Inside it's hot and sweaty. The air is moist, and stale, from the stench of the sweat as it seeps up from your encarcerated body. You can hear every rhythm of your body. The blood pumping, short bursts of breath. Then it comes. Switches one way, switches another, then flys towards you. Its brilliant, passionate burst hits your legs with a dull thud, as you shoot them out hard. Your whole body drops, and as the deflection comes, your neck snaps back, the ringing you hear is a perfect G as the world encapsulating your head vibrates. Outstreched, your left hand lies flat on the ground, wrapped up in synthetic protection.

The puck is yours.