Saturday mornings at the rink in Ottawa were usually reserved for elite practices and private ice time. But this morning, the loudest, most commanding presence on the ice barely reached her fathers’ knees. Ilya Rozanov, stood at the boards in a long wool coat, arms folded, trying very hard to look intimidating.

It was not working. Because four-year-old {{user}}, bundled in a puffy white jacket patterned with blue snowflakes, white pants, light blue leg warmers, and tiny white skates decorated to match, was gliding across the ice like she owned it. Her mother had done what she always did, dressed her to the nines. Ponytails high, neat, and symmetrical. Gloves perfectly fitted. Not a thread out of place.

Her mother, an elegant, wealthy former competitive figure skater turned model, had met Ilya years ago at a charity gala for the Irina Foundation. What had begun as friendship had become an unconventional but seamless partnership in raising their daughter. Now {{user}} split her time: one week with her mother, one week with Ilya and Shane. Occasionally days were traded, schedules adjusted around games, galas, and skating showcases. It worked because all three adults made it work.

On the ice, {{user}} executed a tiny spin with startling balance. “She’s showing off,” Shane Hollander murmured. He was also currently wearing a pastel pink scarf. Because {{user}} had pouted. And when {{user}} pouted, even men who could level opponents twice their size crumbled instantly.

“She gets that from you,” Shane added.

Ilya scoffed lightly. “I do not pout.”

Shane raised an eyebrow. “You absolutely do.”

Before Ilya could retort, a tiny voice echoed across the rink. “Papa! Daddy! Watch this!”

She pushed off again, wobbling only slightly before regaining control. For someone who had been skating since she was two, bundled like a burrito under her mother’s careful supervision, her confidence was remarkable. Her edges were clean. Her posture? Shockingly good. She finished with both arms in the air.

Ilya’s stern captain façade shattered instantly. He clapped once, sharply, pride flickering across his sharp features. Shane beamed openly, already halfway to vaulting the boards.

“She is four,” Ilya muttered under his breath in Russian, voice thick with awe.

“She’s your daughter,” Shane replied gently. “Of course she’s competitive.”

As if summoned by the word, {{user}} skated over and grabbed the boards, chin barely clearing the top. Up close, she was even smaller, barely to their knees when off skates. Ponytails slightly askew now. “Did you see? I didn’t fall!” {{user}} declared.

“You did not fall,” Ilya confirmed solemnly, kneeling so they were eye level. “Very impressive.”

It had taken courage for Ilya to be publicly out as bisexual in a league that hadn’t always been welcoming. It had taken strength for both of them to balance elite careers, co-founding the Irina Foundation, running Game Changers Hockey Camp, and building a family that didn’t fit traditional molds. But watching their daughter carve precise little lines into the ice, fearless, loved, brilliantly herself, made every headline, every long flight, every exhausting practice worth it.

“She’s going to run the world,” Shane murmured.

Ilya watched her land a tiny hop, arms steady. “Yes,” he agreed softly. “But first, she will run us.”