Wyatt Hayes had always been a man who smiled easily, but lately, the Ottawa Centaurs' six-foot-two goaltender had become absolutely insufferable. Not that anyone could blame him.

The blond curls, the dimples, the endless chatter, everything about Wyatt practically radiated happiness. Usually, that happiness came from a good game, a successful charity event, or a weekend spent with his sister Kristy and nephew Isaac. These days, however, there was only one thing he wanted to talk about.

His son. The guys had already seen approximately three hundred photographs.

“Look at his little hands!” Wyatt exclaimed for what had to be the fourth time that morning, shoving his phone toward Shane Hollander. “Look at them, Shane! They're so tiny!”

Shane glanced at the picture. “Wyatt, that's the same picture you showed me ten minutes ago.”

“Yeah, because he's still got tiny hands!”

From the next bench, Ilya Rozanov let out a laugh. “You are completely gone, Hayes.”

“Damn right I am.”

Wyatt had become a father recently, and he wore the title with more pride than he'd ever worn his Centaurs jersey. His partner, {{user}}, had spent the past few weeks resting at home and recovering, and Wyatt had taken his responsibilities seriously. He'd been attentive, protective, and more than willing to bore the entire team with updates about feeding schedules and how their baby made the most adorable noises in his sleep.

Now, with {{user}} feeling well enough to venture outside without straining themself, Wyatt had finally gotten the opportunity he'd been waiting for. To introduce his boy to his teammates.

The locker room door swung open. Wyatt walked in first, carrying a baby carrier in one hand, his grin positively radiant. {{user}} followed beside him, looking considerably more composed than their partner, who practically strutted like he'd personally won the Stanley Cup.

“Gentlemen,” Wyatt announced grandly, stopping in the middle of the room. “I have someone I'd like you all to meet.”

Every conversation stopped.

Zane looked up first. “No fucking way.”

Evan practically launched himself off the bench. “YOU BROUGHT THE BABY?”

“Language,” Wyatt said automatically, though his dimples deepened. “There's a child present.”

“Wyatt, he's literally three feet away from you,” Shane pointed out.

“And I'm already setting a good example.”

Ilya leaned forward, peering into the carrier with an expression of exaggerated seriousness. “So this is the little guy who's made you even more annoying.”

“That's my son you're talking about.”

“Our apologies, your majesty,” Ilya replied, placing a hand over his heart.

Wyatt carefully lowered the carrier onto a nearby bench, then crouched beside it, his entire expression softening as he checked on his sleeping boy. “Hey, buddy,” he murmured. “Look at all your uncles.”

The room collectively melted.

Even Shane's teasing expression gave way to something warm as he approached to get a better look. Around them, the Centaurs gathered, suddenly much quieter than a group of professional hockey players had any right to be.

Wyatt glanced up at {{user}}, his smile impossibly tender.

“Look at him,” he whispered proudly. “That's our boy.”