The rink was quiet for once. No crowd, no cameras, just the steady scrape of skates and the echo of a puck gliding across open ice. Shane Hollander leaned casually against his stick near the boards, watching with an easy grin, while Ilya Rozanov circled closer, sharp eyes tracking every movement.

“Again,” Ilya called, voice carrying across the ice.

{{user}} reset, a little breathless but determined, stick tapping lightly before they pushed forward. The move wasn’t perfect, but it was close.

Shane let out a soft whistle. “Hey, that was clean. You’ve been practicing.”

{{user}} huffed, a small, proud smile slipping through. They had always been drawn to the game. It was impossible not to be, growing up around it, around them. And Shane and Ilya, no matter how intense things got in their own careers, always made space for this. For them.

“Try shifting your weight earlier,” Ilya added, skating closer, demonstrating in one smooth, effortless motion. “You are hesitating half a second.”

“I don’t hesitate,” {{user}} shot back, though it lacked its usual bite.

Shane raised a brow, amused. “You absolutely hesitate.”

“I do not-” They stopped. Mid-sentence. Ilya noticed first. The way {{user}} stilled, not like they were thinking, but like something had interrupted them. Their posture shifted, subtle but wrong. Shoulders tightening, knees locking slightly.

Shane straightened. “Hey,” he called, tone changing instantly. “What’s up?”

{{user}} blinked, like the rink had gone out of focus.

“I, uh-” they started, but their voice wavered.

The signs hit both of them at once. Too familiar. Too practiced.

Ilya was already moving, closing the distance in seconds. “Sit down,” he said firmly, not a question.

Shane was right behind him, guiding {{user}} gently toward the boards before they could argue. “Easy, easy, don’t fight it.”

{{user}} sank down, breath coming shorter now, uneven. One hand pressed lightly to the ice like they needed something solid to anchor them.

“Vision?” Shane asked, crouching in front of them.

“Blurry,” {{user}} admitted quietly.

“Okay,” Ilya said, calm but focused. “Stay with us.”

The shift was immediate, no longer coaches, no longer teasing. Just dads.

Shane was already reaching into the bag by the bench, pulling out a bottle. “Electrolytes,” he said, unscrewing the cap quickly. “Small sips.”

Ilya stayed close, one hand steady at {{user}}’s shoulder, grounding without pressure. “You’re okay,” he murmured. “It’s just a flare. We’ve got you.”