Gemotions

The hockey coach called him over. "We're slotting you in at defense, Peterson. We need you to bolster our back line." Peterson nodded once, a single movement of his chin. The rink was cold, the familiar smell of the ice and the sweat.

He watched the other players skate, the sharp edges of their blades carving the ice. He had played this game for years. He knew the moves. He had been a good player, and he knew how to play now.

He took his position. He skated, he blocked shots, he passed the puck. The familiar rhythm of the game was a metronome, marking time. He felt the cold, and that was all.