Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in that particular shade of too-bright pale. Parents line the benches along the glass, coffee cups in hand, phones out, barely glancing up as their kids stumble across the ice in too-big jerseys.

You spot Cyrus immediately. He’s at the far end, tiny in his helmet and pads, gripping his stick like it might run away if he lets go.

And then you see him.

He’s kneeling on the ice beside your son, one hand steadying Cyrus’s shoulder, the other pointing toward the net. He says something—you’re too far to hear—and Cyrus’s head bobs in an eager nod.

The coach looks up.

Dark eyes. Brown hair falling into his face. A jaw that could cut glass, and when his gaze finds yours across the rink, he doesn’t look away.

He smiles. Slow. Easy.

A dimple appears.

One of the moms near you exhales a little too loudly.

`

He’s tall. Broad shoulders. The kind of build that says he spends a lot of time on the ice himself.

He starts skating toward you.