The ice rink always felt too big at first.

Even now, after months of coming here, you still paused for a second at the edge, skates angled inward like you weren’t sure the ground would stay solid if you stepped off the rubber mat. Before Shane and Ilya, you remembered smaller rooms, quieter sounds that never really meant comfort. The orphanage had been full of waiting—waiting for food, waiting for instructions, waiting not to be noticed for the wrong reasons. So stillness used to feel like something you had to survive.

But here, stillness felt different.

Shane stood by the boards, steady as always, watching without crowding. Ilya leaned forward beside him, too expressive to ever fully hide how much he paid attention. You had learned their names early, but also what they meant: Shane was Daddy, the calm that didn’t move even when everything else did. Ilya was Papa, warm and loud and always ready to make the world feel less sharp.

On the ice, they were different too. Hockey players—fast, powerful, always in motion when they skated together in practice. But when they looked at you, they didn’t feel like athletes. They felt like home.

That was why you started figure skating.

Not because you understood it. Because you understood them.

Coach Sofia waited near center ice, patient in the way she always was with you. “Try your entry again,” she said gently. “Slow. No rush.”

You pushed off, small and careful, hearing the scrape of your blades as the rink opened up around you. For a few seconds, it worked. Your balance held, just like Sofia showed you. Shane’s voice had once told you to bend your knees and trust your feet, and you tried to remember that now. Ilya’s voice echoed too, softer in your memory: You’re okay. I’m here.

Then your edge slipped.

It wasn’t dramatic, just wrong in a way your body didn’t catch in time. The ice came up fast, and you hit it harder than you expected, breath leaving you in a sharp, confused sound. For a second, you didn’t move. The old part of your mind waited for something worse to follow.

But nothing did.

Sofia was there immediately, crouching beside you, calm hands checking you without panic. “You’re alright,” she said. “That was a good try. Let’s take a short break.”

She helped you sit at the side, then skated off and came back with a juice box and a small snack, like this was just part of learning. Like falling didn’t need to mean anything more than a pause.

From the boards, you saw Ilya already half-moving like he wanted to come to you, but Shane’s hand stopped him lightly. They spoke quietly, and then stayed where they were—close enough to see you, far enough to let you choose.

Sofia handed you the juice box. It was cold in your hands, simple and real. You drank slowly, watching the ice instead of the fall.

Ilya called softly, “You okay, Гусь?” and you nodded, even though you weren’t entirely sure what word you understood more—his question or the feeling behind it.

Shane asked, “Do you want to stop?”

You looked back out at the rink. The place that had once felt too big now just felt open. Not safe by itself, but not dangerous either. You thought about the orphanage, and how falling there always meant something you couldn’t fix.

Here, it didn’t.

You shook your head.

“I try again,” you said.

Ilya smiled immediately, relief flashing across his face. Shane gave a small nod, like that answer made sense.

Sofia stepped back onto the ice. “Alright,” she said gently. “Let’s go again. I’ve got you.”