By the time our first ice hockey practise rolls around, Sam has managed two paper cuts and a mighty bruise on his shin which he swears he doesn't know how he got. I, on the other hand, remember the moment quite vividly.

Sam skates easily, monitoring our other team members carefully and I marvel at his athleticism. He may be a clumsy idiot at times, but he's strong and sure of himself; a great team player. Whilst he watches our team, I watch him like a hawk. I have already noted that number 12 has a distinct weakness in his left side and that number 4 is most likely going to be my biggest help in protecting Sam from further injury.

I decide to throw caution to the wind, my concern for Sam's welfare overpowering my sense of dread at the thought of socialising.

I nudge my skates out harshly, coming to a stop beside number 4 and manage a smile.

"Hey, you're playing right wing, right?" I ask casually, his attention already fixated on me. He nods quickly and thrusts out a hand in greeting.

"Yeah, I'm Tristan. It's Eli, isn't it?" He asks and I grip his hand for a second before dropping it again.

"Yeah, my best mate, Sam, is centre." I mutter, gesturing over to him with a tilt of my head. Tristan nods but doesn't look away.

"I saw you guys at try-outs, you were good, although I'm surprised you didn't go for centre. You're fast and smart." He says casually, although the underlying question is there.

"Sam is more suited for that, he's a nosy bastard that loves getting in the way, and besides, it's our job to protect his sorry ass. I have to be fast." I murmur and Tristan laughs, a genuine, hearty sound.

"Now that is something you do well." He admits, watching Sam now instead of me. I roll my eyes at his tone.

"You have no idea, just you wait. Let's just say it's a good thing there's two of us." I grumble and Tristan looks both bemused and not nearly as concerned as he should be. A whistle is blown at the edge of the rink and we part ways. I signal two fingers to my eyes and then to Sam, watching Tristan nod in comprehension.

The first twenty minutes fly by and I can't remember the last time that looking out for Sam was so tiring. Tristan skids to a halt beside me, panting and wiping the sweat from his brow.

"You really weren't kidding, were you?" He gasps, watching Sam lazily skate backwards, unaware of our efforts and I laugh.

"Trust me, this is nothing." I say darkly and Tristan pulls a face.

"I honestly don't think I'd survive without you. You anticipate his moves before he does, it's a miracle he doesn't get hurt." He marvels, watching me slightly more warily now and I shoot him a lopsided smile.

"That's the point." I remark, moving into position and leaving a bewildered Tristan behind me.

When we eventually collide again, 10 minutes later, Tristan admits defeat and I hastily mark out some planned manoeuvres, essentially funnelling Sam into a safe zone, guarded by yours truly, as soon as he has the puck.

"You've done this before, haven't you?" Tristan demands, raising an eyebrow and I grimace.

"I don't know what you mean." I say innocently, pretending not to comprehend the deeper meaning behind his words. He doesn't look convinced but is soon distracted by our goalie screaming profanities.

Another half an hour of strenuous activity later and the final whistle is blown. I skate to the edge idly, waiting for Sam who is of course on the other side of the rink. I nudge my feet off the ice and pull off my gloves, wiggling my fingers joyously.

I tug off my helmet and scrape my fingers through my tufty hair, pulling and mussing it up after being trapped beneath the helmet. I sigh a breath of relief which is short-lived.

A sharp pain slices across the palm of my hand and I inhale sharply, dropping my helmet to the floor and skating mindlessly towards Sam, who still lingers on the ice. His head is tilted downwards, his hand clenched into a tight fist as I skid to a vicious halt beside him.

His head snaps up, his eyes growing huge at my sudden appearance.

"Elias, how'd you...?" His question trails off, remaining unfinished but I've already realised my mistake. He didn't cry out, I didn't even see him cut himself. I had just acted on instinct.

"I was on my way over anyway, I saw your face." I force out stiffly and he nods gently, his gaze set firmly on his palm. His blood drips to the ice, the bright crimson creating a startling contrast as it seeps into the melting water beneath our feet.

I curse gently, shrugging off my jersey and pressing it to his palm. My own hand burns at the added pressure but I swallow the feeling and guide him off the ice. My now bare chest is confronted with the harsh temperature of our practise rink but I barely notice, my attention far away.

"Stop, you're getting my blood all over your jumper." Sam says faintly, his face looking sickly pale and I chuckle.

"Stop being so damn polite." I murmur, reaching an arm around him, just in case.

I guide him to a bench and thankfully sit him down before high-tailing it to my bag, where I just so happen to keep a handy, pocket-size first aid kit. With Sam, it's sort of necessary.

"Were you checking your skates?" I ask, still puzzled over how he cut his hand and he nods vacantly.

I rinse his hand quickly and set a large plaster over the cut before bandaging it up. I pat his arm gently, letting him know it's done and over with and Sam exhales heavily. His face has a horrible green shade to it and I guide his head between his knees. I grab my spare shirt and tug it on, throwing my jersey into my bag and making a mental note to wash it.

"It always astonishes me, you know? Every time I think it's going to hurt, and every time you bandage me up and I don't feel a thing. I shouldn't be so scared, it's so stupid." He mutters, avoiding looking at his hand and I roll my eyes.

"It's been, what? A week since your last accident? This was overdue." I say cheerily, grabbing both our bags and ignoring the throbbing in my palm as best I can.

"True." He says exasperatedly, slowly getting up and trailing behind me. His mood is drooping and I know just how to perk him back up.

"So, that miss in the last 10 minutes, was that spectacular or what? How the fuck did you even manage that?" I ask theatrically and Sam grins.

"You bastard, I would have made it if you hadn't have distracted me!" He retaliates and I scoff, shaking my head and steeling myself for the upcoming debate.

"As if..."