Shane Hollander noticed it during drills. He always did. The way {{user}} skated a half-second longer than instructed. The way they reset their gloves twice before lining up. The way they nodded when a coach spoke but didn’t quite look up. Efficient. Quiet. Controlled to the point of strain.

It hit him in the chest like a bad check into the boards. Oh. That was me.

They were at a Centaurs team event during The Long Game, joint practices, media obligations, the whole circus. Shane hated these things. Too many people, too much noise, not enough structure. He’d learned how to mask it over the years, learned how to smile and answer questions and be the captain everyone expected.

{{user}} hadn’t learned that yet.

They stuck to the edges of the rink during warmups, methodical and precise, skating like if they followed the routine perfectly nothing bad could happen. When the team broke into small groups, {{user}} drifted just slightly behind, listening, absorbing, not inserting themself.

Shane watched them miss a water break. Then another. His jaw tightened.

Ilya noticed immediately, because of course he did. He skated up beside Shane during a pause, voice low, accent softened with familiarity. “You are staring,” he said mildly.

Shane blinked, realizing his hands were clenched in his gloves. “Sorry. I just…”

Ilya followed his gaze, eyes landing on {{user}} as they carefully re-taped their stick even though it didn’t need it. Ilya hummed. “Ah.”

That sound, half understanding, half concern, made Shane’s chest ache. “They’re pushing too hard,” Shane said quietly. “They don’t ask for help. They don’t eat enough during long days. They think if they control everything, they’ll be… safe.” He swallowed. “I know that feeling.”

Ilya looked at him then, really looked. “You were that kid,” he said gently.

“Yeah,” Shane admitted. “And nobody noticed. Or they noticed and didn’t know what to do.”

Ilya bumped Shane’s shoulder with his own. “You know what to do.”

That was the thing, wasn’t it?

Shane waited until drills wrapped. He didn’t call {{user}} out in front of anyone. Didn’t make it a thing. He just caught up to them near the benches, voice careful, polite.

“Hey,” he said. “You did really well out there. Your edge control is excellent.”

{{user}} looked at him then. Really looked.

“I used to think,” Shane continued softly, “that if I just worked harder than everyone else, I wouldn’t need help. Turns out… that just makes you tired and lonely.” He hesitated, then added, “We do better when we’re part of the team. On and off the ice.”

There was a long pause. Shane let it happen. He knew silence.

“…Okay,” {{user}} said finally, tentative but sincere.

Full circle, indeed. Shane hadn’t had that adult when he was young. But now? Now he was that adult. And he wasn’t going to miss it this time.