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The Ottawa Centaurs locker room was a chaotic symphony of tape ripping, heavy bass from the speakers, and the aggressive scent of smelling salts. In the corner, Luca sat in his stall hunched over his sketchbook, his fingers stained with a bit of graphite that he’d tried and failed to scrub off before morning skate.
He was lost in the curve of a charcoal line that he didn't notice the shadow falling over his shoulder until a heavy hand landed on his head, ruffling his hair into a chaotic bird’s nest.
"Look at this," Ilya booming voice cut through the noise. "Our boy is a regular Picasso. Shane, come look at what Luca made."
"I’m not... Roz, please," Luca stammered, his face turning a shade of red that matched the Centaurs’ primary jersey color. "And I’m twenty-two. I’m an adult."
"You’re our rookie," Shane chimed in, sliding into the stall on Luca’s other side. He leaned in, conspiratorially close. "And Ilya’s right. That’s incredible, Luca. The shading on the leather? You’ve got a real eye for detail. We should put this on the fridge."
"I do not think it will stick to the stainless steel, Shane," Ilya said, completely serious. "We will get the magnet clips from the store. The good ones."
Luca felt his face turn the exact shade of the Centaurs' home jerseys. "It’s... it’s just a sketch, guys. Really. Please don't..."
The rest of the room went silent for exactly three seconds before the team started in.
"Hey, Roz!" yelled Boodram from across the room. "Did you make sure the kid finished his homework before practice? I heard he was up late drawing again."
"He is perfecting his craft!" Ilya barked back, though there was a mischievous glint in his eye. "He is genius. Unlike you, Bood, who cannot even read the play-clock."
"Check his bag, Shane!" another voice piped up. "I bet there’s a crustless PB&J in there with a note that says 'Have a great game, Tiger!'"
"He’s sensitive, guys, leave him alone," Shane added, though he ruined the defense by smoothing down a stray tuft of Luca’s hair. "Did you eat breakfast, Luca? You look pale. I told you, the protein shakes are in the fridge."
"I ate! I’m fine!" Luca insisted, clutching his sketchbook to his chest like a shield.
"Ignore them," Shane said, patting Luca’s shoulder while giving the team a pointed look that usually meant 'you’re getting extra laps.' "They’re just jealous they didn't get a portrait."
"Is true," Ilya nodded, crossing his massive arms. "Luca is smart. He draws the team because he knows we are beautiful. Except Bood. Do not draw Bood, Luca. It would be waste of graphite."
Luca ducked his head, hiding a smile. Despite the embarrassment, the warmth in his chest was hard to ignore.
7 years ago, he had a poster of Ilya Rozanov on his bedroom wall. Now, the man was debating which magnets to buy for his artwork. He loved them, he really did. They were the best leaders in the league, and having his idols take him under their wing was a dream come true. But he was starting to realize that being the "son" of the league’s most powerful power couple came with a very specific, very loud price.
"Actually," Luca whispered, his Swiss accent thickening as it did when he was nervous. "I... I did a sketch of the two of you. From the Cup win last year. If you want it."
Ilya’s eyes widened, and he looked at Shane with such dramatic vulnerability that the entire room lost it. "Shane," Ilya choked out. "He drew us. Our son is the best boy in the NHL."
"I'm getting the frame," Shane replied, already grabbing his phone.
Luca was having a career night, he felt like his brain was operating in 4K. He saw the lanes before they opened, He’d already notched two assists, and intercepted a pass weaving through the neutral zone with the kind of grace that made the veterans look like they were skating in sand.The air in the arena was thick with the smell of ice shavings and desperation. The Centaurs were up by one with four minutes left on the clock, and the Bears were playing dirty.
He was a blur of red and white until he wasn't.
He didn't see Boston's defenseman coming. As Luca transitioned to his backhand, a Bears' defenseman—a mountain of a man named Smith—decided he’d seen enough of the 'wonderkid'. Smith didn't play the puck; he played the body, catching Luca with a late, blindside shoulder that sent the rookie spiraling into the boards.
The sound was sickening, a hollow thud-crack that echoed over the roar of the crowd. The collision sounded like a car crash, sending Luca’s helmet flying and his body sprawling across the ice.
The arena went deathly silent as Luca stayed down, trembling hands clutching his ribs, gasping for air that wouldn't come, his breath knocked clean out of his lungs.
The play didn't stop, it exploded. Before the referee’s whistle had even stopped echoing, two blurs of white and red jerseys were already crossing the blue line.
Ilya didn't wait for an invitation. He didn't even look at the puck. He became a streak of rage, eating up half the distance in just three massive steps. He didn't drop his gloves, he immediately grabbed Smith and he treated him like a personal insult. Ilya drove his shoulder into the guy’s chest, pinning him against the boards with enough force to rattle the glass.
"You touch him again," Ilya hissed, his voice dropping an octave into a dangerous, vibrating bass, as he held on to Smith's jersey, ""and you do not leave Ottawa on your own legs. Understand?"
Meanwhile, Shane was already on his knees next to Luca. He wasn't looking at the fight And he didn't care about the penalties; he was looking at Luca’s eyes, his gloved hands surprisingly gentle as he checked Luca’s neck and shoulders.
"Look at me, Luca. Come on, eyes on me. Breath" Shane said, his voice a sharp, grounding contrast to Ilya’s rage. It was the 'Dad' voice, the one that demanded focus. "Just breathe. In... out. You’re okay. I’ve got you."
By the time the refs sorted out the roughing penalties, Ilya was being ushered to the box, still snarling in Russian at the Boston’ bench, having earned himself a five-minute misconduct for "being too terrifying,". The trainers rushed out, as Shane was practically carrying Luca towards the tunnel, keeping a steadying arm around the rookie’s waist.
"Don't let go of him, Shane!" Young yelled from the bench, leaning over the rail. "If he falls, Ilya’s going to dismantle the entire arena!"
Check his brain!" another teammate chirped, his voice high with genuine concern. "We need those artistic cells intact!"
"Shut up. He’s dizzy," Shane barked, not looking up as he steered Luca toward the bench. "Luca, sit. Water. Now."
"SHANE! IS HE OKAY? TELL ME HE'S NOT BROKEN!" Ilya’s voice thundered from the penalty box, drawing eyes from the front row.
Luca’s face went a shade of red that had nothing to do with his injury. "Roz, please..." he wheezed. "The whole stadium can hear you."
"He's fine, Ilya. He just got the wind knocked out of him," Shane sighed, his hand still gripped firmly on the back of Luca’s jersey to keep him from wobbling. He looked back at Ilya. "Now, you sit there and think about your life choices."
"I think about my choices!" Ilya grumbled, pacing the small confines of the box like a caged bear. "My choice is to kill that man. You are okay, synok? You want water? I get you the fancy bottled kind from the coaches' room!"
Luca finally caught his breath, though his face remained a deep, embarrassed crimson. He managed a weak, shaky nod. "I'm okay. Really. It was a clean hit."
"Was not clean!" Ilya insisted. He shoved a gloved finger toward the Detroit bench, his eyes narrowed. "Was rude. Very rude. Nobody is rude to my synok."
Shane didn't look up from his inspection of Luca’s gear, but his jaw tightened. "Clean or not, you're staying on the bench for a shift."
The post-game locker room was a symphony of peeling Velcro and the low hum of a winning team’s adrenaline cooling down. The Centaurs had pulled off the win, but the real drama was unfolding in the corner stall.
Luca sat on the training table, an ice pack taped to his shoulder and his jersey pooled around his waist. A blossoming purple-and-green bruise stretched across his ribs, the price of the victory. He watched as Ilya paced and Shane argued with the team doctor about "preventative rest." It felt like being examined by a high-tech medical team, if that team consisted of a worried mother hen and a Russian bear.
"I'm fine, really," Luca whispered. His artistic mind was already cataloging the way the harsh arena lights caught the gold of Shane’s wedding band as he gestured toward a medical chart.
"You are fine when we say you are fine," Ilya grumbled, finally sitting down next to him and bumping Luca's good shoulder. "You play like a king today, Little Lion. But next time? You use that big brain to move away from the mountain, da?"
Shane now on his knees, professionally wrapping an ice pack around Luca’s torso with a length of clear plastic film. He was doing it with the practiced precision of someone who had spent a decade in the league and many years of keeping Ilya from falling apart.
Hold your breath for a second, Luca," Shane commanded, his voice dropping into that quiet, focused tone he used on the ice. "I need this tight so the swelling doesn't migrate."
"It really doesn't hurt that much, Shane," Luca whispered. His cheeks flushed a deep crimson again as Hayes strolled past and let out a long, appreciative whistle.
"Don't lie to your mother, kid," Hayes chirped, barely breaking his stride. He didn't even have to look back to duck the rogue roll of tape Shane flicked at his head with lethal accuracy.
"I am not his mother," Shane muttered. He ignored the snickering from the next stall, though he reached up to check Luca’s pupils for the fifth time anyway. "I am the Alternate Captain ensuring our primary investment stays functional."
After the rest of the team finally drifted toward the showers, the heavy double doors of the locker room swung open with a bang. Ilya marched in, still half-dressed in his hockey pants and a sweat-soaked base layer, looking like he’d just successfully raided a convenience store.
He dropped a crinkling plastic bag onto the bench next to Luca with a heavy, ominous thud.
"I bring medicine," Ilya announced, his chest puffed out with pride.
Shane paused his taping to peek into the bag, his eyebrows slowly climbing toward his hairline. "Ilya... this is a giant bag of gummy bears, a liter of chocolate milk, and... is this beef jerky?"
"Protein," Ilya said firmly, stabbing a finger toward the bag. "Also sugar for energy and milk for bones. He will be healed by morning."
Luca looked at the neon-colored gummy bears and the salt-crusted jerky, his stomach doing a nervous little flip. "This is... it’s a lot. Thank you, Roz."
Eat," Ilya commanded, before snapping his attention to Shane. "Did you check his head again? He looked dizzy on the ice. Maybe we take him home. He can sleep on our couch. We have the weighted blanket."
Shane stood up, wiping his hands on a towel and giving the team doctor a weary, apologetic look. "He has his own apartment, Ilya. He’s twenty-two."
"Is too young to be alone with bruised ribs," Ilya argued, crossing his massive arms. "What if he needs water in middle of night? What if he tries to draw and drops his pencil? He cannot bend over! He will be stuck on floor forever!" Luca cleared his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs. Being "adopted" by his idols was a dream and a nightmare rolled into one. "I... I think I can manage the pencils, Roz."
"Is cold, is lonely, and you have no groceries," Ilya countered, already reaching for Luca’s duffel bag like the matter was settled.
"I have a kitchen full of food," Luca protested weakly, clutching the plastic bag of gummy bears to his chest while trying to wrestle his duffel bag back from Ilya’s grip. "And I have... well, I have this now."
See?" Shane said to Ilya, though he couldn't help but reach out and squeeze the back of Luca’s neck. His thumb brushed the hairline in a way that was far more "worried parent" than "Alternate Captain." "But if you feel even a little dizzy, you call us. I don't care if it's three in the morning."
Ilya leaned down, his massive frame casting a shadow over the training table, and planted a heavy, slightly sweaty kiss on the top of the rookie’s head. "Good game, synok. You played like a man today. Now, eat and rest."
As the veterans finally filtered out, leaving the room in a ringing silence, Luca sat there wrapped in plastic film, clutching a crinkling bag of candy. He smelled faintly of Ilya’s expensive cologne and the medicinal scent of Shane’s athletic tape.
He caught his reflection in the plexiglass of a nearby trophy case, a bruised, red-faced kid surrounded by the gear of legends. He couldn't help the small, goofy smile that broke through his lingering shyness.
Painful ribs or not, he was definitely drawing this tonight.
The walk-up to his third-floor apartment felt like climbing Everest. Every step sent a sharp reminder through his ribs that "clean hits" still hurt like hell. Luca finally managed to kick his door shut, dropping the heavy duffel and the bag of convenience store "medicine" on his small kitchen table.
The apartment was quiet, smelling of linseed oil and old charcoal—a sharp contrast to the cold, metallic scent of the arena. He didn't turn on the overhead lights; the soft glow of the streetlamps through the window was enough.
He gingerly peeled off his shirt, wincing as the plastic wrap Shane had applied crinkled loudly in the silence. The bruise was darker now, a deep, cosmic purple. He reached for his sketchbook, his fingers itching to translate the day's chaos into lines and shadows.
He had just settled into his chair, pencil poised over the paper to catch the curve of Shane’s wedding band or the frantic shadow of Ilya’s pacing, when his phone buzzed with the force of a tectonic plate shift.
[Group Chat: The Parents]
Ilya: You eat the gummy bears yet? Shane: Ilya, give him ten minutes. Luca, did you take the ibuprofen? And don't sit in that crappy wooden chair, use the couch.
Luca stared at the screen, a tired but genuine laugh bubbling up. He picked up a gummy bear—cherry, the red ones were the best—and started to draw.
Luca flipped to a fresh page. He didn’t want to draw the benches, the tape, or the Gatorade bottles. He wanted to capture the *feeling*.
His pencil moved with light, minimalist strokes. He started with two figures—not men, but shapes.
On the left, he sketched a massive, heavy silhouette, all broad shoulders and jagged energy, representing the "Russian Bear." He didn't draw Ilya’s face, just the protective curve of his posture, a wall of strength that felt like it could stop a puck or a freight train. In the bear's "paw," he added a single, tiny, perfectly detailed gummy bear—the only splash of whimsy in the heavy lines.
On the right, he drew a leaner, more precise figure. The lines here were sharp, clean, and intentional. He focused on the hands—one holding a roll of tape like a shield, the other resting gently on a smaller, third silhouette in the center. He spent the most time on the gold band on the finger, a tiny circle of light in the graphite.
In the center was a small, fragile-looking bird, wings tucked tight, safely tucked between the bear's shadow and the hen's precision.
His phone buzzed again.
(Group Chat: The Parents) Ilya: Shane says if you don't text back in 2 minutes, he is driving over. Ilya: I am already in car. Shane: I am literally standing right next to you, Ilya. We are not in the car. Shane: Luca, just a quick thumbs up so we know you didn't pass out.
Luca smiled, snapped a photo of the minimalist sketch, and hit send.
Luca: 👍 (Attached: 1 Image) Luca: The "primary investment" is currently being healed by protein and sugar. See you at practice.
Luca’s ribs were stiff the next morning, but the quiet of his apartment was broken by a sense of accomplishment. He’d stayed up late, nursing a glass of chocolate milk and translating the locker room chaos into the digital sketch he’d started the night before.
It was minimalist and sharp. On one side, the massive, jagged silhouette of a bear holding a single, tiny, red gummy bear. On the other, the clean, precise lines of a mother hen, a golden wedding band glinting on a feathered wing as it reached out to steady a small, shivering bird in the center.
He’d nervously posted it to his Instagram Story with the caption: “The medical staff is very strict. Thanks for the win, boys. 🥨🐻🏒”
Within minutes, the group chat was a war zone of heart emojis and chirps.
📱 Best Team GC
Troy: OH MY GOD.
[Screenshot of Luca’s Story]
Look at the tiny gummy bear in the big bear's paw. I’m crying. I’m actually sobbing into my morning protein shake.
Dykstra: The accuracy on the 'Hen's' disappointed posture is 10/10. Luca, buddy, you’re a prodigy. But are you alive? Or did the beef jerky kill you?
Luca: I am alive! The ribs are okay. And the jerky wasn't… that bad?
Rozanov: Is beautiful drawing, Luca. I look very strong. Shoulders are perhaps even bigger in person, but you captured the spirit of my protector energy. Shane is framing it. He is looking at local galleries now.
Shane: I am NOT looking at galleries, Ilya. I am looking for new teammates because you're all about to be traded to the AHL for that comment. (But seriously, Luca, the symbolism is great. My hair looks better as feathers than it does in real life.)
Hayes: @Shane don't lie. We all know you’re currently wearing a “World’s Best Mom” apron while making Luca’s recovery smoothies.
Rozanov: He is making green juice. It smells like grass and sadness.
Luca, I come pick you up for practice in 20 minutes. Shane says you cannot drive with the wrap on your ribs.
Luca: Oh! I can drive, really! It’s just the left side...
Shane: Luca.
Ilya is already in the SUV.
He has the heated seats on for your "old man ribs."
Just put your shoes on, kid.
Bood: "Just put your shoes on, kid."
I CAN’T. 💀
Someone get this team a reality show. Keeping Up with the Centaurs.
Rozanov: Bood.
One more word and I tell the equipment manager to dull your skates before the power play.
Luca, I am outside. Do not forget your coat. Is 2°C.
Luca: Coming!
(Thanks, guys. See you at the rink.)
Twenty minutes later, the entire team watched from the locker room window as Ilya’s massive black SUV pulled into the VIP lot. They watched in hushed awe as Ilya got out, marched around to the passenger side, and physically helped Luca out of the car like he was made of fine china.
Shane was already standing by the entrance, holding two coffees and a green smoothie, looking every bit the weary but devoted co-parent.
"Look at them," Hayes whispered, wiping a fake tear from his cheek. "Our little family is growing up so fast."
Later that evening, Luca stood on the doorstep of Shane and Ilya’s home, feeling a strange flutter in his chest. He’d been here before, he knew where the coat closet was and which stool at the kitchen island had the loose leg but those had always been team-wide events. Tonight, there were no rows of SUVs in the driveway and no muffled thud of bass vibrating through the front door. It was just quiet.
He clutched a small, hand-painted canvas he’d finished that afternoon, his knuckles white against the wood. He’d barely knocked before the door swung open to reveal Shane. He was wearing an apron and holding a glass of red wine.
"Luca! You’re exactly on time," Shane said, his professional 'Captain' voice replaced by something much warmer. "Come in, get those shoes off. Ilya is currently wrestling with a chicken in the kitchen."
"I am not wrestling, Shane! I am seasoning!" Ilya’s voice boomed from the back of the house, followed by the aggressive thwack of a knife against a cutting board.
The house felt larger without the rest of the Centaurs filling up the space. It smelled of cedar and slow-roasting garlic instead of cheap beer and cologne. As Luca walked toward the living room, he stopped short.
He’d seen the mantel many times during parties, usually crowded with empty bottles or someone's discarded phone. But now, cleared of the party clutter and tucked between a prestigious MVP trophy and a heavy, high-end clock, was a framed print of his minimalist sketch.
"You… you actually framed it?" Luca asked, his voice barely a whisper. He stepped closer, staring at the Bear and the Hen flanking the little bird. "Next to the MVP trophy? Shane, that’s a professional award. This is just… I did that on my couch while eating gummy bears."
"Of course we did," Shane said, steering him toward the dining table with a steady hand on his shoulder. "Ilya wanted to put a spotlight on it with a dedicated LED, but I told him we weren't a museum. It belongs there, Luca. Sit. How are the ribs?"
Better," Luca said, still glancing back at the mantel in disbelief as he took his usual seat. "I can almost breathe normally when I laugh now."
"Good," Ilya said, emerging from the kitchen carrying a platter of roasted chicken that looked large enough to feed a small army. He was wearing a tight t-shirt that said OTTAWA DAD in block letters. "Because tonight, we eat. No green juice. Only protein and potatoes. And no more talking about 'just' a drawing. Is masterpiece."
Just as they were settling in, a rhythmic series of pings echoed through the room. Luca’s phone buzzed. Then Shane’s. Then Ilya’s..
📱Best Team GC
Young: [Photo Attachment: A grainy, long-lens shot of Luca’s car in the driveway]
THE EAGLE HAS LANDED.
I repeat: The Baby Bird is in the nest.
@Luca blink twice if they’re making you look at their wedding album.
Shane sighed, setting his phone face-down on the mahogany table with a deliberate clack. "I am going to trade Young to the Western Conference. By tomorrow morning. I swear it."
"He is just jealous," Ilya said, tearing off a drumstick and dropping it onto Luca’s plate. "He wants the chicken. He wants the love. He gets nothing but bag skates."
"I... I brought something else," Luca said, his voice small but steadier now, heartened by the sight of his sketch on the mantel. He slid the new, wrapped canvas across the table.
Ilya and Shane leaned in. It wasn't a minimalist joke this time. It was a beautiful, impressionist painting of the three of them from behind, skating out of the tunnel toward the blinding white light of the rink. The numbers 81, 7, and 24 seemed to glow against the dark jerseys.
The table went silent. Shane cleared his throat, his eyes suddenly very bright under the dining room lights.
"Luca..." Shane started, his voice thick. "This is... wow."
"Is too much talent for one boy," Ilya whispered, his usual bravado completely vanished. He looked at the painting, then at Luca, then back at the painting. "We put this in the bedroom. No... the foyer. So everyone who enters knows who our best teammate is."
"Thanks for taking care of me," Luca said, his shyness finally losing out to a genuine, beaming smile. "Even for the beef jerky."
Ilya reached over and gave Luca’s shoulder a squeeze that would have bruised a normal human, but to Luca, it just felt like home. "Anything for our synok. Now, eat. If you don't finish potatoes, Shane will make you do yoga with him."
"Hey!" Shane protested, though he was smiling. "Yoga is good for his core!"
Luca laughed, the sound echoing through the house. He might be the rookie, and he might get chirped until his ears turned purple, but sitting here between his heroes, he knew he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
They spent the rest of the night exchanging stories, with Ilya dropping unsolicited life advice at the most random intervals. It was well past midnight when Shane finally checked the time. Both he and Ilya flatly refused to let Luca leave, declaring the "Primary Investment" was too tired to drive with bruised ribs.
That was how Luca found himself sitting on the edge of the plush guest bed in the Rozanov-Hollander home, feeling like a Victorian orphan taken in by royalty. His shoulder was stiff, but his dignity was in much worse shape.
Around 3:00 AM, unable to sleep due to the eerie, heavy silence of the high-end neighborhood, Luca crept downstairs for a glass of water. He stopped at the archway to the living room, the breath catching in his throat.
The TV was on low—a replay of their game, naturally—but the "Power Couple" of the NHL was out cold. Ilya was sprawled across the sectional, his massive legs taking up most of the cushions, while Shane was tucked against his side, a knit blanket draped over both of them.
Luca couldn't help it. The lighting was perfect; the blue glow of the screen hit the sharp line of Shane’s jaw and the rugged shadow of Ilya’s beard. He grabbed his sketchbook from the coffee table and began to draw, the pencil scratching softly against the paper in the quiet house.
As the lines took shape, the realization hit him: He wasn't just drawing his idols anymore. He was drawing the people who had taken a scary, fast-paced league and made it feel like home.
The atmosphere inside Centaur Arena wasn't just electric; it was volatile. Two weeks after the hit that nearly sidelined him for the season, Luca Haas was back on the ice against the Titans. His shoulder was a mummy-wrap of athletic tape and his ribs throbbed with every heavy breath, but his mind was a white-hot blur of focus.
Every time his blades touched the ice, the home crowd let out a collective, relieved roar. They saw their star rookie; Luca just saw a chance to prove he wasn't some fragile "baby" who needed a guest room and curated protein shakes. He wasn't a Victorian orphan anymore. He was a weapon.
On the bench, Ilya was vibrating—a 250-pound nervous system in a jersey. His eyes didn't follow the puck; they tracked every Titan who even breathed in Luca’s direction.
"He looks fast tonight," Troy noted, leaning over to catch Ilya’s eye.
""He looks like he wants blood," Ilya grunted, his knuckles white around his stick. His voice softened with a rare, terrifying pride. "Or at least a goal. But if they touch him? I will turn this rink into a parking lot."
The breakthrough came in the second period. Shane won a clean, hard-fought draw in the right-wing circle, winning it straight back to the point. The defenseman let fly a low, stinging shot that rattled off the goalie’s pads..
The rebound was pure chaos, a frantic scramble of sticks and heavy breathing but Luca saw the geometry before anyone else. He danced around a Titan defenseman with a slick, effortless deke that literally put the veteran on his backside. With a lightning-fast flick of his wrist, Luca tucked the puck into the "top shelf" where Grandma keeps the good cookies.
The horn blared, a guttural scream of triumph that shook the glass. Luca punched the air, a rare burst of adrenaline shattering his shy exterior.
As he skated toward the bench, he slowed. His eyes locked onto Ilya, who was currently trying to climb over the glass like a caged grizzly. Luca stopped short, stood tall, and performed a deliberate two-part salute: he tapped his chest right over his heart, then made a graceful, sweeping brush-stroke motion in the air toward Shane.
The bench didn't just cheer; they erupted. Ilya met Luca at the gate, reaching over the boards to haul him into a bear hug that lifted the rookie’s skates six inches off the ice. "THAT’S MY BOY! DID YOU SEE?" Ilya bellowed, his voice carrying over the crowd as he shook Luca like a Polaroid picture. "MY GOLDEN BOY! DID YOU SEE THE DEKE? HE IS ARTIST WITH PUCK!"
"Ilya, let him breathe! Ribs! Remember the ribs!" Shane shouted, shoving his way into the huddle to act as a human buffer. He caught Luca’s head in a massive gloved hand, ruffling his hair so hard the helmet tilted sideways over Luca’s eyes. Shane leaned in close, his grin visible even through his mouthguard. "Great goal, kid. Perfect read. It’s the protein shakes, I’m telling you."
The Jumbotron didn't miss a beat. The camera zoomed in on Luca, bright red, helmet crooked, looking exactly like a teenager whose parents had just cheered way too loudly at a middle school graduation. He looked like he wanted to dissolve into the ice, but the grin on his face was impossible to hide.
The win was solid, the final horn a sweet relief, but the locker room? The locker room was going to be merciless.
"Hey Haas," Dykstra chirped from across the room, peeling off his sweat-soaked socks. "I saw Shane blowing you a kiss from the blue line after that goal. Did you get your gold star for the day? Does it go on the fridge?"
Luca buried his face in the dark safety of his cubby, his ears burning a shade of red that matched the team’s primary logo.
"I heard Rozy's throwing a 'Goal Party,'" LaPointe huffed, stifling a laugh as he unbuckled his shin guards. "Bouncy castle in the VIP parking lot. Juice boxes for everyone. Maybe we get a clown?"
"Shut up, all of you!" Ilya’s voice boomed over the room, the sound of his heavy gear bag hitting the floor like a small explosion. "He is star! He gets two desserts tonight! Maybe three! You all get nothing but bag skates because you did not do deke like that!"
As the room cleared, Shane stepped up to Luca’s stall. The boisterous energy of the win cooled into something quieter. He reached into his pocket and dropped a folded piece of paper onto Luca's lap.
It was the sketch Luca had done at 3:00 AM, the one of the two of them asleep on the couch. The one he’d been certain he’d hidden under a coaster.
"Ilya wants to frame it," Shane said. The 'Dad' act dropped for a second, replaced by a quiet, genuine warmth that made the locker room feel much smaller. "It’s beautiful, Luca. Truly. But if you tell the media I snore, I’m putting you on the third line."
Luca finally let out a real smile, looking up from the graphite lines of his own work. "You don't snore, Shane. Roz does."
"Exactly," Shane winked, patting the top of Luca’s locker. "Now move it. We have a press conference, and Ilya’s already decided on Italian. He’s currently arguing with the restaurant over the phone about the size of your meatball portion. Apparently, 'the boy is a growing artist' is a valid reason for a quadruple serving."
The podium in the press room felt like a witness stand. Luca sat sandwiched between the two giants, looking like he wanted to vanish into the floorboards.
Pierre LeBrun, the veteran insider, cleared his throat. "Ilya, Shane... the fans have started calling you two the 'Hockey Parents.' Even by NHL standards, the protection you provide Luca seems... personal. What do you make of the label?"
Luca squeezed his eyes shut. This is it. My career is a meme.
"This is incorrect term, Pierre," Ilya leaned into the microphone, his expression stone-cold.
Luca breathed a tiny sigh of relief. Thank God, Ilya is going to be professiona—
"We are not 'hockey parents,'" Ilya's Russian accent boomed through the speakers. "We are parents. Full stop. Did you see his deke? I teach him that. It is genetics of the hockey soul."
The room exploded in laughter.
"To be fair, Pierre," Shane added, his voice smooth and diplomatic despite the dancing mischief in his eyes, "Ilya handles the physical education and the... motivational shouting. I handle the nutrition, the curfews, and making sure he uses a coaster on the coffee table."
Shane glanced at Luca, who was now the color of a steamed lobster. "He’s a very messy artist, by the way. No respect for wood finishes."
"A messy genius!" Ilya corrected, tapping the table for emphasis and nearly knocking over three different microphones.
Karen, a local beat reporter, turned to the rookie. "Luca... this season, you’ve really come out of your shell on the ice. How much do you attribute that to the support system you have from the leadership group? Specifically, Ilya and Shane?"
Luca stammered, his heart hammering against his ribs which, thankfully, only throbbed a little now. "They’ve... they’ve been amazing. Really. They’re two of the best to ever play. I admire them so much." He glanced at them sideways, seeing Ilya’s chest puff out and Shane’s soft, encouraging nod. "Having them in my corner is everything. Even if... even if they are a lot."
"And the celebration?" Pierre pushed, sensing blood in the water. "The rumor is Rozanov promised a juice box and two desserts for a goal."
Luca looked at the ceiling, praying for a sudden, localized power outage. "I... I'm a growing boy," he managed, his voice cracking just enough to make the back row of reporters coo.
"YES!" Ilya roared, slamming his hand on the table. "And we are very proud of him! Okay, no more questions about family. We go to eat now. Our son is hungry!"
Ilya stood up, ending the session by sheer force of will. He slung a heavy arm around Luca’s shoulder, guiding him toward the exit while Shane followed behind, already checking the menu on his phone.
That night, the Centaurs' official account posted a photo of the three of them walking down the tunnel. The caption: "The kid is alright. (But the Parents are a handful.)"
The digital wildfire of the "Centaur Family" didn't die down; it just evolved into a full-scale cultural phenomenon. By the time the three of them reached the parking lot, Luca’s phone was vibrating so violently in his pocket it felt like a trapped bird.
"Roz, please," Luca whispered, his face still a shade of crimson that rivaled the team’s primary jersey color. "The 'genetics of the hockey soul' comment? It’s already a GIF. It has ten thousand likes."
Ilya didn't even look up from his phone, though his thumb was busy aggressively 'liking' every fan-edit that depicted him in a "World's Greatest Dad" apron. "Is good branding, Luca. Shows we are united front. Also," he gestured to a tweet on his screen, "the fans say you are 'Victorian orphan.' This is why you must eat more broccoli. You look too thin for TV."
Shane climbed into the driver’s seat of the SUV, tossing his and Luca’s gear bags into the back with a practiced ease. "Don't look at X, Luca. It’s a lawless wasteland. Although," he paused, glancing at his reflection in the rearview mirror and smoothing his hair, "someone did point out that I’ve reached 'Peak Dad-ification.' I’m not sure how I feel about being called 'soft' by a user named BostonHater_44."
"You bought me hot chocolate with extra marshmallows this morning, Shane," Luca pointed out, slumped low in the backseat with his hoodie pulled over his head. "And you winked at the barista."
"It was a cold morning! You needed the sugar for the game," Shane defended, though the corner of his mouth hitched up. "And the wink was just... good customer service."
"Is Dad-muscle memory," Ilya chimed in, leaning over the center console to pat Shane’s hand before reaching back to ruffle Luca’s hair. "Now, we go to Italian place. I told them we need table in corner. No cameras. Just family."
The dinner was, predictably, a mix of high-end culinary excellence and domestic chaos.
Ilya spent ten minutes arguing with the waiter about the "nutritional value" of the pasta, eventually convincing the kitchen to add extra protein to Luca's dish. Shane, meanwhile, spent the evening surreptitiously taking "candid" photos of Luca looking tired, which he immediately texted to the team group chat with captions like 'The Lion sleeps tonight.'
"I can see you taking those," Luca muttered, stabbing a piece of chicken.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Shane said, his expression the picture of innocence even as his thumbs flew across the screen. "Eat your greens, kid. I didn't pay for organic broccoli for you to push it around the plate."
By the time they pulled back into the driveway of the Rozanov-Hollander house, the "Coaster Incident" was already the #1 trending topic in Ottawa. Luca walked into the foyer, kicking off his sneakers and heading straight for the kitchen to get a glass of water.
He paused, his hand hovering over the marble island. Slowly, deliberately, he reached into the cupboard, pulled out a marble coaster, and set his glass down on it with a pointed look at Shane.
"Look at that," Shane whispered to Ilya, leaning against the doorframe. "He’s learning."
"He is genius," Ilya agreed, his arm draping naturally over Shane’s shoulders.
Luca rolled his eyes, but as he headed upstairs to the "Guest Room", which was now filled with his sketchbooks, a custom-weighted blanket Ilya had ordered, and a suspiciously large stash of dinosaur nuggets in the freezer, he felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the heater.
He sat at his desk, opening a fresh page in his sketchbook. He didn't draw the rink. He didn't draw the Titans’ defensemen he’d embarrassed earlier that night.
Instead, he sketched a lion with massive, protective wings, tucked between a bear and a wolf.
Downstairs, Ilya and Shane sat on the couch, the glow of the TV flickering over them. Ilya’s hand covered Shane’s, and for a moment, the "merciless" Russian and the "steely" Captain were just two men at peace.
"He left another one on the mantle," Shane said softly, nodding toward the new drawing of the winged lion. "He’s gonna be okay, Ilya. He’s our genius."
"He is Haas," Ilya corrected, his voice a low, prideful rumble. "But he is ours. Now, help me find where to buy the 'World's Best Son' trophy. I want it for the mantelpiece."
-******-----*******Fan Reactions*******-----******-
@CentaurFan81: I am SCREAMING. Ilya really sat there on national television and said "We are parents. Full stop." The way Shane nodded like he was checking the school calendar?? Luca looks like he wants the earth to swallow him whole. 😭#Centaurs #NHL #HockeyDad
@HockeyBunny: Statistics update -
Luca Haas: 4 Goal, 7 Assist, 100% Embarrassment.
Ilya Rozanov: 15 PIM (Roughing for his son), 10/10 Parenting.
Shane Hollander: 150% Protective Instinct.
Centaurs are undefeated since the "Adoption." 📈
@DraftPro_Swiss: Seeing Luca Haas thrive in Ottawa is amazing, but seeing him get treated like a Victorian orphan by the league’s scariest power couple was NOT on my bingo card. 🇨🇭🦁
@HockeyGossip: [IMAGE: A blurry screenshot of Ilya shaking Luca after his goal.]
CAPTION: "WHEN YOUR TODDLER FINALLY USES THE POTTY."
@RookieWatcher: [GIF: A golden retriever puppy being licked by two huge huskies.]
CAPTION: Exclusive footage of the Centaurs locker room right now. #LucaHaas #IlyaAndShane
@JerseyChaser: Did anyone else notice Shane adjusting Luca’s tie before they sat down at the podium? He didn't even look, he just reached over and fixed it. That is PURE DAD MUSCLE MEMORY."
@PuckDrop_Daily: Rumor has it Luca’s sketchbook is 40% drawings of the rink and 60% drawings of Ilya and Shane napping. WE NEED THE ART REVEAL, LUCA."
@OttawaLocalWriter: [VIDEO: 0:15 seconds]
Behind-the-scenes clip of the trio leaving the arena. Ilya has his arm draped over Luca’s shoulders, practically dragging him toward the SUV. Shane is carrying Luca’s equipment bag AND his own.
Audio: You can faintly hear Ilya saying, "...and no, you cannot have gelato until you eat the broccoli, Luca. Shane spent forty dollars on that organic broccoli."
Luca: "Roz, please, there are cameras..."
@NHL ✅: (Attached: The photo of the three of them at the podium, Luca looking terrified between two beaming veterans).
Family photo? 📸
@SwissHockeyFed ✅: We sent him to Ottawa to play hockey. We didn't realize he was joining a new household. 🇨🇭🤝🇨🇦 #Haas #Centaurs
@ArtByEmmy: [IMAGE: A beautiful digital painting of the scene.]
I had to sketch the sketcher! Here’s Luca in his "Guest Room" at the Rozanov-Hollander house, surrounded by pillows and protein shakes while Ilya and Shane watch him through the door crack like creeps. 😂
@CensGlove_Stan; y’all... i’ve been zooming in on the reflection of Ilya’s sunglasses in that paparazzi shot of them at the grocery store. IS THAT A PACK OF DINOSAUR NUGGETS IN THE CART? 🦖 IF LUCA HAAS IS EATING DINO NUGGETS IN THE ROZANOV-HOLLANDER KITCHEN I WILL LOSE MY ENTIRE MIND. #Centaurs #DinoNugsForLuca
@BackOfTheNet: [IMAGE: A side-by-side of Shane Hollander in 2018 vs. Shane now.]
The "Dad-ification" is complete. He went from "I will destroy your franchise" to "Have you had enough electrolytes, sweetie?" in record time. Luca Haas has tamed the beast. 🧸
@SketchyBusiness; THE COASTER INCIDENT?? Shane really outed Luca for not using a coaster on their expensive marble tables?? 😭 Imagine being a 22-year-old elite athlete and getting grounded because you left a ring of condensation next to a $10,000 sculpture. LUCA, BLINK TWICE IF YOU’RE DOING CHORES.
@OttawaBarista_88: UMMMM SHANE HOLLANDER JUST CAME INTO MY WORK AND ORDERED:
A double espresso (for Ilya)
A matcha latte (for himself)
A HOT CHOCOLATE WITH EXTRA MARSHMALLOWS (FOR LUCA???)
I ASKED IF THE HOT CHOC WAS FOR THE KID AND HE JUST WINKED AT ME. I AM DECEASED. ⚰️
@SoftBoyHaas: Everyone thinks it's funny but imagine being the best rookie in the league and having Ilya Rozanov tuck you into bed at 9 PM. The psychological warfare of being 'The Son' is real. Luca's therapy bill is gonna be paid by the team."
@PuckrFace: If I’m a Boston's player, I’m retiring. Imagine hitting a kid and having HIS TWO DADS come off the bench like the Avengers. I’d skate straight to the locker room and delete my social media."
@BarDown ✅: [IMAGE: A photoshop of Luca’s face on a baby carrier being worn by Ilya.]
Ottawa’s 1st line looking scary this year. 💀 #NHL #Centaurs
@CentaursCSI: [IMAGE: A grainy 400% zoom of the Centaurs bench during a TV timeout.]
CAPTION: IS THAT A ZIPLOC BAG OF SLICED APPLES IN SHANE’S GLOVE? 🍎
I swear on my life he just handed a slice to Luca while looking him dead in the eye like he was checking his homework. I am losing my grip on reality.
@Puck_Dynamics: [IMAGE: A screenshot of Ilya pointing aggressively at the jumbotron during the national anthem.]
"Look, Luca. That is the camera. Wave to the camera or you don't get your iPad back." — Ilya, probably.
@HollanderStan💍: Can we talk about the good cop/bad cop energy? Shane: "Luca, sweetheart, remember to hydrate and keep your head up."
Ilya: "LUCA. IF YOU DO NOT SCORE I WILL MAKE YOU SKATE UNTIL YOU SEE SWITZERLAND FROM THE BLUE LINE."
And Luca just stands there blinking like a deer in headlights. 🦌💨
@UnhingedHockeyFan 🏒: [IMAGE: A photoshopped "Family Tree" where everyone on the Centaurs is just a branch off Ilya and Shane, but Luca is the only one in a little baby bonnet.]
The Ottawa Centaurs are no longer a hockey team. They are a highly competitive daycare center with a $80M payroll.
@LucaArtArchive 🎨: Imagine being the person who has to clean the whiteboards in the locker room and finding a perfect charcoal sketch of Shane Hollander’s flow tucked behind the play-diagrams.
Reply from @CentaurEquipmentGuy: "You joke, but I found a drawing of a 'Centaurs-themed toaster' on the back of a scouting report today. The kid is a menace."
@ProtectTheLion🦁: [GIF: A scene from a nature documentary of a grizzly bear lunging at a wolf.]
Actual footage of Ilya Rozanov the moment Smith breathed in Luca’s general direction. I hope Smith enjoys his 2-game suspension and his 5-year nightmare of Ilya standing at the foot of his bed.
@OttawaEats: Saw them at a high-end steakhouse. Ilya was cutting Luca’s steak. Luca looked like he wanted to die. Shane was taking a photo."10/10 Domestic Chaos
@CanadianPuck: Ilya Rozanov in the 'Back to School' aisle buying a 24-pack of HB pencils and a bear eraser. He said 'For the artist' to the cashier and winked." Certified Dad Energy
@RinkRat_62: Luca arrived at the rink in the backseat of Shane’s SUV. He was wearing noise-canceling headphones and looking out the window like a moody teenager." Peak Brat Behavior The Ultimate Verdict
@NHL_Union✅: At this point, if Luca Haas doesn't get a "World's Best Son" trophy at the end-of-year awards, the league is rigged. 🏆 #NHL #Centaurs #FamilyFirst