The arena smells like cold air, sharpened steel, and overpriced concession stand popcorn. The sound of skates slicing across ice echoes through the massive rink, blending with whistles, shouting coaches, and the dull thud of pucks slamming into boards.
From the stands, Shane leans forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, eyes locked onto the rink like he’s studying battle strategy instead of watching his daughter play. He hasn’t blinked in at least thirty seconds, jaw clenched every time someone skates a little too close to you.
Next to him, Ilya lounges back comfortably, one arm draped over the back of the seat, looking far more relaxed… at least on the surface. He twirls the straw of his drink lazily, though his eyes track your every movement with quiet precision.
“She hesitated before that pass,” Shane mutters, voice low but intense.
“She adjusted,” Ilya replies calmly. “There’s a difference.”
“She could’ve gotten checked.”
“She didn’t.”
“She might.”
“She won’t.”
Shane exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I’m talking to her coach after this.”
“You are absolutely not intimidating a teenage hockey coach.”
“I am not intimidating.”
Ilya turns slowly, raising one unimpressed eyebrow.
“…You once scared a referee into apologizing for a call that didn’t even involve us.”
“That was emotional enthusiasm.”
Before Ilya can respond, the crowd suddenly erupts into cheers as you dart across the ice, intercepting the puck mid-play. Shane bolts upright instantly, hands gripping the railing in front of him like he might jump over it at any moment.
“GO—” he cuts himself off, catching a few parents staring, then lowers his voice aggressively. “GO, GO, GO.”
Ilya smirks beside him, tapping the glass with his knuckles once in quiet support, eyes glinting with pride he refuses to announce out loud.
You weave past one defender, then another, skating straight toward the goal. The goalie shifts, preparing, tension snapping through the arena like a stretched wire—
The puck slams into the net.
The horn blasts.
The crowd explodes.
Shane is on his feet before he even realizes he’s moved, clapping once, sharp and loud, the smallest grin breaking through his usually controlled expression. Ilya whistles low, shaking his head with amused admiration.
“…Okay,” Ilya murmurs. “That was hot.”
Shane scoffs. “She overextended her left edge on the turn.”
“She scored.”
“She still overextended.”
“She scored.”
“…She scored,” Shane admits reluctantly, pride sneaking into his voice like it owns the place.
—
Later, when the game ends and the rink starts emptying, the heavy arena doors swing open just as you step out from the locker rooms, hockey bag slung over your shoulder, hair slightly damp from sweat and melting ice.
Shane is already walking toward you before you even fully spot them, eyes scanning for bruises, posture, exhaustion — every detail catalogued instantly.
“You okay?” he asks first, voice firm but layered with unmistakable concern. “You took a hit during second period.”
Behind him, Ilya strolls over slower, clapping once in approval.
“That goal?” he says, nodding toward you. “Disrespectful. Absolutely devastating. I almost felt bad for the goalie.”
Shane takes your bag from your shoulder automatically, barely noticing he’s doing it.
“You need to keep your center lower when you cut around defenders,” he says, already shifting into coaching mode. “You’re fast, but if someone heavier leans into you—”
Ilya nudges him lightly.
“Maybe,” he interrupts, “start with ‘great job’ before delivering the tactical breakdown of the century.”
Shane pauses.
“…You played well,” he says, clearing his throat awkwardly.
Ilya grins, slinging an arm loosely around your shoulders.
“You were incredible,” he says more easily. “Also, your father nearly jumped the glass mid-game, so you know… emotional success all around.”
“…You made us proud.”
Ilya squeezes your shoulder gently, smile turning warmer, quieter.
“Now,” he adds, “tradition says after a goal like that, you choose where we eat. Choose wisely.