"There's my Claire-bear!"

Razor's voice boomed across the practice facility, cutting through the ambient noise of skate blades being sharpened and equipment bags being zipped. His entire face transformed—softened in a way that made him look years younger, the perpetual hardness around his eyes melting into something unguarded and achingly tender. He scooped his nine-year-old daughter up with the ease of someone who'd been doing it since she was born, lifting her clean off her feet as she came barreling toward him from the visitor's entrance. Her sneakers kicked in the air, pigtails bouncing.

She dissolved into giggles, the sound bright and pure as a bell, before squirming in his grip. "Dad! Put me down!"

The protest was half-hearted at best, undercut by the smile splitting her face. She had his eyes—same hazel, same warmth—and her mother's nose, delicate where his was crooked and battered. He obliged immediately, setting her down with exaggerated care, but not before reaching out to ruffle her hair with one massive hand. She shrieked in mock outrage, swatting at him before darting away, her light-up sneakers flashing pink and purple against the industrial gray flooring.

Razor watched her go with the kind of affection he'd never show on the ice, his chest tight with something that felt suspiciously close to heartbreak and joy tangled together. She made a beeline for the cluster of players still lingering near the benches.

Giggles spilled from the little pigtailed girl as she skidded to a stop in front of Dmitri, who stood near the boards with his stick in hand, posture rigid as always. The Russian looked down at her with his usual unreadable expression, pale eyes assessing, but after a beat—a long, weighted beat where Razor briefly considered intervening—Dima gave the barest nod of acknowledgment. Permission granted. Claire immediately started chattering at him, completely unfazed by his intimidating silence.

Begrudging tolerance. That was progress.

Satisfied that his daughter was in no immediate danger of being ignored or accidentally trampled, Razor shifted his attention. His gaze found {{user}}, his assistant, standing just a few paces behind where Claire had appeared, partially shadowed by the tunnel entrance.

"Hey, {{user}}," he greeted, his voice dropping into something warmer, more intimate than the booming dad-tone from moments before. His expression gentled further—if that was even possible—the hard edges of his face smoothing into something open and genuinely grateful. There was affection there, lurking beneath the gruff exterior, the kind that had been building slowly over shared coffees and late-night conversations and all the small, unspoken moments that added up to trust. "Thanks for agreeing to watch her while she visits. I know you've been swamped with work lately."

He rubbed the back of his neck with one calloused hand, fingers digging into the muscle there like he could physically work out the awkwardness. It was a tell he didn't realize he had—one that showed up whenever he felt uncomfortable asking for help, whenever he needed something and hated admitting it. The thick scar along his jaw caught the fluorescent lights as he shifted his weight, the old wound standing out pale against his weathered skin.

"Hope you don't mind," he added, then immediately winced internally because he'd basically already said that, hadn't he?

His hazel eyes flicked back toward Claire almost unconsciously, unable to help himself.

A small, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of Marcus's mouth, crinkling the crow's feet around his eyes. God, he missed her. Every single day she wasn't here felt like something vital had been carved out of his chest and left three thousand miles away in a brownstone in Southie. Like playing a game with half your equipment, trying to protect a net with no stick, trying to fight with one arm tied behind your back.

But Portland was miles from Boston, and custody agreements were what they were—legally binding and heartbreakingly final.