Broken In

I’m being deceived.

In exchange for the feeling of triumph when I landed my first Axel on the ice that’s still craving the crackling of my bones, I’ve gotten clicks in my knees that might never leave and tattoos pressed into my ankles from the $369 Jackson Freestyles I saved up for by tutoring math.

Why do I still skate?

It’s expensive. It’s painful. It’s left me broke and broken in chasing that feeling of freedom from the air curving across my cheeks as I’m flying around the rink, like the unfettered weightlessness when my legs are propeling down a track in Novablast 4’s or the unyielding momentum when I’m hanging in the air of a hop-step layup, hurling towards the basket like nothing could possibly stop me.

Still, I find myself back at the rink. I find myself taking my skates back out. I find myself abrading my fingers in trying to lace the laces tight enough because I didn't account for how much looser my skates would get after breaking them in.

I’m being deceived, but I just can't help but keep coming back.