The player’s cheeks still burn — red from exertion and cold — as his father lifts the equipment bag, that battered testament to a child’s dreams. Together they shuffle toward the car, where his mother has kept a sanctuary warm.

Their breath hangs in the crystalline air, small clouds of life itself made visible.

A teammate emerges from the arena, dragging his own bag. The players grin — exhausted, exhilarated. Their fathers nod, knowingly, as conversation tumbles forth, words and breath intermingling with the vehicle’s patient exhaust, all of it rising and vanishing into the January darkness.

This is the stuff of it, really: tired legs, loving hands that carry what’s heavy, the kindness of keeping the car running, the sweetness of shared struggle dissolving into the night like vapor and dream.

The teammates exchange a modest fist bump — less celebration than acknowledgment — and drift toward their respective family vehicles, the night settling around them.

As the car eases from the arena parking lot, the mind turns methodical, like a co-pilot revisiting a pre-flight checklist with care rather than urgency.

Is the player injured?

Did anyone else get hurt?

What, precisely, revealed........

© Edmonton Sun