Author’s notes: Wouldn’t you know it? The day off Salo has after that heart-breaking loss to Nashville of all teams, he is afflicted with the most annoying thing ever: No, not Janne Niinimaa, but the horrible cold! Who is his rescuer and now confidant of his feelings about one Jochen Hecht? Told in Tommy’s P.O.V unless otherwise stated.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

"Ah-choo!" another sneeze. Why did this always happen to me? I was alone in the apartment, as always, but what was worse was that no one had phoned or dropped by. Usually I hated this, but when you’re sick, you desire company. And I desperately wanted to talk to someone. Anyone. Even Janne. Okay, maybe that’s being a little too extreme. I can barely stand Janne when I’m healthy. Suddenly, the intercom buzzed, and I attempted to get out of my tangled mess of sheets and tissues, trudging to the intercom near the fridge. "Hewwo?" I asked, congested.

"Tommy? Is that you? You sound horrible!" It was Sasha. I was glad her observations of the obvious were not out of whack.

I sneezed. "Thanks for noticing," I mumbled, then sneezed again. "What (sneeze) brings you (cough) here?"

"I came to check up on you, and help you with your cold," Sasha explained. "You’re going to play St. Louis, aren’t you? Or at least, you want to play against them, right?"

She had a point. I was in no condition to play against a tough St. Louis team with a stubborn cold. "All right," I said, buzzing her up. Within a few minutes, Sasha arrived at my door, with a plastic bag in her hand and an Olympic Gold Medal around her neck. "Okay, two questions: What do you have to poison me with, and where did you get the medal?"

Sasha grinned. "One: Good old chicken soup and some lozenges, and two: I nicked it off of Eric. He was still sleeping when I got up to come over here." I grinned. He was going to be freaking out when he woke up. Standing back, I let her in, and closed the door. Frowning, she surveyed the room. "God, Tommy, what did you do to your apartment? Is there even a floor here?"

I sniffed. "There is, if you look hard enough. What do you want from me? I have a stubborn cold and I’m congested. You expect me to have good enough aim to hit the garbage can consistently?"

"Say no more," Sasha said, raising a hand. She kicked her way through the tissue mess, and in no time, cleaned up the mess. "Now sit." She pushed me down onto the couch, and walked over to the kitchen to make the soup. "So, besides the cold, how you been, Tommy? Feeling better…mentally, I mean."

Coughing, I shrugged. I couldn’t stop thinking about Jochen, and about what he said. That was probably why I wasn’t in a downward spiral already. "I’m feeling as good as can be expected. That beyond-the-blue-line-shot is still giving me grief."

"That’s rough though, what the papers are saying about it," Sasha said, turning around and leaning on the counter. "A Post Olympic Hangover? Honestly, sometimes I don’t know what they’re thinking. Let’s see them be put in that same position and see how they like being scrutinised. You do what you can, and you’re only human. It’s the same thing with Wayne Gretzky and his speech on the Czech Republic crosscheck on Theo Fleury. Only standing up for his country, and the whole media jumps on him as whiner. Tommy, I don’t think anyone truly knows how it feels to go through this except you. But you’re a tough guy, mentally, and I think you’re going to do just fine in the stretch before the play-offs."

When she was done, I could only sit and look at her in awe. It was the same confidence that Jochen had displayed when he talked to me in the dressing room yesterday. I bit my lip, and now debated whether or not I should tell Sasha what I felt for the German forward. I decided to wait a little bit and talk with her for a few more minutes. Maybe hours. "Thanks," I said finally. "You’re the first media person that’s talked to me to say that. It means a lot." I could smell the chicken soup from where I was sitting, and it really smelled good. "Just like Jochen," I whispered a little too loudly.

Sasha, who had been stirring the pot on the stove, froze, then continued to stir the pot. I didn’t notice, and she poured the hot steaming soup into a bowl, and beckoned me over to the table. Slowly, I arose as not to cause another fainting spell. I didn’t rise up slowly enough because the room began to fade out weirdly, and I wobbled. "Oh no," I muttered.

As I began to fall forwards, Sasha ran over from the table and caught me. "Easy there, graceful," she warned, sitting me down on the table. The smell of the soup brought me around, and she smiled. "I thought I had lost you, Salo."

"But the soup brought me back," I told her, smiling. She laughed, and handed me a spoon. "Does Eric get soup like this when he’s sick?"

Sasha laughed. "Are you kidding? I save my best chicken soup for those who need it! Eric plays sick to get it, but I know when someone’s lying." She grinned, and I laughed, beginning to devour the soup. "Wow, how long as it been since you’ve eaten?"

"Too long," I replied, continuing to devour the delicious soup. "I’ve been too busy sneezing my brains out and coughing so hard to the point of throwing up." And the overwhelming blame and grief I still felt courtesy of the Belarus like goal I let in yesterday. It still wouldn’t leave me alone.

"That would do it," Sasha agreed, fingering the gold medal around her neck. She picked up the paper that I had been reading, and frowned at the headline on the sports page. Flipping to the 3^rd page, her frown deepened. I knew what picture she was looking at. It was the one that had me on my knees after Yachmenev’s beyond the blue line shot beat me last night. "Bastards," she muttered, then saw her picture of Jochen on top of me on the 2^nd page, and smiled. "It came out good. I was worried that the glare from the ice would destroy the picture."

I had finished the soup by this time, and to say the least, I felt better already. Whatever was in that soup was definitely filling and made me feel immensely better. "Good to know that me being flattened by Jochen Hecht furthered your photography career. Sasha, thanks for the soup. I feel better already."

Sasha put the paper down and smiled. "You’re very welcome. But there’s a bright side to tomorrow," she said.

"What’s that?" I asked, as she sat down beside me.

"Dougie Weight is out of the line-up," Sasha answered. "You’re facing a winless in three St. Louis Blues team minus Weight and Tkachuk. But that’s about all the good news I have for you today."

I smiled, and gave her a hug. "Hey, that’s good enough for me. You know, not many people would come by and spend the whole day with a sick, irritable Tommy Salo, who is still angsting over Belarus."

The Sports photographer smiled again, and patted me on the head. "It’s been my pleasure, Tommy. Besides, I like spending time with you, and I know how much you desire company when you’re sick. I had a light flu a few days back, when we came back from Salt Lake, and I almost wanted to talk to Steve Tilley. (An: Steve is a psycho columnist for the Edmonton Sun and comments on the Entertainment stuff) But, since I could barely stand him when I was healthy and not drugged up on medication that wasn’t going to happen. But Eric did visit me and we talked for hours. ‘Twas great."

Nodding, I took in a deep breath, enjoying greatly the skill of breathing clearly. Now I looked to the carpet, remembering now that it was a peachy colour, but I hadn’t seen it since my cold struck early this morning. Sasha was right: it was great to have someone with you while you were sick, someone that was understanding and had a good sense of humour. Absently, I began to grind my teeth together, something I tended to do when I was contemplating something. Should I tell her how I felt about Jochen? I think I would explode if I didn’t tell at least someone. But this isn’t the kind of thing I felt I would have to tell someone. But I needed guidance…advice…maybe even comfort? I then decided that there would be no more thinking. I just needed to get it all out. "Sasha, I…I want to tell you something. Something…personal."

She noted the tone in my voice, and put a hand on my leg, patting it. "Take your time, Tommy. Don’t rush. I’m listening." Will you be listening when I tell you? I wonder how she’ll react when I tell her I have feelings for another guy. Oh God, I’m never going to get it out if I continue to argue with myself.

I took a deep breath, but continued to stare at the floor. "Something else has been bugging me, not the Kopat goal, or the Yachmenev goal." Sasha nodded, not saying anything, although I wish she would. "I…I’m in love with someone."

"Who is it?" Sasha asked softly, not making any assumptions, not until she had heard everything.

Okay, this is the moment of truth. There’s a knot in my stomach, as well as three or four hundred hyperactive butterflies. This time, I looked up, into her eyes, and whispered, "Jochen Hecht. I’m in love with Jochen Hecht." I waited for the grossed out exclamation, the look of disgust. But neither expression was on Sasha’s face. It was a calm, understanding one. One that I had not expected at all.

"I thought so," Sasha said simply, running a hand through my short blond hair. My mouth opened in surprise, but she silenced me with a finger to my lips. "I’ve only known you for about three years Tommy, but it showed that you had feelings for him. I saw how you stared longingly at him at practice yesterday. You hide your feelings very well, but when it comes to Jochen, it shows a little bit more."

This was going a lot differently than I had expected, but I certainly wasn’t complaining. I couldn’t have asked for a better person to talk to about something like this. "I don’t know what to do about it," I confided, as I cracked my knuckles absently. "I don’t know if I can tell him, Sasha. How is he going to react? Does he even like guys like that? I just…I just don’t know if I can ever find the words."

Sasha put an arm around me, and I leaned against her, almost like a small child. She raised me up, and looked at me square in the eyes. "Tommy, you didn’t fall in love with Jochen on the condition that he would love you back. You’ve got to be true to your heart, and tell him. There is no way you can harbour these feelings about him and not do anything about it. You’ll just end up hurting yourself even more. You never know. The outcome could surprise you. But you won’t know if you don’t tell him."

She had a good point. She had many good points. "I know," was all I managed, as I tried to think of how to explain my feelings: "I don’t know when I began to fall in love with him. It just became more prominent after the Olympics. Jochen was always there in the dressing room, helping me get over Belarus. He went beyond the call of duty of a team mate, and I think that’s what cemented my feelings. But whenever I get the chance, I just freeze. My mouth just stops working…it’s hopeless."

"Hey, it’s never hopeless," Sasha protested, nudging me lightly with her fist under my chin, with a smile. "Think of it as a hockey game. Game seven, triple-sudden-death overtime, with 34 seconds left. Only the opposing team is your feelings for Jochen. You have to tell him, and that’s hard, I can understand that. But it’s only going to lead to more pain the longer you put it off."

I nodded, and she gave me a tight hug, rubbing my back. "It’s going to be just like the game situation you described," I began, sighing heavily. "But I am going to tell him. When, I’m not sure, but hopefully soon. You’re right, Sasha. Nothing is going to come of this other than pain and regret if I don’t do something. Is this how you and Eric got together?"

Sasha laughed, and nodded. "Well, he actually tripped on Brendan Shanahan’s foot at the party being held after their win against Finland and fell into my lap." I laughed, and it felt good to do that again. Suddenly, the phone rang, and Sasha got up to get it. "Hello? Oh…yeah, he’s here. Hold on a sec." She turned to me.

"Who is it?" I asked, getting up and walking over.

"Jussi Markkenen."