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The first rule of bringing a toddler to a professional hockey rink is this:
Do not panic.
The second rule is:
Everyone will panic anyway.
Irina is three now, which means she has opinions.
Strong ones.
“I skate self,” she declares, hands on her hips in the middle of the Ottawa Centaurs’ practice rink.
Shane, crouched in front of her, raises an eyebrow. “Self?”
“Self,” she repeats firmly.
Behind her, Ilya hovers like a very tall, very anxious shadow.
“She is still small,” Ilya says.
“I am big,” Irina snaps.
Troy, leaning against the boards, stage-whispers, “She gets that from you.”
“I do not,” Ilya replies automatically.
Wyatt snorts.
Luca claps his hands. “Okay, Tiny Captain, show us what you’ve got.”
Bood solemnly taps his stick on the ice like this is a ceremonial moment.
Harris stands just outside the glass with a tablet tucked under his arm, observing like a wildlife documentarian.
“Please remember,” he calls calmly, “she is three.”
“We know,” Shane says.
They do not know.
Irina pushes off.
And—objectively?—she’s good.
Not NHL good.
But for a toddler who still occasionally tries to put her shoes on the wrong feet, she’s steady. Knees bent properly. Arms out for balance. Determined expression firmly in place.
Shane skates backward in front of her, hands hovering but not touching.
Ilya shadows her side.
“You’re doing it,” Shane says, grinning. “Look at you.”
“Fast,” Irina announces.
She is not fast.
But she is confident.
The team lines the boards like overgrown Little League dads.
“Go, Rina!” Troy yells.
Wyatt pounds his stick against the glass.
Luca pretends to commentate. “And she’s making her way down the ice with incredible poise—”
“Careful,” Ilya warns automatically.
Irina beams at all the attention.
Which is when it happens.
Her skate catches in a shallow rut near the blue line.
Her arms windmill.
There’s a split second where she might recover—
And then she goes down.
Hard.
The sound of her helmet tapping the ice echoes louder than it should.
There is silence.
Then—
Irina inhales.
And screams.
Chaos.
Absolute chaos.
Shane is on his knees before she’s fully processed the fall.
Ilya drops beside him so fast he nearly collides with Shane.
“Irina!” they both say at the same time.
Troy vaults the boards.
Wyatt trips over Troy.
Luca gasps like someone’s been shot.
Bood skids to a stop, eyes wide.
The entire Ottawa Centaurs roster converges on one very small, very outraged toddler.
Irina’s scream escalates to siren level.
“My baby,” Ilya says faintly.
“She’s okay,” Shane insists immediately, even as his own heart is trying to punch through his ribs. “She’s okay. Rina, hey, hey—look at me.”
She flails.
“Ice mean!” she sobs.
“Yes,” Shane agrees quickly. “Ice is mean. We’ll have a talk with it.”
Ilya is scanning her frantically. “Did she hit head? Did she twist ankle? Show Papa.”
Troy crouches way too close. “Do you see blood? I don’t see blood. Do you see blood?”
“Back up,” Shane snaps.
Wyatt looks seconds away from calling an ambulance.
Luca is whispering, “Oh no, oh no, oh no.”
Bood hovers like a very large, very concerned statue.
Irina wails louder, overwhelmed by the wall of giant men staring at her.
And through it all—
Harris steps onto the ice.
Slowly.
Calmly.
Like he’s entering a room full of overexcited golden retrievers.
“Okay,” he says in a normal voice.
Nobody hears him.
“Ilya.”
That works.
Ilya looks up immediately.
“Yes?”
“Is she conscious?”
“Yes, of course she is conscious!”
“Is she responding?”
“She is screaming.”
“Good,” Harris replies evenly. “That’s good.”
Shane lets out a shaky breath.
Harris crouches—not crowding, not frantic—just steady.
“Irina,” he says gently. “Hi.”
She hiccups mid-scream and looks at him.
“Can you wiggle your fingers for me?”
She glares at him.
“Show me how strong you are.”
That word.
Strong.
She sniffs aggressively and wiggles her fingers.
“Good,” Harris says. “Now your toes?”
She kicks one foot indignantly.
“Excellent.”
Ilya is still pale.
“She hit her head,” he says.
Harris nods once. “Helmet on. No visible impact beyond normal contact. We’ll check pupils.”
He glances at Shane. “Can you lift the visor slightly?”
Shane’s hands are shaking, but he does it.
Harris leans in just enough to check her eyes.
“Tracking normally,” he says.
Irina sniffles again, tears streaming dramatically down her cheeks.
“My knee,” she sobs.
Shane immediately inspects it.
There’s a tiny scrape. Barely there.
The kind that feels catastrophic when you’re three.
“Oh,” Shane breathes.
Ilya sees it and looks like someone personally attacked his child.
“It is unacceptable,” he mutters darkly.
Troy whispers, “Do we fight the ice?”
“Do not fight the ice,” Harris says without looking up.
They carefully help Irina sit up.
She clings to Shane, still hiccupping.
Ilya cups her helmeted head in his hands.
“You scared Papa,” he says softly.
“Ice mean,” she repeats miserably.
Wyatt nods solemnly. “Yeah. Ice can be a jerk.”
Luca glares at the offending patch like it betrayed them.
Bood offers a juice box like it’s a sacred artifact.
Harris stands.
“Okay,” he says briskly. “She’s fine. Mild scrape. Normal fall. No concussion indicators. She’s more overwhelmed than injured.”
The entire team exhales at once.
It’s almost comical.
Shane presses his forehead to Irina’s helmet.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs.
Ilya kisses the top of her head through the plastic.
“You are brave,” he says fiercely.
She sniffles again.
“I brave?”
“Yes,” Shane says immediately. “You fell and you’re still here.”
Troy nods enthusiastically. “That’s hockey.”
Wyatt raises a fist. “You got back up energy.”
Irina blinks at them.
Then, dramatically, she says, “Kiss it.”
Shane and Ilya both lean down at the exact same time and kiss her knee.
The team collectively melts.
“Oh my God,” Luca whispers.
Bood discreetly wipes at his eye.
Harris clears his throat.
“She’ll decide what happens next,” he says. “Not you.”
Ilya looks at him sharply. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” Harris says patiently, “don’t project your panic onto her.”
Shane winces slightly.
Because he knows.
They both do.
Irina hiccups one last time.
Then she straightens.
“I skate,” she says.
Every adult freezes.
Shane searches her face. “You sure?”
She nods firmly.
“Self.”
Ilya hesitates.
Harris gives him a pointed look.
“She fell,” Harris says quietly. “That’s part of learning.”
Ilya exhales slowly.
Then nods.
“Okay,” he says softly. “We skate.”
This time, they give her space.
Not far.
Never far.
But space.
Irina pushes herself up.
Wobbles.
Stands.
The team watches like it’s Game Seven overtime.
She takes one tentative glide.
Then another.
She’s slower now.
More cautious.
But she’s moving.
Troy starts tapping his stick lightly against the ice.
Wyatt joins.
Luca follows.
Bood adds his.
It builds into a soft, steady rhythm.
Encouragement.
Not panic.
Irina looks up.
Smiles.
“See?” she says proudly.
Shane laughs, half hysterical, half relieved.
“I see.”
Ilya skates up beside her.
“You are strongest person on ice,” he says solemnly.
She beams at him.
Harris checks his tablet like this is a successfully resolved crisis.
“Next time,” he says dryly, “we try not to form a defensive circle around the toddler.”
“No promises,” Troy replies immediately.
Irina takes another glide.
Then another.
And when she makes it all the way to the boards without incident, the entire Ottawa Centaurs roster erupts like she’s just won the Stanley Cup.
She throws her hands in the air.
“Team!” she shouts.
And this time, when the panic fades and the laughter settles, that’s exactly what it feels like.