The sound of two sharp blades cutting through ice echoed through the rink. Sapnap, a Nickname he had adopted, was currently practicing one of his shots. Although hockey is one of those sports where it's best to just get on the rink and play, there are certain skills and shots you may want to have ready.
He was exhausted. He had been practicing for almost an hour, and taken only a few breaks for water. He had been practicing his shots, skating around the rink while slowly picking up the speed as well as coming to a stop rather quickly (a very important skill in any sport played on ice), and just before he came to the rink, he was at the gym lifting weights and working on cardio. He took this sport seriously, and he planned to make a fortune off of it.
"Practicing without the team, are we?" Sapnap turned his head and there he was met with brown eyes and dark brown hair. his coach. Well, one of them. This one was his favourite because they were closest in age, and got along the best.
"Yeah, I've been working hard recently. With our game tomorrow, and this tournament coming up, I'm really trying to keep myself in peak condition," Sapnap giggled, skating toward the coach.
"Yeah, well I'm glad. We're all going to need to step it up," the older man said. George is his name. George Davidson.
"Oh? Why is that?" Sapnap asked.
"Well, Nick, speaking about this tournament. You know Dream's team?"
"Y-yeah?" Sapnap could feel excitement building up in his chest.
"Well, they just so happened to actually participate in this tournament this time. When the kid's dad found out how much the trophie was worth, he had to get his hands on it," George chuckled.
"Well first of all, the "kid" is a year older than me, second of all, what the FUCK? You're lying to me. You're fucking with me, right?" Sapnap asked, pure disbelief evident on his face. That team never entered any tournaments because Dream's dad thought they were a waste. Of course they had to do some tournaments, but he only entered the ones with the best prizes. Apparently this trophie was deemed acceptable to him.
"I'm not fucking with you. Our first game with them will be on the second day of the tournament. Assuming we win the first few games, but that hasn't been a problem for us before," the coach said, a hint of pride in his voice.
"So- so I've got to start training like- now then right? That tournament is in two weeks!" Sapnap exclaimed.
"Well by the looks of it you've been training enough," George chuckled.
"Not nearly as much as I could be!"
"Okay okay, don't get ahead of yourself. Yes, we are going to train more, and yes we are going to take our practices seriously, but me and the other coaches are going to talk to you guys about what that will look like. And we are also going to go over not overworking yourselves and it seems like that one will be important for you," George said. Although he loved Sapnap's dedication to this sport, sometimes he would get concerned about how much he would work for it. Having a good spirit is great, but not when it comes to the point where there's not a day where you aren't training.
"I know how to balance training and resting," Sapnap fought.
"I know you do, but you don't actually act accordingly. Matter of fact, it's not good to be wearing skates for so long. Go take those off, change into more comfortable shoes and go home. You deserve the rest," George smiled, giving him a few firm pats on the shoulder.
"But-"
"No buts. You're sweating like crazy and we're in an ice rink. I expect that during a game when you're in full gear, but you're only in a sweater and joggers. Go change, get comfy, and go home. I'll give you a ride if you need it, but we need you to be rested up for practice tomorrow." George said.
"I-.." George squeezed his shoulder as a way of saying "that wasn't a request".
"Yes coach," Sapnap sighed, grabbing his bag and shoes and skating to the other side of the rink where the change rooms were. "And I don't need a ride! You can go home and rest up as well!" Sapnap yelled before closing the door behind him. He untied his skates and slid them off, replacing them with his regular shoes and boy did it feel nice to have proper padding on his feet. He put his skates in his gear bag, and zipped it up, standing straight and sighing before grabbing the bag and throwing it over his shoulder.
He made his way to the exit in the back of the building as that's where he parked. He got in the car and closed the door behind him, and took a moment to let his muscles relax. It did feel nice to actually sit down and rest. His bed will feel even better. But with this upcoming tournament, he can't stay in bed too much.
He'll finally get to play against Clay Dream. The one man he's been waiting to play against since the start of this career. He'd get to see him in action. See how fast he actually was. See how talented he actually was. See if he was as beautiful as he is in those photos. See the face of exhaustio- we're getting off track here. He'd get to see how good be actually was. He wonders if Dream shares a fraction of his excitement.
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"Guys. Guys!" Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at their coach. Johnathan Dream. Clay Dream's father. "Okay guys listen up. I haven't been completely real with you guys recently.." He started. One of the players leaned closer to Clay to whisper to him.
"Dude, your dad never talks like that. What is he on about?"
"The fuck should I know?" Dream whispered back.
"And- boys." Their heads shot right back to the coach. "Thank you. So. There's an upcoming tournament that we'll be playing in," He said. The team started to cheer as tournaments weren't something they did a lot. "However!" He interrupted. The team quieted down. "we'll be playing against a rival of ours," He announced. Clay was confused as they didn't have many rivals. They had two. One who over time, got worse and worse and now, can barely compete with them. And one who they have yet to play against. His dad always referred to them as rivals because they were one spot away from first in their league. His father refused to refer to their team by name, instead referring to them as "Nicholas Armstrong's team". This man had such popularity that someone who lives under a rock, never watched a game of hockey in their life, would know who he is.
The team slowly caught on to who they were playing, and mixed reactions filled the room. Many were excited, cheering and yelling with their buddies, and some were nervous. Some were worried that this would be the first time they lose a tournament.
"But! This team is good. This team is great. If we don't step it up and get our heads out of our asses, this could be the tournament that knocks us down to second. So I need you guys to start bringing everything you've got. I need you guys to start training harder, better. Push yourselves more than you ever have before. I want to see you guys passing out on the rink if that's what it takes. But we're going to be better than them," He said. "I need you guys to study this team as well. Especially that Nick kid. I don't know what they're giving him but there's no way he's as good as everyone says he is. I expect nothing but NHL level plays from you for the next two weeks. Got that?"
"Yes coach!" They all said in unison. All but one. Clay. He never cared for this. He loved hockey, he wants this to be his career, but he hates his dad's coaching. He hates how aggressive he is towards the team. Like what sick coach tells their team to "pass out on the rink" for crying out loud? He loved the sport, hated the coach. He gets that hockey can be an aggressive sport, and it takes intensive training, but the only way the training will pay off is if you take breaks. None of this "passing out on the rink" type of bullshit.
His father didn't like this however. So he walked towards his son, bent down real close, and quietly said:
"Got that?"
"Yes coach," He spat.
"Good." He snarled. He then stood up straight once again. "Now get out there and start training," He yelled. They all scurried to get on the ice, not wanting to have their coach go on another rant about "not training hard enough". A speech they have gotten multiple times.
"Don't you think that was a bit harsh?" The younger coach asked John.
"What? No." He said, pride soaking his voice.
"I mean, "passing out on the rink"? That's pretty intense," He said.
"I've been doing this before I even had Clay. I know what I'm doing. Athletes don't push themselves as much as they used to, I'm trying to change that. Let me do my job, you obviously don't know how to do yours," He growled, walking away and out to the rink, probably to go yell at the team.
Dream could not care less though. All he could focus on was the tournament. The tournament where he'll be playing Nicholas Armstrong. He had always wondered what it would be like to play against him. Always wondered if he was as fast as everyone said he was, or if his shot was so good that it actually deserved the name "fireball". He always had questions. And was he actually the "Brad Pitt" of hockey? That's what many parasocial hockey lovers have said about him. It was only his articulate hockey mind wondering, definitely not the bi-curious part.
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The next day at practice, Sapnap's coaches all went over the tournament and their plans, and how they expected more effort to be put into their games and practices. They also discussed taking breaks, and recognizing your threshold, and George looked at Sapnap a few times during that part.
Although he loved his commitment to the sport, he also cared about his wellbeing. And Sapnap had a tendency to overwork himself beyond what any athlete should. His determination was inspiring, but he took drastic measures to get to the level he is today. So much so to the point where he almost passed out due dehydration during a game.
But, Sapnap has always had a passion in his heart like no other. It wasn't a burning passion, it was a passion caught in the flames of a raging fire, destroying anything in its path that could possibly prevent him from getting what he desired.
So he trained.
He trained hard. He worked harder than anyone else during practices, and stayed behind for hours afterwards, still training. Only stopping when it felt as though the soles of his feet had swollen an inch, and his ankles could barely hold him up. His coaches would watch every once in a while, sometimes in admiration, sometimes out of concern. But either way, they knew for a fact that he would be ready for this tournament.
But that was only if Clay Dream doesn't put too much effort into his training.
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"Go, go, go, God Clay! You can do it faster, I know you can!" The man yelled. This was the third time he had yelled at Dream all day. And for some stupid shit at that.
"I can, but I'm pacing myself," Dream scoffed.
"You- "pacing" yourself?! What do you know about pacing yourself?!" John screamed. The entire team was staring at them now. God Dream hated it when they did that.
"More than you apparently! You shouldn't be overworking yourself and doing extreme exercises, constantly, everyday, for two, weeks, straight!" Dream yelled.
"That's exactly what you want to do if you want to get good!" John fought.
"A-actually, in my class, I was taught that pacing yourself can be the most effective-"
"Shut up, Ethan! You went to a modern-day class. I went to a class where all the best coaches came from. Let me coach my team," He scolded.
"Oh my god, if you just listened to the other coaches for once, maybe you wouldn't have to keep yelling at us for "not doing good enough"! They coach us just as much as you, if not more!" Dream yelled. Everyone in the rink lightly gasped
"You do not disrespect me like that," He snapped. "You are going to work yourself till you physically can't. That's what we did back when hockey was an actual sport."
"I'm going to pace myself." Dream stated as he skated over to his father. "I'm going to acknowledge when I've had enough. And I'm going to rest accordingly. And when I'm the best on that damn rink while everyone else can barely keep their skates under their feet, you bet your toxic coaching ass you'll know why," Dream said, looking down at his father. He knew he hated getting into these arguments when Dream was on skates, it made him look bigger, more intimidating.
"No, you will-"
"Not be having this conversation any longer. If you don't want me to go to the tournament because you don't think I will be trained "efficiently," fine, but you're going to lose each and every game you play. You've got two weeks to decide whether I'm coming or not," Dream spat, then proceeding to make his way off the rink. John stood there for a moment, processing everything that just happened.
"Uh- j-just keep training guys!"
And even after all that, they still did.
No matter how much screaming, yelling, fighting, and threatening happened, Dream was set in stone about pacing himself. He knew he would be the fastest, the best, the most talented on the rink. He knew it. And he didn't give a shit what his father had to say about it. He would be ready. Ready to take on Nicholas Armstrong.
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2442 words
Yall ready for the plot to start? >:)