The Frost on the Hacks

The aroma of stale coffee and something faintly sweet, perhaps burnt sugar from the rotating hot dog machine, clung to the air like a shroud. It was a comfort, of sorts, a familiar, mundane anchor in a life that had long since shed its grander ambitions. Devon ran a gnarled thumb over the rim of his paper cup, the heat a fleeting balm against the ache in his knuckles. Sixty-eight years, and every single one of them seemed to have left a particular stiffness in his left knee, a grim souvenir from countless lunges down a sheet of unforgiving ice. He’d won a few bonspiels, sure, even a provincial title or two, back when his grip was true and his eye unerring. Now, his biggest challenge was coaxing the old Ford pickup to start on a -30 degree morning.

Patti, the young woman who worked the night shift, was meticulously wiping down the lottery ticket counter, her movements precise and unhurried. She was a quiet soul, barely older than his grandchildren would have been, had he ever had any. Her presence was a small, steady light in the vast, echoing cavern of his routine. She didn't ask questions, didn't pry. She just offered the same polite, almost-smile each night as he bought his coffee and his single scratch-and-win, always the 'Lucky Loonie.' He never won. Not anymore.

A gust of wind rattled the automatic sliding doors, making Devon flinch, a sudden, almost imperceptible tremor through his shoulders. The cold, even through thick glass, felt like a physical weight against the building. Then, the doors hissed open, admitting a blast of frigid air and a figure Devon hadn’t seen in twenty years, yet would have recognized anywhere. Elias. Older, of course. His neatly trimmed beard was now streaked with more silver than black, and the crispness of his overcoat, though still impeccably tailored, couldn't entirely hide a certain stiffness in his gait. But the eyes… those eyes were unchanged. Sharp, glinting, like chipped obsidian.

'Devon, my friend! To what do I owe this… midnight rendezvous?' Elias's voice was a low, gravelly purr, a tone that had always managed to be both congenial and subtly menacing. He strode to the coffee machine, bypassing the instant brew Devon favoured for the fresh-perked, gourmet blend that sat simmering. Devon watched him, his coffee suddenly tasting like ash.

'Elias,' Devon managed, his own voice rusty, a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement. He didn't move, couldn't. His knee, that damned knee, felt locked. 'Didn't take you for a late-night convenience store kind of fellow. Thought you'd be in some downtown club, making deals under velvet rope.'

Elias chuckled, a sound devoid of genuine humour. 'Oh, Devon, you wound me. A man's got to diversify, keep his fingers in all the pies. Besides, sometimes the best deals are made far from the velvet ropes, aren't they? In places where folks are… less guarded.' He poured his coffee, adding a splash of cream and two sugars, stirring it with a delicate, almost theatrical flourish. Patti paused her wiping, her eyes flicking between the two men, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths.

'What are you doing here?' Devon asked, the words a little too sharp, even to his own ears. He felt a familiar cold dread begin to coil in his gut, a sensation he hadn't experienced since that fateful winter twenty years ago.

Elias turned, leaning against the counter, a casual pose that belied the intensity in his gaze. 'Passing through. Thought I'd drop in, see if the old warhorse was still… galloping. And it seems you are, Devon. Still nursing the same lukewarm regrets, too, I see.' His smile didn't reach his eyes. It never did.

A sudden, sharp memory flared in Devon's mind: the roar of the crowd, the smell of ozone and melting ice, the weight of the stone in his hand. The final shot. The provincials. He saw the skip's broom, frantic, urgent, pointing to a precise spot. And then… a flicker. A thought. A different spot. A moment of hesitation. A split second that changed everything.

Patti cleared her throat, a soft, polite sound. 'Anything else for you gentlemen?' Her voice was quiet, but it broke the heavy stillness. Elias gave her a charming, if artificial, smile. 'Just this excellent coffee, my dear. And perhaps a word with my… esteemed colleague here.'

Devon felt his jaw tighten. 'We have nothing to discuss.' The lie felt flimsy, translucent. He knew Elias better than that. Elias never just 'passed through.' He always wanted something.

'Ah, but I think we do,' Elias countered, his tone dropping a notch, the playfulness gone, replaced by a colder edge. 'There's a new league. Local, amateur, but surprisingly… passionate. And with passion comes opportunity. A certain opportunity that reminds me, rather vividly, of a certain other opportunity, many years ago. A game where a certain sweep was… less than zealous. A stone that veered, just slightly, off its intended path.'

Devon's breath hitched. He remembered the feel of the broom in his hands, the frantic, almost desperate movements, and the sudden, inexplicable slowing. He'd blamed it on a tremor, an old injury flaring up. He’d told himself it was an accident. But deep down, he knew. He'd known since the moment the stone had settled, leaving a championship slip away. The money, it had been good money. Enough to clear the mortgage, to pay off his father's medical bills. Enough to live with the ghost of a compromised victory.

'I don't know what you're talking about,' Devon said, his voice flat, emotionless. He felt a desperate urge to flee, to disappear into the biting Winnipeg night, but his feet felt rooted to the linoleum, heavy as granite.

'Oh, I think you do,' Elias said, taking a sip of his coffee. He savoured it, his eyes never leaving Devon's face. 'A certain 'accidental' miss, just enough to tilt the odds. Very subtle. Very clever. Almost untraceable, unless one knew precisely what to look for. And I, Devon, always look for such things.' He placed his cup down, a soft clink against the plastic counter. 'But that's all water under the bridge, isn't it? We're talking about the future now. A chance to… rectify certain historical imbalances. A new game. Different players. Same stakes, perhaps.'

Elias pulled a small, pristine white business card from his wallet, its edges impossibly sharp. He laid it gently on the counter, pushing it towards Devon with a manicured finger. The card bore no logo, just a single, elegantly debossed phone number. 'Think about it, Devon. Old loyalties. New opportunities. The ice is always calling, isn't it? And sometimes, a man gets one last, perfect draw. Or one last chance to make good on an old, forgotten score.'

He winked, a slow, deliberate movement that felt like a punch to Devon's gut, then turned and walked towards the automatic doors. The same frigid blast of air announced his departure, and then the doors hissed shut, leaving only the lingering smell of expensive cologne and the persistent, unsettling hum of the refrigeration unit. Patti was back to wiping the counter, her back to Devon, but he could feel the silent question radiating from her.

Devon stared at the card. The white surface seemed to gleam under the fluorescent lights, a stark, pristine challenge. His heart hammered against his ribs, a drumbeat against the silence. The ghost of a long-lost game, a compromised choice, now seemed to solidify, to take form in the cold, unyielding air of the convenience store. Elias hadn't offered him a choice. He'd offered him a return, a reckoning, and Devon knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the marrow, that refusing Elias was not an option he possessed. The ice was indeed calling, and the cold promise of a new, dangerous game had already begun to form a thin, treacherous glaze over his world.

His gaze drifted to the scratch-and-win ticket he hadn't yet played. The Lucky Loonie. He wondered what fortune, what despair, lay hidden beneath its silver film. He felt the phantom weight of a curling stone in his hand, and for a terrifying moment, he wasn't sure if he was preparing for a shot or bracing for a collision.

The streetlights outside cast long, skeletal shadows across the fresh powder, illuminating the path Elias had taken into the unforgiving night. And as the distant wail of a siren began its slow, deliberate climb through the quiet city, Devon felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air. He had been a champion, a cheat, and now, it seemed, he was about to be a pawn in a game far darker than any he'd ever played on the ice, a game whose rules were being written by a man who seemed to collect old scores like trophies.

The low hum of the refrigerated unit seemed to deepen, morphing into a guttural growl, a hungry, waiting sound in the vast, still silence of the convenience store. Devon picked up the business card. The numbers felt like braille under his thumb, each digit a tiny, inescapable snare, drawing him towards a colder, more treacherous sheet of ice than he had ever known.