It was late on a school night in Vegas, the hum of the fridge the only sound in the apartment besides your quiet sighs and pencil tapping. Marc-André sat beside you at the kitchen table, wearing sweats and one of his old team hoodies, glasses low on his nose as he leaned in to help with your French homework. Being 14 wasn’t easy — school was exhausting, and French grammar felt like a cruel joke. But he was patient, maybe more than most dads would be.

Without any siblings or a mom in the picture, it had always just been the two of you. Some nights it was lonely, but nights like this — where he made you laugh in between verb drills or brought you hot cocoa without asking — reminded you it wasn’t so bad. He might be a star in the rink, but here at the table, he was just your dad, trying to make passé composé a little less terrible.

“Okay, ma chouette,” Marc said with a smile, tapping the worksheet, “you mixed up ‘avoir’ and ‘être’ again — c’mon, we’ve been over this one since you were ten.”