turps | (no subject)

My fannish glee is so high right now. So high! What with Gerard and his baby. Baby Way! And then the twitters. Yes, I joined just so I can get their updates. I'm that predictable and lame.

So I can get this out of my head and do what I'm actually supposed to be doing. Yes SeSa, I mean you.

Brian’s hands are cold. He’s left his gloves in his car and he knows if he goes to get them he’ll never come back. Plus, it’s sleeting out there, at least inside the rink it’s dry – mostly, if you don’t stand under the places with the missing roof tiles. Curling his hands into fists, he covers them with his coat sleeves and crosses his arms; waiting for his new team.

They’re taking too long. What should have been ten minutes to pull on skates and pads is up to thirty now. He’d go hurry them up, except as far as Brian’s concerned they can take as long as they like, it’s not like he cares -- one term and he’s out of here.

A door opens and Brian turns, moving easily on the ice. There’s a group of kids clomping from the dressing room to the barrier, most of them wobbling, arms outstretched and hands against the side of the bleachers. The one at the front – black hair and grey sweatpants, a baggy hoodie that hangs over his hands– is smiling uncertainly and using his stick like it’s some kind of walking aid.

He stops at the barrier, one hand curled over the gouged wooden surface. “Sorry. Sorry. Some of the stuff didn’t fit right.”

Brian looks at the kid, at the others that are lined up beside him and tries to make himself care. He can't, just yells, “Just get on the ice. Now!”

The shout echoes around the rink, and Brian would feel bad about how startled the kid looks, except it’s cold and he’s tired and he can’t remember the last time he sat down to eat. Blowing out a puff of air, he picks up the bucket of pucks at his feet, and scatters them on the ice, says, “Show me what you’ve got.”

They haven’t got much.

It takes them nearly five minutes to even climb onto the ice, and when they do it’s clear that most can’t skate. Brian knows he should be offering tips or actually coaching, but bitter resentment keeps him rooted in place, watching as the tall skinny one tries to skate in jeans that are far too tight, and the small one with the glasses and big smile tries for a jump and ends up sprawled on his back, laughing as three others immediately slide over and pick him up.

At least the one with the hair can skate, that is until the other little one – and god, how did Brian get landed with a squad of midgets? – tries to slide between his legs and brings them both down in a clatter of flailing arms and legs.

When a phone beeps, and the skinny one actually answers, leaning against the goal as he reads the message, utterly unconcerned about the pucks and people that slide past, Brian’s had enough. He walks to the barrier and jumps over, hands on his hips as he looks at the disorganised pathetic mess that’s his team.

He yells. “6am, tomorrow. Be here or you’re out. I don’t care what credits you need.”

He leaves without a backward glance.

ETA:

dine You get the first Christmas card award again. Thank you! You've out done yourself this year. *mwah*

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

castalie.livejournal.com

Hockey AUUUUUUUUUUU. Not to sound redundant or anything but I have so much love for that fic already! That was a lovely start :-) And I'm sorry for SeSa but I do hope to see other bits and pieces pop up every now and then. That is, until you really do have the time to dedicate your writing to that new 'verse *g*

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