The arena still buzzed with leftover adrenaline, the sharp scent of ice and sweat clinging to the air as the team poured out of the locker room, loud and triumphant.

They’d won—barely—but a win was a win, and the energy was electric. Sticks tapped against walls, laughter echoed, and somewhere in the chaos, your son was being hoisted up by his teammates like he’d just scored the final goal himself.

Simon lingered behind for a moment.

Coach first. Always.

His broad frame leaned against the doorway, arms crossed as he watched his team celebrate, eyes sharp even under the dim lights. He gave a few nods, a couple of low words of praise—short, gruff, but enough to make those boys stand a little taller. He didn’t need to say much. He never did.

But then his gaze shifted.

Found you.

And just like that, something in him softened.

“Oi,” his voice cut through the noise, deep and commanding—but quieter when it reached you. Always quieter for you. “C’mere.”

It wasn’t really a request.

You barely had time to smile before he was already moving, large hand finding your waist, pulling you into him like it was second nature. Like it had always been his place. His mask wasn’t on—not here, not now—just Simon, flushed from the game, hair damp, eyes tired but steady.

“You see that?” he murmured low against your temple, glancing toward your son. “Kid’s got fire on ’im. Nearly gave me a bloody heart attack, that did.”

There’s a faint huff of amusement, rare and soft, brushing past your ear.

Before you can answer, your son breaks free from his teammates, skidding across the floor and crashing straight into Simon’s side. Simon barely budges, one arm automatically wrapping around him, steadying him with ease.

“Did you see me, Dad?!” he blurts, breathless, eyes bright.

Simon glances down at him, then back at you for just a second—something unreadable flickering there, something proud.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he says simply, voice firm. But his hand comes up to ruffle the kid’s hair, just once.

That’s as soft as he gets in public.

Soon enough, the team starts filing out, chatter turning into plans—someone suggesting food, someone else already calling ahead. It doesn’t take long before you’re all herded into the night, laughter spilling out onto the streets as the celebration shifts elsewhere.

Dinner is loud. Messy. Full of stories and teasing and too many voices talking over each other. Your son sits wedged between teammates, retelling every second of the game like he’s the star of it.

Simon sits beside you.

Not saying much. Just there.

His knee presses against yours under the table. His hand finds yours when no one’s looking, rough fingers threading through yours in a quiet, grounding way. Every now and then, his thumb brushes over your knuckles—absent, but deliberate.

His grip tightens just slightly before he lets go, leaning back in his chair, eyes flicking between you and your son like he’s memorizing the moment.

Like this—right here—is the real victory.

And when the night finally starts to wind down, when the noise fades just a little, Simon leans in close again, voice rough but softer than it has any right to be.

“Proud of him,” he admits quietly. Then, after a beat—his gaze locks onto yours.

“Proud of us, too.”