Up, down. Up, down. Up, down. The ball methodically bounced off his head, onto his knee, then his foot, back to his knee...
Sefton was warming up. It had been ages since he'd properly played, but the prospect of being able to get away with it while not a single soul was watching was too exciting to pass up. His regular shoes had been shed, set underneath his bag, which hid itself in the corner of his "team's" net. Instead, he wore a pair of shoes that someone had apparently neglected to bring home with them, or at least expected them to be exactly where they had been left the next day. Thankfully, they more-or-less fit.
Letting the checkered ball drop in front of him, Sefton stepped back... then rushed forward with a kick, bobbing and weaving his way to the goal, dodging invisible foes intent on stealing the ball from him.
Repel the ball, attract the ground. Get more distance, keep your footing. His basic strategy that had allowed him to win so many games back when he had been in school; his skill was rusty, but it was just like riding a bike. Soon, his stumbling would diminish and the ball would soar.
Feinting around an imagined interception, he realized he was close enough. Shifting his footing, Sefton pulled his leg back and kicked with all his might. The ball rammed into the back corner of the net, grinding against it in a bid for freedom before it finally lost its momentum and dropped to the ground.
No cry of victory was uttered, but Sefton looked absolutely satisfied as he caught his breath. Man, he had missed soccer.
... FOUR DAYS LATER ...
Sefton was warming up. It had been ages since he'd properly played, but the prospect of being able to get away with it while not a single soul was watching was too exciting to pass up. His regular shoes had been shed, set underneath his bag, which hid itself in the corner of his "team's" net. Instead, he wore a pair of shoes that someone had apparently neglected to bring home with them, or at least expected them to be exactly where they had been left the next day. Thankfully, they more-or-less fit.
Letting the checkered ball drop in front of him, Sefton stepped back... then rushed forward with a kick, bobbing and weaving his way to the goal, dodging invisible foes intent on stealing the ball from him.
Repel the ball, attract the ground. Get more distance, keep your footing. His basic strategy that had allowed him to win so many games back when he had been in school; his skill was rusty, but it was just like riding a bike. Soon, his stumbling would diminish and the ball would soar.
Feinting around an imagined interception, he realized he was close enough. Shifting his footing, Sefton pulled his leg back and kicked with all his might. The ball rammed into the back corner of the net, grinding against it in a bid for freedom before it finally lost its momentum and dropped to the ground.
No cry of victory was uttered, but Sefton looked absolutely satisfied as he caught his breath. Man, he had missed soccer.