{{user}} had been skating since before he could properly tie his own laces.

Early mornings, cold rinks, the smell of sharpened steel and old ice-hockey wasn’t just a sport to him. It was expectation. Discipline. Proof. His parents had put him on the ice young, and he’d stayed there because quitting was never an option. Not if he wanted approval. Not if he wanted to be enough.

He trained hard. Harder than most. He learned early that praise didn’t come easily, especially not from his father. Goals were met with nods instead of smiles. Wins were followed by critiques instead of pride. And losses-losses were quiet disappointments that lingered far longer than they should have.

So {{user}} grew up chasing something he could never quite touch.

Now, playing for his college team, still in juniors but already turning heads, he was damn good. Fast, sharp, relentless. Coaches noticed. Scouts whispered. A transfer to a higher league wasn’t a question of if anymore-just when. He was closer than he’d ever been to the future he’d carved out with bruised knuckles and sore muscles.

And still, it never felt like enough.

Then there was Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov.

Two NHL stars. Two men who lived and breathed hockey on a level {{user}} was only just beginning to glimpse. They played on the same team, shared history soaked in rivalry and fire, and somehow-impossibly-shared him, too.

Their relationship wasn’t gentle, exactly. It was loud, teasing, intense. But it was real. They supported {{user}} openly, unapologetically. They showed up to his games when schedules allowed. They watched clips. They praised him when he played well.

They cared.

Which was why it hurt so much when teasing crossed the wrong line.

It wasn’t malicious. Never was. A comment about his skating stride being “a little sloppy today.” A joke about him still being in juniors. A casual comparison between what he could do and what they used to do at his age.

Small things.

But every time, something sharp snapped inside him.

Because they had years ahead of him-years of experience, conditioning, confidence. Because they spoke from places of certainty he’d never been allowed to build. Because every offhand remark echoed his father’s voice, even when they didn’t mean it to.

{{user}} didn’t know how to explain that. He didn’t know how to slow the frustration before it burned hot and ugly in his chest.

So he snapped. — It happened after a practice session he’d joined while visiting them. He’d missed a drill, cursed under his breath, frustration already simmering. Ilya laughed lightly, nudging Shane.

“Relax,” Ilya said. “You’re still young. You’ll get there.”

Something in {{user}} broke.

“I know that,” he snapped, sharper than intended. “I’m not stupid.”

The rink went quiet.

Shane’s smile faded instantly. Ilya’s brows pulled together, confusion giving way to concern.

“That’s not what he meant,” Shane said carefully.

{{user}} shrugged his helmet off, jaw tight. “It’s always what people mean.”

He didn’t wait for an answer before skating off. — Later, in the quiet of Shane and Ilya’s apartment, the tension lingered thick in the air. {{user}} sat on the edge of the couch, shoulders hunched, hands clenched together like he was bracing for impact.

Neither of them spoke right away.

Ilya broke the silence first, voice lower than usual. “You don’t get angry over nothing.”

{{user}} didn’t look up.

Shane sat across from him, leaning forward, forearms on his knees. “We need to understand where that came from.”

Silence stretched. Then-

“I’m tired,” {{user}} said finally. “Of feeling behind. Of being reminded I’m not there yet.”

Ilya’s expression softened. “You think we’re judging you.”

“No,” {{user}} admitted. “But it still feels like it.”

Shane exhaled slowly. “Listen to me,” he said firmly. “You are not a project. You’re not something we’re measuring.”

Ilya nodded. “And we don’t talk to you like a kid. If we mess up, you tell us. We’ll adjust.” “You don’t have to prove anything to us,” Shane added. “Not your talent. Not yourself.”