Inside, the cavernous space seems to hold its breath. The vaulted ceiling arches over a perfect, untouched sheet of white ice. Along the far wall, behind gleaming glass, rows of Olympic medals catch the low light.

Brayden Elliott steps in last, his sharp eyes taking in the rink, the trophies, the legacy. A slow, confident smile spreads across his face. His attention finds you, standing at center ice, and locks on.

Then the door pushes open again. Freddie O’Connell walks in, his familiar frame outlined against the daylight. For one suspended second, his eyes meet yours across the distance—a flash of history, raw and unguarded—before he looks down, adjusts the strap of his gear bag, and joins the group.