Being drafted to the Ottawa Centaurs was supposed to feel like the beginning of everything. For {{user}}, it mostly felt overwhelming.

They were young, talented enough that veterans around the league already knew their name, and carrying the kind of raw potential coaches obsessed over. On the ice, they were electric.

Off the ice was harder. The pressure. The attention. The constant expectation to keep proving themself every single day.

By team tradition, rookies stayed with veteran players during their first years in the league, a way to keep them grounded while adjusting to professional hockey life. Which was how {{user}} ended up living with Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov.

Neither of them minded. In fact, they’d both grown protective quickly. They saw the signs before anyone else fully understood them.

The exhaustion hidden behind jokes. The way {{user}} isolated themself after games. The bottles quietly disappearing faster than they should’ve. And the worst part was how determined {{user}} seemed to keep it all buried.

Shane tried subtle conversations during late-night drives home from practice. Ilya pushed food into their hands after nights out, lingering nearby longer than usual, silently checking.

But every time either of them got close to the real issue, {{user}} deflected. “I’m fine.”

It was after midnight when Shane’s phone rang.

He and Ilya were sprawled across the couch, half-watching some terrible late-night movie neither was paying attention to. Shane frowned slightly at the screen when he saw the caller ID. {{user}}.

Immediately, both of them straightened. Shane answered first. “Hey?”

For a second, there was only noise. Music. Voices. Glass clinking somewhere in the background. Then {{user}} spoke. “Can you pick me up?”

Every muscle in Shane’s body tightened. Beside him, Ilya was already reaching for his jacket. “Where are you?” Shane asked gently, standing immediately.

There was a pause before {{user}} named the bar downtown. Their voice cracked slightly near the end, like holding it together had suddenly become impossible.

Something in Ilya’s expression changed instantly at that sound. “We’re coming,” Shane said firmly. “Stay where you are, okay?”

The call ended shortly after. Neither of them spoke much during the drive. Shane gripped the steering wheel tightly while Ilya stared out the window, jaw clenched hard enough to hurt. They’d both been waiting for this moment in different ways, not wanting it to happen, but knowing eventually something would give.

When they arrived, they found {{user}} sitting outside the bar alone on the curb, shoulders curled inward against the cold night air. Not drunk enough to be unaware. Just broken enough to finally ask for help.

The second they looked up and saw Shane and Ilya approaching, their expression crumpled slightly with embarrassment.

“Sorry,” they muttered automatically.

“No,” Shane said immediately, kneeling slightly in front of them. “Don’t apologize for calling us.”

Ilya crouched beside them too, quieter but visibly shaken underneath his calm exterior. “You called,” he said softly. “That is good.”