My only goal is scoring your heart

Chapter 2

The next time George saw Dream, he was playing in a game. George was SUPPOSED to have practice, but it was cancelled because the rink double booked. Hence, George coming. He wanted to see what the rink had decided was more important than his skating club, and apparently it was a hockey game.

To be fair, it probably was important, but George isn't a fair person. He liked to have his way, and his way only. He had a schedule for a reason, so he could manage his times properly to accommodate both his skating and his job. Skating wouldn't pay him anything yet, not until he made it big (Which he would, he knew he would) and he was sour about it because he declined a shift during that time frame in favour of his practice.

In short, George came to the rink to yell at whoever was using it and bully them out of their time frame. He was fuming and Hell did he need to smash something to pieces or punch someone. Preferably, he wanted to punch Dream. The bastard had helped him out and then stabbed him in the back. Stealing his practice time and overall being annoying. If George was thinking rationally, he wouldn't have been so frustrated and realized it wasn't exactly Dream's fault or decision, but alas George was not thinking rationally.

So that brings us to how George ended up seated on the bleachers, watching Dream's team annihilate the other one 7-2. He had decided to wait patiently until Dream's game finished, until he came out of the locker room, and then punch him in the nose the minute he got close enough. Maybe punch him close to the door as well, so he would be able to escape before people yelled at him for giving their star player a bloody nose.

At least, he assumed Dream was their star player. From what George had seen in the short amount of time he had been watching, there were three really good players. Dream, in his ugly yellow socks, some dude wearing brownish yellow socks, close to the colour of puke, and the last guy had on bright blue ones. He decided he liked the blue socks the best, strictly because it was the only colour he was sure he could see right.

The yellow socks were either exactly what he thought they were, yellow, or some shade of bright green. The puke socks were likely red or orange. Those dudes were the only ones not wearing grey socks, George noticed, they were likely close friends who liked to match together. Not in the same colour of socks type matching, but in the 'we look different than everybody else as a group' type.

While he sat there, George figured he should actually try to understand something other than who was the best. Dream, puke dude and blue dude had all scored at least once, Dream having scored twice already. They skated quite fast, despite the heavy layer of padding they adorned. It was a little impressive, just a teeny bit.

Dream's number was 22, and George kept his eyes on him. He followed his movements closely, gasping when somebody pushed Dream into the boards especially hard, and coming close to cheering when Dream made a pass to a teammate that resulted in yet another goal.

Dream didn't only get pushed into the boards though, he also rammed other people into them. Especially ones who tried to come for the puck. George wondered why the puck was so important, obviously they wanted it to score but why did they have to beat each other up?

Not that he minded watching Dream smack the other team into hard walls and glass, it was HOT. A little. Just the size of a mini-marshmallow.

Another thing the players liked to do was trip each other with their sticks. They would reach to knock the puck out of the other team's possession, but only succeeded in slashing their skates and being guided to a box.

When it first happened, George laughed. They were being put in time out for being mean. Served them right. He stopped laughing immediately, when people around him shot him icy glares that bored into his soul.