The Winter's Grin

The bus shuddered to a halt, a wheezing metallic groan that vibrated through the worn seat into my bones. Outside, Portage Avenue was a grey smear, wet snow clinging to everything like desperation. Coach Graham’s words, a low, controlled rumble that was somehow worse than yelling, still bounced around inside my skull. 'You got soft, Declan. Soft. We needed you. And you folded.' He hadn’t even looked me in the eye when he said it, just stared at his clipboard, ticking imaginary boxes of my failure. I pushed my backpack further up my shoulder, the weight of my damp jersey and pads a familiar, depressing heft.

I swung off the bus, the blast of cold air hitting me like a physical shove. Winter in Winnipeg was less a season and more a prolonged assault. My breath plumed out in front of me, thick and white, then dissipated into the exhaust-choked air. Each step crunched on the icy sidewalk, a brittle soundtrack to my internal monologue of self-flagellation. 'Soft.' The word felt like a brand on my forehead. My team, the Warriors, had lost the provincial championship, 3-2. Overtime. And it was my fault.

My hands, shoved deep into the pockets of my too-thin jacket, were already going numb. I glanced at the glowing clock tower in the distance, a blurry orange beacon through the sleet. Four-thirty. Almost dark. The day had gone from bad to worse with impressive efficiency. First the loss, then Coach Graham, then a bus that smelt faintly of stale coffee and regret. Just my luck.

I walked past a closed-up newsstand, its metal grate covered in faded flyers. A poster for a curling bonspiel, an event that felt as old and forgotten as the dinosaurs, peeled at one corner. The irony wasn’t lost on me. Here I was, a supposed hockey prodigy, stumbling through my life, while others prepared for their genteel, swept-ice battles. I scuffed my worn-out sneaker against a patch of grimy ice, feeling the faint tremor of a coming slip. My centre of gravity felt off, like it had been since the puck went in.

It had been a wrist shot from the blue line. Nothing special. A routine save, really. But I’d been watching the forward, the one who’d been buzzing my net all third period, distracting me. My eyes were on his stick, anticipating a tip, a deke. Instead, the defenceman, a kid I’d barely noticed all series, just let one rip. It floated, almost lazily, through a gap in the traffic, catching me high blocker side. The five-hole was wide open, but the puck found a different weakness. The sound of it hitting the back of the net, a dull thud against the padded mesh, was still a fresh wound in my memory.

The Replay Loop

It played in my head, again and again, like a particularly sadistic sports highlight reel. The slow-motion glide of the puck, the sickening ripple of the net, the sudden, terrible quiet that fell over the arena before the opposing team erupted. My teammates, their faces a mixture of shock and dawning despair. And then the ice-cold hand of defeat, settling heavy on my shoulders. I could still feel the phantom ache.

The memory was a physical thing, a cold knot in my stomach. I pushed through the swinging doors of a convenience store, the blast of warm, sweet-smelling air a temporary reprieve. The fluorescent lights hummed, making the cheap candy wrappers and energy drink cans gleam. I grabbed a bag of dill pickle chips, the largest one I could find, and a lukewarm bottle of cream soda. Anything to silence the inner monologue, to shove something, anything, into the gaping hole of my failure. The cashier, a tired-looking woman with a nametag that read 'Brenda,' didn’t even look up as she scanned my items. Her gaze was fixed on a tiny, flickering TV screen behind the counter, showing a local news report about a power outage on the other side of the city. Probably just another transformer blowing from the cold. Typical. I handed over my crumpled five-dollar bill.

Back outside, the cold was sharper, biting at my ears despite my beanie. The chips were already halfway gone, the salty, vinegary crunch a satisfying distraction, if only for a moment. My tongue felt rough, almost sandpaper-dry. I passed a busker, his guitar case open on the snowy pavement, playing a tuneless rendition of a holiday classic. A few coins glinted dully in the sparse light. Nobody stopped. Nobody ever did. Winnipeg in winter. It hardened you, or it broke you. I wasn’t sure which category I fell into anymore.

I imagined myself, a year from now, still replaying that shot. Still feeling the sting of Coach Graham’s disappointment. It was a bleak future, one where every puck looked like *that* puck, every net felt too big, every shot a potential disaster. The satirical part of my brain, the part that usually saved me from complete self-pity, whispered, *well, at least you’ll be a consistent loser. Some people can’t even achieve that.* A laugh, hollow and sharp, escaped me, turning into another puff of white vapour.

My route took me past the grand, imposing architecture of the Manitoba Legislative Building. It glowed faintly, a beacon of old power and even older stone, completely out of place against the modern malaise of downtown. I wondered what decisions were being made inside those hallowed halls, what grand pronouncements about the province's future. Probably nothing about a failed hockey goalie, I figured. My problems felt monumentally small against its stoic indifference, and yet, for me, they were everything.

I kicked at a chunk of dirty ice near a fire hydrant, sending it skittering across the pavement. The streetlights flickered on fully, humming to life in a chain reaction, casting long, fractured shadows. The ground was treacherous, a mix of compacted snow, slush, and black ice. Every step felt like a gamble. A metaphor, probably, for my whole life right now. Gambling with every movement, hoping not to fall flat on my face. Literally and figuratively.

The Old Rink's Ghost

I ended up near the old community centre, the one with the rink where I’d first learned to skate, where the smell of stale arena air and Zamboni exhaust used to fill me with a kind of hopeful excitement. Now, it just felt… dead. The outside lights were off, the windows dark. It was too late for public skating, too early for anything else. Just a ghostly shell of my childhood ambition. I leaned against a cold brick wall, pulling my beanie lower over my ears, listening to the distant drone of traffic.

I pulled out my phone, the screen already dimming from the cold, and scrolled through my contacts. No one to call. My mum would just tell me it was 'just a game' and that I 'tried my best.' Dad would tell me to 'suck it up' and 'learn from it.' Neither was helpful. My teammates… well, they were probably too busy commiserating with each other, or worse, quietly relieved it wasn't them who'd let the puck in. Or perhaps they were all just angry. I wouldn't blame them.

The sting of failure wasn’t just mine. It was theirs too. I let them down. I could hear Coach Graham’s voice again, amplified by the echo chamber of my own skull. *You folded.* And he was right. I *had* folded. Like a cheap lawn chair. Like a hand of bad cards. Like laundry on a Monday night. The absurd comparisons piled up, trying to lighten the mood, but it didn't work. The bitterness stuck.

I watched a group of kids, much younger than me, laughing as they slipped and slid on a smaller patch of ice in a nearby park. Their joyful shrieks pierced the still evening air. They didn't have coaches dissecting their every move, no expectations weighing them down, no future championships riding on their shoulders. Just pure, unadulterated, clumsy fun. It looked exhausting, frankly. And vaguely terrifying. I remembered being like that once. Before the pressure. Before the dreams became burdens.

My hands were starting to ache with cold, the tips of my fingers numb despite my gloves. I stomped my feet, trying to get the blood flowing. The air tasted of wet concrete and something vaguely metallic. The kind of smell that promises nothing good, like static before a storm. I thought about just walking until my legs gave out, or until I found a Tim Hortons that wasn't packed, where I could nurse a steeped tea and stare blankly at the snowflakes melting on the window. A small, pathetic comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

A small, dented white panel van, the kind that delivered dry cleaning or took out the rubbish, pulled slowly into the alley beside the community centre. Its single functioning headlight cast a weak, yellow beam onto the snow-covered ground. It looked like it belonged in a horror movie, or maybe just a particularly depressing episode of a public access show. It stopped a few metres from me, engine idling rough, rattling the thin sheets of metal that made up its body.

The side door, the sliding one, creaked open. Inside, it was dark, just a vague outline of shapes. A man’s voice, surprisingly calm and even, drifted out into the cold night. 'Declan, isn’t it?'

I froze. My heart, which had been slowly regaining a normal rhythm, lurched and started hammering against my ribs. I hadn't seen anyone, heard anyone. My eyes darted around, looking for an escape, a way out of the sudden spotlight this dilapidated van had cast on me. Who was this guy? How did he know my name? Was this a joke? A very unfunny, Winnipeg-in-winter kind of joke?

'Don’t worry,' the voice continued, 'I’m not a monster. Just… a fan. Heard about the game. Tough break, kid. Really tough.' A silhouette shifted in the darkness of the van. I could make out a hand, gesturing slightly. 'Heard a lot about you, actually. You got a gift. Despite what some old coaches might say. A real gift.'

My mouth felt dry. The chips, forgotten, were still clutched in my numb hand. My mind raced, trying to figure out who this could be. A scout? No, they didn't usually operate out of dodgy vans in back alleys. A weirdo? Definitely possible. 'What… what do you want?' I managed, my voice sounding a lot less steady than I would have liked. It cracked on the last word, making me feel even more like the 'soft' kid Coach Graham had called me.

The man chuckled, a low, gravelly sound that seemed to vibrate the van's panels. 'What do I want? I want to help you, Declan. See that gift put to good use. See you get what you’re worth. Get a little… revenge, maybe.' He paused, letting the words hang in the freezing air. 'There’s other games, you know. Different stakes. Higher payouts.'

I stared at the dark opening of the van, at the vague shape of the man within. Revenge? Payouts? What was he talking about? My mind, still reeling from the defeat, struggled to make sense of his words. It sounded like something out of a bad movie. And yet, there was a flicker of something, a dark, dangerous curiosity, sparking inside me. The world had just told me I was a failure. What if there was another way to play? A way to prove them all wrong, to rub their faces in it? The thought was intoxicating, and deeply, terribly stupid. My fingers twitched, a sudden urge to drop the chip bag and step closer.

The man in the van leaned forward slightly, his face still obscured by shadow, but his voice now held a subtle, urgent edge. 'I can get you in, Declan. Tonight. You’re good, I know it. You just need the right… opportunities. Interested in a different kind of game?' The air around me felt colder, heavier. This was it. A choice, dropped into my lap like a frozen rock.