Disclaimer: Not mine.

Summary: It's hockey night in the neighborhood. Tonight Team Mercer is going against the roughest street league in the rink who bring up more than a few nasty surprises, especially for Jack... Pre-Movie, probably a two-shot.

When the Christmas holidays set in and the skies above Detroit grew darker and heavy with snow, the whole neighbourhood played hockey.

Troops of residents, aged 13 to 50 poured from doorways and porches, clad in frayed coats and sweatshirts, laden with second hand boots, sticks and the occasional shin pad. Rusty blades were slung over shoulders, hanging by straggling laces as they bumped backs.

A few cars rumbled past, engines spluttering through the fresh slush forming along the concrete. The crowds trudged through the thick snowfall as parents stayed tucked in houses, the windows tinted orange with lamplight.

The ice rink of the neighbourhood was pretty run down; unsheltered bleachers rotted in the colder weather and the boards were far from secure. Glass windows were a fiction of TV, the audience guarded by a harsh metal caging. When players changed, the not only had to scramble over the boards into the rink; they had to scramble out of it too, which made them prone to stray pucks or hooking sticks.

But the ice was smooth and kept that way, which was good enough.

Teams congregated on the line bench and switched socked feet from boots to skates. Familial pre-game rituals commenced as an audience of aspiring street stars, bored teens, giggling girls, drug pushers, proud siblings and the odd intrigued parent gathered as teams launched themselves into the rink.

The Mercers always played as a team; a deadly, powerful team. They knew they were a good group but they weren't arrogant about it. They took these games as seriously as everyone else, and played to improve themselves more than to impress. If you could beat the Mercer boys, you were a pretty damn good team.

Bobby, the eldest, was a fireball. He played in the affiliate team for some major league squad, but he was a veteran on home ice. He caused fireworks wherever he was on the rink with legal - and illegal - hits. He argued that on amateur ice, anything went. He had a vicious shot too, with more than a few goalie teeth in his trophy collection. His size didn't deny him any targeting from the bigger players, nor did it compromise his own force. He was a dangerous player. People knew that - and he loved it.

Angel played a different game. He was a strong both in defence and as a forward. His huge frame made him a careful player, less erratic than his elder brother. He planned his moves and observed the game well. He knew when to crash an offending player into the boards so his teammate could steal the puck, and where to move when one of his brothers was shut in. He played a key role too as an aggressor, defending not the goal but his teammates. His physical presence on the ice had saved their asses more times than they could count after wins – and dirty play.

Jerry was a massive defensive importance to the Mercer game. He was strong and steadfast, enduring lengthy games without leaving the ice once. Whereas others treated hockey as more of a sprint game, Jerry looked at it as more of a marathon – he easily outplayed his own brothers on the rink and new when to exert his energy into a strong hit. He was also a peacekeeper between the Mercer team and their opponents, realizing when perhaps a hooking or a dirty cross-check was becoming more a threat than a hockey game. He stopped the team getting their asses shot.

Then there was Jack. Jack was the newest on the ice and at only 17; a rookie on the ice as far as the other teams were concerned. The boys who played against the Mercers still saw Jack as the new kid. But he played damn well. He was the star shooter of the Mercer team, known for a quick hand at dangling and his slick shots that moved like lightning into the fraying net. Often he'd circle the edges of the game, allowing Bobby and Jerry to draw the game to the opposition zone in a cluster before Angel tossed him a free puck. He'd speed into the game from nowhere and score a quick goal, a trait which often tailed him with harsh attacks from their opponents.

Jack avoided confrontation at all costs and his brothers allowed him that much by steamrolling anyone who made a move on the kid with a high stick or a trip.

It was often Green who found himself in goal for the Mercers, although he was made the target of much roughing as a result. The tenders, Green would argue, were supposed to be defended by their teammates, not abandoned to the wrath of the furious opposition.

"Grow a pair, Green," was the often reply, as he would dab at another cut on his ravaged lip. The nature of street ice hockey and the lack of proper goalie equipment often had Green doubling as an extra defenseman – however, the Mercer boys often played one man short against their rivals, as though an extra player would ruin the ebb and flow of their smooth game.

It was intoxicating to watch. Each brother knew well his role within the team and as a player. It was during a game that Green found himself, transfixed on the 30th minute of a supposed 20 minute period, watching the boys against an unfamiliar team one cold December evening. The Mercers wore their unintentionally matching black sweatshirts versus this team's multitude of coloured coats and were 2 goals up – the game was getting rough as they looked the close the game.

"Up on your right, Bobby!" Angel called from the opposition's zone, clearly offside yet not prepared to move as his eyes carefully watched Bobby skate along centre ice.

Bobby glanced up before flicking the puck to his open left, where Jerry was quick to push past one of the red forwards to claim the black disc. Green grinned as Jerry edged between the frantic reds, his skate strong against their flimsy attempts at pursuit. Angel dashed an incoming red to his ass with a 'stray' stick as he went to clear the space for a pass to Bobby. Angel was instantly swept into the boards in retaliation near the line bench thanks to the reds' biggest player. He aimed a tidy kick in Angel's calf with his boot.

"That's for your offside hit, punk," the guy growled as Angel leaped to his blades.

"Back up, asshole!" Bobby called as he stormed up the zone, gloves nearly off –

When in that moment Jack came swooping from the Mercer zone, stick low to the ground. He flew into the empty space the big ass red player had been defending, before his move on Angel.

Jerry shredded the piece across the ice towards his youngest brother and watched as Jack swerved his way through the defence line, the reds too stunned by the quickly developing violence between their biggest player and the notorious Bobby Mercer at centre ice.

They barely noticed the sudden appearance of the gangly shooter in their zone, too slow to react to the incoming threat of a sharpshooter -

The tender stood no chance.

Bobby pulled his glove back on and grinned in pre-celly as Jack skipped the puck over the cracked pads of the red goaltender, Angel's planned antics working once again in their favour as distraction.

The reds' heads dreamily spun around as the tendy slammed his stick onto the ice in frustration, mouth open. Jack circled the net and the bleachers shook with applause. A shy grin broke out on his face and Jerry slammed into him, gripping the kid in a hug.

"Yeah!" Green whooped from his empty zone, "That's what I'm talkin' about, Jackie!"

Bobby and Angel skated their way towards their brothers and enveloped each other in a grinning, laughing, mobile mob of Mercer, edging towards Green as their opposition began pointing sticks and scratching blades into the ice.

"You should be a director, Angel," Green quipped as the brothers released their youngest charge, his hair now ruffled and static, "These little shows you make on the ice…"

"I can be whoever you want me to be, Green," Angel grinned, dark eyes shining as he reached to slap his tendy's shoulder.

"S'lucky we got our little sniper here, huh?" Bobby smiled, punching Jack lightly on the arm, "I reckon it's cause he's using my stick. It's a damn good stick."

Jerry spluttered. "Bobby, that's the stick you lost with in your first league game. The only good that stick ever did for you is when you got it up that forward's –"

"Oh God," Jack cringed, holding the wooden stick at arm's length. Green laughed warmly and regarded how much the kid had come along since he'd first arrived at the Mercer household. Of all the kids Green had seen come and go at Evelyn's during his friendship with Bobby, Jack had seemed like the biggest challenge. And yet, here he was, four years on, bruises healed and scars faded, a genuine smile on his face as he mastered a game he'd come to love.

"And to think you couldn't even skate when I first met ya, Jackie," Green thought aloud, staring at the beanpole of the boy. Jack gave a half-smile and dropped his gaze to the floor as the four men proudly considered the kid for what he'd become.

"Hey," shouted an unfamiliar voice from the emptying line bench. The reds were storming towards their cars, utterly defeated by a five man team. The voice came from a huge chunk of a guy, whose shoulders were twice the size of Jerry's.

Angel stiffened immediately and eyed the figure up and down; Jack bowed his head a little, eyes locked on his skates; Bobby glared across the ice, subconsciously shifting so he was in front of his teammates, stick out in front of him; Jerry coughed, eyeing his brothers nervously before speaking up.

"Yeah," he replied the call, and Green watched tensely as the guy eyed each of the Mercers with a cruel grin.

"Got time for one more game?" the guy droned, leaning over the boards, "We got a few lines back here who wanna go against the famous Mercer team."

Jerry didn't even look back at his teammates. He sensed trouble. They all did. "I dunno, man, it's gonna be dark soon," he pointed at the sky, leaning casually on his stick, "Weather's settin' in too. "

"Come on," the guy pushed. Jack looked nervously back at Green, eyes wide. Green smiled back, though the hairs on the back of his neck stood up too. "Floodlights'll come on soon, right? Not scared of a little snow?"

Jerry sniffed. He looked back at Angel, then Green, then Jack then held his gaze on Bobby. He gave a curt nod.

"Alright," agreed Jerry, "Give us ten."

The guy grinned devilishly and turned to the line bench. It was filled with a group of unfamiliar players, each clad in a crude attempt at team jerseys. They were a cold, dark blue, splattered with red stains and marks. Dried blood.

"What the fuck…" exclaimed Angel – ten of the biggest guys Green had ever seen lined the bench, each eyeing the Mercer brothers with greedy expressions.

"Are they a fucking mutant army?" murmured Bobby. That raised alarm bells for Green – if Bobby was worried about a hockey game, they should all be worried about a damn hockey game. They Mercers studied the line bench – these guys looked more like league players, closer Angel's size than anyone else's. Even the remaining crowds on the bleachers eyed them warily, as though they didn't quite belong.

"Bobby," Jack's quiet voice piped up, and the eldest brother turned with a harsh gaze, "Bobby I know those guys."

"What?"

"I lived for a couple of months in the neighbourhood they played in," he continued in a low voice. Angel and Jerry had turned to listen, arms crossed, "They play rough. Real rough. They take it fuckin' serious, man. Some of them carried..." He paused, holding his breath as he surveyed them again. "They don't come this far north. It ain't a good idea…" He trailed off, suddenly ashamed of his outburst.

Bobby's hard gaze softened, and he squeezed Jack's arm. "Don't worry, Jackie. They're just like any other team – they're just a little meatier than usual."

"A little," scoffed Angel, earning a searing look from Jerry.

Jerry edged closer to Bobby and Jack, his voice low. At the line bench, some of the new team's posse had started to turn up, a wild and noisy turnout. "Look, Jackie. You don't gotta play. Especially if you know some of 'em, it can be real –"

"No, I'm playing," Jack admonished, snapping his gaze to Jerry, "I'm just saying. They're a dirty team. And there's only five of us. We could do with a line change, maybe…"

"All right, all right," Bobby settled, "I'll grab some of these guys heading to leave. Angel, get your girl's brother here, I've seen him play before and he can get nice n' tough. Jerry, any chance you can get some of your buddies here?"

Green allowed the conversation to flit by as he eyed the youngest Mercer. The boy's eyes were wide as he stared at the bench, his gloved right hand scratching numbly at the scarred flesh of his left; a nervous habit unbroken by the Mercer family. He seemed to stare at one of the team in particular, shuddering in the sharp wind as his scratching started faster, his breathing quicker…

"Jack," Green whispered. The kid's head snapped around. The scratching ceased. "You okay, man?"

He pulled his sleeve down quickly and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah I'm fine. Gonna go get a bottle of water from the car. You want one?"

"A shot of whiskey'll go down better before this," Green murmured.

"You're tellin' me," Jack whispered back, joining his brothers as they skated towards the bleachers.

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