The Last Service Station
By Eva Suluk
The interior of a cramped team van smelling of damp gear and stale snacks, moving through a rainy landscape.
Sports Fiction Short Stories
7 Stories
The Winter's Grin
By Leaf Richards
The world outside the bus window was a smeared, grey landscape of exhaust fumes and slush, a typical Winnipeg winter tableau. But inside, it was just me and the ringing in my ears, the echo of Coach Graham's words still burning through the static of my disappointment.
Beneath the Glass
By Eva Suluk
The air in the old office felt like a poorly insulated refrigerator, carrying the faint, cloying scent of damp athletic tape and stale coffee. Outside, the night pressed in, a black velvet canvas dotted with the electric jewels of Christmas, promising a warmth the thin walls of the O'Connell rink could never truly deliver. Here, amidst the yellowing photographs of forgotten triumphs, the future felt less like a promise and more like a gamble.
Against the Burned Path
By Leaf Richards
The humid summer air hung heavy, thick with the scent of hot asphalt and something acrid from the nearby industrial estate. Sunlight, brutal and unyielding, baked the concrete labyrinth of the abandoned factory complex. Rust stained the corrugated metal walls, and weeds, defiant and tenacious, pushed through every crack and fissure in the ground, reclaiming territory from forgotten machinery.
A Summer's Oar, A Year's Reckoning
By Leaf Richards
The morning air on Lake Wabanaki held a sharp, clean bite, even in the heart of July. Mist, thick and grey, still clung to the water's surface, slowly retreating before the sun's reluctant climb. Already, the reedy edges of the shore buzzed with the nervous energy of young competitors. Canoes, like colourful, elongated beetles, bobbed impatiently against the rickety dock, their paddles clattering in eager hands. A faint scent of damp cedar and stale bug spray hung in the air, punctuated by the shrill calls of distant gulls.
Gold and Memory
By Jamie F. Bell
The frigid air of the arena, thick with the scent of ozone and polished ice, vibrated with a contained energy. Above, banners from forgotten championships sagged slightly, dusted with frost. On the sheet, a curling stone, burnished granite, carved a precise path towards the house, its rhythmic scrape against the pebbled ice the only sound that truly mattered in that charged moment. Two figures, senior in years but agile in spirit, swept with a furious dedication, their brooms a blur of focused effort.
The Northern Ridge Line
By Tony Eetak
The wind bit at my exposed skin, an icy gnaw that stripped away thought, leaving only instinct. Snow, relentless and unforgiving, swirled around our ankles, erasing our tracks almost as quickly as we made them. The sky above, a bruised purple-grey, pressed down with the weight of unshed tears, promising more blizzard. We were a flicker of warmth in an expanse of white, two figures against the vast, indifferent theatre of the Northern Ridge. This was no longer about the biathlon, not really. This was about survival.