A Scrimmage on Frostbound Ice

The bite of the ice through his skates was a constant, sharp reminder. It had always been there, of course, a subtle pressure, but lately, it felt… malicious. Like the rink itself was fighting him, holding onto his blades a fraction of a second too long, slowing every turn. Owen shifted his weight, his shoulders already aching, a familiar thrum beneath the old scar tissue. He was thirty-eight. Thirty-eight and every year, the window felt smaller, the panes cloudier. He watched the younger forwards — Stefan, all reckless, unthinking speed — carve tight circles around the cones, their sticks chattering a quick, joyful rhythm. Owen’s own stick felt heavier, the puck a stubborn, dead weight on his blade.

Coach Davies blew his whistle, a shrill, piercing shriek that cut through the arena’s low hum. “Alright! Line changes! Scrimmage, five on five. Let’s see some effort out there! Owen, take the point. Stefan, get in there.” Davies’s voice, normally a gruff rumble, carried a particular edge tonight, a frustration Owen felt aimed directly at the veteran roster. Owen nodded, pushing off with a grunt. His knees creaked. He tried to ignore it. The younger players were already jostling, their energy a palpable current. Owen felt like a boulder in a fast-flowing river, resisting the pull, losing ground.

The puck dropped, a dull thud against the ice, and the immediate chaos began. Skates scraped, sticks clashed, voices barked. Owen tried to settle into his rhythm, to read the play, to anticipate the passes he could no longer keep up with. He’d always been a cerebral player, a strategist, but even the mind felt slower now, the calculations a beat behind the blur of motion. Stefan burst past him on the left, a flash of red jersey, and Owen pivoted, a fraction late. The puck was already gone, fed to the wing, and a shot zipped past Gabe’s ear, dinging the crossbar.

“Stay on your man, Owen!” Davies yelled, the words echoing off the empty seats. Owen bit back a retort. He knew. He always knew. But knowing and doing were two entirely different things these days. He felt a flush creep up his neck, the warmth a stark contrast to the arena's chill. It was just a scrimmage, a practice. But the small, public failures added up, carving deeper lines into his already weathered confidence. He drew in a long, shaky breath, the cold air burning his throat. He had to reset. Had to get back into it. This was his life. This was all he knew.

The next shift, he tried too hard. Overcompensated. Stefan had the puck again, weaving through the defensive zone, a blur of motion. Owen saw an opening, a chance to cut off his angle, to make a play that would show Davies he still had it, that the old fire wasn't just ash. He leaned into the turn, digging his edge in, pushing with everything he had. But the ice, that stubborn, malicious plain, caught him. Not a clean edge, not a smooth glide, but a momentary skip, a shard of ice perhaps, or just the weary rebellion of an exhausted blade.

He went down hard. A sudden, sickening lurch. His left skate hooked, his body twisted, and he slammed onto the ice with a pathetic thud, his stick flying from his grasp. The air left his lungs in a pained gasp. Stefan, unfazed, sidestepped the fallen defenceman as if he were merely an obstacle cone, skated unimpeded towards the net, and buried the puck in the top corner. A hush fell over the ice. Only the muffled clatter of sticks and the low hum of the arena’s ventilation remained. Owen lay there for a second too long, the cold seeping through his jersey, his cheek pressed against the unforgiving surface.

“Owen! What was that?” Davies’s voice was sharper now, laced with genuine disappointment. It wasn't anger, not really. It was worse. It was the sound of a coach seeing a player, a once-great player, become a liability. Owen slowly pushed himself up, his limbs protesting. His hip ached, a dull throb. He found his stick, its shaft cold and slick in his gloved hand. He didn’t look at Stefan, who stood by the net, casual and breathless, nor at Gabe, whose shoulders were slumped slightly. The humiliation was a physical thing, a leaden weight in his stomach, sour and bitter.

He finished the practice in a fog, every stride feeling laboured, every pass off by inches. When Davies pulled him aside at the end, the conversation was brief, devoid of the usual encouragements. “Look, Owen,” Davies started, his voice low, “I know you’re trying. But… the mistakes are piling up. That fall, it wasn’t just a fall, it was a missed assignment. We can’t have that. Not at this level.” Owen nodded, looking at the scuffed toe of his skate. “I get it, Coach.” His voice was raspy, thin. “Just… a bad day.” Davies just sighed, a weary sound. “They’re happening more often than not, old man. Think about it.”

The Unforgiving White

The walk home was a cold, brutal gauntlet. The wind, a biting northern gale, whipped at his exposed face, turning his cheeks to numb, stiff leather. Snow had begun to fall again, fine, icy needles that stung his eyes. Winnipeg, in its full winter glory, was a city of stark, beautiful cruelty. The streetlights cast long, distorted shadows on the pristine white drifts, each one seeming to stretch his own long, gaunt figure into something even more pathetic. He could still feel the jarring impact of the ice, the sting of humiliation. It replayed in his mind, a perpetual loop: the hooked skate, the flailing arms, the ignominious sprawl.

Thirty-eight. He remembered twenty-five, the raw power in his legs, the effortless glide, the instinctual reads of the game. Now, every movement was a conscious effort, a fight against his own protesting body. He kicked at a patch of frozen slush, sending shards skittering across the pavement. It wasn’t just the game, he knew. It was everything. The quiet nights alone in his small, precise apartment. The hollow echo of a career that had, for so long, defined him, slowly receding into the past. What was Owen without the roar of the crowd, the thud of the puck, the frantic, exhilarating symphony of the ice?

He pulled his woollen toque lower over his ears, the rough fabric chafing his forehead. The city around him was hushed, muffled by the fresh snow. A few distant car horns, a lone snowplough rumbling somewhere in the distance, but mostly just the sigh of the wind. The cold seeped into his bones, a deeper cold than the arena’s artificial chill. It was the cold of uncertainty, of an ending he wasn't ready to face, but which was, undeniably, rushing towards him like a hard-charging forward on a breakaway. He clenched his jaw, his teeth aching.

His apartment was dark and quiet when he finally let himself in, the familiar scent of stale coffee and unread paperbacks. He tossed his keys onto the small table by the door, the clatter sharp in the silence. Too tired to shower, too raw to eat. He walked to the window, the old floorboards groaning under his weight, and pulled back the curtain. The city spread out before him, a vast, glittering expanse of white and muted streetlights, still and cold.

The snow continued to fall, a steady, silent descent, coating everything in an undisturbed blanket. He watched it for a long time, the tiny flakes swirling, dancing, then settling into an immutable calm. He didn’t know if this was what it felt like to be done. To be… finished. He just felt an odd lightness, a kind of weary resignation settling over him, an unwelcome, inevitable guest.

The silence stretched, broken only by the faint hum of his old refrigerator, a steady, persistent drone against the winter night. He closed his eyes, the image of his clumsy fall still vivid, but now, strangely, less searing. It was just a moment, he thought. One bad moment in a career built on countless good ones. But one moment could change everything. The vast, indifferent sky outside, heavy with snow, seemed to hold the answer, a cold, unyielding truth he wasn't quite ready to hear.