All helmeted and padded up, Bill skated around in his rented blades, messing around on the flat cement getting used to speed, stopping, and turning. The only times he had previously "skated in skates" was in ice skates on ice, and it took a little bit of adaptation, but within a few moments he got his bearings as though he'd always done it. Foregoing the rails and funboxes (he thought those interesting but "board territory") he tested the blader bowl for a bit. ~This could get interesting,~ Bill thought. as he tried going around the bowl as fast as he could, the centripetal forces literally driving him up the wall.
A blur of red and yellow shot past Bill at warp speed, a few inches shorter than him. Moving out of the way for additional skates he heard behind him, Bill saw that the speedster was followed close behind by a slightly taller fellow in a winged helmet and a girl who was wearing a purple shirt over woodland-camo BDU's. Bringing up the rear but still at a respectable clip was a short fellow in a shark-motif helmet wearing faded 501s. One after another they charged up the side of the pool and vaulted up onto the deck; the fourth wobbled a bit but didn't fall. Bill overhead parts of their ensuing conversation:
"I did it!" number four said, exulting.
"See what a difference a good set of bearings makes?" replied number one in a raspy tenor.
"Remember, General Squidmeister: Velocity is your friend!" commented number two.
"The whistle blows in half an hour, guys," the girl told the others. "I'm ready to sit down for a bit."
Then the four of them skated off. Bill paid them no mind, at least for the moment.
"DeLuca!" shouted Lars from outside the fence. "Showtime!"
"So, who's on our plate today?" Bill asked with anticipation as he followed Lars to the lot. Lars handed Bill a big red-and-blue jersey just like the one he was wearing, and then a stick.
"The Ocean Shores Rockets," said Lars disdainfully. "I'll tell you a little more about them when they show up. These are your team mates for today: our goalie, Animal, and our...first wing, Sputs. Your...basic territory," he continued, thinking on the fly, "will be the area between the center line and the goal tongue, basically to take care of any business that gets past both me and Sputs."
"But I can still do offense if there's a problem, right?"
"Well then uh, ok. Just keep your ears open. Wait a minute, the other guys are here."
Bill couldn't believe it. These kids wriggling into their white-and-green jerseys at the other end of the lot were the same folks who just a little while earlier made such an impressive diaplay of speedskating, yet they were clearly much younger and smaller than Lars and his two friends. He stood and looked at them as Lars explained. "That fellow with the shades and the auburn dreadlocks - Otto - he's their skipper, one wily ruthless son of a gun. Watch out for him. That guy with the freckles he's talking to, that's ...Maurice, my brother. Try to leave him to me. That little four eyed geek is Sammy and he's their goalie, awful hard to get anything past him. The girl - Reggie - remember, she wants to play hockey, so if it comes down to it treat her accordingly..."
"But they're littler than us, right? Why you stressin?" Bill wondered.
"Sometimes it ain't the size of the dogs in the fight that matters," Lars answered. "Lotta times it's the size of the fight in the dog, and those dogs gotta lotta fight in 'em."
Then came the buzzer...