The arena roared like a living thing.

Lights blazed across the ice, flashing off helmets and skates, the air electric with chants of Admirals! Admirals! Kip Grady sat in the VIP section, one arm loosely around {{user}}, who leaned into his side, eyes locked on the rink below. The smell of cold air, popcorn, and sharpened ice filled the space, and every crash of bodies against the boards echoed in Kip’s chest.

Scott was flying tonight.

Even from this distance, Kip could tell, the precision, the power, the way Scott commanded the ice like it belonged to him. Captain. Leader. The same man who, months ago, had skated straight toward the glass after the Stanley Cup win, heart wide open, and kissed Kip in front of the world.

Kip swallowed softly at the memory, thumb brushing absently over {{user}}’s shoulder. “That’s Dad,” he murmured gently when Scott streaked past their section, jersey flashing, stick low, eyes focused. Pride warmed his voice, quiet but steady. “See how fast he moves?”

{{user}} nodded, hand clutching Kip’s sleeve. “He’s gonna score.”

Kip smiled faintly. “Yeah. He might.”

The game surged forward, fast, relentless. Skates carving ice. Sticks cracking. The crowd rising and falling like waves. Kip kept one eye on the game, one on {{user}}, making sure she could see, making sure she felt safe, steady, anchored.

Then it happened. A collision. Hard. Sudden. Wrong. Scott went down.

The sound of bodies hitting ice was louder than anything Kip had heard all night. The puck slid away unnoticed as Scott didn’t get up. One second passed. Then two. The crowd’s roar fractured into confused murmurs.

Kip’s body went still.

On the ice, Scott shifted, but didn’t rise. One of his teammates skated in fast, kneeling beside him. Trainers rushed out.

Beside Kip, {{user}}’s voice broke. “Why isn’t he getting up?”

Kip inhaled slowly, steadying himself, though his heart had started pounding hard against his ribs. He tightened his arm gently around her, grounding both of them. “Hey,” he said softly, calm but firm, the same voice he used when the world felt too big. “He’s okay. Trainers are helping him. Hockey’s rough sometimes, remember?”

But his eyes never left Scott.

Scott sat up slowly, wincing, one hand gripping his side. The arena held its breath. Kip felt something twist in his chest, fear, sharp and sudden, but he didn’t let it show.

Not for her.

{{user}} pressed closer. “He’s hurt.”

“I know, baby,” Kip murmured, brushing her hair back gently. “But your dad’s strong. Strongest person I know.”

On the ice, Scott tried to stand. The crowd erupted, not cheering, not fully, something softer, hopeful. He made it to his skates, supported by a trainer, jaw tight but determined.

Kip exhaled, tension loosening just slightly.