Fundamentals (Prompt 04, Fraser/Smithbauer)
Fundamentals
(very underage) Fraser/Smithbauer, G, 957 words
Mark loved hockey for a million different reasons, too many to count or name. Hockey was everything. He'd loved it since his dad bought him his first pair of skates when he was five and set him out onto the lake on a January morning. It was like flying - the whisp of the blades against the ice, the bitter wind in his hair and licking against the skin of his face. When he was six, his dad gave him a stick, and he never looked back, not for one second.
There were always other kids to play hockey with during the long, frozen Arctic months. He'd assemble a couple of rag-tag teams and show off a bit, hitting a slapshot from twenty feet away, sending it past Jimmy Brien's shoulder and into the net. There were no boards like a real professional team, just the lake, but that didn't stop him from putting a hit on a couple of the older kids, smiling as they scrambled and lost their footing. Mark was so much better than all of these Tuktoyaktuk kids; he was going to play in the NHL someday.
When Ben Fraser moved to town, he'd stand around the edges of the lake after school, the sky dusky from the almost hidden sun, and watch Mark and the other kids play, clutching his books under his arm. After about a week, Mark skated over to him while they were taking a break, sending slivers of ice up onto Ben's shins when he stopped. "You play?" Mark said casually. Ben was a serious kid, Mark had noticed in class; he always raised his hand and answered the teacher's questions, with a look on his face like he couldn't mess around. Like it wasn't in his nature.
"I know the fundamentals," Ben said, keeping his chin up, defiant.
Mark nodded and skated back over to his bag that he dragged from home to school with him every day that he knew they'd get a game in before dinner. He crossed the lake and thrust out last year's skates and a spare stick at Ben. "Come on. Lace up, you're on my right."
It turned out that Ben was a great skater. Fast and technically perfect, whereas Mark got by on instinct and force, always had, since he was five and his dad tried to teach him the right way. Ben handled a hockey stick like he handled Mrs. Sandler's questions in math class, serious and focused and not making any stupid mistakes. Mark nudged Billy Smith out of the way, and gestured for Ben to take up the right wing.
With Ben at his wing, they outclassed everyone out there - even the older teenagers who had played for years on this same lake. It was like Ben knew exactly where he was going and what he was going to do, every time, and they were getting the pucks past Jimmy one after another, lighting it up.
The game ended as it always did, when the kids realized that it was dinner time and their moms would be furious if they were late, and they all took off, leaving Mark and Ben in the middle of the ice, skating in slow circles.
"Isn't your mom going to be mad if you don't get home?" Mark asked, sending a puck into the empty net with a flick of his wrist.
Ben didn't say anything for minute, just took the next puck and put it away in the net, right next to Mark's. "I'll go soon," he said. "My grandmother will be pretty mad otherwise." Mark nodded. His own parents understood. Their son lived, ate, and breathed hockey, and they excused him coming home after the game was over. He wasn't just playing at it, and he knew his dad had called a few junior scouts about coming up.
Mark slowed down, his shoulder smarting just a little from the couple of hits on Davey Igloolik, who was sixteen and had at least six inches and fifty pounds on him. It had been good, to make Davey stumble, to know he had that kind of power, even if Davey hit back twice as hard and took Mark down. Ben, on the other hand, hadn't been hit or hit anyone the whole game, and he was moving like he had when he stepped onto the ice a hour before, untouched
He skated up behind Ben, who was looking at the net, like he was trying to figure out something in the webbing. Mark didn't slow down, and moved in, hitting Ben with the full force of his body. It was a clean hit, and it sent Ben sprawling down onto his back the ice, the momentum taking Mark down on top of him.
"Why did you do that?" Ben sputtered, scrambling a little against the slippery surface, trying to get up. His sweater was rucked up a bit from the fall, and Mark could see the pale skin of his belly. His back must have been really cold against the ice.
"You have to pay attention. That's the game," Mark said, smiling. He didn't move, didn't let up at all, and finally Ben stopped struggling, going still underneath him. Mark reached down to tug Ben's sweater down, the tips of his fingers brushing Ben's skin, and he felt a wave of something strange flood through his body. Something that made him feel just like he felt when he let go, alone on the lake, and skated at top speed. Ben smiled back, with just the corners of his mouth, and he was breathing heavy like he'd been skating hard too.
My prompt table
(very underage) Fraser/Smithbauer, G, 957 words
Mark loved hockey for a million different reasons, too many to count or name. Hockey was everything. He'd loved it since his dad bought him his first pair of skates when he was five and set him out onto the lake on a January morning. It was like flying - the whisp of the blades against the ice, the bitter wind in his hair and licking against the skin of his face. When he was six, his dad gave him a stick, and he never looked back, not for one second.
There were always other kids to play hockey with during the long, frozen Arctic months. He'd assemble a couple of rag-tag teams and show off a bit, hitting a slapshot from twenty feet away, sending it past Jimmy Brien's shoulder and into the net. There were no boards like a real professional team, just the lake, but that didn't stop him from putting a hit on a couple of the older kids, smiling as they scrambled and lost their footing. Mark was so much better than all of these Tuktoyaktuk kids; he was going to play in the NHL someday.
When Ben Fraser moved to town, he'd stand around the edges of the lake after school, the sky dusky from the almost hidden sun, and watch Mark and the other kids play, clutching his books under his arm. After about a week, Mark skated over to him while they were taking a break, sending slivers of ice up onto Ben's shins when he stopped. "You play?" Mark said casually. Ben was a serious kid, Mark had noticed in class; he always raised his hand and answered the teacher's questions, with a look on his face like he couldn't mess around. Like it wasn't in his nature.
"I know the fundamentals," Ben said, keeping his chin up, defiant.
Mark nodded and skated back over to his bag that he dragged from home to school with him every day that he knew they'd get a game in before dinner. He crossed the lake and thrust out last year's skates and a spare stick at Ben. "Come on. Lace up, you're on my right."
It turned out that Ben was a great skater. Fast and technically perfect, whereas Mark got by on instinct and force, always had, since he was five and his dad tried to teach him the right way. Ben handled a hockey stick like he handled Mrs. Sandler's questions in math class, serious and focused and not making any stupid mistakes. Mark nudged Billy Smith out of the way, and gestured for Ben to take up the right wing.
With Ben at his wing, they outclassed everyone out there - even the older teenagers who had played for years on this same lake. It was like Ben knew exactly where he was going and what he was going to do, every time, and they were getting the pucks past Jimmy one after another, lighting it up.
The game ended as it always did, when the kids realized that it was dinner time and their moms would be furious if they were late, and they all took off, leaving Mark and Ben in the middle of the ice, skating in slow circles.
"Isn't your mom going to be mad if you don't get home?" Mark asked, sending a puck into the empty net with a flick of his wrist.
Ben didn't say anything for minute, just took the next puck and put it away in the net, right next to Mark's. "I'll go soon," he said. "My grandmother will be pretty mad otherwise." Mark nodded. His own parents understood. Their son lived, ate, and breathed hockey, and they excused him coming home after the game was over. He wasn't just playing at it, and he knew his dad had called a few junior scouts about coming up.
Mark slowed down, his shoulder smarting just a little from the couple of hits on Davey Igloolik, who was sixteen and had at least six inches and fifty pounds on him. It had been good, to make Davey stumble, to know he had that kind of power, even if Davey hit back twice as hard and took Mark down. Ben, on the other hand, hadn't been hit or hit anyone the whole game, and he was moving like he had when he stepped onto the ice a hour before, untouched
He skated up behind Ben, who was looking at the net, like he was trying to figure out something in the webbing. Mark didn't slow down, and moved in, hitting Ben with the full force of his body. It was a clean hit, and it sent Ben sprawling down onto his back the ice, the momentum taking Mark down on top of him.
"Why did you do that?" Ben sputtered, scrambling a little against the slippery surface, trying to get up. His sweater was rucked up a bit from the fall, and Mark could see the pale skin of his belly. His back must have been really cold against the ice.
"You have to pay attention. That's the game," Mark said, smiling. He didn't move, didn't let up at all, and finally Ben stopped struggling, going still underneath him. Mark reached down to tug Ben's sweater down, the tips of his fingers brushing Ben's skin, and he felt a wave of something strange flood through his body. Something that made him feel just like he felt when he let go, alone on the lake, and skated at top speed. Ben smiled back, with just the corners of his mouth, and he was breathing heavy like he'd been skating hard too.
My prompt table