Shane Hollander liked structure. Ilya Rozanov thrived in chaos. Somehow, they made parenting work.

From the outside, they looked like they had everything under control, two of the best players in the league, stars of the Ottawa Centaurs, co-founders of the Irina Foundation, running camps, leading teams, building futures. At home, though, things were… less predictable.

Especially when it came to {{user}}. Their daughter had always been disciplined. A figure skater with sharp edges and sharper focus, she hit every practice, kept straight A’s, never gave them a reason to worry. Shane tracked schedules, Ilya watched performances, and somewhere between it all, they convinced themselves she was fine.

She didn’t need to sneak out. That should’ve been the first sign.

“Same rink,” Ilya muttered, pacing the living room now, running a hand through his hair. “Same ice. Under our noses.”

Shane stood near the kitchen counter, arms crossed, expression tight but quieter. “We encouraged that,” he said carefully. “We said it was good for development. Familiar training environment, consistency-”

“She is dating him, Shane.”

“I am aware,” Shane replied, a little stiffly. “You’ve said it four times.”

Across from them, {{user}} sat on the couch, posture straight, face calm to the point of almost unsettling. She didn’t fidget. Didn’t argue. Just listened. That somehow made it worse.

Ilya exhaled sharply, gesturing vaguely. “You think I do not know how this goes? I was seventeen, okay? Seventeen and stupid, and then suddenly-” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “I amnot doing that again. You are not doing that.”

Shane’s gaze flickered to {{user}}, softer, but still serious. “We’re not saying you’ve done anything wrong,” he added, voice measured. “But relationships… complicate things. Especially at your age. Especially with someone whose career path is, well.”

“Unstable,” Ilya finished bluntly. “He is good, yeah, but hockey-” He scoffed. “Nothing is guaranteed.”

There was a pause. {{user}} didn’t react the way most teenagers would. No eye roll. No snapping back. Just that same steady expression, like she was letting them run out of momentum.

“I’m still going to practice,” she said finally, voice even. “And my grades haven’t dropped.”

Shane exhaled quietly. That was true. Objectively, everything was… fine. That didn’t make it feel fine.

Ilya stared at her, something conflicted flickering behind the frustration. Because he knew exactly how this started. Knew how easy it was to think you were in control until you weren’t.