HE USED TO SCORE
It still smells the same, that clinging fusion of musty perspiration and dry dusty corners. Some people find the scent repugnant, but to him, Otis the smell of victory.
It seems like just the other day that he was Racing up and down the rink, the puck leaping nimbly from left to right, always landing just right on the tip of his white taped stick.
He descends from the stands, his knees creaking gently with each new step.
From a distant place, the buzzer sounds, hollow and muffled throughout the corridors of time. A roar crowd accompanies, like waves lapping on a distant shore.
He was a star back then. A right winger who averaged 90 goals a season. And they were short seasons then, not like the ones in the majors.
When he was playing, he could zero in on the smallest hole and that was where the puck would end up. Slap, light, buzz, roar. Every. Single. Time.
He was also a player off the I've back then. He didn't set out to try to be. In fact, the women came to him the same way the goals did. Almost instinctively.
He looked down the deserted hall, past the row of abandoned nets. He used to score with ease, but that was a while ago now.
Now he was just another ghost in the arena, a faded moment of glory swirling in the past.
It wasn't a bad way to go, just not the one he had expected.
He heard his name and number called from off at the end of the ever lengthening tunnel. One last goal for the road.
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