Emptiness. The parking lot, the ice, the bleachers; all empty. No judgement and no fear, for there was not a single person in sight. The building was a ghost town. I could barely make out the silhouettes of the rusted benches scattered throughout the interior. My only source of light was the glow coming from the massive lights towering over the vast surface dimmed to match the feeling produced by an early morning. I looked straight ahead from my newfound position on one of the benches and took in the vast white area taunting me from behind the windows.

As I stepped onto the glistening and perilous surface, I could feel the weight of my body shift, almost as if I had stepped onto a tightrope, but the boundless years of experience on these sharp and narrow, knife-like boots had saved me. With my first step, the blade carved into the blank, endless expanse, resulting in a deafening crunch echoing throughout the building. A slightly transparent trail was left behind, ruining the perfectly smooth area, as the metal below my feet took on a mind of its own, gliding with no intent and no direction like a piece of driftwood lost at sea. I looked up, taking in my isolated surroundings. The dark white boards streaked with black markings from the numerous blows by pucks and sticks, accumulated from years and years of attacks. The glass encompassed by cat-like scratches and barely visible fingerprints from the festivities of the hockey games from the previous night. The lifeless metal bleachers, looking almost as cold as they would feel, without spectators inhabiting each and every square inch as they had just only hours before. In a peculiar way, this was my happy place.

I took a deep breath. The cool air was stinging my nostrils, as I inhaled the odd scent of the freshly cut ice; a mixture of fuel from the zamboni, the crisp air, and the lingering stench of sweat from the hockey players, which in a strange way, was only intensified by the temperature. This being a unique characteristic of the early mornings and a scent I had grown to love over the years, welcoming a brief wave of nostalgia. In the distance I could hear the clanging of a puck hitting the goal post and the muffled shouting of two boys who had arrived shortly after, and would be my only companions for the morning. There was only a small narrow hallway separating the two sheets of ice, leaving minimal room for silence and eliminating the eerie feeling of being completely alone. This thought was pushed out of my mind as I was quickly consumed by the adrenaline rushing through my body. Instinctively, I began moving, gaining speed with each stride. I could feel the freezing air push against my skin and body, whisking my hair back, only for it to hit me in the face as I turned a corner. The once impeccable surface was now full of scratches and curves, strongly resembling the pattern of a drawing from a toddler. I came to a stop, causing a wave of snow to spray against the wounded boards. The initial rush of adrenaline had subsided and was replaced by the urge to accomplish anything and everything I possibly could.

With that, I picked up my battered, half empty water bottle and took a drink, blocking out the harsh scratching of the blades on the opposite rink combined with the soft indie music playing over the loudspeakers. I needed my mind vacant of all distractions; all of my focus turned towards the great feat I was to attempt. I stood with my elbows balancing on the edge of the boards in order to support the weight of my body, looking out at the devoid ice and visualizing what was to come. Another deep breath. The adrenaline returned, causing my muscles to tense with anticipation and a slight notion of fear. I propped myself up, knowing that if I thought about it any longer, I would create a never ending mental block, drowning my brain in a sea of anxiety. Once again my legs started moving, repeating the same motions; however, this time, with an increasing amount of tension. I gained speed and my body went numb. I could no longer feel the breeze sending shivers up and down my arms. The stinging sensation that was normally brought to my eyes from the force of the wind faded away completely. I could no longer hear the ice scraping away each time my foot returned to the surface. Emptiness. My mind was in the exact state of my surroundings. 

Without even realizing it, both feet were elevated and I was in the air, my body spinning at what felt like a million miles per hour. My eyes were open, but unable to take in what was blurring through my peripheral vision. Subconsciously, I could feel my breathing stop for a moment, as I was solely overtaken by one thing: I would land on my feet. I had to land on my feet. I was instead met with disappointment and a soul crushing pain shooting through my right hip and elbow. As I became less disoriented, I could see the decaying tops of my skates sprawled out in front of me, the material strongly resembling the torn bandages of a mummy. The ice felt like a slab of concrete underneath my limp and discouraged body. I looked past my feet at the spot directly in front of me; at least I wasn’t the only one with wounds from the jump. A large chunk was missing from the ground where the jagged edge of the metal had entered and left the ice in a moment’s notice, just near the edge of my left blade. This was the only evidence leftover from my precarious attempt, which was only to be imitated hundreds of times in the approaching days. Another deep breath. My feet returned to the polished surface and I was met with the feeling of both bliss and frustration; something I had grown accustomed to in my frozen home.