Collide

t h r e e

Sloane

The slap of skates against the ice echoes in the rink as I stand on the sidelines, clipboard in hand, tracking the players' movements with laser focus. I've been with the team for about a week now, and I'm starting to get a feel for the rhythm of their practices. There's a certain energy here, a blend of aggression and grace that's mesmerizing, even if I'm still a little out of my element. I'm just trying to blend in, do my job, and keep a low profile, but that's easier said than done when the team's star player seems hell-bent on making my life difficult.

Malachi Dixon skates across the ice like he owns it, which I guess he sort of does. His speed is incredible, and the way he handles the puck with such precision is a sight to behold. It's not hard to see why he's so full of himself. I roll my eyes as he effortlessly weaves past two defensemen, barely breaking a sweat.

"Show-off," I mutter under my breath, though I can't help but admire his skill. As much as I want to dislike the guy, there's no denying that he's a damn good player.

I hear a voice behind me. "He wouldn't be Malachi if some showing off wasn't going on." I turn around and see Theo walking over to me. "Sup Sloaney. Can't blame him though, he's a damn good player."

I smile. "Thank God you've moved on from the whole baby sis thing."

"Your name is still in the testing phase of nicknames. I still don't know what to use."

"You know, you could be really rebellious and use my actual name. It's almost like that's why my parents gave it to me."

"Ew no that's too plain. Then I'll just be boring like everyone else and boring doesn't go with the whole, funny, iconic agenda I got going on," he says, motioning to himself.

I smile and go to ask him if his leg is better, when Coach suddenly barks at him from a few metres away, to get on the ice. He looks behind him in fear, mutters a quick 'fuck, bye' and then disappears.

Practice is nearing its end and I am almost ready to get my ass of the bench and hurry home when I hear a loud yell coming from the ice.

I see it happen in slow motion - one player's shoelace is untied on his right foot, hanging dangerously close to his ice skates' blade. Slowly it inches towards the floor and his left foot slides forward, and over the lace. It wouldn't have been that bad, it wasn't for him accomplishing the impossible, and trips over the puck that he was carrying down the line and then continue and crash into the goalie's outstretched hockey stick. Somehow the situation gets worse. With the whole crashing into the goalie fiasco, the player who I now remember is called Ethan, manages to tackle and take the goalie down with him, and makes him land on top of his leg. I see it all; the way his lower leg twists awkwardly under the weight of the other player's body, and the way he doubles over and clutches his shin.

"Shit," I breathe, already moving before Coach Dixon can shout for the practice to stop. My heart pounds in my chest as I grab my medical bag and rush onto the ice. The other players hover around Ethan, their expressions a mix of concern and impatience. They don't like interruptions, especially not during a practice this intense, but injuries are a part of the game, and it's my job to handle them.