Rink of Regret

All I wish is to repair the unrepairable.

The National Hockey Stadium was jam-packed. Under the night sky, everyone hummed with energy. The flags raised, and tension at its peak.

The scoreboard reads: Final- 4th Quarter- 3:12 remaining- score: 1-1*.

ON THE FIELD

Green shirts were running on the field, red shirts chasing them. Everyone wished to have the ball under their control.

“COMMENTATOR”

And here goes Haris Shoaib- controlling the ball. What a talent Pakistan has got recently.

He flicks the ball wide to the right wing. His fellow player collects it and runs around the sideline.

(The crowd rises in anticipation.)

The ball is again under the control of Haris Shoaib now as his teammate sends it toward him, to the opponents' unamusement.

Haris reaches the circle and slaps the ball across the D.

*Striker#9* appears at the far post, sticks low. *Deflection!*

GOAL

The ball pings off the backboard of the net.

*commentator*

What a goal! Absolutely amazing combined effort.

We have got our finalist.

“Pakistan has qualified for the hockey final.”

And the crowd is exhilarated more than ever, causing an overwhelming scene for the Patriots. Pakistan had qualified for the hockey final. This thought was thrilling; it felt like there were no other problems in the country. The crowd stood up to vibe to the song, Dil Dil Pakistan.

(From Hiba’s POV)

I looked up at the night sky with a grateful smile to God.

“Let’s go, Hiba, before it’s too late,” Alizah shook me. I looked at her face but now she was not attentive. She was asking Umaima to stand up.

“Dude, let me take some photos, I want to post them. We rarely get a chance to come out,” Umaima argued. I listened to their conversation with a smile.

“Why do I see your camera focusing on one player only?” I teased her.

“Athlete, handsome, fit, and reserved. Like who can ignore all this?” she replied in a busy manner. My smile widened.

“He must be crazy rich,” Alizah said.

“Lol, no, no one cares for hockey in our country,” I replied. She didn’t like the fact much.

Finally, we were able to make our way out of the National Stadium, Lahore.

“Why did you park your car there?” Umaima was frustrated. We had a long walk before reaching the car.

“Because there was no other place,” she replied, annoyed.

As we were going, what I saw was shocking.

“Haris Shoaib?” I whispered to myself. My friends followed my gaze.

It was him, our favorite hockey player. With his gaze lowered, he was going out. There was security with him too.

“I want an autograph,” Umaima yelled with excitement.

“You are engaged,” Alizah reminded her. At this, she gave her a funny yet horrible look. We both giggled.

“No one is going to be more happy than Arslan,” Umaima tried to remind us how passionate his fiancee was about hockey. He had an exam today and couldn’t join us.

In a panic situation, standing in the middle of the parking area, Umaima was trying to find a paper and pen in her bag.

“I have a pen,” I tried to help her. I took out a pen from my bag and she grabbed it immediately and ran toward Haris Shoaib. It was a fan moment for her and I wanted her to enjoy it.

“Sir?” she yelled. Haris Shoaib looked up. We both followed Umaima too.

“Can you please sign this bag for me?” She requested. He nodded and signed her white back. With a charm in her eyes, Umaima was watching Haris writing capital H on her bag. Thanks to God, the pen worked on a bag too. Then, Haris Shoaib looked at us with questions in his charming eyes. I was his fan but not as big as Umaima was. He didn’t have much time and made his way forward. The fan moment ended and we made our way to the car.

As we settled down in the car, I looked behind to see Umaima. I found her staring at her bag with a smile.

“Sorry to say but how can someone make their Gucci bag signed like that?” I asked.

“It’s more precious now,” she replied with admiration. I smiled and started to think about what things I had to do when I reached home but, I couldn’t do a single thing because we got stuck in traffic for two hours straight.