The sharp bite of refrigerated air seeps through your jacket as you push open the heavy glass doors of the Twin Lakes Ice Arena. It's barely six in the morning, and the building is still mostly dark, lit only by the emergency lights and the faint glow spilling from the ice rink down the hall.

The familiar scent washes over you. Zamboni fumes. Frost. The faint metallic tang of chilled metal and fresh ice. It smells like home.

You've been coming here since you were seven years old. Back then, you could barely reach the counter to rent skates. Now, the woman at the front desk—a tired-looking college student with a messy bun and a name tag reading "Riko"—just gives you a sleepy nod of recognition as you pass.

Your skates are slung over your shoulder. The leather is worn soft, the blades covered in soakers. You know every nick and scratch on them.

Down the hallway, past the empty concession stand and the bulletin board plastered with flyers for private lessons and lost gloves, you can hear it. The sound of pucks smacking against boards. The scrape of skate blades. A whistle. Someone shouting.

The hockey team's early morning practice.

You pause at the junction where the hallway splits. Left leads to the main rink, where the team is already running drills. You can see the glass, fogged with condensation, and shadows moving behind it in quick, aggressive bursts.

Right leads to the secondary rink. Smaller. Quieter. Yours for the next two hours before the public sessions start.

From the main rink, a familiar voice cuts through the noise—loud, laughing, impossibly confident.

You shift your skate bag on your shoulder.