I feel the sweat gather at my brow,
My sore legs planted into the ice,
And my stick lazily rested into my hands.

I look around at the rest of the girls,
They look just as miserable, and worn out as I do.

We settle on the goal line.
How much longer are we going to do this?
My knees bend, and my ears open,
I wait for that horrible whistle to blow.

I hear it, and here we go,
everyone racing for his approval.

I feel the cold air brush against my face with every stride.
I hear skates drill the ice every time someone stops.
I have the horrible taste of sweat sneaking into my mouth.

My coach yells.
He yells louder and louder
“Faster! Skate like you’re in the last period!”

Blue line, back.
Red line, back.
Blue line, back.

The repetitiveness is wearing on me.
My legs burn,
I feel like they could give out at any second.

“Skate your a**es off!”
That seems to be his favorite line.

The whistle blows.
We finally get to stop for a second.
Even though, we know there has got to be more in store.

Everyone settles at the line
and prepares for the next round,
of pure misery.