(no subject)
Title: Post-game
Author:nofaves
Rating: G
Word Count: 218.
Summary: Takes place after Petr Sýkora's 37th two-goal game.
Author's Note: I am not a master (mistress?) of the short story. But I was inspired to try my hand at it.
Petr Sýkora made his way onto the dimly-lit Mellon ice at around 11:15 pm, his skates and stick an odd contrast to his button-down shirt and dress pants. He skated lazy circles around the fresh surface before pulling a puck out of his pocket and dropping it at his feet.
It would bounce, he knew, being warm - but that didn’t matter. No one out there to steal his passes anyway.
Back and forth, left, right, his stick blade cradled and nudged the puck forward, toward the net that was no longer there. But Petr didn’t need to actually see the dimensions to know where to shoot.
His wrister sailed true and perfectly bisected the crease before crossing the goal line. It bounced smartly off the yellow kick strip and returned to him, allowing him a one-timer. That shot rose gently, hovering about a foot off the ice when he “scored” again. But the shot was slightly less-than-perfect, and when the puck ricocheted off the boards, it returned toward him at an angle. Petr slid to the right to corral it, spun as if protecting it, and let a wicked snap shot fly.
And fly it did, completely over the “net”, smacking the glass loudly, a sharp yet hollow irony echoing through the empty arena.
Always two - never three.
Author:nofaves
Rating: G
Word Count: 218.
Summary: Takes place after Petr Sýkora's 37th two-goal game.
Author's Note: I am not a master (mistress?) of the short story. But I was inspired to try my hand at it.
Petr Sýkora made his way onto the dimly-lit Mellon ice at around 11:15 pm, his skates and stick an odd contrast to his button-down shirt and dress pants. He skated lazy circles around the fresh surface before pulling a puck out of his pocket and dropping it at his feet.
It would bounce, he knew, being warm - but that didn’t matter. No one out there to steal his passes anyway.
Back and forth, left, right, his stick blade cradled and nudged the puck forward, toward the net that was no longer there. But Petr didn’t need to actually see the dimensions to know where to shoot.
His wrister sailed true and perfectly bisected the crease before crossing the goal line. It bounced smartly off the yellow kick strip and returned to him, allowing him a one-timer. That shot rose gently, hovering about a foot off the ice when he “scored” again. But the shot was slightly less-than-perfect, and when the puck ricocheted off the boards, it returned toward him at an angle. Petr slid to the right to corral it, spun as if protecting it, and let a wicked snap shot fly.
And fly it did, completely over the “net”, smacking the glass loudly, a sharp yet hollow irony echoing through the empty arena.
Always two - never three.