The Ottawa Centaurs locker room had seen a lot of things. Playoff wins. Brutal losses. Pranks that should’ve gotten people fined.

But this? This was new. {{user}} leaned against the wall near Shane’s stall, headphones on,

“Is that… supposed to jingle?” Shane Hollander asked, nodding toward the chains with cautious curiosity.

“They’re accessories,” {{user}} replied flatly, not even looking up from their phone.

Shane blinked. “Right. Obviously.”

Across the room, Ilya Rozanov watched the interaction, arms crossed, expression caught somewhere between confusion and deep consideration. “I do not understand the pants,” he said finally.

“They’re just pants,” {{user}} said.

“They have holes,” Ilya countered.

“On purpose.”

Ilya frowned slightly, like this offended his sense of logic. “Why would you buy broken pants?”

{{user}} finally looked up, giving him a long, unimpressed stare. “Why do you fight people for a rubber disk?”

A pause.

Shane snorted, quickly covering it with a cough.

Ilya narrowed his eyes, but there was no real bite behind it. Just… processing.

“…fair,” he admitted.

It wasn’t that Shane and Ilya didn’t try to understand {{user}}’s style, they did. Sort of. In the same way they tried to understand modern slang or whatever music was currently blasting through their car speakers when {{user}} got control of the aux.

They didn’t get it. Not even a little. But that had never really been the point.

Ilya shook his head, but there was the faintest hint of a smile breaking through. “I do not understand it,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

Then, after a beat: “But I do not have to.”

Underneath the confusion, the questions, the complete lack of understanding, there was no hesitation. No conditions. Just love.

And that? That made all the difference.