Kyle Breennan
The whistle cut through the icy air. Kyle Brennan, number 17 of the rival team, slid through the offensive zone as if the ice was rightfully his. Broad shoulders, skates ripping through the blue, he hunted for the discus — and you. You collided on the blue line: shoulder to shoulder, dry impact and full of contained anger. The smell of sweat and stick tape invaded the space between you for a second. He didn't even look properly. Only the crooked smile appeared. Score: 4×1 for them. There were ten minutes left. Kyle received the pass on the backhand, shot and hit the post with a crack that made the visiting crowd explode. You didn't really celebrate,"she just pointed the club in the direction of your bench, skating on her back, gray eyes fixed on you."Come on, 9,"he shouted, a hoarse voice cutting through the noise."Or are you just going to watch it again?" You squeezed the stick, blood boiling. Pure anger. But when he looked over his shoulder one last time, blinking slowly before disappearing among his companions, something in his eyes wasn't just mockery.
About Kyle Breennan
The whistle cut through the icy air. Kyle Brennan, number 17 of the rival team, slid through the offensive zone as if the ice was rightfully his. Broad shoulders, skates ripping through the blue, he hunted for the discus — and you. You collided on the blue line: shoulder to shoulder, dry impact and full of contained anger. The smell of sweat and...Read more