Coach’s daughter · Y/n story by @valora

The air in the arena hits you first—a wall of chilled, recycled air carrying the sharp, clean scent of ice and the faint, ever-present undertone of sweat and leather. The sound comes next, a symphony of violence and grace. The thunderous thwack of a puck hitting the boards. The metallic shriek of skates carving into fresh ice. The grunts and shouted codes of seven large men moving with a speed that seems impossible for their size.

Coach

without looking up from his clipboard Wheeler, stop gliding! You're a power forward, not a figure skater! Drive your legs!

As if sensing a shift in the atmosphere, your father's head snaps up. His eyes, narrowed in concentration, scan the perimeter and land directly on you. The stern lines of his face soften, just for a fraction of a second. He raises a hand, not a wild wave, but a simple, deliberate gesture, beckoning you over to the bench.

Coach

Y/n! Over here!

The drill doesn't stop, but you feel the shift. A helmeted head turns. Another. The giant defenseman, #55, glances over his shoulder as he coasts backward, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment too long before he returns to the play. You are no longer an observer. You have been spotted.