my side of the ice [mlm]

o n e

My blades curved slits through the melted surface of the ice, ankles curving and turning to follow the soft lines of my body. Occasionally, my skates lost their grip, sending showers of icy shards spraying into the air.

The leather grip of my stick felt secure beneath my gloves, a shield between me and the puck.

My feet sped up; swifter than before. My eyes focused like a hawk on the enemy goal. I was flat out sprinting.

A player, dressed in a myriad of red and gold and black that all blurred together, targeted me. I twisted to dodge him, folding my body around the stick as I pushed my centre of gravity lower to the ground.

I eyed the goal as I neared the far side of the rink.

The goalie, stood protectively over the small piece of netting, lowered his pads to the ice.

My eyes narrowed. He grinned.

Now, I was so close that I could see the orange fire that glinted maliciously in his amber eyes.

My skates pushed together.

The hockey stick, cradled in my arms, pushed softly against the puck. Teasing it.

I swerved, running around the back of the goal. The goalie spun.

I slammed the blade of the stick into the puck as I curved around the goal. It slid across the ice, skidding towards its target before rebounding off the defence player ahead.

Desperately, I dove, flinging my stick at the puck, my arm outstretched.

I heard the clack as it slammed into the post, heard the woosh of the net as it ricocheted into the goal.

I blinked, my tense muscles relaxing.

Slowly, sound filled my ears; the cheers of our supporters, our fans. I smiled. My team mates came up to me, slapping me on the back.

We were allowed twenty seconds of celebration before the referee signalled us. I laughed, skated back into my position. Put my elbows on my knees, gripped my stick tightly in my gloves.

And it began again; the ceaseless arguing of sticks on the ice.

A player passed with the puck, just in front of me, and I glanced up, gauging the distance between the puck and I. It flashed across my vision like a firework in the midnight sky.

The blunt blade of his hockey stick enticed the puck, drawing it into the gentle swaying movement of the player's body. They moved as one.

I traced the puck with my eyes, watching the hypnotic flow, a sense of calm washing over me.

My mind honed in on my target, sharp as the ice beneath my feet. I tensed my calves, bending to interrupt the beautiful strokes of his blade.

My tackle sent him backwards, into the boards lining the rink. I slammed back into his body with force, feeling the lines of his muscles pressing against my back, despite the layers coating his bruised skin.

I wriggled, trying my best to escape the tackle I had instigated as more players joined the fray.

Somebody's elbow jolted back into my nose. I raised my hand to the tender skin, wincing as my fingers came away covered in crimson blood.

His face flashed across my mind-- no. I was not going to let him drag me down.

Abruptly, I lost my footing, shuddering down onto the scarred ice. The player I tackled was still behind me, and his arms curled protectively around my fallen form.

The bodies stood around me cleared, and a single hand reached down to yank me to my feet.

"Thank yo--" I began to mutter, my words faltering as I recognised the man behind the mask.

He smiled softly, sending me a forgiving nod, before skating off to join his team. I opened and closed my mouth, unable to speak.

"Hey, bro, are you okay?" Someone yelled at me. My eyes darted up, startled.

"Yes." I said, slightly unsure of myself.

And the match continued.