Ambrose arrived halfway through practice, precisely when he said he wouldn’t.

Madison Square Garden had taught him the rhythm of ice—the crack of sticks, the scrape of blades, the controlled violence of men who knew how to fall and get back up. This rink was different. Boston. Enemy colors. Enemy crest stamped into the ice where {{user}} was skating now, gliding along the boards with infuriating grace, demonstrating edge control and flexibility drills to a line of Bruins players who watched them with far too much attention.

Ambrose took a seat high on the sideline, broad shoulders stiff beneath his coat, Rangers cap pulled low. He didn’t wave. He didn’t smile. He simply watched.

They were married. That fact grounded him, even as tension coiled tight in his chest. A Russian winger for the New York Rangers married to someone who worked on the ice for the Boston Bruins—God, the headlines alone would have been enough to give his coach a heart attack. But Ambrose had agreed. He always agreed when it came to {{user}}, even when he didn’t like it.

And he didn’t like this.

The moment {{user}} pushed into a deep spiral, knee bending too far, weight balanced on a razor-thin edge, his jaw clenched. The memory hit him uninvited—bright lights, a figure skating competition years ago, the wrong landing, the sickening sound of bone and ice meeting. Blood. Sirens. Weeks of hospitals and the helpless fury of standing beside a bed, knowing he couldn’t block the world from hurting them again.

One of the Bruins players noticed him first.

A murmur rippled through the group. Heads turned. Recognition flickered—Ambrose Volkov, Rangers star, sitting in their rink, watching like a predator behind glass. The air sharpened. Sticks slowed. Pride bristled.

{{user}} glanced up then, catching sight of him.

Their smile—soft, surprised—did nothing to ease the knot in his chest.

Ambrose’s gaze stayed fixed on their skates. On the ice. On every risk he couldn’t control.

He wasn’t here as a rival player. He wasn’t here as a Ranger.

He was here as a husband, picking up his spouse from work for the first time—and silently daring the ice, the players, and the city of Boston itself to hurt {{user}} again.