Cross the Line

Chapter one - Vance

"One more lap and if anyone slacks off, it's suicides first thing next practice!" My coach yells into the cold, his voice echoing. In all his 5'4, two hundred pound glory he yells this at us. He stands in the middle of the ice, all of us doing laps around him just about to finish up practice.

Air puffs out of my mouth, I watch it turn into an ashy white in the biting temperature of the arena. Behind me, the rest of my team skates with quick harsh strokes of their feet. Sounds of rock hard ice being dug into by thin reflective blades fill our ears.

A singular bead of sweat drips down my face, landing on my dark blue jersey we only use for practices.

My skates glue together as I make a tight turn behind the puck filled net at the end of the ice. Now close to finishing, I use the momentum gained from the previous 9 laps to glide smoothly towards our water bottles, leaning onto my stick. They sit on the rim of the white and scratched boards, each having our names scribbled in now faded Sharpie.

My gloves fall off my hands with a shake, picking up some shaved ice that covers the floor when it lands. Freezing water squirts into my mouth through a hole in my helmets squared cage.

The rest of my team stops beside me, all of them panting heavily. No one talks, physically not being able to. Cold sweat envelopes our skin like a suit tailored just for our body.

Sounds of a Zamboni start to weave in with our quick breathing, alerting us we need to get off the ice and into our changing room.

Putting my chilly yet wet gloves on, I skate over to our coach and aid in gathering the dozens of pucks situated on the tops of the nets.

Now done, I make my way towards the change room with the number 14 painted on it, stomping heavily with my skates and already starting to work my helmet off, beginning with the chin straps.

As my helmet hangs in my hand, held by two fingers, coach and I watch the Zamboni clean the ice of all our grooves for the next skaters. Even tough we are the last team for the night. Above me the scoreboard that doubles as a clock has 10:02 in neon red letters sitting in the middle.

Bianca should be there by now.

Getting her out of my mind, I force the change room door open with a push of my hand. The smell of ballsack and feet hits my nose, everyone's hockey bags littered around inside.

Coach makes a disgusted noise then wanders off.

The air is humid and hot, thanks to the showers of the previous team. I don't mind it, everyone is cold and tired: heat being one thing on every mind in here.

Wether that's heat from a blanket or a woman. Me:blanket.

Moving my phone to the side, I slump down onto the scratched wooden bench with my own bag sitting in front of me waiting to be filled with damp, stinky gear.

"Guys look at my penis, it's so shrivelled?" My eyes immediately shoot down onto my laces at the sound of Isaacs voice, now extremely focused on untying the rough fabric. The room is lit by one light, bright and yellow. A trash can sits in the middle of the room, full of clear balls of tape and food wrappers.

My skates come off with me practically moaning at the feeling. Skates are not comfortable, no matter how warn in. I sit on the bench in silence for a minute or two, massaging my red feet.

A string of manly laughs and groans fill my ears once I continue working off my gear again. Strands of bubbly spit enter my line of vision once I take off my hot pink mouth guard.

Hands now wet with saliva and filled with my hockey stick, I zip up my bag, slip on my shoes, and go to leave with a backwards baseball cap covering my sopping wet with sweat black hair.