Portraits of Ice Men

Ah! What if I’m far from home?
Oh brother, I will hear you call!
What if I lose it all?
Oh sister, I will help you out!
Oh, if they sky comes falling down, for you,
There’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do…

"Remember this, Patrice," his father cried, holding his head in shaking hands and speaking into his ear. "Remember this moment for the rest of your life, my boy," he whispered, kissing the side of his face.
He freed himself from his father's grasp and hoisted his arm around his shoulders, pulling him close over the boards that separated them.
"My little prince! My prince!" His mother cried as he enveloped her into their hug and kissed her hair, his Oakley visor pushing her Team Canada toque off of her head, slipping off and disappearing behind the bench. His parents were dressed in head to foot in Canada's red, his father even donning a BERGERON 37 Nike jersey over his Tommy Hilfiger cable knit sweater.
"Bergy," someone called from behind him. "We gotta get a picture, man."
It was Sid, giving him that toothy grin and blushing, still flushed from scoring the Golden Goal.
"Oh yeah, bud," Patrice laughed, looking over his shoulder. He shrugged his gloves off into his parents' waiting hands, crowded between the three of them in their private moment.
"Never forget this," his father commanded in French, not composed enough to make eye contact with him as he bowed his head and teared. "Assisting the game-winning goal..." He shook his head, still in disbelief.
"Give us this, too," his mother whispered, nodding to his helmet. Patrice threw Sid a glance over his shoulder again to check if he still had his and couldn't help but smile again. He couldn't help it. It was almost like throwing up; he couldn't control it. It would start way down low in his belly--when he'd think about that Golden Goal, scored less than ten minutes ago, when he'd visualize splitting the D and drawing Patches to the left of the crease and hitting Sid to the right with a saucer--and it would just rise up through his chest and throat and then all the sudden he'd be laughing and grinning like a fool.
"Come now, Patrice," his mother urged, reaching for the helmet. Startled and letting his smile fold for a fraction of a second, he bowed and let his mother collect the cool black plastic helmet from his sweat-soaked hair.
"Go!" She laughed, pushing him away from the boards. "Go celebrate!"
Patrice lurched again, his smile so powerful as he coasted toward Sid that he felt himself bend at the waist. His fellow forward patiently waited for him at the blue line with a massive Canadian flag draped around his shoulders, gloveless and helmetless like he.
Patrice had never really pictured the Olympics like this. He flew to Vancouver with a pulled groin and had been instructed by Babcock that he'd probably only be clearing the boards for defensive zone faceoffs. Either way, Patrice was happy to contribute. Skating caused him a great deal of pain, no matter the injections, but he could take faceoffs day in and day out.
But it just so happened that he clicked with Sid, and clicked in a way that no other forward did. He clicked so well with him that Babcock moved Sid to wing and let Patrice take faceoffs. Clicked so well that the two of them won Gold.
The crowd in the Canadian Centre was still raging, and music thumped through the speakers as the medals were engraved somewhere in the depths of the arena.
Patrice felt his heart react to the music as his stomach squeezed again, and his mouth split in a smile.
Stride, stride, toe drag, loop, pull back, pass...
Goal
And now the Gold.
"You and me, brother," Sid laughed, embracing Patrice for what felt like the millionth time. "You and me."

Hey Brother, there’s an endless road to rediscover,
Hey sister, know the water’s sweet but blood is thicker.
Oh, if the sky comes falling down, for you,
There’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do…

It was completely dark out in Vancouver, but he and Sid followed the music into the Canadian Moulson House just a few hundred feet from their room in the Olympic Village.
When they opened the doors and climbed the few steps to enter the bar, the patriotic patrons roared their praise and trumpets blared Avicii and lights flickered and they were clapped on their backs and their heads and they were hugged from every direction and they were grabbed and kissed by men and women alike and as they tipped their head back to scream with them beer and champagne were poured down their throats and they hugged each other and cried and jumped up and down and it was so loud, but all they could do was smile that involuntary smile and wail "GO CANADA GO! GO CANADA GO!" until their throats went numb and pump their fists in the air all night, until Claude Julien grabbed them by the backs of their necks and tossed them into their beds, set each of their alarms for an hour nap and raised them with the hair of the dog in the morning—a beer for each of them, making sure all of their bags were packed and all they had to do was sleep on the plane back to New York.

But two years later, though, everything would change.

Hey brother, do you still believe in one another?
Hey sister, do you still believe in love I wonder?
Oh, if they sky comes falling down, for you,
There’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do…