The small community rink buzzed with the cheerful chaos of junior hockey, parents shouting encouragement, skates scraping ice, the hollow thunk of pucks hitting boards.

In the stands, Scott Hunter leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the ice.

Even in a simple hoodie and baseball cap, he stood out. But right now he wasn’t thinking about the NHL. He was just a dad.

Beside him sat Kip, calm and warm as always, a coffee cup resting loosely between his hands. Where Scott was intense, Kip had a quiet steadiness.

“Relax,” Kip murmured gently. “You’re doing the thing.”

Scott frowned. “What thing?”

“The intense hockey stare,” Kip said. “You’re practically coaching from the stands.”

Scott scoffed but leaned back slightly.

On the ice below, {{user}} skated with the rest of their team in a blur of oversized jerseys and determined effort.

Scott couldn’t help smiling when {{user}} chased the puck into the corner. “Good hustle,” he muttered.

Kip chuckled softly. “You realize they can’t hear you.”

“I know.”

Down on the bench, the junior coach clapped loudly. “Back out there! Let’s go!”

{{user}} pushed themselves up from the bench again, even though their movements looked a little slower now.

Kip frowned slightly. “Do they look… off to you?” he asked quietly.

Scott squinted.

{{user}} skated back onto the ice, but their stride seemed uneven now, less energy, shoulders a little hunched.

The whistle blew and play resumed. At first everything looked normal. Kids chasing the puck, sticks clacking, parents cheering. Then {{user}} slowed. They coasted toward the boards, one hand lifting to their stomach.

Scott straightened immediately. “Kip…”

But before he could finish, {{user}} bent forward suddenly.

Scott was on his feet instantly. “Oh, kiddo-”

He was already moving down the steps toward the rink doors, Kip right behind him.