Blanket Monster: Gen, G, hockey_fc challenge
Tape. Skates. Sticks. Water bottle. Gear. Gear?
I stared blankly into the black pit that served as the bag for transporting equipment from my apartment to the rink. It was the first day of training camp, and I had obsessively gone through all of my stuff the night previous to make sure I had everything ready. My first NHL camp-I had barely slept for excitement, and it was some ungodly hour in the morning (the digital clock informed me 5 AM) that I had woken up. Camp started in two hours.
And I couldn’t find my gloves.
I went around the apartment in a state of growing panic, searching under chairs and in closets and atop the washing machine, trying to remember where I had left my gloves. No luck.
Desperation drove me to the partially-closed door of my resident flatmate, who normally I would wake up only on pain of death. I slid the door open quietly and crept inside; peering at the mound of blankets that had one arm and a foot sticking out from under them but otherwise completely covered the unmoving body.
I crouched at the side of the bed.
“Hey,” I hissed, prodding the lump beneath the sheets. “I can’t find my gloves. Have you seen them?”
A muffled groan and sleepy swat in my general direction was my response. I poked the lump again.
Between the folds of the blanket and the pillow an eye slid open, squinting at me balefully.
“No. Go ‘way.”
I tugged on the blanket-monster’s arm (at least I thought it was his arm; he was too entwined with the sheets to tell what was what) insistently.
“I need my gloves!” I squeaked, panic rising in my throat. “I can’t show up to camp with missing gear! I need to-”
A pillow collided with my face. I tumbled back onto my ass as a grumbling mountain of sheets staggered to the closet, scrounged around for a few seconds and then turned back. Something black and hard smacked against my temple and I blinked, looking down at the pair of gloves that fell in my lap.
When I looked back up, the blanket-monster had returned to his former position, sprawled on the bed. I grinned and got to my feet, leaning over and hugging the collection of blankets and limbs and receiving a low growl in response.
“Thanks, Matty,” I whispered in relief, and tiptoed out the door.
-
note: referencing Matt Murley, former Penguin.
I stared blankly into the black pit that served as the bag for transporting equipment from my apartment to the rink. It was the first day of training camp, and I had obsessively gone through all of my stuff the night previous to make sure I had everything ready. My first NHL camp-I had barely slept for excitement, and it was some ungodly hour in the morning (the digital clock informed me 5 AM) that I had woken up. Camp started in two hours.
And I couldn’t find my gloves.
I went around the apartment in a state of growing panic, searching under chairs and in closets and atop the washing machine, trying to remember where I had left my gloves. No luck.
Desperation drove me to the partially-closed door of my resident flatmate, who normally I would wake up only on pain of death. I slid the door open quietly and crept inside; peering at the mound of blankets that had one arm and a foot sticking out from under them but otherwise completely covered the unmoving body.
I crouched at the side of the bed.
“Hey,” I hissed, prodding the lump beneath the sheets. “I can’t find my gloves. Have you seen them?”
A muffled groan and sleepy swat in my general direction was my response. I poked the lump again.
Between the folds of the blanket and the pillow an eye slid open, squinting at me balefully.
“No. Go ‘way.”
I tugged on the blanket-monster’s arm (at least I thought it was his arm; he was too entwined with the sheets to tell what was what) insistently.
“I need my gloves!” I squeaked, panic rising in my throat. “I can’t show up to camp with missing gear! I need to-”
A pillow collided with my face. I tumbled back onto my ass as a grumbling mountain of sheets staggered to the closet, scrounged around for a few seconds and then turned back. Something black and hard smacked against my temple and I blinked, looking down at the pair of gloves that fell in my lap.
When I looked back up, the blanket-monster had returned to his former position, sprawled on the bed. I grinned and got to my feet, leaning over and hugging the collection of blankets and limbs and receiving a low growl in response.
“Thanks, Matty,” I whispered in relief, and tiptoed out the door.
-
note: referencing Matt Murley, former Penguin.