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icarusJust a little snippet more of Out Of Bounds (all the prior parts are added here).
Hey, I promised.
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Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
Sweat dripping into his eyes, John had to shoulder his way through a group of teenage boys in padded hockey uniforms to find where his jacket and gym bag had been shoved out of the way. He found a clear bench in the back and wondered if he'd ever been as young as these kids laughing and arguing with each other, shouting over the echoes of the rink. Sticks flailed in the air and John was fairly that sure when he'd played, he'd never been allowed to use them for sword-fighting.
"Hey! Knock it off!" Their coach, a balding man with fierce assessing eyes and a strong chin appeared, yanking a stick out of one boy's hand. He wore an old satin baseball jacket and a whistle dangling around his neck. He glowered at the two boys, one of whom shrank away.
"Yes, sir," said the other with an insolent smirk, thick eyelashes flickering, accepting his stick back.
John snickered down at his skates, earning a cynical glance from the coach.
"Okay, all of you, listen up! Your buddies here just earned everyone twenty-five penalty laps. This is a team. Which means when you screw up, everyone pays." He clapped several times and shouted, "Go, go now!" ignoring the explosion of foul language as his hockey team hit the ice, swearing and shoving each other.
"Maybe that'll get some of their energy out," the coach muttered to himself, his voice somewhere between amusement, irritation, and tired patience.
"I'd have made it thirty," John commented, coming up to the row of seats behind him.
The coach turned around, elbows on the boards, unwisely turning his back on his boys. "Was that you out on the ice earlier?"
"Sorry if I made you wait," John said, smiling and not particularly apologetic.
The coach's eyebrows raised. "Pretty impressive. Figure skating seems to be turning into an actual sport."
"It's been an Olympic event longer than hockey," John said with just a little edge, bracing himself. He was too used to this argument. He'd had it with his dad and his brother every Christmas and Thanksgiving. Especially Thanksgiving when the Lion's game was on.
"No, no, it's a compliment." He made a brushing gesture and nodded to John. "The athleticism's improved. How many revolutions was that last one? It went too fast, I didn't catch it."
John beamed at him and looked smug. "That was a quad and, no, no one ever does. Except the judges, I hope."
The coach smiled and shook his head in amazement. Then held out his hand. "Stephen Caldwell. I'm the coach of the Cardinals here. We're having a winning season though you can't tell today." He thumbed towards his team.
"John Sheppard." John shook his hand. "You know, the jumps are only part of it," he explained. "Artistic merit counts for half the points. Without that you're pretty well screwed."
"Yeah, well, the Olympics aren't a dance competition," the coach snorted, giving John a cynical half smile.
John frowned at him and said with a growl, "No offense, but the style makes the difference between a skater who's just pretty good and one who's great."
"If you say so," Caldwell said, a world of doubt in his tone. "You're decent on the ice. If you ever want to try hockey, you know, a real sport...." He smiled to take the sting out, but John could tell he meant it, too.
John threw his head back and laughed.
[Previous][Next]
Hey, I promised.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
Sweat dripping into his eyes, John had to shoulder his way through a group of teenage boys in padded hockey uniforms to find where his jacket and gym bag had been shoved out of the way. He found a clear bench in the back and wondered if he'd ever been as young as these kids laughing and arguing with each other, shouting over the echoes of the rink. Sticks flailed in the air and John was fairly that sure when he'd played, he'd never been allowed to use them for sword-fighting.
"Hey! Knock it off!" Their coach, a balding man with fierce assessing eyes and a strong chin appeared, yanking a stick out of one boy's hand. He wore an old satin baseball jacket and a whistle dangling around his neck. He glowered at the two boys, one of whom shrank away.
"Yes, sir," said the other with an insolent smirk, thick eyelashes flickering, accepting his stick back.
John snickered down at his skates, earning a cynical glance from the coach.
"Okay, all of you, listen up! Your buddies here just earned everyone twenty-five penalty laps. This is a team. Which means when you screw up, everyone pays." He clapped several times and shouted, "Go, go now!" ignoring the explosion of foul language as his hockey team hit the ice, swearing and shoving each other.
"Maybe that'll get some of their energy out," the coach muttered to himself, his voice somewhere between amusement, irritation, and tired patience.
"I'd have made it thirty," John commented, coming up to the row of seats behind him.
The coach turned around, elbows on the boards, unwisely turning his back on his boys. "Was that you out on the ice earlier?"
"Sorry if I made you wait," John said, smiling and not particularly apologetic.
The coach's eyebrows raised. "Pretty impressive. Figure skating seems to be turning into an actual sport."
"It's been an Olympic event longer than hockey," John said with just a little edge, bracing himself. He was too used to this argument. He'd had it with his dad and his brother every Christmas and Thanksgiving. Especially Thanksgiving when the Lion's game was on.
"No, no, it's a compliment." He made a brushing gesture and nodded to John. "The athleticism's improved. How many revolutions was that last one? It went too fast, I didn't catch it."
John beamed at him and looked smug. "That was a quad and, no, no one ever does. Except the judges, I hope."
The coach smiled and shook his head in amazement. Then held out his hand. "Stephen Caldwell. I'm the coach of the Cardinals here. We're having a winning season though you can't tell today." He thumbed towards his team.
"John Sheppard." John shook his hand. "You know, the jumps are only part of it," he explained. "Artistic merit counts for half the points. Without that you're pretty well screwed."
"Yeah, well, the Olympics aren't a dance competition," the coach snorted, giving John a cynical half smile.
John frowned at him and said with a growl, "No offense, but the style makes the difference between a skater who's just pretty good and one who's great."
"If you say so," Caldwell said, a world of doubt in his tone. "You're decent on the ice. If you ever want to try hockey, you know, a real sport...." He smiled to take the sting out, but John could tell he meant it, too.
John threw his head back and laughed.
[Previous][Next]
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no subject
Date: 2007-06-22 07:49 pm (UTC)