“No Pressure”

Nosedive sucked in gasping, shallow huffs, simply to get air. Sweat swirled about the tips of his bangs, clinging on for dear life before plunging down his face. Back hunched over, he balanced his stick horizontally against his knees. Slowly, he glided to a stop just outside the center ice circle. He glared from under his helmet at the goalie at the opposite end of the ice dressed in white garb with a maple leaf on the front of his jersey.

“Player—” the distant sound of the referee’s voice started, but it was muffled by the deafening chants of the fans.

He redirected his gaze toward the ice, barely making out the cheers of his own team.

“Y’know, go for it!”

“Give it your all, Dive!”

“We have faith in you, little friend!”

“No pressure, kid!”

No pressure? Nosedive almost snorted. No, no pressure at all. He was only the third shooter for their team in the shootout, and the hockey guru on the other side ice, some ancient player named Ed Belfour, had only stonewalled his team’s first two shooters, Mallory and Duke, respectfully. Their saving grace was Wildwing. Nosedive thanked the Stars every day for his brother’s presence—on and off the ice, but today, he especially was grateful for his on-ice skill, having stopped Darcy Tucker, Bryan McCabe, and Mats Sundin.

Of course, there was no pressure. If his shot was stopped, then the game would go on with one shooter from each team until someone scored. If he was on a normal NHL team, there would be an abundant of players to shoot. The Mighty Ducks only had six players, including their goalie. Hysterical laughter aside, the NHL wouldn’t let a full-dressed goalie take part in the shoot-out other than to block shots, and after Nosedive, the next shooter would be Tanya or Grin. No offense to his teammates, but neither were breakaway shooters. Great on the point, yes. One-on-one, no. Therefore, if he failed to score and Wildwing kept being Wildwing, the Ducks would forfeit for no other reason than sheer lack of players.

Still, no pressure. On his shoulders was only the Ducks’ winning streak of sixty-eight games. No NHL team had ever accomplished that. On his shoulders was only his own pride and confidence in himself as player. On his shoulders were the hopes and dreams of the twenty thousand fans in the arena screaming him on.

Damn it, Duke! For the love of hockey, of course there’s pressure!

Nosedive breathed out and closed his eyes, pushing everything and anything away. The noise of the crowd faded into nothing until there was an eerie silence. He was sure his teammates were still cheering him, but he couldn’t hear him.

It was just he, his sweaty pads, and the ice.

The shishing of blades…

He raised his head abruptly, looking up at the person in front of him. It was an older mallard with white feathers and white hair. Even though he knelt on the ground, the drake still was taller than he.

“Come on, son. You can do it,” Wilder Featherburn urged, grabbing his son’s hand. “You can do it.”

A smaller, white mallard skated to an abrupt halt in front of him, clutching his other hand. “It’s not hard, Dive. See?”

Nosedive giggled as his brother and father helped him along the ice on the street in front of their house. The rhythm was understood—shish, shish, shish, shish…

He blazed up the ice, his skates moving in a swift, periodic motion. He quickly beat the pack of less skilled, yet older players and glided toward the goalie. Tap of his puck with the stick on the right side and on the left side, he then lifted the puck with his blade. Over the goalie’s shoulder, it slammed into the back of the net. His first goal!

He skated about the side of boards, lifting his hands in the air and screaming in triumph. He noticed idly that the arena had changed. The opponent was different. He was older, but the circumstances were just the same. He slammed his fists into the boards, hitting them on one side while the fans hit on the other. Then, screaming again, he dove into the flock of teammates who had emptied the bench to congratulate him and celebrate their victory.

Amongst the team, Nosedive raised his head and stared directly at the people he knew would be in the stands. Wildwing clapped and winked at his brother, cheering, as Canard stood next his older brother, screaming along with the crowd.

An explosion erupted about the arena, and Nosedive whirled, unhinged. He stood amongst a deathscape. Puckworld’s capital was in ruins—buildings collapsed, dirt and dust littering the streets, decaying bodies…He walked, hands behind his back, head lowered, one foot in front of the other, in a line toward a work camp. Hockey was the furthest thing from his mind.

He risked lifting his head and sent a worried gaze about the area. Where was Wildwing? Was he alive? Would he ever see his brother again? Tears welled up in his eyes as a crushing fear clutched his soul.

He walked up to the white mallard from behind and simply stared down at him. The drake looked so familiar, but it couldn’t have been…Wildwing was dead…He had to be. Life wouldn’t, couldn’t be that good to him…Not after the flogging, the torture, the mine…He blinked, his vision deteriorating with every second as tears trickled over the brim of his eyes. He closed them, remembering the appearance of his brother, remembering his hairstyle, his type of clothes, his smell—a mixture of vanilla, from the cologne his brother used after every game, and spearmint, Wildwing’s choice of breath refresher.

Nosedive sniffed, half-believing he would only smell the remnants of putrid bones and methane from decaying bodies, but something shockingly familiar lingered. He fell to his knees and besieged the startled mallard with two soft arms about his neck. The tears flowed from his eyes unrestricted as he sniffled again.

Vanilla and spearmint.

It had been six months, but yet, among the dirt, sweat, and feathers, the smell remained.

Vanilla and spearmint.

The white mallard struggled for only a moment before Nosedive’s hair brushed against his face, and he saw the blonde strands. Wildwing clutched the crying boy, his own tears coursing his cheeks. No words were needed. Everything they needed was there in the silent embrace, screaming and being reaffirmed in the place of death that just the fact of being alive was enough.

“Beat it, kid, before you get us all into trouble.”

Nosedive couldn’t say it didn’t hurt, that the person he revered as a second older sibling now saw him as everyone else did—the tagalong, pestering little brother.

But it didn’t matter; his brother didn’t see him as that. “If you want me, then my brother’s part of the deal.”

Nosedive shivered and raised his head. He stared at Wildwing from across the makeshift bed on the floor of the office, then crawled toward him, resituating himself next to his older brother. He smiled when Wildwing placed an arm around him and held him close. “So, Mr. L’Orange saved you?”

Wildwing nodded after a moment of hesitation. “He said to call him ‘Duke,’ but yeah. He did, and you saved us.”

Nosedive smiled, snuggling against his brother’s body. “Hey, I wasn’t going to let my big bro—and the new team leader—fry.”

Abruptly, Wildwing cringed—and ducked the nails being shot by Siege. Nosedive took cover behind his brother, knowing Wildwing could deflect them easily and wouldn’t let them get through to him.

Wildwing contorted to the side, his body being dragged by the force of the blow that dug into the Mask. Nosedive screamed his brother’s name, but nothing sounded but a petrified gasp.

Duke interjected for him, “Yo, Wildwing. You all right?”

To his relief, Wildwing stood and answered, “I’m fine, but—”

“—Beflour likes to overplay…” the words drowned into his brother’s earlier ones.

When Mallory and Duke both had both failed to execute, Nosedive knew he needed some advice, an edge. Accordingly, he went directly to the source. He skated hurriedly to the Ducks’ defending net.

“Okay, bro, give me instructions here,” Nosedive said sharply as he glided to a halt.

Wildwing smiled at him, obvious happy that he had come to him for advice. “…so go in really slowly. Then, fake him by doing a triple deke to your left and bring the puck across the net. When he tries to close off the right side with his pad, quickly bring the puck back to the left and jam in behind his pad.”

Nosedive grimaced. “That’s gonna have to be really fast. Ridiculous fast; Roadrunner fast and he’s,” he nodded toward Belfour, “the Coyote.”

The referee blew his whistle to bring Nosedive to center ice, but both brothers ignored it.

“Don’t worry about it, baby bro. Nobody’s faster with the puck in the NHL than you.” Wildwing clasped him on the shoulder, then ruffled his helmet. “You can do it.”

Nosedive smiled and raised his head, seeing the referee holding the puck over the Mighty Ducks’ insignia on the ice. He spared a glance, while hunched over, to his brother behind him.

Wildwing grinned his encouragement, and Nosedive smiled back.

Fighting Dragaunus, that was pressure.

Feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders, that was pressure.

Clutching onto his brother and praying to the Stars that nobody separated them again—that was pressure.

Duke was right. In the scheme of things, this was no pressure.

“—are you ready?”

THE END