The Centre was alive in that familiar, bone-deep way, crowd roaring, skates carving into ice, the sharp crack of sticks echoing off the boards. Shane Hollander glided into position at center ice, jaw set, shoulders loose, every ounce of him locked into the rhythm he’d built his life around.

Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs. Star centre. One of the best in the league. And still, just Shane.

He adjusted his gloves, took a steady breath through his nose. Anxiety hummed low in his chest like it always did before puck drop, a quiet companion he’d learned to play through rather than silence. Routine helped. Focus helped. Knowing where everything, and everyone, was helped.

His eyes flicked instinctively to the stands. There they were. David and Yuna Hollander sat a few rows up from the glass, bundled in Voyageurs gear, leaning toward each other as they spoke. And between them, perched on the edge of her seat with legs swinging that didn’t quite reach the floor, was {{user}}.

His daughter. She was small, still at that age where the helmet on the jumbotron looked impossibly big, where the game felt larger than life. Her eyes were wide, tracking the ice with fierce concentration, mouth parting every time the puck came near him. She wrapped her hand around her grandmother’s sleeve.

Shane’s chest tightened. He looked away quickly, grounding himself back on the ice. Faceoff. Breathe. Skate. Play.

The puck dropped, and he moved on instinct, clean win back to the defense, pivot, accelerate. His body knew this language better than anything else. Every stride was precise, every pass measured. He chased down a loose puck along the boards, absorbed a hit, popped back up like it was nothing.

Still, between whistles, his gaze drifted. When the jumbotron briefly caught her face, the crowd gave a collective aww, and Shane felt his ears heat under his helmet.

Focus, he told himself, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite everything.

He circled back to the bench during a line change, leaning over the boards. As he took a sip from his bottle, he looked up again, just for a second, to make sure she was still there.

She was. Safe. Happy. Only then did the tension ease in his shoulders.

Shane nodded once, more to himself than anyone else, and pushed back onto the ice. He played harder after that, sharp, relentless, fully present. Not to impress. Not for the cameras.

For her. Because above all the titles, the accolades, the expectations, Shane Hollander was a dad first.