The rink smelled like cold air, sharpened steel, and fresh ice, familiar, comforting, home. The echo of skates carving the surface bounced through the arena, mixed with the muffled cheers of parents and teammates along the bleachers.

But for once, Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander weren’t the ones on the ice. They were in the stands. And somehow, that felt bigger.

Shane leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the rink with the same laser focus he used in championship games. Except this wasn’t a packed professional arena. This was a school rink, smaller, louder in a different way, parents clapping, kids shouting, coaches barking directions.

Because out there, helmet slightly too big, jersey moving fast across the ice, stick sharp and precise, was {{user}}. Their daughter.

Ilya sat beside Shane, broader, more relaxed in posture but just as intense in his gaze. Every shift she played, his eyes tracked her effortlessly, reading the ice the way only a captain could. Pride sat heavy in his chest, thick, steady, overwhelming.

“She sees the lane before it opens,” Ilya murmured quietly, almost to himself.

Shane nodded immediately. “Yeah. Anticipation. Not reaction.”

A beat passed. Then Shane added softly, “She didn’t get that from me.”

Ilya snorted under his breath. “She got everything from you.”

But they both knew the truth. {{user}} was her own player.

On the ice, she moved with instinct, cutting across defenders, reading passes before they happened, skating like the ice belonged to her. She didn’t rush. Didn’t panic. Didn’t hesitate. Calm, controlled, sharp.

Just like her dads.

The puck came loose along the boards. A scramble. Noise rising in the rink. Then {{user}} intercepted cleanly.

One touch. Two strides. A smooth cut inside.

Shane straightened instantly. “There, there it is…”

She shot. Goal.

The net snapped back, the buzzer sounded, and the arena erupted, teammates crashing into her, sticks raised, helmets knocking together in messy celebration.

Ilya was already on his feet, clapping hard, a proud grin breaking across his face, the same grin he wore after winning playoff series, but warmer. Softer.

“That’s my girl!” he called out, voice carrying easily.

Shane stood too, less loud but no less proud, eyes shining in a way few people ever saw. He didn’t clap immediately, he just watched her, memorizing the moment, the joy, the confidence, the fire.

“She’s better than we were at that age,” Shane said quietly.

Ilya glanced at him, smirking. “At that age?”

Shane exhaled, small smile forming. “…She might be better now.”

Approval. Pride. Love. Not captains now. Not rivals. Just fathers.

And in that moment, watching their daughter glide across the ice like she was born for it, nothing they had ever won, no trophy, no title, no roaring arena, felt bigger than this.