Hockey - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The kid watched me from the far end of the bleachers, probably thinking I didn't notice his presence. I did, but I just didn't care. He had that classic Phoeban look: the pale skin untouched by natural sunlight, the slight frame of one who had never experienced full gravitational pull. The puck slammed into the boards behind the net and ricocheted across the rink. I'd missed the goal, and badly at that. The kid was still back there, silently staring with his big, moon-like eyes like I was Chao Cyrus in the Andromeda Cup finals. I wondered if I was being considerate. Just by lifting the stick, I was showing him what he'd never be able to do and rubbing it in his face. It was too heavy for Phoebans to lift in a regular-gravity area and impossible to play in the low gravity that was the only place they could function properly in. I was tempted to tell him to go somewhere else and find something to watch that one day, maybe he could do, or play. Maybe chess, or moonball. Instead, I threw the puck back onto the ice and took another shot.
I'm slamming the edges of my blades against the ice, scratching the delicate surface as I emerged from one side of the rink to the other. I didn't hesitate, moving as swiftly as I could around the defense men. Through the boisterous cheering of the crowd, I could hear the faint thumping of my own heartbeat pulsing in my chest. My breathing was rigid against the bars of the helmet, and my eyes strained to keep sight of the goal.
With a flicker of my wrist, I launched the black puck upward. It spun a few spirals in the air before slamming against the net and my heart dropped. It went in. The puck went in. The buzzer sounded and my teammates engulfed me an embrace. This was it. This was what my heart desired. This is what makes me happy.