Because hockey!Canada totally needs more fanfics. I love the idea of drunken, rabid fan Canada. He so has a split personality. ^^
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
"Ah! Canada!" America spotted his brother walking quickly along the road. He leapt up to him and clamped a hand on his shoulder. Canada jumped and spun around. "A-ah! Oh. America." He nodded nervously and smiled.
"Where are you going all in a rush, Canada?" America asked, cheerfully.
"E-erm…I was just going to…" Canada trailed off quietly, but America took it in his stride. "Why don't you come hang out with me, hmm? We'll have a real fun time!"
"Eh? Oh, I couldn't…I'm going to a hockey game." Canada protested softly.
"Hockey?" America frowned slightly. He disliked how hockey was Canada's thing. He, America, the hero, should have hockey. Suddenly he brightened. If he could go along with Canada, he could get insider information on this very Canadian sport. Then he could use it to monopolize the hockey industry! A brilliant plan worthy of American heroism. He grinned his trademark wide, wide grin and said, "I shall go with you, Canada! WE SHALL WATCH THE HOCKEY GAME TOGETHER!"
Canada disagreed; he didn't really want to hang out with America today, but his protests were too soft to be heard, and America steered Canada along until he realized he had no clue where Canada had been going to watch the game. "Well? Take me to your hockey rink!" he commanded.
Canada sighed, rolled his eyes, and turned around down the street America had missed.
America sat cheerily on the edge of his seat, munching popcorn. Canada sat beside him, quietly nibbling a warm pretzel. "Oh, look…we're starting…"
A loud speaker began sprouting gibberish that sounded like statistics and players' names, but America wasn't sure. He felt slightly uncomfortable, in a huge stadium surrounded by tense Canadians with –was it bloodlust?-in their eyes.
The lights went out. He yelped. Then a huge spotlight illuminated the rink, and lines of players began filing out onto the ice. America noted that the opposing teams were from Quebec and...Russia?
He noticed the tall Russia in the bleachers opposite them. He sank down and tried not to be noticed.
The loudspeaker boomed. Than the lights came back on. A whistle. And the game began.
America tried to follow the puck as it flashed across the ice, but it was moving very fast.
Suddenly, a Quebec player slammed a Russian hard against the plastic barrier, bringing forth yells and boos from the crowd.
"YEAH, YOU SHOW EM, THE BASTARDS! EH! GET IT! YES!"
America looked up, shocked. Canada was standing up, hollering in a very un-Canada like fashion. Normally Canada's yell was little more than an angry looking whisper, but this was a hollering tone worthy of the Bronx or Red Sox games.
America shook his head, hard, and looked again. Canada was no longer yelling. Maybe it was a fluke.
A Russian player swiped at the puck and tripped up a Canadian in the process. The whistle blew. The crowd roared.
"YOU FUCKING MOTHERFUCKER! FOUL! REF! FOUL!"
America felt uneasy. This new, rabid sports Canada scared him.
It was a foul. Across the stadium, Russia smiled beatifically at his violent team. Canada flipped him the bird. He waved.
The game progressed fast and furious. In the face of the vicious Russian team, the Quebecois began playing blatantly lawlessly. The refs seemed to be enjoying it. Someone started a duel with hockey sticks as they were leaving for halftime, and a man had to come mop up the blood.
The score was still zero-zero.
America was terrified.
He was trapped in a stadium with a hundred bloodthirsty Canadians and a hundred sadistic Russians. He would never make it out alive. Oh, how he longed for the nice, calm-by-comparison Texan football games.
The second half started. Things moved fast. A player of the Quebec team took control of the puck and whipped it down to the other side, where another player skated up swiftly, hooked it away from the goalie and whipped it into the net.
That was when America began to fear, quite literally, for his life.
Canada leapt up and began screaming a whole lot of terribly obscene things, mostly regarding the origins of the Russian teams' mothers. What alarmed America the most was that all the other Canadians were doing the same thing. A brawl had started in the back bleachers between some Canadians on pot and Molson's and Russians soaked in vodka and who knows what else.
These were drunk Canadians, holding their own against drunk Russians.
Canada was downing a six pack of beer, and he cheerfully offered America one. America accepted it and cracked it open. A puck flew over the wall. A riot started over who would claim it. Another goal for Canada.
Canada started a chant that consisted of 'Nah, you suck, whores!' repeated over and over.
A goal for Russia. More fighting.
The group of drunks in the back had reconciled their differences and had started slandering the 'Capitalist pigs down in the good ole USA'. America sank into his seat and hoped he wouldn't be noticed.
The second half was drawing to a close, 2-1, Canada.
Russia seemed to be making his way over to where Canada and America were sitting.
America sincerely hoped not.
Russia was defiantly moving towards them.
"America!" he called out, cheerfully, slurring his words. "I thought I saw you and Mattie over here!"
Canada did not seem to object to the nickname. "I…van…" he growled, "You know your team sucks, right?"
Russia grinned and pulled his waterpipe out from behind his jacket. "You are winning, Canadaaa!" he sang.
America panicked internally.
Russia tapped Canada playfully on the head with his waterpipe. Canada pulled a chainsaw out from under his jacket.
"WHAT THE HELL, CANADA?" America screamed. "WHERE DID YOU GET THAT THING?"
"I stole it from your shed."Canada said, revving up the saw.
A goal for Russia. Tie game. Five minutes left.
Canada turned to the rink and waved his chainsaw about wildly. "YOU DESTROY THOSE MOTHERFUCKING RUSSKIES! GO!"
Russia hollered something about the 'bastard sons of Frenchies and limeys' and eating their organs for dinner.
America weakly cheered for no particular team at all. It was a choice between pipe and saw.
The buzzer was going to go in ten seconds.
One Canadian raced away with the puck. A Russia came up behind him, and was about to snatch the puck away…when a huge, flaming cigar flew from the stands and into the grill of his helmet. The Russia spun away, flinging the cigar off him, and the Canadian skated like the devil up, up…
Canada waved the saw wildly; Russia sighed and put away his waterpipe.
A huge man with curly black hair bundled into a bandana jumped over the back bleachers to join the three nations; one celebrating, one disappointed, one having a minor heart attack.
"CANADAH!" He howled. "DID YOU SEE MY TRICK?"
"I DID, CUBA! NICE JOB!"
On the rink, the refs were examining the cigar, and the Russian wanted a replay, but the two Canadian refs were ignoring him.
Cuba pulled out another cigar and lit it. "YOU WON, MATTIE! AND WHAT'S THE BASTARD AMERICA DOING HERE?"
"I BROUGHT HIM ALONG TO SEE MY TEAM BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF IVAN'S TEAM!"
America sank into his seat so far it flipped up, pinning him in half. He grumbled and sat tight.
"W-well…it was a fun game…"
"Sure was! Have a beer!"
"Speak louder, eh! I can't hear you!"
"Erm…I'll go now…thank you…"
"FAREWELL MY BROTHER!"
America watched Canada stroll off arm in arm with Cuba and Russia (all three of whom were drunk and singing) and felt vaguely reversed. Then he hurried home.
He needed to fortify the northern border somewhat…
Canada, Cuba, and Russia are so best friends. You know it. They'll take over the world someday. O.o