Kip Grady loved hockey. He just hated how violently people played it. Which was ironic considering he’d married Scott Hunter, captain of the New York Admirals, NHL superstar, professional menace on skates, and the man responsible for their child inheriting a love for what Kip affectionately called “dangerous ice combat.”

Tonight’s junior league game was supposed to be simple.

Scott had been stuck doing media appearances for the Admirals and had apologized at least six times before leaving that morning. So Kip came alone, bundled in a hoodie and winter coat in the cold arena stands, coffee balanced between his hands while proudly watching {{user}} dominate the ice below.

And dominate they did. Even from the stands, Kip could see Scott in them. The confidence. The speed. The impossible control over the puck.

{{user}} had been skating since they were three years old, tiny enough that Scott used to glide beside them holding both their hands while Kip nervously followed behind carrying extra padding “just in case.”

Now they moved across the rink effortlessly.

Kip smiled despite himself as {{user}} stole the puck cleanly from another player and pushed down the ice.

“That’s my kid,” he muttered proudly under his breath.

The scoreboard buzzed overhead. Final seconds. {{user}}’s team already led by one goal, but they still pushed forward fast, weaving through defenders with the kind of instinct you couldn’t teach. Then everything went wrong.

One of the opposing players slammed directly into {{user}} from the side. Not accidental. Not normal contact. A full-force tackle.

The sound of skates scraping violently against ice echoed through the rink as {{user}} lost control completely and crashed hard into the boards. Too hard.

Kip’s smile vanished instantly. The hockey stick flew from {{user}}’s hands before their body collapsed motionless onto the ice. And didn’t move.

“Oh my God.” Kip was already standing before his brain caught up.

Parents gasped around him while referees blew whistles frantically, but all Kip could see was his child lying terrifyingly still against the rink wall.

His heart dropped straight into his stomach. “{{user}}!” Kip shouted.

The coaches were rushing onto the ice now, but it wasn’t fast enough. Nothing felt fast enough. Kip barely remembered climbing over the railing separating the stands from the rink before his shoes slipped awkwardly onto the ice itself.

Someone yelled for him to stop. He ignored them completely. Because that was his baby. He nearly lost balance sprinting across the rink, panic clawing painfully up his throat with every second {{user}} didn’t move. By the time he dropped to his knees beside them, his hands were shaking violently.

“Hey, hey, sweetheart-” Kip’s voice cracked hard. “Look at me.”

All he could think about was calling Scott. And how neither of them would ever survive watching their kid play hockey without developing permanent heart problems.