Apologies for the long update wait. I've been extremely busy this month, but I will try to get this story back on its regular schedule.

…

Day 2: Soccer

After brushing through your bedhead, you trudged out of the bathroom. Romano was lounging on his bed, dressed in his finely pressed khaki uniform. His amber eyes didn't advert from the bed covers.

"We alright, bastard?"

Your face lit up in a surprised smile.

"Did you just call me a bastard?"

"I-agh-"

He looked at your expression, his cheeks becoming red.

"Er, sorry. Habit."

"I guess that means we're alright then."

…

The meeting droned on as usual. France was try to grope your leg, Germany was yelling at everyone to get focused, and Italy was happily humming the same enduring tune the entire time. Yup, nothing had changed.

When the time came for Belgium to announce the day's partner activity, all she said was a vague: "Wear your athletic clothes~" Then to meet up at a park just outside of Brussels.

So you and Romano did just that. Walking through the crisply cut green grass, you appraised his choice of clothing. His eyes darted around, trying to ignore your staring. He crossed his arms and gave you a glare.

"Dammit, what?"

You wondered if Romano could go five sentences without swearing.

"Are you sure you want to wear that? You'll get it all dirty."

He furrowed his brows.

"This is my athletic wear."

You shrugged and gazed ahead to the green clearing. Romano's "athletic wear" was a fitted, sheen black polo, an Italian flag embroidered on the collar. He had a matching black jacket with a name of some prestigious designer on the sleeve. His shorts were silver, with black etchings on the side. Everything looked so expensive. You knew the Italy brothers were fairly wealthy, but if they wore that regularly to play sports…

A gathering of countries came into view, all stretching out on the field. Belgium shielded her eyes from the sun, waving at you.

"Hurry up you guys, we've already set up the teams!"

On her directions, you and Romano split into group two of the countries. Sprinting to your position as forward, you examined your team. Italy, Japan, Finland, and Korea were all defending the goal. Romano, Germany, and China were with you as forwards. Hmm, not bad. You could win. Rising up from touching your toes, you noticed the opposing team.

You were face to face with France, Spain, America, and Lithuania, with England, Prussia, Netherlands, and Denmark at the goal. Oh no. Prussia met your expression with a cocky smile.

"N-not fair!" you shakily yelled to Belgium, who had changed into a striped referee's uniform.

"These teams aren't fair!"

She waved her hand.

"No need to worry, (name). I'll be here watching the whole game."

You rolled your eyes. That made you feel a whole lot better.

"Now," she clapped her hands together, "To pick out your team names."

"Pasta!" Italy exclaimed.

"Okay, Team Pasta. Next."

You opened your mouth to object.

"Awesome!" Prussia shouted.

"No-agh, bloody gits," England rubbed his forehead.

"And Team Awesome Bloody Gits."

Everyone looked at each other cluelessly, then a sharp whistle blew.

"Game start!"

You immediately assessed the situation in your mind. Team, er, Awesome Bloody Gits had almost every good soccer player on it, but Germany and the Italy brothers were fairly good. You assured yourself on this when the ball whizzed past you directly to Veneziano. You ran to a perfect position where he could pass to you.

"Italy!" you yelled.

"Ve?"

He turned, causing France to steal the ball. Japan sprinted towards him, but recoiled, shielding his eyes. You squinted, focusing on the Frenchman and- sweet golden lampposts! His shirt was bright, blindingly so.

There was a whoosh, followed by an eruption of cheers.

"One point for Team Awesome Bloody Gits!" Belgium announced.

You scowled, bee lining for Romano before returning to your position.

"I'll distract France, you steal from him and make for the goal."

He nodded, looking ever so serious in his designer sports clothes. You readied yourself, trying to perfect a glare at France. His shirt was a bright red, the sun seeming to reflect off of it, stunning anyone who came too close. You knew his regular fashion was extravagant, but this was foul play!

The whistle sounded. Just as you predicted, France ran to the ball first. He aimed a pass to America, but was intercepted by Romano. The Italian stole it and dribbled hastily, avoiding looking at the blinding shirt. A glimmer of hope lighted in you. If Romano scored, you'd be evenly matched. All you had to do then was to hold out until the end of the game.

The opposing defenders came up to guard the goal. You ran up behind, ready to sprint up to help. The southern country appeared more than capable, though.

"Go Romano!" you cheered.

He navigated past England swiftly, then Netherlands. Now Prussia…

Right as Romano was a aiming a perfect shot, the albino stole the ball, managing to trip Romano. There was a loud snap.

"Hey!" you yelled, kicking the ball straight into Prussia's face.

The whistle shrieked.

"Player down!" Belgium called.

"(name), no purposely kicking players!"

You ignored her, hurrying to Romano. He laid on the ground, muttering a string of curses. You knelt by him. His eyes were squeezed shut, his hand on his knee. You figured he would just degrade your mother if you tried talking to him, so instead, you gently removed his hand from his knee.

It was turning red and looked slightly bent out of place. You bit your lip. There was no way he could play like this.

"Hurts like fudge."

He did not say fudge. You laughed weakly and softly rubbed it.

"You need to ice this sucker. Or get a doctor. Seeing a doctor would be better."

He struggled to get up.

"I can still play-"

"Uh, uh."

You place a hand on his finely dressed chest. He scowled, yet sighed when he saw your expression.

"Belgium, Romano's out!" you called.

She trotted over.

"Ooh boy, you're not playing anymore. There's a first aid kit by the bench."

She helped Romano up.

"Wait, is there a replacement player?" you asked.

"I'm sure you'll be fine without one."

You let out a tired groan. Romano reached around to say something, but you were already running off.

…

The rest of the game did not improve. Your defense had barely managed against America and Spain, but when France came up with his flashy shirt, it was over. You and Germany falling back to help had saved Team Pasta from a humiliating defeat, but that also kept you from scoring.

One point, two points,

"0-3, Team Awesome Bloody Gits is in the lead! It's halftime!"

You threw the ball angrily on the ground.

"Take off your shirt!" you shouted.

Everyone's eyebrows shot up.

"What?"

You pointed a sweaty finger at France.

"Take off your stinking cheater shirt!"

An expectant smile sprouted across his face. You knew that look.

"That doesn't seem quite fair, mon cheri. Unless…"

He paused.

"What?" you barked impatiently.

He cocked an eyebrow.

"Unless you take off your shirt as well, hon hon hon. We are both in the same position, non?"

Your mouth fell open.

"No way!"

He shrugged.

"Then I am keeping my shirt on."

He began to slowly turn on his heel.

You weighed the decision carefully. If France took off his shirt, the defenders could protect the goal properly, and you and Germany could move back up to forwards. This meant you had a chance at winning, or at least a tie.

But…taking off your shirt? This was probably France's plan all along. You were wearing a sports bra, so it wouldn't be as bad, but still…

You sighed. Time to take one for the team.

"Okay."

France spun back around.

"I'll take off my shirt too."

His smile became even brighter.

"Ladies first."

You scowled, tracing your fingers on the bottom of the fabric. Wary of anyone's attention, you speedily threw your shirt off. The air tingled your newly exposed skin. France nodded, looking as if he had just taken part in a satisfying deal.

"Very nice."

You crossed your arms, stomping over to your team's bench. Now you were quite aware of all of their eyes on you. A bit of blood began to trickle out of Japan's nose. You snatched your water bottle and took a swig, not caring if some of it started to roll down your neck to…

"Um," Germany held out his hand.

You trotted away before he could conjure up a practical lecture. Out of the corner of your eye, you thought you saw France and Spain high fiving. Romano sat on a separate bench, stretching out his leg. You bent down by him.

"Is it feeling better?"

"I think so, but-"

His eye flicked to you, instantly widening.

"What the hell happened to your shirt?" he yelled, loud enough so the other countries quieted.

Now your face was really heating up.

"I, um, got France to take off his blinding shirt, but I had to take off mine as well."

"Idiot! It was probably his intention all along!"

You furrowed your brows, unsure if he aimed the insult at you or France.

"Well, it won't matter now, we're going to win."

He narrowed his amber orbs suspiciously.

"How can you be so sure?"

You smiled.

"I have a plan."

…

Making sure Belgium was distracted, you headed over to the Awesome Bloody Git's bench. At sight of you, Prussia stuck out his tongue, a welt forming where you kicked him. You draped an arm around Netherlands, grinning all the way. The usually unreadable blonde had pink tinting his cheeks.

"You did really great out there, Nethy!"

You announced it loud enough so the Nordic could hear.

"I could see you were doing the most work, haha…"

"I was playing too," Denmark said firmly.

His blue eyes flitted from you to Netherlands. You leaned in closer.

"Really? I didn't even notice you with the amazing Netherlands here."

The same stubborn expression formed on his face.

"I blocked almost all of the shots! I'm the best defense we got!" Denmark said.

Netherlands angled his head to acknowledge the Nordic existed.

"That didn't seem to be the case a FIFA," he said in his low tone.

"FIFA was a fluke and you know it!"

"It was perfectly legitimate. I beat you, didn't I?"

You unraveled your arm slowly as an argument began to arise. Denmark and Netherlands were big soccer rivals, since they endlessly griped about the 2010 cup. The Nordic was conceited and Netherlands was easily provoked. If you got the two best defense players more worried about showing each other up, the opposing team's borders were penetrated. Now to destroy them completely…

You sneaked away out of view. If France was going to play dirty and Belgium was going to make everything unfair, you could counter both of these. This whole shirt situation could work to your advantage. After all, you were the only female player in a group of men.

You let your hair out of your ponytail, then lowered the neckline of your sports bra. As the finishing touch, you loosened the straps a tiny bit. Years of war strategizing had taught you well.

The whistle blew, followed by Belgium's announcing. You ran out to the field, vigor returned. The game was back on.

…

As you dribbled down the field, all of your opponents were obviously not entirely focused, for reasons you had no idea, of course. Finally you came up to the solid defense, Denmark and Netherlands. Except now they were glaring at each other. You aimed a shot, then kicked. The ball flew right past Netherland's ear.

"Score, Team Pasta!"

You cheered and jumped up, diverting the men's attention even more. France shot you a suspecting look. You just blew him a kiss and returned to your position. Now it was 1-3; you had a chance. All you had to do was score two more goals to be tied.

The shrill whistle filled the silence. With some hustling from Germany, and even better defense from Italy and Japan, you managed to score two more goals.

"3-3, both teams tied! Five minutes left!"

Spain wiped sweat from his brow an focused on you, but not with a friendly expression. He whispered something to France, who ran back and whispered to England, who whispered to Denmark. The Nordic's mouth fell open, then he quickly nodded. He turned to Netherlands, who bobbed his head vaguely. You furrowed your brows. Something was going on.

Readied in your positions, the whistle sounded. You went for the ball without any resistance from the forwards. Strange. You dribbled close to the defenders, then passed to an open Germany. Instantly, Denmark attacked him, tripping the former Axis and taking the ball. Germany stayed on the ground, clutching his ankle.

You gaped, but Belgium didn't call a foul.

"China!" you called.

The Asian nation nodded, running to the ball. As quick as the others, Netherlands was on him. China fell, holding his arm.

"Aiyah!"

Your eyes widened, yet Belgium still didn't do anything. Spain had the ball, coming up fast to your goal. Now you were the only forward. There was no hope of winning. You quickly recovered, falling back by Italy and Japan. Spain charged, looking like a rampaging bull.

"Ve!" Italy cried, curling up in a ball.

"Italy!" Japan hissed, pulling on his shirt.

Spain passed both of them, now only to you and the Korean goalie. You gulped and blocked the goal. Spain focused on aiming upwards. You readied your arms. Then he kicked it, a loud smack sounding on his foot. The ball flew to the opening of your legs. You yelped and instinctively kicked it. Whoosh. You clamped your eyes shut. You had just ruined it all!

Oddly, there was silence. You opened your eyes slowly. Spain was staring at you, open mouthed. The other nations had similar expressions. You looked around, confused.

"Uhm," Belgium started.

"Goal! Team Pasta wins!"

Your face morphed in surprise.

"What?"

Before you could process, you were wrapped in the arms of your non-injured teammates.

"(name), you did it!"

"That was a very nice shot."

"We won!"

Cheers escalated. Germany and China managed to get up, adding to the crowd. You shook your head and smiled. Against all odds, you had won.

…

Back at the hotel, you had gotten cleaned up and insisted on wrapping Romano's leg. You carefully laid the gauze around his knee.

"Hey, idiot," he said finally.

"You know, I really am starting to find your nicknames quite endearing."

"I-agh-"

He rubbed his forehead. You hid a smirk.

"Go on."

"That was a-a good shot."

You looked up from the gauze. His gaze was focused intently on the wallpaper. You returned your focus to his leg.

"Thank you."

He looked down and opened his mouth, then winced in pain.

"Dammit, that hurts!"

You rubbed it then got up, grin returned.

"I know what will make it better."

His face went blank.

"Oh. What might that be?"

You raised a finger in the air.

"A piece of Belgian chocolate!"

…