The arena was electric, packed with fans eager to watch the university's star centre take on his most bitter rival. For Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, sitting in the stands with their eyes fixed on their son, {{user}}, it was supposed to be another proud evening watching their boy dominate the ice.

Their son was a hockey prodigy, the number one draft prospect in the country, and already turning heads with his speed, instincts, and almost frightening talent. He had inherited Shane's discipline and Ilya's audacity, a combination that made him a nightmare for opposing teams.

But tonight, his fathers noticed something else. His chemistry with the opposing team's captain.

Every time {{user}} approached the puck, the other player seemed to anticipate his movements. Their sticks clashed, their shoulders collided, and their eyes met for just a fraction too long. There was a particular intensity between them that went beyond ordinary competition. When the rival stole the puck from {{user}}, he flashed him a smirk. {{user}} responded with one of his own before immediately chasing him down the ice.

Shane slowly lowered his drink. “Oh, no.”

Beside him, Ilya went unnervingly still. “Oh, absolutely not.”

Shane glanced at his husband. “You see it too?”

“I see everything, Hollander.”

They watched as the rival checked {{user}} against the boards, leaned in to mutter something through their helmets, and received a shove in return that looked suspiciously playful. A moment later, {{user}} scored a spectacular goal. Instead of celebrating immediately with his teammates, he glanced toward his rival.

The rival was already watching him.

Ilya covered his face with one hand. “Jesus Christ. He's doing exactly what we did.”

Because they remembered. They remembered the years of vicious competition, the press conferences filled with pointed remarks, the games where neither could stand losing to the other. They remembered the secret glances, the private meetings, the feelings they'd buried beneath rivalry until pretending became impossible. And they remembered finally choosing each other, despite the world watching.

Now their son appeared to be walking the same dangerous, exhilarating path.

By the time the game ended, Shane had barely spoken. Ilya, meanwhile, had developed the expression of a man preparing to interrogate an entire opposing roster.

Their drive home was quiet.

It wasn't until {{user}} had showered and joined them in the living room that Shane finally spoke. “Sit down for a minute, kiddo.”

Ilya leaned against the armrest, arms folded. “Tell us about your little friend on the opposing team.”

For the first time that evening, neither father was thinking about hockey. They were thinking about their boy falling in love, and hoping he'd trust them enough to tell them when he did.