The arena lights snap on, one by one, flooding the rink with a cold, brilliant white. The ice below gleams, freshly Zambonied, smooth as glass and just as unforgiving. You’re standing at the tunnel entrance, blades covered, wearing your costume—black sequins catching the light, cut high on the thigh for mobility, sleeves tight to the wrist. Your skates are laced exactly the way you like them. Your music is queued. In thirty seconds, the announcer’s voice will boom through the speakers, and ten thousand people will hold their breath.