famous last words | s. crosby

1; keep yourself alive

For a brief moment, there was silence. Pure, utter, silence.

The moan of rusted-over hinges almost shattering an unseen, invisible screen of solitude that washed over the lone skater as the metal blades sunk their teeth into the smooth surface of the fresh ice. For a split second, the skater froze; a moment for herself, perhaps, as she took in the cold nothingness.

With a sharp breath, she propelled herself forwards. She was quick to gain speed as her complex routine of jumps and landings and twirls began. When she ended one part, without satisfaction, she'd repeat. And repeat. And repeat. Like her coach had always told her; repeat until your legs think for you.

The seconds turned into minutes; the minutes into hours. Time stood still for the skater. Before she knew it, small yellow-tinted beams of sunlight peaked out through the lobby and onto the surface of the ice, which now held the curved scars from the craft work of her very feet. The approaching sunlight didn't faze her. She could practice all day like this— alone, without the watchful eye of her coach, or anyone, for that matter. That morning had made itself out as her best practice in what felt like ages.

Beginning to propel herself into the air, the last thing she expected happened; a buzzing electrical noise filled the arena, followed by the fluorescent glow of the overhead lights illuminating everything. Shaking it off— deciding it was most likely the likes of a janitor stopping by— she continued with her practice. Her form prepared to flow through the air once more; seconds later, she was in the air, twirling and twirling. The skater was lost in her own world.

"Excuse me, but who are you?"

And to think, she would've landed that jump, too, if it weren't for the deep male voice absolutely ripping her focus. It startled the poor girl so badly that she practically forgot she was mid-air; the skater had forgotten to stick her own landing. She fell forwards, landing ever so gracefully onto her face. Luckily, no major injuries; only her millionth busted chin, which began to bleed profusely, leaving large crimson colored stains behind.

"You do realize this is a closed practice? Who gave you the right?" The large uniformed man— presumably a member of the team— continued his confused babbling as the poor skater just stood silently, like a doe in the headlights, a single petite hand covering her bloodied chin.

"I-I, uh," Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion as she began slowly gliding towards the exit, "Sorry, I'll be on my wa—"

"Elliott!"

Finally, a familiar voice. Relief fell over the girl-- Elliott-- as she looked over to see Mike Sullivan; one of her father's closest childhood friends. A relaxed look overtook her cheeks as she skated over to him, stopping herself as she arrived to the bench area where Coach Sullivan and many of the other players began to take the ice.

"When I told you that the rink was open to you at anytime for practice, I did't expect you to be in so— God, Eli, what'd you do to your chin?" His voice tone switched from the laid-back, easy tone she'd grown up hearing to a very concerned voice.

"Well, the ice and I got into a fight. The ice is just a bit stronger than me, huh?" She let out a nervous little laugh as she took her bloodied hand away from her chin; the air stinging the cut before she could even convince him she didn't need to get it looked at.

"Well, to be on the safe side, you're in a building with quite a lot of doctors just around the corner. I'm sure one of 'em can take a little peek at you. I can get one of the guys to take you over there, alright?"

She hesitantly nodded her head, still not entirely agreeing with him about getting it looked at, but not having the energy to dare put up a protest. To her, the damn thing didn't feel like it needed stitches, but given she cut open her chin on a regular basis, she'd learned to tolerate the pain. It wasn't like this never happened. As Coach Sullivan called over one of his players to escort her to another part of the complex, Elliott slipped over to the bench to remove her skates.

She undid the laces and pried the boot away from her foot, covered the blade with her purple skate guards, placed it in her bag, zipped it up, and wrapped herself in her USA Figure Skating jacket. As she pulled her little black gloves off her hand, she watched one of the players walk over to her out of the corner of her eyes. He, too, sat down and undid his laces, though rested his skates against the wall instead of placing them in a bag. As Elliott stood up, she didn't bother to even glance at the man.

"You don't have to do this. I'm sure I can find someone myself." She mentioned, her back turned as she-- in her measly attempts at looking somewhat busy-- continued to rummage through her bag.

"Well, I'm sure you can, too," the man stated, a thick Canadian-sounding accent flowing throughout his words, "but I feel obligated to at least help you in some way."

She paused.

"Obligated? Really?" Elliott, with her eyes shooting daggers at the man speaking to her, still refused to actually face the man she'd be spending the next half hour with.

"Given the fact that I was the one who caused that whole fiasco back there, yes. I wholeheartedly feel that I should, uh, for lack of better wording, walk you down the hall and back."

Finally, she spun around on her heel, only to be met with the (now scruffy looking) face of the team's captain; Sidney Crosby.

Author's Note

Hey! Thanks for checking out chapter one! Sorry it ended kinda abruptly, if I didn't stop myself I would've written the whole story in one sitting. Yikes. But anyway, vote & comment, tell me whatcha' think so far! :)