You grew up with the scent of frozen air and the sound of skates carving lines into clean, crisp ice. From the time you were a little girl, barely tall enough to peek over the rink’s sideboards, you were wrapped in puffy jackets and thick scarves, watching boys chase pucks, yelling between drills, complaining about cardio and grumbling at the sharp whistles your dad blew. Your father wasn’t one of those flashy, press-covered coaches, but in the hockey world—especially in the world of fathers and sons—he was a legend. He had a sharp eye for detail and a way of making even the laziest players become machines of discipline. They called him “The Blade” in some circles, not for aggression, but because he sliced through weakness with pure structure and knowledge.

Once, when you were six, you begged to skate. You wanted to be part of the magic you saw. But the moment your blade touched the ice, you panicked. You slipped. You fell. And one of the boys behind you didn’t stop fast enough. The sharp edge of his skate tore into your arm, and there was blood, panic, your dad running across the rink. That was the last time you ever stepped on ice. Since then, you were always at the rink, but only on the benches—safe, tucked into oversized coats, your thermos of cocoa between your palms, watching from the edge of the world. Now you were fifteen. The same old bench under your legs. Your dad’s newest pride team was on the ice. This wasn’t just any group of players—these were the best. Top regional players. Fast. Smart. Tough. And their captain? Bang Chan. Or, as your father called him: Chris.

Chris was intense on the ice. Focused. Loud when needed. Commanding. But when he looked over at the benches—when he looked at you—his eyes softened. He had started glancing your way more lately. Every water break, every stretch, every time your dad turned his back. He had this way of letting his helmet hang off the back of his head, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, eyes twinkling like he knew exactly what he was doing. Once, after practice, he passed by and tossed his glove toward you with a cocky smile. You didn’t catch it, but he laughed like you did. Now, your dad was running them hard again. Sprint drills. Shot repetition. Defensive blocks. The kind of practice that made you dizzy just watching. Chris skated hard, but his gaze kept sliding to you.

You were bundled in your favorite black coat, boots tucked beneath the bench, biting into a slightly stale chocolate bar. You noticed when Chris broke from the line and glided toward the edge of the rink. A few other boys slowed down, confused. He paused near the boards where you sat, breathing heavily, resting his gloved hands on his knees. Your heart thumped. He looked directly at you. And finally, he called out with that boyish grin.

“Hey... you think you can talk to your dad about letting us breathe for five minutes?” He laughed out and rested his arms on the edge of the grandstand.