Collision
Collision
They say a collision takes one-fourth of a second.
One-half of one-half of one-sixtieth of a minute.
A miniscule, forgettable blip in the grand scheme of the universe.
Or the difference between victory and failure.
Saline rivers glided down the expanse of tanned skin, dripping down past sandy eyebrows, causing a short, sharp blink to momentarily hide striking grey eyes from sight.
He glided forward, a façade of gentle and graceful movement that hid the predatory and almost instinctual thrill of competition that twined through every muscle, ready to spring in an instant.
The Coyotes’ hands tensed on the stick, his grip twisting and adjusting minutely against the sticky, upturned edges of the tape that grated against his gloves. He made a short, fleeting note to re-tape when he again found himself on the bench.
He scanned carefully as he slid forward along the left-hand boards, his eyes ever searching for the red jerseys in the sea of white that had advanced the net, glancing at the blackened disk that they fought for like chum. He could envision, momentarily, the grey-tinted skin and dorsal fins that guided them as they gnashed rows and rows of pearlescent teeth at one another, eyes like black pinpoints on the sides of their head, progressing forward against their kin without real direction aside from the smell of food. Of the crease. Of Victory.
He made a move away from the boards, spotting Boedker and Pyatt pressing themselves through the crowd, towards the token that slid ever closer to betraying them. Number eight-nine’s slightly curved blade weaved through the sea of skates and sticks like thread, capturing the defenseman’s attention enough that he almost didn’t hear the tell-tale shick of cutting ice that generally signified a sudden change in position or direction.
One-sixty fourth.
He glances up, clouded grey irises making contact with piercing blue. His fingers twitch against the handle of his stick, shoulder muscles tensing in forewarning.
One-thirty second.
White jersey charges at him, his upper body turning to allow his shoulder and upper arm to do most of the heavy lifting. There’s a slight bend in his knees that allows his body to dip at an angle for leverage. He takes in a sharp breath of air, filling his lungs instantaneously. His own upper body turns slightly and the whole of his being tries to shift out of the way.
One-sixteenth.
The shoulder makes initial contact with his solar-plexus, every ounce of air leaving his lungs in a cacophonous symphony. The top lid of his eye meets the bottom as he squeezes them shut against the discomfort of an ill-placed appendage. He can feel the beads of sweat as they pool in the corners, setting just against his nose and causing a light, almost unnoticeable itching sensation.
One-eighth.
He clamps tight against his mouthguard, thankful for its presence that keeps his teeth from grinding on one another. The two are now airborne, a soft rush of cold air that would’ve ruffled their hair, had it not been sweat-damp and clinging to their skin as though it might fall out if not for the contact. He thinks of soft blonde, shoulder length hair and the incoherent coos and curling fingers of an infant. He wonders absently if this will be a serious injury.
One-fourth.
He can hear the goal horn sound as the sixteen on the back of his jersey makes awkward contact against the small area between the edge of the boards and the glass; that small ledge seems to meet in the middle with the shoulder trying its best to tear through his breastbone to the other side, never mind all of the internal organs that should’ve hindered the two from having a proper introduction. What good are they anyway? His eyes open as he hears an unsightly grunt pass through his now parted lips, the weight that was holding him against the boards now suddenly gone.
He paws at the ice a bit in order to get a little bit of traction, breathing heavily in an attempt to replenish his thoroughly cleaned out lungs. He rolled himself a bit, his knees supporting the lower half of his body, his hands balled in to sturdy fists as he plants them firmly on to the frozen landscape beneath him. His body bows a bit in the middle, not really putting up the effort to keep it ramrod straight as he tries to remember what it feels like to have his major organs back where they belong.
He can vaguely hear some chatter, though his mind doesn’t really latch on to it until he feels hands wrap around his upper arms. After an awkward moment of finding his sea-legs, he’s heft in to a standing position, leaning up against a slightly shorter individual. They stand there for a moment before progressing forward, his skates sliding lamely in an almost unconscious need to progress forward.
“Are ya’ good, man?”
Klesla’s head lulled to the side slightly, examining the other’s face until his brain locked on the name. Chipchura. His grey eyes swam a bit, examining the arena around him; the screams of fans – sort of eerie in contrast to the concern that seemed to play on the lower level’s faces; the flashes of color – the scrolling LED tape that ran through the middle of the Jobing arena, its white letters sharp in comparison to the red banner that ran behind it. Goal. His gaze turned back to the other, a smirk playing on his lips as he was handed to the medical staff just off of the ice, muttering something about concussion tests as their grip replaced his teammate’s.
“Great.”
One-half of one-half of one-sixtieth of a minute.
A miniscule, forgettable blip in the grand scheme of the universe.
Or the difference between victory and failure.
Saline rivers glided down the expanse of tanned skin, dripping down past sandy eyebrows, causing a short, sharp blink to momentarily hide striking grey eyes from sight.
He glided forward, a façade of gentle and graceful movement that hid the predatory and almost instinctual thrill of competition that twined through every muscle, ready to spring in an instant.
The Coyotes’ hands tensed on the stick, his grip twisting and adjusting minutely against the sticky, upturned edges of the tape that grated against his gloves. He made a short, fleeting note to re-tape when he again found himself on the bench.
He scanned carefully as he slid forward along the left-hand boards, his eyes ever searching for the red jerseys in the sea of white that had advanced the net, glancing at the blackened disk that they fought for like chum. He could envision, momentarily, the grey-tinted skin and dorsal fins that guided them as they gnashed rows and rows of pearlescent teeth at one another, eyes like black pinpoints on the sides of their head, progressing forward against their kin without real direction aside from the smell of food. Of the crease. Of Victory.
He made a move away from the boards, spotting Boedker and Pyatt pressing themselves through the crowd, towards the token that slid ever closer to betraying them. Number eight-nine’s slightly curved blade weaved through the sea of skates and sticks like thread, capturing the defenseman’s attention enough that he almost didn’t hear the tell-tale shick of cutting ice that generally signified a sudden change in position or direction.
One-sixty fourth.
He glances up, clouded grey irises making contact with piercing blue. His fingers twitch against the handle of his stick, shoulder muscles tensing in forewarning.
One-thirty second.
White jersey charges at him, his upper body turning to allow his shoulder and upper arm to do most of the heavy lifting. There’s a slight bend in his knees that allows his body to dip at an angle for leverage. He takes in a sharp breath of air, filling his lungs instantaneously. His own upper body turns slightly and the whole of his being tries to shift out of the way.
One-sixteenth.
The shoulder makes initial contact with his solar-plexus, every ounce of air leaving his lungs in a cacophonous symphony. The top lid of his eye meets the bottom as he squeezes them shut against the discomfort of an ill-placed appendage. He can feel the beads of sweat as they pool in the corners, setting just against his nose and causing a light, almost unnoticeable itching sensation.
One-eighth.
He clamps tight against his mouthguard, thankful for its presence that keeps his teeth from grinding on one another. The two are now airborne, a soft rush of cold air that would’ve ruffled their hair, had it not been sweat-damp and clinging to their skin as though it might fall out if not for the contact. He thinks of soft blonde, shoulder length hair and the incoherent coos and curling fingers of an infant. He wonders absently if this will be a serious injury.
One-fourth.
He can hear the goal horn sound as the sixteen on the back of his jersey makes awkward contact against the small area between the edge of the boards and the glass; that small ledge seems to meet in the middle with the shoulder trying its best to tear through his breastbone to the other side, never mind all of the internal organs that should’ve hindered the two from having a proper introduction. What good are they anyway? His eyes open as he hears an unsightly grunt pass through his now parted lips, the weight that was holding him against the boards now suddenly gone.
He paws at the ice a bit in order to get a little bit of traction, breathing heavily in an attempt to replenish his thoroughly cleaned out lungs. He rolled himself a bit, his knees supporting the lower half of his body, his hands balled in to sturdy fists as he plants them firmly on to the frozen landscape beneath him. His body bows a bit in the middle, not really putting up the effort to keep it ramrod straight as he tries to remember what it feels like to have his major organs back where they belong.
He can vaguely hear some chatter, though his mind doesn’t really latch on to it until he feels hands wrap around his upper arms. After an awkward moment of finding his sea-legs, he’s heft in to a standing position, leaning up against a slightly shorter individual. They stand there for a moment before progressing forward, his skates sliding lamely in an almost unconscious need to progress forward.
“Are ya’ good, man?”
Klesla’s head lulled to the side slightly, examining the other’s face until his brain locked on the name. Chipchura. His grey eyes swam a bit, examining the arena around him; the screams of fans – sort of eerie in contrast to the concern that seemed to play on the lower level’s faces; the flashes of color – the scrolling LED tape that ran through the middle of the Jobing arena, its white letters sharp in comparison to the red banner that ran behind it. Goal. His gaze turned back to the other, a smirk playing on his lips as he was handed to the medical staff just off of the ice, muttering something about concussion tests as their grip replaced his teammate’s.
“Great.”
