The skates still fit. The jersey still carried his name. But the roar of the crowd? That was distant now, replaced by a quieter kind of magic.

Parenthood.

George never thought anything could rival the adrenaline of Game 7, the weight of the Cup in his hands, the electric hum of a city in celebration. But when Daisy placed their newborn son, Logan, into his arms for the first time, everything changed.

It wasn’t about hockey anymore.

It was about him.

Logan was small—so small that George was afraid to move, afraid to breathe too hard in case he disturbed the perfect, fragile quiet. But then, a tiny fist clenched around his finger, firm, certain. And that was it. That was the moment George knew: The legacy he had built wasn’t for him. It was for this.