The Puck's Lament

Jeff stood centre stage, the words a lead weight on his tongue. He knew the puck felt no true love for the player, nor the ice for the skate, yet here he was, delivering an impassioned monologue about it. His co-star, Laura, tried to keep a straight face, a tremor at the corner of her lips.

“The… the puck,” Jeff stammered, his voice catching on the ridiculous line, “it yearns. It yearns for the net with a hunger… a hunger born of… of destiny. And the ice… it sings. A frozen, crystalline symphony of… of purpose.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a fractional second, then forced them open, meeting Laura’s gaze across the empty stage. She was doing her best, he could tell. Her lips were pressed into a thin, almost invisible line, a tell-tale sign of her own internal struggle against the script's relentless onslaught of profound nonsense. A slight, almost imperceptible twitch played at the corner of her left eye.

Coach Reese, perched on the edge of a seat in the fourth row, clapped once, a sharp, solitary sound in the cavernous university theatre. “Yes! Jeff! There! That tremble! That… existential angst of the puck-whisperer! I feel it! But… more! I need more *ice* in your voice! Less… less melted puddle. Think permafrost, Jeff! Arctic tundra of the soul!”

Jeff swallowed. The air, thick with the smell of old wood, dust, and something vaguely metallic, felt like a shroud. A bead of sweat traced a path down his temple, past his ear, disappearing into the collar of his faded t-shirt. He could feel the coarse texture of the stage floor through the soles of his beat-up trainers. The work lights above hummed, radiating a dry heat that clung to his skin. He was already clammy, and it was barely noon. This was summer, alright. A summer of sweat and terrible poetry.

“Right,” Jeff mumbled, looking down at his worn script. The pages were dog-eared, covered in his own frantic annotations and Reese’s even more frantic, barely legible scribbles. He was supposed to be Brayden 'Brick' Hawthorne, a rookie university ice hockey player with a penchant for philosophical soliloquies about frozen water and synthetic rubber discs. Laura, opposite him, was Captain 'Cannon' O’Malley, the stoic team captain, whose primary role, so far, seemed to be staring intensely.

“Again!” Reese barked, oblivious to Jeff’s internal turmoil, or perhaps, thriving on it. “From the top, Brayden. And this time, remember the spirit of the puck. It’s not just a thing. It’s a… a *consciousness*! A sentient disc of frozen fate!”

Jeff took a deep breath. The taste of lukewarm coffee, which he’d gulped down too quickly an hour ago, still lingered. He ran a hand over his short-cropped hair, feeling the dampness there. He glanced at Laura. Her eyes, usually sparkling with an easy mischief, were narrowed, fixed on some point just over his shoulder. She cleared her throat, a tiny, almost inaudible sound that only he would register as a shared sigh.

“The puck,” Jeff began again, trying to channel 'permafrost', his voice lower, rougher. “It yearns. For the net. A hunger… born of destiny.” He focused on Laura, trying to imbue his gaze with the 'arctic tundra of the soul' that Reese seemed to want. He imagined the feel of the ice, the chilling sting on his bare hands if he were to grab a chunk of it, the slickness. He felt the phantom ache in his knuckles from a forgotten bump against a doorframe earlier that morning. It was something, anyway. Better than nothing.

Laura shifted her weight, the fabric of her tracksuit rustling faintly. Her eyes finally met his, a flicker of something — commiseration? Amusement? — passing between them. Then, in character, her expression hardened. She was O’Malley, the unyielding captain. Her stillness was a counterpoint to his over-the-top delivery, a quiet anchor in the stormy sea of Reese’s script. It was a good choice, he thought, trying to give her some credit for making sense of the madness. Her character wasn’t really supposed to *do* anything in this scene, just absorb the 'puck-whisperer's' wisdom. He imagined her character, a few years older than them both, with a scar above her left eyebrow from a stray stick, the quiet leader, probably wishing she was anywhere but here listening to Brayden.

“Good! Better!” Reese exclaimed, a little too loudly, making Jeff flinch slightly. “But O’Malley, your reaction! More… *gravitas*! This is not just a rookie blathering. This is… the future of university hockey! The very soul of the game, laid bare!”

Laura nodded slowly, her lips still pressed tight. She didn’t speak, of course. Her part here was to be a silent monument to the puck’s destiny. Jeff saw her right hand, holding the script, clench almost imperceptibly, a tiny white line appearing along her knuckles. A flash of irritation, or just a tired reflex? With Laura, it was often both.

“Let’s try the next bit, then,” Jeff said, ploughing on, eager to escape the 'puck-whispering'. He flipped a page, the thin paper soft beneath his thumb. “The locker room scene. Where… where Brayden confronts the broken skate lace. The betrayal.”

Reese shot up from his seat, his wiry frame practically vibrating. “Ah! The Lace of Lies! Pivotal! Laura, O’Malley, remember your disgust! The sheer, unmitigated *gall* of a lace to break mid-game! The symbolic weight of it, people!”

Laura raised an eyebrow, a fleeting, almost undetectable movement, but Jeff caught it. He knew it meant, ‘Here we go again.’ He knew it meant, ‘This is going to be even worse than the puck monologue.’ He knew it meant, ‘We’re in this together, buddy.’

“So, Brayden,” Reese continued, pacing the aisle, his voice echoing a little too loudly. “You hold the broken lace. It’s not just a lace. It’s a broken promise! The shattered dreams of… of a million slapshot potentials!” He stopped abruptly, peering at Jeff over the top of his half-moon spectacles. “You mourn the lace, Jeff! You mourn it as you would… a fallen comrade!”

Jeff tried to suppress a groan. Mourn a lace. As a fallen comrade. He looked at Laura, whose face was now a mask of carefully constructed neutrality. He could almost hear the static crackle of her internal monologue, probably a stream of profanity and bewildered questions. His own thoughts were a jumbled mess: *How do you act a broken shoelace? Do I cry? Do I rage? This is ridiculous. Why do I do this?* Then, the counter-thought: *Because when it’s good, it’s everything. And even when it’s this… it’s still trying to make something out of nothing.* He found a strange, almost masochistic pride in the challenge.

He picked up the prop lace from the prop table. It was a plain, black polyester lace, deliberately snapped in the middle. He held it gingerly, as if it truly was a relic of tragic loss. The plastic tips felt smooth against his fingertips, then the rough, frayed ends where it had been cut. He concentrated on the sensation, grounding himself in the tangible, rather than the absurd symbolism Reese was projecting onto it.

“The lace,” Jeff began, his voice surprisingly steady, considering his internal screaming. He stared at the broken strands. “It… it betrayed me. Mid-shift. A treachery of… of polyester.” He shook his head slowly, trying to convey a deep, profound sorrow for the inanimate object. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine, a cold line against the damp fabric of his shirt. His knee, unconsciously, began to tap a small rhythm against the stage floor.

Laura stepped closer, her character now supposed to be observing his grief. She was good at observing. Her gaze was intense, unwavering, making him feel a strange pressure, as if she were scrutinising his very soul for signs of 'polyester treachery'. He could see the faint lines around her eyes, etched from countless hours under stage lights, or perhaps just from silently suffering through bad scripts.

“No, no, no!” Reese clapped again, this time with more force. “Jeff, you’re missing the point! The *rage*! The *fury*! This isn’t a gentle lament. This is… the dark night of the soul! The lace has forsaken you! It has left you… naked on the ice!”

Jeff blinked. Naked on the ice. He suppressed a giggle, glancing quickly at Laura. Her eyes widened fractionally, a silent explosion of shared disbelief. He almost missed his next line.

“Naked,” Jeff repeated, making it a question, his voice a little higher than intended. He imagined the cold, the indignity. The sheer ridiculousness of it. He felt the scratch of the lace's frayed end against his thumb. He thought about the rough texture of the old wooden floorboards under his trainers, the way the ancient varnish still smelled faintly of chemicals, even after decades.

---

### Mid-Rehearsal Whispers

A few minutes later, Reese had called a quick ten-minute break, mostly to grab another lukewarm coffee from the perpetually brewing pot in the wings. Jeff immediately slumped onto the edge of the stage, his legs dangling into the auditorium. Laura joined him, settling down with a soft thump, her script resting open on her lap.

“Naked on the ice,” Laura murmured, not looking at him, but at the empty seats. Her tone was flat, but Jeff could hear the tremor of suppressed laughter underneath. “He actually said that.”

“Said it like it was profound,” Jeff replied, running a hand through his hair again. “Like it was the key to unlocking Brayden’s tragic core.” He felt the familiar dull ache in his jaw from clenching his teeth. The summer afternoon light was shifting, painting the dust motes in the air with a slightly more orange hue.

“What is that play even *about*?” Laura asked, her voice low. “Beyond… competitive puck yearning and shoelace betrayal.” She picked at a loose thread on her tracksuit bottoms. He watched her fingers, deft and quick, a small, almost nervous habit.

“The triumph of the human spirit,” Jeff recited, mimicking Reese’s booming voice. “Through the crucible of collegiate hockey.” He sighed, the sound ragged. “Honestly, I think it’s just a collection of sports metaphors strung together with fishing wire.”

Laura snorted. “Fishing wire. That’s generous. I’d say… chewed gum.” She turned to him then, her expression less neutral, more genuinely exasperated. “How are we going to make this believable? I have to stand there and watch you mourn a lace. A polyester lace. With *gravitas*.” Her eyes pleaded for an answer.

“We lean into it,” Jeff said, staring at his trainers, one scuffed at the toe, the other with a loose thread on the side. “We find the… the emotional truth in the absurdity.” He didn’t quite believe his own words, but it was their mantra. It had to be. This was their first big show out of uni, even if it was a total disaster.

“Emotional truth in a broken lace,” Laura repeated, her tone dry. “Right. I’ll just imagine my favourite scarf, ripped.” She pulled a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her movements fluid despite her fatigue. “Or maybe… we play it like a tragic opera. Silent screams. Grand, sweeping gestures for the lace.”

Jeff looked at her, a small smile finally breaking through his weariness. “That’s… not terrible. For your part. What about my ‘naked on the ice’ moment?”

Laura chewed on her lip for a second. “Okay, so instead of literally being naked, obviously. We go for metaphorical nakedness. Vulnerability. You’re exposed. Not to the elements, but to… your own inadequacies. The lace represents your fear of failure.” Her voice picked up a little, a spark of the creative energy that he knew she loved, even when applied to such a dire situation.

He nodded slowly. “I like it. So, less about the lace’s malice, more about Brayden’s internalised self-doubt manifested as… lace-rage.” He could feel the clammy grip of the theatre’s air on his skin. He shifted his weight, his thigh muscles aching slightly from standing on stage for so long. He noticed a small, almost invisible spider web shimmering faintly in the light from a crack in the wall, clinging to a stray strand of dust.

“Exactly!” Laura said, a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “It’s not the lace, it’s him! It’s *always* him! And I, as Captain O’Malley, stare at you with intense… *disappointment*. Because I expected more from you, Brayden! More from your laces!” She gave him a theatrical stare, one that would have been devastating if it weren't about shoelaces.

“Disappointment. Yes,” Jeff mused. “That makes sense. It gives us something to play. A real human emotion. Instead of… whatever Reese’s going for.” He imagined the disappointment, the way it could curdle in a person’s stomach, a heavy, sinking feeling. He remembered the exact feeling after getting a surprisingly low grade on his final monologue exam, the way his stomach had dropped, the metallic taste in his mouth.

“And the puck yearning,” Laura added, leaning closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “We make it less about literal yearning and more about… the obsessive mindset of an athlete. The tunnel vision. The desire so intense it becomes almost religious.”

“So it’s not the puck’s spiritual journey,” Jeff whispered back, “but Brayden’s descent into sports-obsessed madness.”

“A psychological thriller, disguised as a sports drama!” Laura grinned, a genuine, wide smile that chased away some of the weariness. “Reese will never know. He just sees… *intensity*.”

Jeff felt a surge of something warm in his chest. This was why he loved acting, even when the material was garbage. The collaborative alchemy of trying to spin gold from straw. The shared struggle. He loved working with Laura, her quick mind and dry wit. She was the one constant in this chaotic production, the grounding force. He noticed the faint scent of something sweet, like old potpourri, from the theatre’s aged velvet seats, mingling with the metallic air.

“Okay,” he said, pushing himself off the stage. His legs felt stiff. “So, for the lace scene, I’ll try less mournful, more… internalised despair. And you, Captain, you radiate judgement. Silent, stoic judgement.”

Laura nodded, already practicing her expression. It was a good look for her, a severe, almost regal disapproval that made him want to confess to crimes he hadn’t committed. The corner of his mouth twitched, a tiny, involuntary smile. He saw a small, insignificant dust bunny slowly roll across the stage in a stray current of air. He wondered how long it had been there, how many rehearsals it had witnessed.

Reese’s footsteps echoed as he returned from the wings, humming a jaunty, off-key tune. He carried a fresh, steaming mug of coffee, its aroma a welcome, albeit temporary, distraction from the theatre's stale air. Jeff quickly exchanged a final, knowing glance with Laura. They were ready. Or, at least, they had a plan.

“Alright, my brave gladiators of the proscenium!” Reese boomed, his voice startlingly loud after their quiet conversation. He strode back to his seat, practically vibrating with renewed enthusiasm. “Feel refreshed? Good! Because we are about to delve into the very heart of the game! The team huddle before the final period! O’Malley, Brayden, places, places!”

Jeff and Laura took their positions centre stage again, forming a tight, imaginary huddle with the rest of the absent 'team'. Laura stood slightly taller, exuding her Captain’s silent authority. Jeff, as Brayden, adopted a stance of youthful eagerness mixed with a touch of profound, lace-induced melancholy.

“Now, Brayden,” Reese said, leaning forward intently, his voice dropping to a dramatic whisper, “this is where you rally them. Not with words alone, Jeff! Not with the mere *linguistic architecture* of sport! No! You rally them with… with the very essence of the puck’s flavour! The taste of victory on the tongue of your spirit!”

Jeff stared at Laura, then at Reese, the silence in the theatre suddenly thick, not with artistic tension, but with the terrifying implication of a new, unforeseen theatrical challenge involving Scottish cuisine and an ice hockey puck.