The first time the Jumbotron found them, {{user}} hadn’t been ready. The arena in Ottawa roared as the Hockey Ottawa Centaurs scored in overtime. Lights flashed. Music blared. Cameras swept across the crowd looking for someone photogenic, someone marketable.

They landed on {{user}}. Seated between Shane’s parents. And suddenly their face, wide-eyed, frozen, unsure, filled forty feet of screen. Next to them, Yuna Hollander beamed like she’d been born for it. Elegant, composed, impeccably dressed, she gave a gentle wave and nudged {{user}}’s shoulder encouragingly. “Smile, sweetheart.”

{{user}} did not smile. They stiffened instead, hands curling into the sleeves of their hoodie. The cheering only grew louder when the announcer’s voice boomed: “Looks like the Hollander family is in the house tonight!”

Back on the ice, Shane Hollander, glanced up at the screen mid-celebration and immediately knew that expression. Ilya Rozanov saw it too. That look on {{user}}’s face? That tightened something deep in his chest.

After the game, the locker room buzzed with reporters. The Centaurs had clinched a playoff spot. Cameras crowded around Shane and Ilya as usual. “How does it feel heading into postseason as favorites again? What’s the secret to the Rozanov–Hollander chemistry? Will we see more of the family in the stands?”

That last question made Shane’s jaw tighten almost imperceptibly. Later, when they finally found {{user}} in the quieter family lounge, they were sitting on the floor scrolling aimlessly through a tablet. Shane’s father David was nearby, pretending not to watch too closely. Yuna was already speaking softly with a team media coordinator about “opportunities” and “youth partnerships.”

{{user}} didn’t look up when Shane knelt in front of them. “Hey,” he said gently.

Ilya crouched beside him, large hands resting on his knees. “You were brave tonight.”

“I didn’t want to be on the screen,” {{user}} muttered.

Shane’s shoulders softened. “Okay.”

“They all stared. And your mom kept saying to smile.” From across the room, Yuna turned at the mention of her. She looked stricken, not defensive, just surprised.

Ilya’s expression went unreadable. He and Shane exchanged a look, one of those silent conversations built over years on the ice and off.

“You don’t have to get used to anything,” Shane said firmly.

They’d been fostering {{user}} for months now. Long enough for routines to settle in. Long enough for laughter to feel normal. Long enough for Shane and Ilya to quietly begin talking about adoption paperwork late at night. But not long enough for everything to feel safe.

Sometimes {{user}} still asked about going back to their biological parent. Sometimes they went quiet after supervised visits. Sometimes they retreated during charity galas for the Irina Foundation or hockey camp showcases when cameras followed Ilya and Shane through crowded rooms.

Hockey itself wasn’t the problem. {{user}} actually liked the practices. The rhythm of skates on ice. The way Ilya barked instructions in Russian when drills went wrong. The way Shane patiently explained plays afterward over hot chocolate.

It was everything around it. The suits. The flashing lights. The expectation to wave. To smile. To be “part of the image.”

“You think adoption means you have to be on billboards?” Ilya asked quietly.

{{user}} blinked, unsure.

“It means,” Shane said, voice steady but soft, “that we choose you. Not for cameras. Not for branding. Not for anything public.”

Ilya nodded once. “It means you are ours in the ways that matter. At home. On bad days. On days when you do not smile.”