Youth League
A lean boy with massive hooves, out of balance compared to the rest of his still-maturing body, hunkered down in his hockey pads. He watched down to the other end of the ice, which had been cut up beneath the skates of energetic adolescents for the last hour. The grooves rumbled beneath his blades as he drifted backwards.
Beside him, at the other end of the blue line, his fellow defenseman smacked his hockey stick on the ice and straightened. The horn blew and signaled the end of the game.
The big-hoofed boy skated over to the scorekeeper's box, where the eager buzzer-blower grinned back at him, and beads rattled against her horns when she stood. He placed his glove on the glass. She touched back with her mitten on the other side. "See you guys outside the locker room!" the girl called.
He nodded and smiled.
Filing off the ice with the other boys, the second defenseman teased the first, "No kissing through the glass this time, Andi? Everything okay between the two of you?"
"We're fine, Kostas. Mind your own tail."
The second boy laughed and hopped off the ice. Later, the three younglings convened in the indicated place, the two taller ones burdened by heavy packs full of hockey pads.
"Your dad said he'd be right back, then he's going to give us a ride." The girl hung on Andi's arm, glad that it seemed like he'd at least scampered past a shower beforehand. Something about smelly teenagers overpowered other hormones on occasion.
"Okay."
Kostas's gaze drifted over the ice and around the rink. No one came to watch him, specifically, ever. Though it felt nice when the two tried to include him.
"Did you want to go with us?" Andi prompted his friend, seeing the look, and dependable as always.
The other boy shook his head. "I'll just catch the train back to the home."
"Aw, but we're going to get pasta," the girl entreated.
Two restless, growing stomachs grumbled in anticipation. "If Mister Pale says it's okay." Kostas continued to gaze about, never quite sure what he was looking for - always something. He spotted a stranger up in the seats. A man with a long coat and hat pulled down to cover his crest and eyes. Knitting his brows, Kostas turned away when Jakaaro, Andi's father, shambled toward the group.
"You played a good game, boys. Is everyone ready to go?" the Broken wheezed and tried to grin. It faltered.
"It was! Can Kostas come to dinner with us? Please?" the girl tapped her hooves together and gave her best convincing face.
Jakaaro looked at the second boy. "Of course he can," he replied, kind. Feeding one hungry adolescent strained the pocketbook. Three threatened to shred it completely, but Jakaaro couldn't say no to someone who had no family to go home to. He knew how that felt.
A twinge of relief came over Kostas, and he followed Andi and the others out of the rink. When he glanced back toward the man in the seats, the stranger was gone.
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