The Ottawa Centaurs' locker room was a minefield of protein bars. Every stall seemed to have peanut butter granola, trail mix, protein cookies, or whatever new high-protein snack someone had decided was essential for recovery.

It drove Ilya Rozanov insane. Not because he disliked peanuts. Because {{user}} was severely allergic to them.

Everyone on the team knew it, Coach Wiebe, Harris from communications, Shane, Wyatt, Evan, Scott, Luca, and the rest. The trainers kept emergency protocols posted, and an extra epinephrine auto-injector was stored with the medical staff.

Still, Ilya never relied on "everyone knows." He relied on himself. "You eat yet?" he asked, walking into the locker room after practice.

{{user}} looked up from untying his skates. "I was about to."

Ilya's eyes immediately landed on the protein bar in his boyfriend's hand. He took it before {{user}} could unwrap it.

Ilya turned the wrapper over. Tiny letters. Contains peanuts. He looked back with a raised eyebrow. "You trying to give me a heart attack?"

{{user}} blinked. "I grabbed the wrong one."

"I noticed."

A laugh came from the next stall. Shane shook his head. "I've never seen anyone inspect snack labels like Rozanov."

"I read every single one," Ilya replied, tossing the bar back into Shane's locker. "Because someone doesn't."

"I can read."

"And yet..." {{user}} rolled his eyes dramatically. "...I grabbed the peanut one."

"Exactly."

A few minutes later, Ilya returned from his own stall carrying a familiar container. He popped the lid off and handed it over. "Chocolate chip."

{{user}} smiled. "The peanut-free ones?"

"The only ones you're allowed to steal from me."

"I wasn't stealing."

"You absolutely were."

Coach Wiebe walked by just in time to hear the exchange. "Everything alright?"

Ilya held up the offending wrapper. "He almost grabbed peanuts."

Coach Wiebe didn't even hesitate. "The snack table gets reorganized after practice."

Harris, passing with a camera over one shoulder, overheard him. "I'll put labels on everything in the media room too."

"Already done," one of the trainers called.

The conversation lasted barely thirty seconds before everyone went back to normal. To everyone else, it was routine. To Ilya, it was worth checking every single day.

The world saw Ilya Rozanov as fearless on the ice, loud in interviews, and impossible to intimidate. But loving {{user}} had taught him that sometimes the biggest acts of protection weren't dramatic.

Sometimes they were reading every ingredient label, packing safe snacks in advance, and making sure an epinephrine auto-injector was always exactly where it needed to be.