Jorge breaks into the club up the street from his house every other night, using his father’s old lockpicks. Empty, the place feels full of ghosts: the smell of smoke in the walls, the dust of a hundred years of conversation. Sound doesn’t travel very far until he gets on the ice.
He brings clean shoes and duct tape and a broom from the workshed, and he curls for hours. He plays himself, eyeing his shots instead of chasing a skip’s broom, sweeping his own rocks.
His voice echoes through the haunted old club: “Hurry,” he tells himself. “Hurry hard.”