Harsh Canadians Winters

Hockey and Legality

CW: Violence, Pedophilia (implied, fades to black), organized crime, some weird fucked up backward misogyny, cops (??? i guess lol)

The air was warm, droplets of sweat fell on the ice. Marks that were once littering it now were a seemingly flat surface with the occasional fissure formed by the hitting of new blades. They all wore the same uniform, aside from slight alterations for each player. Hair were glued to each of their foreheads. They kept their eyes wide open as they looked for the puck. The alarm sounded. The puck moved elegantly between players; they seemed frozen in awe at the display.

Trevor could feel the chest protector brush against his skin, it was damp and cold, unlike the play happening between the players on the ice. It was already the third period, his feet ached, and his hands clenched tighter. He felt the world slow down as he moved, feet gripping the ice as he pushed off, the racket of his blades echoing in the arena. He rushed to the puck, knocking shoulders with number fourteen.

Their heads bumped together; he felt his brain ricocheting against his skull from the impact. Trevor ignored the pain, taking the puck away from the opposing team, his stick glided on the ice, sneakily attempting a steal.

He was blocked by a second stick, its tape was in a bad state, but it did nothing to interfere its movements, it didn't create any restrictions for the second player. Trevor took his blade, tapping the puck in the other direction. His opponent clumsily changed the position of his shaft, but Trevor was faster.

The timer was going down.

Now that he had the puck, all he needed to do was go to the other team's goal.

6

He weaved through their formation easily.

5

He stopped abruptly, skidding on the ice for barely more than a second.

4

He elevated his stick, careful not to bring it higher than his waist.

3

And shot it in the direction of the net. It flew.

2

The goaler barely had time to move, he jumped in the wrong direction, leaving his left side wide open.

1

Hit. It marked a point.

0

The siren resounded in the place. Trevor panted, trying to get his breathing back under control. Surprisingly, the cold sweat he could feel falling down his back didn't help cool off. He could feel his vision darken in some places, he blinked heavily. His team was cheering, they had taken over the game at the last second. The ones sitting out jumped in the ice ring, they whooped as they toppled on top of each other. Trevor eventually joined them, albeit, with more resistance than his other teammates.

Their coach was standing to the side, looking at them proudly. In contrast, Trevor could also feel the glare of the other team's coach.

He felt pats on his back from his team. Liam Cloutier, their goaler, hugged his side, a big, wide, stupid, goofy, boyish grin on his face. If they were able to do as good a job during their city's tournament of 1982, they would win for sure.

Trevor allowed himself a small, uncertain smile as an answer.

They were waiting for their call to join the ice. Their team was an unrestrained ball of stress, a few walking back and forth in hope to calm their nerves.

Trevor could feel his own nerves. His hands felt clammy, and he could feel his heart beating fast at the tips of his fingers. He blinked a few times, hoping to get rid of the bright lights over their head, the sharp, artificial luminosity pierced his pupils in an uncomfortable (if not downright sadistic) way. He closed his eyes, relishing in the darkness it brought.