Under the blinding lights, with the sharp smell of ice in the air, Connor raised his eyes to the bleachers and found his father, awkwardly perched on the plastic chair, hands twisted anxiously in his lap. Beside him sat Uncle Gunn, looking much more at ease, a homemade banner waving in his hands, the letters sprinkled with pink glitter. A reminder that Aunt Fred was thinking of him.

Connor rushed forward with his teammates, skating out onto the ice, hockey stick grasped in his hands. As he felt his father's eyes on him, he broke away from his friends to quickly glide across the ice with a touch too much speed, balancing with a precision even his father could not have displayed, indulging in the skills he had been naturally graced with.

Connor grinned in delight, yet even from across the white expanse of ice, his ears picked up the small, soft sound of his father's throat clearing and, lifting his head, he saw the stern yet amused smile his father wore whenever his son got a little too carried away with his abilities.

Connor shrugged sheepishly, before executing a sharp, clean turn and skating back towards his teammates, his father's chuckles ringing in his ears.