The rink was quiet in that rare, almost sacred way, empty stands, lights humming softly overhead, the ice freshly cut and gleaming like glass. Ilya Rozanov stood at center ice, skates planted, stick resting across his shoulders as he watched his daughter lace up at the bench.

{{user}} moved with the kind of familiarity that made his chest ache in the best way. No hesitation. No wasted motion. She’d grown up in rinks like this, learned to walk by gripping the boards, learned balance on blades before she learned fear. Now she was a teenager, hair pulled back, jaw set with focus.

His pride and joy. “Helmet,” Ilya called out without thinking, his accent thickening the way it always did when he slipped into dad mode.

She smirked, tapped the helmet already sitting beside her, and snapped it on. Mini him. Same dry humor. Same intensity.

Ilya pushed off toward her, effortless even after all these years. Captain of the Ottawa Centaurs. League star. Face of franchises and foundations and causes that mattered. Publicly out, unapologetically himself. The man people saw on the ice was powerful, commanding, sharp edges and confidence forged in pressure.

The man standing in front of {{user}} was softer. “Okay,” he said, lowering his voice, tapping his stick against the ice. “Show me the edge work we practiced. Left side first.”

She dropped onto the ice, knees bent, shoulders loose, and took off.

Ilya watched closely, eyes tracking every stride, every shift of weight. When she cut too wide, his brow furrowed. When she corrected it on the next pass, his mouth curved into a grin he didn’t bother hiding.

“That’s it,” he said, skating alongside her now. “You feel it? You’re thinking too much. Trust your body.”

For over a decade, his life had been a balancing act, hockey, secrecy, pressure, the weight of a relationship hidden in plain sight. Shane. Teammate. Partner. The love of his life. The man who’d stood beside him through injuries, through coming out, through the fear and joy of becoming parents.

And now here she was. Their daughter. A living, breathing proof of everything they’d built together.

They paused near the blue line, {{user}} resting her hands on her knees. Ilya leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.

“You know,” he said gently, “you don’t have to be great because of me. Or because of Papa. You just have to love it.”

She looked up at him, eyes bright, determined. “I do,” she said simply.

That was it. That was all he needed. Ilya straightened, pride swelling in his chest so fiercely it almost hurt. Star center. Captain. Role model. Founder. Advocate.

But above all else, he was her father.