance to do any explaining to Coach Patrick." Longing to disappear under his covers and drift off to dreamland on his mattress instead of argue on the cold bathroom tiles, Mark massaged his temples. "His door is diagonal to ours, and if he doesn't sleep with one eye open, alert to any trouble any of us boys might stir up, then I'm a sparrow."

"I don't care if Herb catches me." Rob waved a dismissive palm. "He's a tyrant, but he's one who can prioritize. He'll instantly understand that it's more important for him to ensure that his MVP gets appropriate medical care than to make certain I get punished for daring to stick a toe out of this hotel room after curfew."

"I don't want Herb to know about me being sick." Mark's jaw clenched, because the only thing worse than puking into the toilet was Herb knowing that he had done so. He didn't want Herb writing him off as a weakling who could ultimately only be depended upon to throw up before crucial games. "In fact, that's exactly why you can't go to Doc, because he'll tell Herb about seeing me in the middle of the night. Do you realize that Herb will regard me as nothing more than a wimp if I go crying to Doc because of a little stomachache?"

"Don't be ridiculous, and listen to the voice of reason," replied Rob, all crisp authority. "Herb couldn't have been more derisive in his rant about players going to Doc for cold cures, but you're his star player. He'll take you being sick very seriously."

Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't like to think of himself as the team's star player (since, even in his head, that sounded so arrogant he wanted to punch himself in the face), but he did recognize that Herb treated him differently—giving him more respect and freedom than he did other members of the team. He was determined to never take advantage of that and to always do whatever Herb and his team expected of him. Ever since Oslo when Herb could've had his revenge on Badger Bob by kicking Mark off the team for smashing his stick and instead had given Mark a vital role to play, he had promised that he would never again let Herb down. He would be the player his coach could look to for a quick change in momentum during a difficult game or to score the much-needed, impossible-seeming goal. He would never give up until he heard the horn signaling the end of the period, so he definitely was not going to miss the gold medal game of the tournament because of a minor stomach upset, and he was afraid that might happen if Herb heard he had been ill…

"It'll be even worse if he takes me seriously, Mac." Mark bit his lip. "If he takes me seriously about the stomachache, he might sit me out of tomorrow's game, and I'd go crazy if I couldn't play in the final game of the tournament."

"If Herb doesn't allow you to play tomorrow, it'll be because you're sick and need to recover." Rob sighed. "In other words, because contrary to your belief, Magic, your health is important."

"Getting sick from greasy food is nothing." Aggravated, Mark tore his fingers through his hair. "Listen to me, Robbie—"

"No, you listen to me," cut in Rob, severe as a teacher reproving a class for failing their exams. "Would you say it was nothing if I were the one puking up my guts?"

"No, of course not," Mark conceded, because he would never be a big enough jerk to tell a friend that their sickness was no big deal, "but—"

"But nothing, Mark." Rob pivoted and strode toward the doorway. "I'm going to get Doc."

"No!" exclaimed Mark, grabbing onto Rob's elbow. "If you're really my friend, you'll respect my wishes and not tell anyone about this."

"Right," Rob scoffed, "and I suppose if you were an alcoholic or suicidal, I'd also only be a real friend if I kept my mouth shut about that too."

"That's not what I'm saying, and you know it." Mark gritted his teeth, even though he was well aware that damaged them. "You've gone past comparing apples to oranges right into the insane realm of claiming apples and steaks are the same thing."

"Mock me all you like." Rob's eyes snapped with defiance and resolution. "That won't stop me from doing what I think is best for you."

Taking a deep breath to keep his temper on a tight leash, Mark responded as calmly as possible under the vexing circumstances, "Mac, your concern is appreciated, but, frankly, I believe it's misplaced. I'm not quite sure why you feel the need to—"

"Not quite sure?" interrupted Rob, incredulous, as he tugged his elbow out of Mark's clasp. "Since I know you're not a moron, Magic, are you by any chance concussed?"

"No, I'm not concussed." Mark scowled. "Rob—"

"Mark Johnson!" Pronouncing his roommate's name as if it were a curse, Rob slammed his fist against the sink with enough velocity to send the soap dispenser ricocheting into the basin. "While as a rule I find your humility refreshing, in this instance, I'm inclined to feel peeved. Your skills are irreplaceable, and your contributions to this team immeasurable. You don't have the right to treat your person lightly. What you have is an obligation to guard your health and well-being as though you were a Secret Service officer protecting the health and well-being of our precious dimwit of a president. If you so cavalierly refuse to do that, you can hardly be astonished when those of us who aren't blind to your importance make whatever arrangements we deem necessary to keep you in one piece." Here, Rob's eyebrows shot up. "Need I continue, or have I made my point?"

Mark dropped his shocked gaze to the sunshine yellow tiles. Not once in all the months they had played and practiced together had Rob come close to raking him over the coals like he were an errant toddler. Nobody chewed him out like that. Not his teammates. Not Leslie. Not his parents. Not his coaches. Not even Herb. He wanted to inform Rob in no uncertain terms that he had no right to address him in such a manner, but then he found himself wondering if maybe Rob did have the right, after all.

Every day, Rob poured every ounce of heart, sweat, and willpower into working for the success of their team in general and their line in particular. Quite apart from their friendship, Mark supposed that it was only natural that Rob felt something of a vested interest in his welfare.

"Mac." Mark glanced up. "Your point is made, but I believe I can serve this team best by playing tomorrow."

For a moment, Rob hesitated, ruminating over this. Then, he eyed Mark keenly. "If your dad, not Herb, were coaching this team, would you tell him you were sick?"

"Only if I felt like it would impact my game." Mark shrugged. "I don't think it will."

"All right." Rob wore the expression of someone who sensed he was agreeing to a foolish prospect. "I won't get Doc, but if you seem exhausted or ill in tomorrow's game, then I'm telling Doc about you being sick whether you want me to or not."

"Fair enough." Mark nodded as they finally left the bathroom.

"You know, Mark," remarked Rob as he crawled back into his bed, "some say of the two of us that I'm the crazy one, the reckless one, and the one most likely to go down in a blaze of glory."

"I've heard that about a million times." Chuckling, Mark slipped under his own blankets. "I've even said it about a hundred times myself."

"Well, you shouldn't say it anymore," Rob educated him dryly, "because in your own quiet way, Magic, you can be just as terrifying as everyone insists that I am."

"I'm sorry." Mark frowned as he burrowed more deeply into his covers. "I don't know how to answer that."

"You don't see it, do you?" demanded Rob, and Mark could hear the smug smirk in his voice.

"No, I'm afraid that I don't," Mark replied, plumping his pillow. "You seem to be implying that I take needless risks, but I can't agree with that assessment. I only ever do what I feel is right to fulfill my responsibilities."

"And rarely pause to consider the personal ramifications," noted Rob, obviously amused. "Face it, Mark, you and I are cut from the same cloth, and what a colorful bolt of fabric it is."

"Good night, Mac." Mark rolled his eyes into the silk threads of his pillowcase. "See you when that infernal alarm rings."

Within minutes, Mark, his breathing slowing, had sailed into sleep. He dreamed of circling Soviets, scoring goals, and creating dazzling assists. The horn ending the third period was just about to sound after Mark's game-winning goal when a noise like an air raid siren intruded on his glory.

As groggy in real life as he had been energetic in his dream, Mark groaned and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as Rob, stirring in the opposite bed, stretched a hand out from a mound of blankets to fumble the alarm's off switch.

"Shit," mumbled Rob, offering his customary morning profanity into the echoing silence that followed the alarm being turned off, as he climbed out of bed and crossed over to the ice bucket where they stored their food. "It's a wonder I haven't shut that wretched thing off permanently by chucking it at the wall."

"That seems a bit extreme." Mark grinned as he pushed off his covers. "After all, you could just remove the batteries."

"Extreme solutions are often the most effective ones." Rob snickered, tossing the loaf of Wonderbread, the jar of raspberry preserves, a plate, and a spoon on Mark's bed. "Here's your breakfast, sunshine. We don't want you eating anything that will get your stomach all riled up again."

"Yes, Mother," teased Mark, unscrewing the cap of the raspberry preserves, using his spoon to drop a dollop on his plate, and then tightening the lid again. "Whatever you say, Mother."

"Be warned." In the midst of pouring himself a bowl of Cheerios, Rob glowered. "If I'm your mother, I reserve the right to wash your mouth out with soap when you give me backtalk."

"Ah, yes, because that was such an effective deterrent for you." Eyes shining with mischief, Mark rolled a slice of bread into a ball, dipped it into the preserves, and plopped it into his mouth. "Your mom did that to you, and now you would never imagine sassing anyone."

"Come on, if I was afraid of giving everyone backtalk, Mom would have been way too harsh with her punishment." Rob smiled between bites of cereal. "She just wanted me to stop sassing her, and I did, at least when she was within reach of soap."

"You must have been your parents' favorite." Mark munched on another bread ball soaked in raspberry preserves. "That fact is just overwhelmingly clear when you make comments like that."

"Whoever heard of a third-born son who wasn't a baby of the family being the favorite?" Rob snorted, chomping away at his Cheerios. "I wouldn't have been the favorite even if I weren't the most absurdly stubborn and competitive boy in the whole neighborhood."

"Perhaps." Another bread ball covered in raspberry preserves vanished down Mark's throat. "You have to remember, though, that first-born sons don't think they're the favorite, either. I mean, if they were so perfect, why would their parents want more boys?"

It was, Mark mused, the ancient brotherly feud articulated quite eloquently in Genesis. Cain was convinced that Abel had it coming for stealing the love and favor that should have been his; Jacob felt justified in tricking Esau out of his inheritance because a fool did not deserve a birthright. Both felt overlooked. Both craved vengeance on their own flesh and blood.

"Either way I lose." Rob's lips twisted as if to make a laughingstock of his situation. "Nothing I did was particularly impressive, because Scott and Glenn had already done it first, and if I was wonderful, my parents wouldn't have had Stuart after me. The family dynamics are really easy to understand. First there was Scott, the athlete, who could annihilate anyone at any sport ever invented. Then there was Glenn, the scholar, who was smart enough to realize that if he wanted to make a name for himself, he would have to do it in the academic world, since Scott had already dominated the athletic one. Last there was Stuart, the entertainer and comedian whom everyone was supposed to admire and adore even when all he was doing was spitting up his baby food. In the middle was me, the stubborn one. I knew that if I wanted any attention—especially in the form of pictures of just me in the family photo albums—I would have to outshine Scott and Glenn at least sometimes. It didn't take me much longer than that recognize that I would probably never be as strong as Scott or as smart as Glenn. The only thing I had on my side in this brotherly competition was sheer tenacity."

Rob gave a wolfish grin as he dumped his used bowl and spoon in the trash. "My stubbornness is the only advantage I've ever really had in life. Sure, it's gotten me into trouble over the years, but it's also allowed me to do things I shouldn't have been able to achieve. I'll take that trade any day of the year. I may have been punished more than the rest of my brothers put together, but I also earned more awards than they did combined, so who would I be if I wasn't the stubborn one?"

"The I-must-win-every-challenge-however-small one?" suggested Mark, all innocence, as he returned the loaf of bread and jar of preserves to the ice bucket before throwing away his plate and spoon. "The I-never-met-a-dust-mite-I-didn't-kill-on-sight one? The I-only-speak-sarcastic one?"

"Wow." Rob whistled as he stepped into the bathroom to complete his daily grooming regimen with his characteristic zeal. "With all those alternative identities, I'm in real danger of developing multi-personality disorder."

While Rob was in the bathroom, Mark pulled out clothes from the dresser and donned them. He had just finished zipping his jeans and tugging on his sweater when Rob emerged from the bathroom. When Mark had finished preparing himself for the day, he stepped out of the bathroom to see that, Rob, too, was ready to leave.

Ten minutes later, they had arrived in the locker room, where they were greeted by an exuberant Neal Broten.

"Hey, guys!" Neal chirped, and Mark decided that Rizzo wasn't the only one who could be louder than an alarm clock. "Pumped for today's game? Gas pedal to the floor? Engine at the full throttle?"

"Ignore him," put in Silky from his cubby. "He's been asking the same questions of everybody as they come in. What a nag."

"I'm not nagging," Neal blustered with a flabbergasted squawk. "I'm encouraging."

"Didn't sound like it from over here," remarked Silky snidely. "Let's keep the alleged encouraging to a dull roar, okay, Mickey?"

"Whatever makes you happy, Grumpy." Unruffled, Neal beamed. "So, Mark and Robbie, you didn't answer my question. Are you ready to roll?"

"Full speed ahead." Rob pumped his fist in a gesture that most likely was intended to be more than a tad ironic.

"We're ready to beat some Soviets into next year." Mark smiled as he headed toward the locker to put on his gear. "They won't know what hit them when we're done trampling over them."

"Are you positive about that?" A wrinkle had formed on Neal's forehead, making him appear older than twelve for once. "You look a bit beat yourself."

"Yeah, you're paler than usual," piped up Eric Strobel, shooting Mark a worried glance.

"And you seem tired," Bah added.

"Are you feeling all right?" asked Buzz, eyes warm with concern that Mark did not want because it might persuade him not to play, and he had to play—it was his duty to play.

"I'm fine, thank you." Mark's smile had been replaced by the focused mask he wore whenever he was calculating how best to slide a puck past a goalie into the net. That was solid foreshadowing, he supposed, since he was going to have to score a hat trick now if he wanted his teammates to really believe that he was feeling well. It figured that he would have to prove himself in every locker room he ever entered. "I shall go on being fine until one more person tells me I look beat, pale, or tired."

"If you say so," said Rizzo, sounding as if he did not fully believe Mark's assertion but was not about to argue the matter.

"He does say so," Rob observed, and Mark couldn't discern whether this was intended as support for Mark's position or a veiled gibe at his roommate. Hoping that he would have his left-winger on his side when he needed to prove himself on the ice today, Mark chose to interpret it as the former. "I suppose we'll have to take his word for it, because I'm certain he would never lie to us."

Deciding that an insistence that he never lied would come across as far too defensive, Mark stood on tiptoe to pull his uniform down from the top shelf of his locker. As he did so, a leaflet fluttered down to land on his forehead. Removing it, he saw that it was one of the pamphlets Rob had taken from the self-storage shop. Under Rob's neat handwriting was an untidy, all-capital scrawl: RORRIM EHT NI KOOL.

That's backward, Mark thought, shoving the brochure in his duffel bag for later examination before the gibberish could give him a headache to accompany his somewhat queasy stomach. Straightening, he pulled on his uniform, and he had just finished doing so when the next distraction arrived in the form of Herb striding into the locker room to deliver a pre-game speech.

The game went better than anyone who had not been living under twelve feet of impenetrable bedrock for years—because that was the only way anybody could not be familiar with how thoroughly the Soviets dominated the international hockey stage-could have anticipated. Mark got his hat trick (his first and only of the tournament), and the US team, proving once again that it was a third-period powerhouse, came back from behind in the last period to defeat the Soviets 5-3.

After that, everything was a blur of euphoria that made it impossible to process even though it was one of those amazing, breath-taking occasions that Mark wished to recall in vivid detail well into his senility. There was the roar of the crowd applauding and cheering that resounded in his eardrums like a lover's pulse. There was lining up in a daze of victory to shake hands politely with the crestfallen Soviets. There was crushing hugs and pounds on the back to exchange with his teammates. There was standing in a row with the team he loved to receive a gold medal. There was biting into the gold medal as tradition dictated and finding it didn't taste metallic but salty like tears of joy and the sweat he had shed to reach this moment of bliss.

There was hearing the poignant strands of the Star-Spangled Banner, which only added kindle to the flames of pride and patriotism burning in Mark's heart, as Rizzo, representing team and country, stood atop the podium. There was, when the anthem hit its dramatic conclusion, Rizzo gesturing flamboyantly for his whole team to join him on the top of the podium. There was the team, recognizing that the physics of this would result in a ludicrous scene, waving, smiling, and skating off the ice, leaving their captain alone atop the podium.

That was the zenith of the tournament. The nadir was the post-game press conference, where Mark was supposed to have regained enough control of his wits to provide the media with coherent answers to their blitz of questions.

Sitting in the chair between Rob and Rizzo, Mark tried to give his best smile for the cameras flashing around them in blinding bursts, preserving them forever in color and in black-and-white. Then, when the questions began to be fired at him, he offered the reporters scribbling in their notebooks his most insightful and courteous answers, keeping his hands clasped in front of him, so that if they trembled with nerves it would be less obvious to the press.

Whenever his teammates, who seemed to be enjoying the experience much more than Mark, replied to a question, he would incline his head toward them, not only because it struck him not only as more respectful but also because it allowed him to focus on a teammate rather than the media.

Rizzo was in his element, providing novel-length answers off the cuff to every question posed by a reporter, and obviously overjoyed to be in the presence of so many strangers he could treat like old friends he had been close to all his life. He was someone who was so comfortable in his own skin that he didn't have to put on another face for the media, because if reporters didn't love him, he would just chortle over that with his friends.

On Mark's left, Rob was a different story. Mark often sensed that his line mate was very attuned to how he presented himself to the media and was always trying to cultivate the most favorable impression possible. Rob strove to define himself with an urbane posture, a broad grin he reserved just for charming strangers, and a studious devotion to incorporating hard work and team cooperation into as many responses as he could. For the most part, he even contained his sarcasm, as he always did, in press conferences, to mere traces of dry wit that were usually at his own expense.

However, that all changed when a reporter dared to ask him if he thought that the team could repeat is gold medal performance in the Olympics.

"That's a stupid question." Rob treated the reporter to the disdainful stare that typically meant he was pondering how a creature had survived so long without a brain. "If I didn't think we could win the gold medal, I wouldn't be here."

Mark, remembering Rob's insistence that the team was no more than a dark horse contender for the bronze, had to stifle a smile at this reply.

When the press conference finally ended and they had returned to their hotel room, Mark, flopped on his bed, couldn't resist taunting his friend, "You're an ardent believer that we can win the gold now, are you? Next thing we know, will you be burning heretics at the stake for doubting our ability to take another gold medal home from Lake Placid in February?"

"Of course not." Rob stuck his nose in the air at this goading. "I'm still not getting my hopes up for a medal from the Olympics, nonetheless a gold one. I just couldn't admit that to the media. It wouldn't display the winning, competitive, and confident attitude reporters and readers lov in American athletes."

"You don't have to try to tell the media what you think they want to hear." Mark fiddled with a loose thread on his blanket. "You can just be honest and say what you really think. Believe it or not, that's what the reports really want to hear for their stories. The media exists to give information to their audiences."

"Nonsense." Rob scraped back his cuticles. "Newspapers and all other forms of media exist to sell themselves to customers. Not to put too fine a print on it, but they aren't in the news business so much as they're in the write-people-what-they-want-to-read business. That's why there are papers with liberal twists and papers with a more conservative twirl. Reporters will take our answers and chisel them into articles that express what audiences want to believe, whether or not it's true information. The more we state what audiences want to read, the more they'll adore us, and the easier our quotes are to wedge into propaganda articles, the more interviews journalists will invite us to do."

"I have no intention of being that malleable." Mark wrinkled his nose. "When I see a spade, I'm not going to pretend it's a pitchfork to please anyone. I won't be rude when I state it's a spade, but I won't lie about what I see and think, either."

"Well, maybe the media will fall in love with tat quiet, rebellious streak of yours." Rob laughed. "Perhaps next time a journalist asks me a question about our Olympic medal chances, I'll take an ironically philosophical tone. I'll explain that the Olympics is like a marathon in which some people, like the Soviets, feel anything less than first place is utterly unacceptable. Others, like the Swedes and Czechs, feel like a solid second or third place performance is nothing to sneeze at, especially when the first prize goes to a very worthy winner. Still others, like our team, celebrate if they reach the finish line at all. I mean, for us, it would even be a major accomplishment to arrive at the start line, given how Herb pushes us to the brink of insanity and death in training."

"Yeah." Mark sighed. "I can't believe we have fifteen more practice games after this. I almost wish that the Olympics were tomorrow or next week, not in February."

"I know what you mean." Rob gave a sage nod. "I feel like if the Olympics were now, we could carry our momentum forward and perhaps scrape a medal, but, since the Olympics isn't until February, we might have lost our steam by then. With this tournament, we might peak too soon and have to provide awkward explanation in February about how we managed to get worse rather than better since December."

"Herb won't let us peak too soon," Mark said firmly. "He'll find a way to motivate us to perform at our highest level no matter what the circumstances."

"Yep, and we can count on that," agreed Rob, grimacing. "We can also rely on it feeling like a strong slap in the face even if he tries to convince us that it beats a sharp stick in the eye."

"Did you find one of the self-storage brochures in your locker?" Mark asked, changing the subject before they could dwell too much on the horrors Herb could inflict upon them in the name of motivation.

"I did." Rob bobbed his head in confirmation. "It had a nice incomprehensible note under my perfectly legible writing, but I didn't have time to try to translate the gibberish into English before Herb came into the locker room to give his speech."

"I think the writing was backward," commented Mark.

"More like whoever wrote it was backward." Rob snorted.

"Possibly true, but not what I was saying." Pushing himself off his bed, Mark rummaged through his duffel bag, found the pamphlet under a mountain of sweaty pads, and held it before the dresser mirror. "Check it out, Robbie. My theory about the backward writing holds water."

"'Look in the mirror.'" Rob glowered at the message in the mirror. "How useful since it can only be read after the person has done so. It's about as helpful as telling someone who has just done a face-plant to watch their step."

"You're being too negative." Chidingly, Mark nudged his roommate in the ribs. "The lake outside the hotel is, in case you've forgotten in your righteous indignation, called Mirror Lake. Perhaps Rizzo and Silky, not wishing to be victims of any more of our pranks, have decided to take our tree out of storage and return it to us by hiding it along the lake's banks. It's worth a check, isn't it?"

"Definitely," Rob affirmed, so they both slipped on their jackets, hates, and gloves to brave the winter weather.

Five minutes later, they were squelching through the muddy shore of Mirror Lake, searching for any evidence of their miniature Christmas tree in the muck.

"I'll bury Rizzo and Silky in quicksand if the ornaments are ruined by this gunk," grumbled Rob as they trekked through the mire.

"If Rizzo and Silky could hear us, they'd find your death threats hilarious." Mark snickered. "I mean, I know I do."

Rob glared over his shoulder at Mark. Owing to this distraction, he placed his foot on a particularly swampy patch of shore. With a slurping sound, his right leg sank almost to the knee in the muck that passed for Lake Mirror's beach at this time of year. An equally onomatopoeic noise accompanied Rob's reclaiming of the leg, and expletives flew from his lips as he hopped on his left foot toward solid ground. Crossing his right leg over his left, he tried to shake off the filth from his shoe, then jabbed his index finger at a strand of green slime that obstinately refused to let go.

"What is that?" he yelped in alarmed revulsion with breath clouds punctuating every syllable.

Reluctantly, Mark leaned in to peer at the slick sneaker, not wanting to get too close for fear of retching.

"It could be something alive, something that was once alive, or something that came from something alive," replied Mark, employing his most helpful tone.

"Now that we've narrowed the options to almost everything on the planet, it's going to have to hitch a ride on someone else." Rob grunted, shaking his right foot with mounting fervor.

Mark straightened and shoved his hands deeper into the sleeves of his coat. "I warned you there are worse places than Minnesota."

"Worse places than Minnesota," griped Rob, stomping his sneaker on a hill of snow. Ultimately, the clingy and indefinable slime decided that it'd had enough and soared off into a snowdrift. "Does Herb feel that we need to visit every last one of them in a tour of ugliness and despair?"

"Blame Rizzo and Silky." Mark's lips quirked. "Their clues led us here."

"I just can't help but think the next clue could take us to a more unpleasant location." Desultorily, Rob gazed at the muck around them.

For a moment, they both lapsed into silence, then remarked in unison, "Almost makes me nostalgic for Santa's sleigh."

"You know it's time to end the friendship when that happens." Rob winced. "In fact, I could see you and Herb getting all buddy-buddy. You share the same fondness for responsibility and lectures."

"Oh, yes." Mark rolled his eyes. "We're two of a kind, old Herb and me."

They continued their slog through the mud until Rob, pointing at a green plant too big to be algae bobbing in the lake fifteen feet from shore, gasped, "Mark, does that look like our tree to you?"

Mark squinted. Then, chomping on his lower lip, he confessed, "Yes, it does. Perhaps Rizzo and Silky didn't appreciate our prank, so they chose to pay us back by dumping our tree in the lake."

Rob muttered something that probably amounted to aspersions on the legitimacy of Rizzo and Silky's parentage, and then asked flatly, "How are you at walking on water, Magic? Because I don't think either of us want to go swimming for our tree."

"When the water is solid, I can practically skate on it," answered Mark wryly. "In liquid form, I just end up soaked and sinking."

"Figures." Rob snorted. "I guess we'll have to wait for Jesus to come down from heaven to rescue our Christmas tree for us, so we can pay proper homage to him being Light of the World and all that jazz."

"Don't be silly." Mark clapped Rob on the shoulder. "We just need to find a rowboat or something. That has to be how Silky and Rizzo got the tree into the middle of the lake."

"Why bother?" Rob growled, turning away from the lake and moving back toward the hotel. "The tree and its ornaments will be totally ruined before we can fish them out of the water. We can count it all as loss. Basically, we literally took a bath on this Christmas tree purchase."

Abruptly, Mark felt the urge to laugh well up inside his lungs. Here he and Rob were, racing around trying to find Christmas peace. Unable to control the impulse any longer, he burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?" Rob demanded, shooting Mark a miffed glance.

"We're running around like rats trying to find our Christmas tree as if that is what Christmas is all about," Mark choked out through his chuckles. "It's always kind of hysterical when you realize you've been a victim of that cliché about looking for happiness in all the wrong places."

"Your sickness seems to have traveled from your stomach to your head," declared Rob acerbically. "Was that even supposed to make sense?"

Mark opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off before he could begin by Rizzo, who was hurrying along the bank toward them, shouting, "Mark and Robbie, there you guys are! I've been looking everywhere for you two. I never would have thought to find you boys here."

"Why shouldn't we be here?" Rob arched an eyebrow.

"Because it's a miserable mud pit." Guffawing, Rizzo indicated the mire around them. "I never took either of you for pigs who liked rolling around in the mud."

"Midwesterners love mud." Rob assumed his haughtiest voice. "It reminds us of spring, and we never get enough spring, or any season that isn't winter, for that matter."

"Label me very surprised, and ship me to the Soviet Union." Rizzo's dark eyes expanded comically. "People from the Boston area prefer concrete. It reminds us of crowds and civilization. Anyway, if you want to go for another kind of wildness, I'm trying to get the team to meet up for beers at the bar in an hour. Do you two want to join in the excitement?"

"I wouldn't mind." Mark smirked. "A few beers tonight and an early flight tomorrow should make an interesting combination."

"It can't be too bad, or else they wouldn't serve wine to first class passengers." Rob grinned. "Count me in, Rizzo. I'll be the life of the party. You know there's never a dull moment with me around."

Author's Note (a.k.a. an early Chanukah present for my long-lost twin whatarushh): Now the story has come to a close, I can share how much is historically accurate and what parts are my own invention without spoiling any major or minor plot points.

A few days before I posted the first chapter of this fic, I was performing one of my routine Internet searches for obscure articles pertaining to the Miracle on Ice to further feed my obsession with this team, and what should I find? A gem in the New York Times from the 1980's. This precious piece of journalism focused on Bill Baker, Dave Silk, and Rob McClanahan, who were playing with the Rangers up in Lake Placid at the time. I got through the first few paragraphs, which were the players reminiscing about how Herb made them run up and down the hill twice after every practice, with only minor squeeing.

Then, out of the blue, the article mentions how a miniature Christmas tree was stolen from the room Robbie and Mark shared in the pre-Olympic tournament only to turn up at the end in the middle of Mirror Lake. Of course, the adorable nature of this was so overpowering that I nearly squirted the water I was drinking all over my laptop screen. Once I had recovered from this adorable overload, I resumed reading the article only to find Bill Baker talking about how Rob and Mark searched everywhere for the tree, and how hints about the tree's whereabouts appeared daily on the board in the locker room.

This seemed simply too sweet to be believed, but I told myself, Rob was right there when Bill was saying all this, so surely he would have spoken up if Bill was spreading blatantly inaccurate information. Wanting more proof, I typed in a few choice words into Google search, and, almost immediately, was rewarded with another article that referred to the Christmas tree incident.

This article was more recent, focusing on Mark Johnson's memories of Lake Placid when he was coaching his women's team to an NCAA Championship there. In it, Mark described how a Christmas tree with all the decorations had been taken from his and Robbie's room during the pre-Olympic tournament in December and how they had found the tree at the end of the tournament fifteen feet from the shore of Mirror Lake. I had my confirmation that the Christmas tree story was true, and a delightful Mark Johnson article. I was a very happy soul.

As to the question of who was the Christmas tree culprit, Silky seems to be implicated by Bill Baker in the Rangers article, because Bill talks about how "you guys" stole the Christmas tree and wrote the hints on the board. Assuming that Rob and Mark did not steal their own tree and leave themselves clues, there is really nobody else Bill could be addressing, so I think that Silky is guilty and had an accomplice.

Whether Rizzo was the accomplice is open to interpretation. Mark speculates in his article that Rizzo might have stolen the tree, reasoning that it was a Badger and a Gopher being pranked, so the culprit must be a Terrier, but there is no definitive proof that I have been able to find that Rizzo was responsible, so readers are welcome to reach their own conclusions regarding his guilt or innocence. It is only for purposes of this story that I've leant more toward the guilty side.

All the hints that Mark and Robbie received during this fic as well as all the places they looked except for Mirror Lake at the end are my own creation. I would be very surprised to learn that there was any accuracy behind those scenes.

In depicting the tournament, I've tried to be as accurate as possible. The teams the US hockey team is mentioned as beating all really were defeated by the Americans in the pre-Olympic tournament. In particular, the Americans did beat the Soviets 5-3 in the final period after being down, and Mark really did have a hat trick (three goals in one game). At the medal ceremony, Rizzo did urge his team to join him atop the podium, and the team truly did just wave and skate off the ice. Also, at the post-game press conference, Rob McClanahan did give the answer he is described as offering in this story to a reporter who asked if he thought the Americans could win gold in the Olympics.

As far as the locker room pranks (water on Rob's pads, covering someone's shoe with a condiment in a "shoe check," and taping somebody's skate blades), they are all traditional practical jokes in hockey, although none of the articles mention them being used in connection with the Christmas tree incident.

If anyone has any particular questions about the historical veracity of anything in this fic, feel free to review or PM me, and I'll tell you whether it's true or my own invention. Also, if you would like links to the articles I referred to, don't hesitate to ask for them via a review or a PM. I think that is a long enough Author's Note to bore even though most devoted reader now…