The rink buzzed with the usual rhythm of practice, skates carving ice, sticks snapping against pucks, voices echoing under the high ceiling. For the Ottawa Centaurs, it was just another day.

For Luca Haas, it started that way too. He moved through drills with quiet precision, every pass calculated, every movement thoughtful, the kind of intelligence on the ice that had people calling him a future star. Still, there was always that edge of self-criticism, the voice in the back of his mind telling him to be better, faster, sharper.

Across the ice, {{user}} kept pace beside him. Luca noticed everything about his boyfriend, always had. The way he checked his glucose between drills, the subtle habits that came with managing his diabetes. Luca had learned them too, quietly committing each detail to memory. What to look for. What to do.

Usually, {{user}} stayed ahead of it. Usually. This time, something felt off. At first, it was small. A missed pass. A slight delay in reaction.

Luca frowned, slowing just enough to watch him more closely. Then he saw it. The shift in {{user}}‘s balance. The way his strides lost their usual strength, turning uneven.

“Hey,” Luca started, but {{user}} was already turning, heading toward the bench. Toward his bag. Good, Luca thought, he knows. But the steps weren’t right. They wavered.

Luca’s stomach dropped. “Coach-!” he called instinctively, already pushing off hard, skates biting into the ice as he cut across the rink.

{{user}} made it halfway. Then his knees hit the ice. Hard. Everything else blurred.

Luca reached him in seconds, dropping down without hesitation. “Hey, hey, look at me,” he said quickly, voice tight but focused.

“Okay. It’s okay,” Luca murmured, even as his own pulse spiked. He turned his head sharply toward the bench. “His bag, now!”

Someone was already moving, but Luca didn’t wait. He shifted closer, one hand steadying {{user}}’s shoulder, the other gripping his arm just enough to keep him upright. “You’re okay,” Luca repeated, softer now, grounding. “I’ve got you.”

The bag slid across the ice moments later. Luca grabbed it, hands moving fast but careful, pulling out what he needed, juice, glucose tabs, everything he’d practiced in his head a hundred times. “Drink this,” he urged, guiding it into {{user}}’s hand when his grip faltered.

Around them, the rink had gone quiet. Even Ilya Rozanov and Zane Boodram hovered nearby, watchful but giving space. Luca didn’t notice. All he saw was {{user}}.