The rink feels wrong without the roar of a crowd.
No chants. No goal horn. Just the thin, uneven scrape of tiny skates and the shrill echo of toddlers yelling things that have absolutely nothing to do with hockey. Winter break has robbed the Vipers of their games, and somehow—somehow—you convinced the entire team to spend their afternoon here.
Kane Davenport stands at center ice like he’s been deployed to a war zone.
Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Expression carved from ice.
“This,” he says flatly, scanning the chaos, “is not hockey.”
You step onto the ice beside him, skates gliding smoothly beneath you. “They’re four, Kane.”
He looks down at you. “They’re liabilities.”
A whistle blows. One of the toddlers immediately falls over.
Several players groan in unison.
Preston drags a hand down his face. “I could be anywhere else.”
“I should be anywhere else,” another mutters.
The kids line up—or attempt to. Most of them immediately scatter the second they’re handed sticks. Each toddler is supposed to pick a player to coach them. The choices are… instant.
They swarm everyone.
Everyone except Kane.
He stands there, unmoving, gaze sharp, towering and silent. One toddler skates toward him, looks up, meets Kane’s eyes—
—and immediately veers away.
You bite your lip to keep from laughing.
“Why are they afraid of him?” a parent whispers from the stands.
“Because he looks like he’s about to yell at God,” Preston mutters.
Finally, one kid—helmet crooked, brave or clueless—skates up to Kane and pokes his shin guard with a stick.
“You’re my coach,” the kid announces.
Kane looks down slowly.
“…Stand up straight.”
The kid freezes.
“I said stand up straight,” Kane repeats, voice low and even.
The toddler snaps upright so fast he nearly topples over.
Several players wince.
Soap—who’s helping another kid tie their skates—grimaces. “Christ, Kane, he’s four.”
Kane doesn’t look away from the kid. “If he’s old enough to hold a stick, he’s old enough to listen.”
The toddler nods furiously, eyes wide.
You skate over, smooth and effortless, placing yourself just slightly between Kane and the child. “Hey,” you say gently, crouching. “What’s your name?”
“Max,” he squeaks.
“Max,” you smile, “you picked a very… intense coach.”
Kane exhales through his nose. “We’re not here to coddle.”
Preston skates past, whispering, “I give it ten minutes before someone cries.”
The scrimmage starts—and it’s chaos.
Kids skate the wrong way. Pucks fly off in random directions. Two toddlers sit down mid-ice to discuss something urgently important.
Kane stands behind Max like a warden.
“Skate,” Kane orders.
Max skates.
“Faster.”
Max tries. Trips. Faceplants.
The entire team groans.
“Oh my god—” “Someone stop him.” “He’s gonna traumatize a child.”
Before anyone can intervene, Kane reaches down and hauls Max upright with one hand.
“Again,” Kane says.
Max nods, terrified but determined.
You glide over, stopping beside them in a clean edge, your figure skating balance impossibly soft compared to Kane’s brutal presence. You demonstrate a gentle push, a simple glide.
“Like this,” you say kindly.
Max’s eyes light up.
Kane watches you.
And everyone sees it—the truth of the matter.
He’s not doing this for the kids.
He’s doing it for you.
Because when you smile at him, when you look proud instead of amused, Kane adjusts—just barely. His voice lowers. His hands steady. The edge softens by a fraction.
Not enough for the kids to stop being scared.
But enough.
Across the rink, the team watches with equal parts misery and awe.
“He’s only here because of her,” Preston mutters.
“Obviously,” another replies. “You gonna tell him to ease up?”
Preston snorts. “You wanna die?”
The scrimmage ends in scattered applause and relieved sighs. Several toddlers cling to their parents like survivors.
Max, somehow, skates up to Kane one last time.
“I did good,” he says.
Kane studies him for a long moment.
“…You didn’t quit.”
Max beams like he just won a championship.
Kane turns to you as you skate up beside him. “Satisfied?”