St. Petersburg Pond: A Short Story

The deep black ice crunched beneath the sharpened steel. Thick rivets covered the solid, black ice that took days to freeze. A slight layer of shredded snow moved aside as the rubber puck slid smoothly in front of the Phenom. The pond was perfect for a game of hockey, the weather was warm and the sun had just enough light left to see the puck.

Everyone threw their sticks into the middle of the pond and waited for the youngest child to distribute the teams. It had become a tradition and a second nature to anyone that skated on the St. Petersburg Pond, located in the center of the town. Teams of 12, five on five, with seven substitution players, like the Montreal Canadiens: a team that stole the spotlight, the fame, and the fans. Everyone
The starting five lined up in their positions while one of the substitution players dropped the puck. The game was on, teams cheered when big hits were laid and when pucks were shot. A young boy stood out over the others. He was smooth on his skates and smart with the puck, he was untouchable. The other players trailed him with anger, nobody like being beaten. He took the puck end to end and scored within seconds of the puck drop, one nothing for the south end of the rink. He was a star; the kid wore leather brown gloves, Velox skates and had a new laminated stick that was just
I sprinted down the road wondering what had just happened because it was a miracle that I was even alive. Options played over in my head of who saved my life, but all of my answers were unrealistic. I had reached the apartment and fumbled my way through the door while trying to fish for the spare set of keys, mother had given me, out of my pocket. Finally, I had retrieved them, but my stick, gloves, and skates were scattered around the small enclosed entrance to my sector. With one foot I held the door open and with the other I stretched across the room reaching for my things. One skate and one glove was all I could reach, so I took a different approach. I sprawled across the floor, lying on my stomach leaving my feet in the doorway. The door was crushing my legs, it was made out of solid metal. Although it was much more efficient because I had retrieved the rest of my belongings and was able to head up to my home. Jogging across the second floor, scanning each door for the number fifteen. Eventually I was standing in front of my door, grasping the brass lock attached to the wooden door. Splinters stuck out like a sharp rock pit, on the cusp of sticking into my hand as I gently pushed the door open. I dropped my stuff on the floor and ran to the kitchen where mother had been cooking supper for father and