~KIM'S POV~

It has been few months since I injured my elbow and today is the last day in the States before we (hopefully!) leave for European tour. I sit down on a wooden chair in Doc's office, waiting anxiously what he has to say. If he says playing hockey will not be good for me, that means I am staying here and that my dreams of playing in the name of every female player who is trying to prove herself among men are over. And only because of some stupid injury...

"Ah, Kim. Here because of your elbow, right? And how are your ribs?"

"Ribs are perfectly fine, excluding occasional stinging. Doc, what about my elbow?"
He looks up from the stack of papers and sighs: "Kim, I am sorry... but I hope you are ready to leave for Europe."
"A-Are you serious? This is not a joke? Please, Doc, tell me this is not a sick joke."
"It's not. But under one condition. You continue with your recovery program until I or any other doctor tells you to stop."
"Anything, Doc. I am really going to Europe!"

With an excitement flowing, I could say overflowing, through my veins, I nearly fly out of Doc's office. Without even thinking where to go, I head right to Neal's room and knock on his door.

Screwing his eye, he opens the door and blinks few times: "Kim? Everything okay?"

"I am going to Europe!"

"Doc said you can go?"

"Yes! Neal, I am going to Europe with you, I can't believe it!"

He picks me up and quickly spins me around before pulling me into his room. After the door close, he pulls me into a tight hug and mumbles in crook of my neck: "I am so happy you can go with us."
"So am I, can you believe we'll be going to Europe! I have never been anywhere else but Colorado in Minnesota."

"And you haven't seen much of a Minnesota either," he chuckles, his breath fanning my skin gently.

"I am waiting for you to show me around," I playfully poke his side, causing him to tighten his grip on my waist.

"I will as soon as the Games end. That's what I promise."

For a second or two we just gaze at each other before he leans down and softly places his lips on mine. Closing my eyes, I give in and return him a sweet kiss. I don't know how long we stay like that, I know we jump apart when someone knocks on his door and walks in.

"Whoa, I am sorry," Verchota chuckles and closes the door loudly. My heart freezes and Neal looks like a deer caught in car's headlights. He quickly unwraps his arm from around my waist and he tucks his hands into his pockets: "What's up, Phil?"

"Nothing, nothing. Pretend I am not here, okay?"

Absent-mindedly, I ruffle my hair and look at Phil: "Are you excited for Europe?"
"Are you going too?" his attention is now completely on me. Holding back a wide grin, I smile and nod: "Yeah, Doc gave me a green light."

"That's awesome! That means your elbow is okay?"
"That's exactly what it means. I still have to be careful, but that's what it means."
Verchota pulls me into a tight hug and I am lifted from the ground for the second time.

~Holland, September 3rd 1979~

It's the evening of the first game of the European tour and lightly said, my nerves are a mess. This is the first game we will be playing since the team was put together few months before. And we are still not playing completely as a team. The tension in the confined locker room is so thick it could be cut through.

My stall neighbor is our Californian, as we call him, Eric Strobel. It still surprises me how untouched his face is, compared to evidences of previously broken noses and missing teeth on other guys. He still has all of his teeth, unstitched face and a never-broken nose, not to mention nearly golden blonde locks, peeking from beneath his helmet right now. On my other side is no one else than Phil Verchota, now holding a glaring contest with Bah Harrington. My gaze quickly drifts over to Neal and we share an unannounced smile. Quickly, before anyone can notice, he gives me thumbs up. I smile wider than before and repeat his gesture. Before we break our gaze, he winks, making my cheeks heat up a bit. Still smirking, he pulls helmet on his head and covers that brown locks with blue protective plastic.

When Herb walks in, all of us are geared up, waiting for his sign to get out on the ice and try to prove Herb chose us with a reason.

"Tonight's game is not only your international debut, gentlemen and a lady, it's also the first game you will be playing as a team and I hope you prove you are worth being here."

With those words he leaves, letting us sink in his words and if coach Patrick has something to say to us.

"Well, good luck, boys and Kim. Get ready and we'll see you on the bench."

As soon as the door close, we all exchange a silent glance. Every one of us wants to prove himself worthy this spot. And then there's me. The only girl on the team, who, if it's to believe most of the guys, has nothing to do here. A girl who has never been out of States and her first trip over seas is to play international hockey.

Verchota jabs my side with the end of his stick: "Ready to shine, Brown?"

"As I will ever be. What about you, Philly?"
"It's just a game," he chuckles, but his voice sounds a bit too nervous.

Less than ten minutes later we are on the ice and the arena booms with loud cheering for the home team.  Being number 13, I stand between Coxy, who wears #14 and Jack Hughes, who wears #12. With a corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of O'Callahan, wearing that significant I-am-better-than-you smirk, but there is also a slight shadow of nervousness.

The announcer announces starting lines for Holland team and us. Just before that happens, Herb replaces McClanahan with me on the left wing. That surprises not only both of us, but also the other players. I have always practiced with third line, replacing either Rizzo on the left wing or Neal as a center.

"But, coach..."
"Mayfield, shut up and get out there. Rob, don't you dare to say anything."
I shot Rob an apologetic look before I skate on the face off circle, where Johnson is ready for the puck to drop. With the end of his stick, I pat his butt and mumble quietly: "Good luck, Johnson."

By the end of the second period is pretty obvious we are better. The other team is trailing 6-1. While exiting the ice and on our way to the guests' locker room, we are a bunch of loud players, high fiving each other and patting each other's backs.

"We can do this, boys!" Rizzo shouts as soon as we all pile up in the locker room.

"Only boys, Rizzo?" Neal looks over at you and playfully punches your shoulder. Smirking, you return him a punch and gently smack his helmet with my stick.

"Of course, how could I forget Kim? Nice plays out there, kiddo," Rizzo smiles and reaches me in few steps. He pats my shoulder: "You threw Mac off his spot."
"She did not!" Mac mumbles from his stall and pulls the tape off his stick.

"Why are you doing this, Mac?"

"Because it was starting to peel off," he explains before re-taping his stick over again, his bottom lip sticking out as he is focusing on his stick. The rest of us wordlessly watch him. This is not the first time he is doing this, but his superstitions never fail to amuse us. Especially Harrington, who once he finds your soft spot, he won't easily quit. And he has hidden Mac's newly taped stick sometimes, just to see his reaction. 

"Hey, Mac-"

Whatever Johnson was trying to say gets interrupted when coaches walk in. with anticipation on our faces we look at Herb, who paces back and forth a bit before turning to us.

"If we look at the score, you are playing great. But the score is not everything and you are lucky to have Janny in the net otherwise your asses would be embarrassed out there. Mike, you better start looking where are you skating or at least try to check your opponents, not your teammates."

Mike looks down at his skates and nods wordlessly. But Herb is not done yet. He turns to Mac now, who put down his sticks to listen to him.

"Mac, are you playing that bad on purpose because you are not on the same line with Johnson and Silk or are you that bad only they can make your game look good?"

Silk and Johnson look at their line mate and then at Herb, their faces masks of shock. Mac gulps hard like he is trying to swallow some insults directed towards ruthless coach.

"McClanahan, I am talking to you!"
Rob quickly glances around the locker room, seeking for some help. All of the guys avoid his gaze and when he finally looks at me, I look away as well. Even without that, my impression is pretty bad and I have a strong feeling my days here are coming to an end. When he gets no response from either of us, Mac looks up at coach and shakes his head: "I am trying my hardest coach..."

"Clearly not hard enough. You will be sitting out the rest of the game."

"You can't do this!"
"I can and I will. Rizzo, you better play harder than he did."

With that he leaves and the room sinks in silence. Rob, who has always been a guy to give 110% on the ice, stares down at his skates and shakes his head time to time. And even though he is not keen on me being here, he has been nice to me and seeing him like that breaks me. After all, he lost his spot for this game on the first line because of me and his performance is not as good as if it would be if he continued playing with Johnson and Silk. I stand up and slowly approach him: "Mac..."
"What do you want?"
His voice is broken and I have a feeling he is slowly breaking.

"I can talk to coach and try to persuade him to put you back on the ice. I can sit this one out."
Mac shakes his head: "No. You deserved that, you deserved to be a first-liner."

"But..."
"Shut up. Just score a goal, okay? I don't care how, but score a goal."

In the middle of the last period, Herb sends us on the ice with O'Callahan and Ramsey as defense. Just before O'Callahan and I jump on the ice, Herb shouts: "OC, don't ignore the girl."

I see Jack roll his eyes before jumping on the ice. Being a player he is, playing physical game, he checks Holland player into the boards and gets the puck. Cold rubber is passes to Ramsey, who passes it back to O'Callahan.

"Brown!" Jack calls out, getting my attention, before he passes me the puck. A second before I get the puck, I remember Mac's words and decide not to let him down. With Silk on a right wing and Johnson filling up my spot, I speed towards the goal down the middle, dodge a defender and slide the puck backwards for Johnson to pick it up. He fakes a pass to Silk and passes the puck to me.

"Shot it, Y/N!"
With no hesitation, I shoot the puck and watch as it hits the net. A second later the siren goes off, signalizing another scored goal. And I? Well, one second I am firmly on my feet and in another second I am on the ice, four other players on top of me. Yes, four, that means Jack too. After few seconds of rolling around, Johnson helps me up while smiling like an idiot: "Nice shot, Kim."
"Nice pass, Magic."

'Well, maybe you can be useful," thick Boston accent gets to me and I look at Jack: "Nice check there."
"I guess. Nice goal."
Other three guys listen to us with mouths wide open until Ramsey chuckles: "I thought you two hate each other."
"My opinion hasn't changed, but that was a beautiful goal nonetheless."

At the end of the game the score board shows 8 to 1 for us. After the game ends, we line up for the handshakes and somehow, I end up behind O'Callahan and in front of Neal, who keeps poking my shoulder with his stick until it's his turn to shake hands. The whole procedure stops for a bit when Jack gets to shake that guy's, who he has flattened, hand.

"Good game, but you are still an asshole."
"Save the sweet words for your girl," Jack laughs and for a second it seems the other guy is about to punch him. Knowing Jack, he wouldn't hesitate to return him a favor and teach him how players from Charlestown fight. So I gently push him forward: "C'mon, Jack, move on."
"Well, I'll see you again in two days. Be prepared."

Two days later the same team falls again, this time with a score of 11 to 4. Johnson and Cox become best scores, recording a hat trick each. Only Johnson is named the MVP with five assists, resulting in total of 8 points.

After playing Holland team, we pack our bags and put them on the bus before heading to Finland. Long bus rides seems shorter with Pavelich playing his guitar, mostly old songs about traveling.

One night, when most of the team is either hibernating or sleeping, I sit down next to him: "Can ya play Homeward Bound?"

He is the last person I would expect the answer from, so seeing him smirk and nod it's enough for me. But it surprises me when he starts singing quietly while his fingers strum the guitar strings.

I'm sitting in the railway station.
Got a ticket to my destination.
On a tour of one-night stands my suitcase and guitar in hand.
And every stop is neatly planned for a poet and a one-man band.
Homeward bound,
I wish I was,
Homeward bound,
Home where my thought's escaping,
Home where my music's playing,
Home where my love lies waiting
Silently for me.

Every day's an endless stream
Of cigarettes and magazines.
And each town looks the same to me, the movies and the factories
And every stranger's face I see reminds me that I long to be,
Homeward bound,
I wish I was,
Homeward bound,
Home where my thought's escaping,
Home where my music's playing,
Home where my love lies waiting
Silently for me.

Tonight I'll sing my songs again,
I'll play the game and pretend.
But all my words come back to me in shades of mediocrity
Like emptiness in harmony I need someone to comfort me.
Homeward bound,
I wish I was,
Homeward bound,
Home where my thought's escaping,
Home where my music's playing,
Home where my love lies waiting
Silently for me.
Silently for me.

Later, when he stops playing, I rest my head on the window and watch as the unknown flies past us in darkness. Just as I close my eyes, someone shakes me awake. The intruder sits behind me and I look back: "Yeah?"
"Was that song your idea?"
"So if it was, Jack."
"Just asking," he sounds kinda offended. What did he expect? A friendly chat? We are certainly not in good relations for something like that.