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The fundraiser is supposed to be simple.
Smile. Shake hands. Take pictures. Sign jerseys. Raise money for the Ottawa Centaurs Foundation and look charming while doing it.
Shane has done this a hundred times.
Ilya has done this a thousand.
Irina has done exactly three and considers herself a veteran.
The arena is decorated with banners and folding tables covered in silent auction items. There’s a raffle wheel. A small stage for speeches. Catering set up along the far wall.
Irina is in a tiny Centaurs jersey with ROZANOVA-HOLLANDER stitched across the back, clutching a juice box and waving at strangers like royalty.
“She is working the room,” Troy mutters, watching her accept a cookie from an elderly donor.
“She gets that from you,” Wyatt tells Shane.
“She does not,” Shane says automatically.
“You absolutely do,” Ilya replies, signing a puck without looking up.
Harris, clipboard in hand, headset on, surveys everything with sharp efficiency.
“Autographs at table three in five minutes,” he calls. “Then the check presentation.”
“Copy that,” Luca says, as if they’re in active play.
Irina toddles between the tables, stopping to pet the service dog of one of the guests.
Shane keeps her in his peripheral vision.
Always.
Until he doesn’t.
It happens in less than thirty seconds.
One second, she’s near the dessert table staring at a tray of brownies.
The next—
She isn’t.
Shane straightens mid-signature.
He scans left.
Right.
“Where’s Rina?” he asks casually.
Ilya looks up.
“She was with you.”
Shane’s stomach drops.
“She was right there.”
They both turn fully now.
The dessert table.
Empty of toddler.
The nearby chairs.
No small jersey.
The air shifts.
“Rina?” Shane calls lightly.
No answer.
Ilya is already moving.
“Irina!” he calls, louder.
Troy notices immediately. “What’s up?”
Shane swallows. “We don’t see her.”
There’s a beat.
Then the entire Ottawa Centaurs roster goes on high alert.
It is impressive how quickly a team of professional athletes can spiral.
Wyatt starts checking under tables.
Luca rushes toward the bathrooms.
Bood scans the exits like he’s defending a last-minute lead.
Troy jumps onto a chair for a better vantage point.
“I don’t see her!”
Shane’s heart is pounding so hard he feels lightheaded.
“She was right there,” he says again, like repeating it will reverse time.
Ilya’s face has gone pale.
He strides toward the nearest volunteer. “Have you seen a little girl? Three years old. Blonde hair. Jersey.”
The volunteer blinks, startled. “I—no, I don’t think so—”
“Irina!” Ilya calls again, louder now.
The noise level in the arena shifts.
People notice.
Harris appears at Shane’s side.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Tell me exactly when you last saw her.”
“Thirty seconds ago,” Shane breathes. “Near the desserts.”
“Doors?”
“Staffed.”
“Exits?”
“Covered.”
Harris nods briskly, though there’s a flicker of something tight behind his eyes.
He’s trying to stay calm.
Trying.
“Lock the external doors,” he says into his headset. “Soft lock. Do not alarm guests.”
Troy looks like he’s about to vault a table.
“Check the locker rooms,” Harris continues. “Bathrooms. Storage areas.”
Ilya runs a hand through his hair, breathing unevenly.
“This is my fault,” he mutters.
“No,” Shane snaps immediately. “Don’t.”
But fear is a living thing now. Crawling. Loud.
Shane’s mind goes to worst-case scenarios in record time.
The arena suddenly feels enormous.
Too many people.
Too many blind spots.
“Irina!” he shouts.
Nothing.
Even Harris is starting to look strained.
He’s moving quickly now, scanning corners, speaking calmly to staff while his jaw tightens.
“Kitchen?” he mutters to himself.
“What?” Shane asks.
“The catering kitchen. It’s through that hallway.”
Ilya doesn’t wait.
He’s already striding down the corridor, Shane right behind him, Harris close at their heels.
The hallway is quieter.
The fundraiser noise muffled behind them.
Shane’s pulse roars in his ears.
Please, please, please—
They push through the swinging kitchen doors.
And stop.
There, perched triumphantly on a stainless steel counter, is Irina.
In front of her:
An industrial-sized tub of vanilla ice cream.
Lid discarded.
Scoop nowhere in sight.
She is eating it with her hands.
Both hands.
Her cheeks are smeared white.
Her jersey has not survived.
She looks up at the sound of the doors.
Freezes.
Ice cream mid-fist.
“Oh,” she says.
There is a long, stunned silence.
Harris closes his eyes briefly.
Shane sways.
Ilya makes a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh.
“Are you kidding me,” Troy breathes from behind them—because of course the team has followed.
Wyatt stares. “She broke into the kitchen.”
Luca whispers reverently, “Legend.”
Bood checks the freezer. “There are three more tubs.”
“Irina,” Shane manages, voice shaking. “What are you doing?”
She looks down at the tub.
“Ice cream,” she says, as if this is self-evident.
Ilya presses a hand to his chest.
“You scared us,” he says, stepping closer.
She frowns slightly.
“Why?”
Shane laughs weakly. “Because you disappeared.”
She considers this.
Then holds up a sticky hand.
“Want some?”
Troy actually chokes.
Harris finally steps forward.
“Okay,” he says, calm but strained. “You cannot just wander into restricted catering areas and commit dairy crimes.”
Irina blinks at him.
“Dairy,” she repeats solemnly.
Shane moves forward and lifts her off the counter.
She leaves faint ice-cream handprints on his jacket.
He does not care.
He buries his face briefly in her hair.
“You can’t run off like that,” he murmurs.
“I find snack,” she says proudly.
Ilya cups her face, scanning her quickly for any sign of actual harm.
“She is fine,” Harris says gently.
They all know that.
Now.
But the adrenaline hasn’t caught up yet.
Troy leans against the counter, laughing hysterically. “We locked down the arena for a toddler ice cream heist.”
Wyatt wipes his face. “I checked under a raffle table.”
Luca nods. “I almost tackled a mascot.”
Bood holds up the ice cream lid. “Evidence.”
Harris pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I am adding ‘kitchen security’ to next year’s planning document,” he mutters.
Back in the main hall, the fundraiser resumes.
No announcements are made.
No guests realize the Centaurs briefly experienced collective cardiac arrest.
Irina sits between Shane and Ilya on stage during the check presentation, faintly sticky but radiant.
“You can’t do that again,” Shane whispers gently.
She nods seriously.
“Okay.”
Ilya narrows his eyes. “You promise?”
She thinks about it.
“…Okay.”
Harris, standing off to the side with his clipboard, meets Shane’s gaze.
Even he looks slightly shaken.
“You panicked,” Shane mouths at him.
Harris exhales slowly.
“I had it under control,” he says quietly.
“You absolutely did not,” Troy calls from behind him.
Harris shoots him a look.
Irina leans against Ilya’s chest, perfectly content.
“Ice cream good,” she announces to no one in particular.
The entire team starts laughing again.
Shane presses a kiss to the top of her head.
Ilya wraps an arm around both of them.
For a few terrifying minutes, the world had tilted.
Now it’s steady again.
Sticky.
Exhausting.
Ridiculous.
But steady.
“Team,” Irina says sleepily.
And this time, even Harris smiles without pretending he wasn’t panicking too.