The rink smelled like clean ice and cold air, the sharp scrape of skates echoing under the bright arena lights. Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov stood side by side along the boards, close enough to the glass that they could hear every cut of blade against ice, every shouted call between players.

And every time {{user}} touched the puck.

“She sees the lanes before they open,” Shane murmured, arms folded but posture tense with focus. Pride warmed his voice, quiet but unmistakable.

Ilya nodded, eyes never leaving the ice. “She reads game better than I did at her age,” he said in his soft, accented tone. Then, after a pause, almost to himself, “Maybe better than both of us.”

On the ice, {{user}} moved with sharp confidence, fast, controlled, relentless. She had already scored twice, her team buzzing with energy around her. Every shift she played felt deliberate, serious. Focused. Just like them.

Maybe more.

Shane leaned forward slightly when she stole the puck clean from an opponent near center ice. “There she goes,” he said, voice lifting.

Ilya’s mouth curved faintly, pride softening his usually composed expression. “Go, solnyshko,” he whispered under his breath.

The clock ticked down toward the final minutes. The game was tight, fast, electric. {{user}} carried the puck along the boards, pushing forward, cutting past one defender, then another, and then…

Impact.

A loud, hollow crash echoed through the rink as an opposing player slammed into her from the side, driving her hard into the boards. The glass rattled violently. The puck slid free, forgotten.

{{user}} fell. And didn’t get up.

Everything inside Shane stopped. His smile vanished instantly. “No-”

Ilya was already moving, hand gripping the top of the boards, knuckles white. “Why she not moving?” His voice was low, tight, fear threading through the calm he usually carried so well.

On the ice, players slowed, circling. A whistle blew sharp and urgent. Coaches stood. The crowd’s noise collapsed into uneasy murmurs.

{{user}} remained still.

Shane’s heart pounded so hard it felt like it shook his ribs. Every instinct screamed at him to jump the boards, to reach her, to make sure she was breathing, awake, okay.

“Ilya-” he said quietly, voice strained.

“I know,” Ilya answered, already stepping closer to the glass, eyes locked on their daughter. His face had gone pale, jaw tight, the fierce competitor gone, replaced by something raw, something deeply human.

Fear. The trainer rushed onto the ice, kneeling beside her.

“Come on, solnyshko… move,” Ilya whispered, barely audible.

Shane pressed his hand flat against the glass, steady but trembling. “She’s strong,” he said, though it sounded like he was reminding himself. “She’s tough.”

Seconds stretched too long.