#Crosby imagines

[cheddaryouthanme]

Hockey RPF writers being known across fandoms as literary masters

When I first started reading MattDrai fics on AO3 I remember thinking “wait what the HELL is going on why is this the most consistently well-written fanfiction I’ve read in any fandom? Is this a thing? Do people know??” And apparently it is and they do.

[joeyfranchise]

mine, all mine

joe burrow x fem!reader - mentions of maxx crosby x reader

summary: you’re always able to handle joe and his moods. when he’s up he’s up, when he’s down he’s down hard. when you start feeling neglected and someone else starts making comments to joe… he realizes he needs to remind you and everyone around you just who you belong to.

word count: 6k.

warnings: smut immediately under the cut, MDNI! dom/possessive!joe, sub!reader, mentions of maxx crosby (it’ll make sense), spanking, spitting, p in v, oral (m. receiving)

note: finally it’s here! not a threesome as i have previously stated but… i think y’all will like it! for my main girlll @slimshiesty i love you 💕 THEE joemaxx girl!!

“fuck joe,” you moaned, arching forward so your chest pressed against his. he moaned back in response, his stubble tickling at your neck as he pressed kisses along the column.

your nails raked down his back, leaving the faintest scratches - something he was sure to get teased about at practice. right now though, he didn’t care.

joe was blissed out, kissing at your neck fervently as he thrusted up into you. your soft gasps filled his ears, every moan pouring over his body as you both continued climbing the ladder to your highs.

he’d had a long week, a tough loss to one of the toughest teams. media outlets were all over him, doubters saying he was washed… but you… you were always there. his solace, his comfort, his girl.

joe finally moved from your neck, pushing himself up on his forearms so he could see your face. the breath was nearly knocked out of him as he thrusted into you, your blissful expression clearly affecting him. your gaze was focused downward, watching where your bodies met as you bit your bottom lip.

“fuck baby, you like that?” joe asked, continuing his movements. a small “mhmmm” was his response. you looked back up at him and locked your gaze with his. he leaned in slowly to meet your parted lips with his own, your eyes closing as he kissed you. his tongue playfully prodded against yours, his hips never missed a beat. you were so close you could taste it.

your arms were still wrapped around his neck as you kissed him, and you pulled him closer, thrusting down to meet his hips with your own. his long, dextrous fingers found their way to your clit, rolling over it with a sense of urgency as he was close to his impending climax. you were almost there too, throwing your head back onto the pillows as joe continued toying with your clit and thrusting roughly into you. one final, harsh thrust of his hips sent you over the edge, your climax barreling into you like a freight train. it wracked over your body as you shook with pleasure, your walls squeezing around joe as he came too.

his soft grunts filled your ears as he spilled into you, and finally he collapsed, his face buried in your neck again. the post orgasm bliss was there, but slowly fading due to joe’s heavy body pressing you into the mattress.

“joeeeeyyy,” you whined, weakly pushing at his shoulders to move him, “get off!!”

he laughed at your attempt to move him, the sound vibrating through your body. he moved up to look at you before pulling out, wincing at the sensitivity. “let’s go clean up.” he says, moving off the bed and stepping onto the floor. you let him lift you, which you’d usually argue about, and he carries you to the bathroom before drawing the two of you a nice shower.

you wash each other off and then stand under the water a while, enjoying the steam. you know joe’s particularly enjoying it considering how taxing his job is on his body. you rub his shoulders as the hot water runs down his back, and he throws his head back and moans. finally, the two of you get out and dry off before getting dressed and heading back to your bedroom to get cozy for the night.

as you and joe get into bed, you roll on your side and wiggle your body until only your eyes and the top of your head peek from above the comforter. joe lets out a small chuckle and does the same, scooting close to you as you share warmth. the room is already dark and cozy, and you’ve set a fireplace screensaver on the tv.

“can i tell you a secret?” you ask him, your words traveling through the dark and into his ears. he laughs at you, then answers back in an equal whisper. “tell me.”

“you’re my favorite person ever.” you say, giggling before fully going under the covers. seconds later joe’s strong arms are around you, crushing you into his chest. “you’re my favorite person ever.” he replies, pressing sweet chaste kisses into your cheeks.

“i mean it joey. i love you so much. i can’t wait for you to prove all those doubters wrong, just like you always do.”

you can feel his lips turn up into a smile as his kisses move to your forehead. “thank you, baby.” he says, rubbing your back. your confidence and faith in him is all he’s ever needed. it helps him get through all the tough days, even if he’s being a jerk to you over things beyond your control. he’s always amazed at how well you handle him and yourself with such grace.

you listen to his soft breathing and slowly begin to drift off to sleep in his arms, and he does the same, loving the feeling of your body pressed against his.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

a few weeks have passed, and things seem to be looking up for joe and the rest of the bengals team. they’ve won a few games, lost another, but joe seems to be feeling a little better, not that he’d ever let the media see that. but when he was home with you, he’d let his guard down a little. he always appreciated how open you were and how much you let him talk about his frustrations and even things he thought were going well.

things had been kinda dicey lately since their wide receiver two was out, but they’d been managing the best they could without him, so joe was feeling okay. this week, the bengals were going up against the raiders.

the raiders weren’t having the best season this year, but their defense was always something to be worried about, especially because of their star defensive end, maxx crosby. he was very talented, and you were always worried for joe when they’d play the raiders because you’ve seen how rough maxx can get with some of the quarterbacks.

the week started off okay, you were thankful to work from home and you were able to accomplish quite a lot of work while joe was practicing.

wednesday practice seemed to go okay, joe came home in a great mood.

you were in the kitchen cooking dinner for the two of you when you heard him come in, setting his bags down by the door. he walked over to the kitchen and wrapped his arms around you from behind, burying his nose in your hair and kissing the crown of your head.

“practice go well?” you asked, craning your neck to get a look at him.

“yeah, seems like a lot of the guys are feeling good.” he responds, squeezing you closer to him. “food smells great.” he complimented, leaning down further to place his head on your shoulder. you giggled when his slight stubble tickled your shoulder.

“i’m gonna go take a quick shower, that okay?” he asks, waiting for your approval.

“sounds good, dinner should be done in about ten minutes.”

joe trots off toward the hall bathroom, opting to shower there since it was closer. he kept towels stocked in the linen closet, and sometimes even shorts and boxers too if he was feeling especially lazy and like he didn’t want to walk all the way to your shared bedroom, which you found hilarious.

you busied yourself with plating the food as joe showered, and when you heard the water turn off you took the plates to the table, sitting them down before filling up two glasses with ice and water.

joe dried off and dressed and came to eat with you, sharing funny moments from his day and practice with you. you bored him with information about spreadsheets from work, but truthfully he liked hearing you talk about it. most of the time anything that made you happy made him happy too. after dinner he helped you clean, and you both went to bed in a great mood, snuggled into each other.

when you woke thursday, you were confused.

joe always woke you up and kissed you goodbye before leaving for work. whether it was on the lips, cheek, or forehead, he never missed telling you bye. maybe he was rushing, you thought.

you rolled over and grabbed your phone to check for any messages joe might have sent you, but there were none. you sent him a quick text to ask if he was okay before starting your morning routine.

by 1:00p.m. you had the laundry finished, you swept and mopped the house, watered the plants… you just needed lunch. you decided to make a quick salad, something fast and easy so you could get back to doing chores before working on a few things you needed to finish for work.

you dug all of the stuff you needed out of the fridge and assembled your salad, taking it to the couch to sit down and eat. you decided you’d done enough for the day to deserve watching some trashy reality t.v., so you turned it on and perused through the channels before finding a show to watch.

somewhere along the way of eating and watching you remembered that you texted joe this morning. you pulled your phone from the pocket of your leggings and frowned when your lockscreen didn’t show any notifications.

maybe he hasn’t read it yet.

you opened your messages, clicking on the thread with joe. your heart dropped. right underneath your message you saw a small ‘read 11:14a.m.’

maybe he’s busy. he’s practicing.

you locked your phone and placed it face down on the coffee table, turning your attention back to the show, but your focus was nowhere other than joe, and wondering what you did to upset him.

you sat on the couch a nervous wreck for a long while. you replayed every moment of last night, but nothing was sticking out to you that could have been something that would’ve upset joe. you picked at the skin around your nails nervously.

it was now time to play the waiting game - to see what mood he’d be in when he returned home so you could figure out what was wrong, if anything was. you stood from the couch, remembering you’d left all the ingredients for your salad out, and you grimaced when you realized you’d have to throw the lettuce away because it had been sitting out for far too long.

you cleaned what little dishes you made, put fresh sheets on your bed, finished all of your mundane house-hold tasks. you decided now would be a good time to get your laptop and start keying data into your spreadsheets.

you worked for what felt like hours before you finally heard the garage open. you didn’t move from your spot at the dining table. you’d just let joe come in and do what he needed to do to unwind before starting any conversations.

you heard the door unlock, and joe stepped through, walking straight in and past you and heading up the stairs. alright, just let him shower. it’ll be okay.

you don’t bother him for a while after you hear the shower turn off. when he finally makes his way downstairs he speaks to you, but you’re immediately pissed by the conversation.

“what’s dinner?” he bites, annoyed tone soaking through his words.

“i figured we could order in. i was busy with chores all day and then i started keying some data.” you shrug.

“i didn’t ask what you did today. just asked what was dinner. i’ll place us an order for takeout.” joe replies, and you’re hurt. you’re starting to think you didn’t do anything and he’s just in one of his moods, but he shouldn’t be taking it out on you this way. he heads back up the stairs with his phone in his hand.

you close your laptop and sit in silence, stewing over joe’s harsh response - one he gave you for no reason. he came down to get his food when it arrived, placing yours in front of you before heading to the other side of the kitchen to eat. he ate quickly and retreated back upstairs. you stood and placed your food in the fridge before finding home on the couch for the night.

friday didn’t go any better. once again, joe left without saying anything, didn’t text you all day, and came home and ate in silence.

when he woke up saturday he was surprised to see you already up and in the kitchen, brewing a pot of coffee. he had some pep in his step for some reason, but it was unbeknownst to you because you refused to ask.

“good morning!” he chirps, and you’re piqued by the light tone of his words. you turn around to face him, glowering. “good morning, joseph.” you bite, turning back to the coffee pot. you pulled your favorite mug out of the cabinet and poured a hefty amount into it before placing the pot back on the warmer.

when you turned to walk to the fridge and grab your creamer, you were face to face with joe again. “are you okay?” he asked.

you scoffed, pushing past him. “peachy.”

he looks at you perplexed for a moment before realizing that oh, this is his fault.

“baby, i’m sorry for how i’ve been the past few days. i was trying to get locked in and i should have communicated that better.” he walks toward you with his arms outstretched, waiting for a hug. you place a hand flat on his chest and push him back.

“you need to go or you’ll be late for practice.” you remind him. you grab the creamer and shake it, holding down on the lid, and then you add some to your coffee before taking a long swig. the warm drink filling your mouth and sliding down your throat feels amazing, especially on a morning like today where it’s slightly chilly.

you pay no mind to joe, who looks taken aback by your attitude, but deep down he knows he deserves it. he slides his shoes on and grabs his bag, turning as he reaches the door.

“love you.” he says, hoping you’ll say it back. “mhm, have a good day.” you answer with a smarmy tone.

you spend the rest of the day indulging in self care with an eye-mask, gua-sha, and a nice bubble-bath. you even got pretty far ahead in a book you’d been reading and you took a nap. you knew joe wouldn’t be home tonight so you ordered some thai food, and you enjoyed that on the couch before falling asleep.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

finally, it was gameday sunday. you woke up and showered before fixing your hair and applying makeup. you were still mad at joe, but there’s no way you wouldn’t be there to support him every week.

instead of wearing one of his jerseys or his number, you opted for a black bengals hoodie and some ripped jeans, pairing that with your orange low retro nike dunks.

you grabbed your purse, phone and keys and headed out the door so you could make it to the stadium on time, before a ton of people would be there. once you arrived you parked and got out, going inside to find his teammate logan’s wife. you both had planned to sit lower to the field today so you could see the guys close up on the sidelines.

you found her and made your way down to your seats, watching the guys warm up. logan and joe waved at you both and you waved back, not wanting to make it known that there was trouble in paradise at the moment. they headed back in for a while and then you finally saw them coming from the tunnel, the crowd of fans erupting in cheers.

the game finally started and the bengals offense was looking good, which made you feel excited. at least that’d be a weight off of joe’s shoulders. you cheered along with the fans and you were having a great time as usual, until you saw joe get sacked.

the defender was of course number ninety-eight, maxx crosby. when he finally got off joe, he helped him up before turning in your direction. you weren't sure what he said to joe while they were looking at you, but you knew joe didn’t like it. while you were watching them maxx waved at you, and against your better judgment, you waved back. that was a bad decision.

you weren’t really close enough to joe to see his expression, but you could tell by his poise that he was pissed. it was a known thing through the league that joe was one of the more polite guys at his position, oftentimes introducing himself to the defensive players of other teams during games. he never really talked back to any of them, despite what they’d say, so it came as a shock to you that the next time maxx sacked him, he stood up and smashed his helmet against maxx’s.

you could tell they were in a pretty heated argument, but you hoped it’d only fuel joe to keep pushing and win this game, for them to stomp the raiders into the ground.

the game went on, and you cheered for joe and the rest of the bengals team til the very end, and they pulled off a win. you hoped that’d be enough to keep joe in a good mood, but you never knew with him. you left the stands and went to go find joe before his presser so you could tell him bye and you’d see him at home, but he was already whisked away before you had the chance, so you decided to wait for him.

that was bad decision number two. you were in the hall scrolling on your phone when you saw someone walking toward you in your peripheral. you looked up, not surprised to see maxx crosby in front of you. he was shirtless, wearing nothing but his shoes, shorts, and a backwards cap. he extended his hand to you before speaking.

“you’re burrow’s girl?” he questioned, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. you didn’t extend your hand back. before you could answer you felt a strong arm over your shoulder, and your boyfriend’s dominating presence radiated down the hallway.

“yeah, this is my girl, crosby. go find your fucking teammates or something to do.” joe bit, clearly annoyed. he turned, pulling you with him, and you both walked off down the hall. you could hear maxx laughing behind you.

“good win today, joey.” you said, your voice sounded nervous and unsure. “thanks.” he replied sternly.

when he walked you all the way outside and to his car you were confused. “are you not staying here for a while? team meetings, eating with the guys?”

“no. we’re going the fuck home.” he said, unlocking his car.

“but joe, i drove today. i need to take my car home.” you reminded him. “we’ll come back for it later.” he quipped.

“no, joey. i have too much important shit in my car to leave it here where all these people are. i need to drive it home.” you argued.

“you want me to just let you walk to your car, knowing that fucking asshole is gonna try to find you and talk to you again?” he spits, raising his voice.

“joey, he was just being nice. he didn’t say anything out of the way.”

joe throws his head back in a mocking laugh, before replying. “he didn’t say anything out of the way to you, y/n. you wanna know why we were getting heated on the field?”

you nod your head yes, worried for what he’ll say.

“when he sacked me and then helped me up, he looked up in the stands and asked me if that was my girl with wilson’s girl. when i said yes he told me it was pathetic that you couldn’t even wear my number for me on game day.”

“joe i- i wanted to wear a hoodie in case it was cold.” you lied. you knew you didn’t wear it because you were mad, but now you definitely couldn’t tell him that.

“i brushed it off until he waved at you, and you fucking waved back. the fuck was that?”

“joey, i had no way of knowing what he said.” you replied. “i need to go get my car.” you wanted to avoid public conflict with him at all costs.

“no, i’m not done. he said to me the second time that he felt bad for you, because he could tell i don’t give it to you right. he said a girl like you deserves a man that can hold her down. i wanted to rip his fucking head off. and then, he has the audacity to come introduce himself to you, and you were gonna entertain that? you were really gonna talk to him?” he asked, and he was fuming.

it was embarrassing enough that he was telling you all that had been said about you, but out in the open, where anyone could hear it.. you were fed up. you couldn’t handle whatever mood swing he’d been in all week, so you bit back.

“at least someone was showing me some attention.”

“the fuck you just say?” he questioned, slamming his car door shut.

“you heard me.” you quipped, turning away from him. “i’m going to get my car. i’ll see you at home.”

you turned on your heel and stormed away, heading for your car. you didn’t care how mad joe was or if he was following you, even though you were sure he wasn’t. you found your car after a few minutes of walking and unlocked it quickly, pulling out and waiting in the traffic so you could head home.

what you didn’t know was that joe had raced out of the parking lot, and that he’d make it home before you. he was white knuckling the steering wheel for the entirety of the drive.

when you finally made it home, you bit your lip nervously when you saw joe’s car already pulled in and turned off. you didn’t really want to fight with him, but you knew that’s where this night was headed. you parked your car and turned it off, shoving the keys into your pocket before heading inside, toeing off your shoes by the door. joe was nowhere to be seen, so you tiptoed through the kitchen to make your way to the stairs.

“so, i’m not showing you enough attention and now you feel like you need to seek it out from other men, huh?” joe alleged, his deep voice scaring you as you turned around. you jumped, placing a hand over your heart.

you turned to see him in the den, sitting on the couch with his arms stretched out over the back of it, his large thighs spread. he must’ve taken a quick shower when he got home because his hair was wet, and all he had on was a pair of black athletic shorts.

“joe, i didn’t seek him out. you know that.” you breathed out, heart still racing. he stood from the couch, walking toward you at a slow pace. when he finally reached you, his hand shot up and tucked some hair behind your ear before he used his body weight to push you up against the nearest wall.

“no baby, you must’ve liked it, huh? cuz someone was giving you attention? cuz another man was out there trying to tell me how to give it to you?”

you swallowed thickly. joe’s mood seemed to have done a 180, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t turned on too. you were embarrassed at how quickly this conversation had led to your panties sticking to your core.

“answer me.” he said, leaning down to rub the tip of his nose along the column of your throat.

“no joey, i didn’t like it.” you whispered, shuddering when his hands slipped under the material of your hoodie to caress your bare skin.

“liar. you liked it. i know you did, because you’re a little slut.”

you gasped as you heard him accuse you, but also… it turned you on even more. you could tell he was in a mood where he wanted to dominate you and you loved when he got extra rough in the bedroom.

“yeah, joey. i did like it.” you lie, provoking him further. “maybe he was right. maybe i need a man who can hold me down, give it to me rough.” joe bit your collarbone in response before throwing you over his shoulder and carrying you up the stairs.

he opened the door to your shared room and threw you on the bed unceremoniously before walking toward you, pulling his shorts off in the process. he was already half hard, he grabbed his length and began stroking it before commanding you to get on the floor.

“on your knees.”

you listened, sliding off the bed and onto your knees for him. he used his free hand to roughly grab your chin, pulling your mouth open. your eyes met, and the look you gave him showed all the assurance he needed as he roughly slid his cock into your mouth.

his hand found your hair, locking his fingers in it as he roughly thrust in and out of your mouth. his head was thrown back in pleasure, you were sure he needed this release after the tough game and week he had, even though he probably didn’t deserve it from how he’d been treating you. you hollowed your cheeks as he continued thrusting, bringing your hands up and placing them on his thighs.

“hands to yourself.” he commanded. you placed them back down by your sides. “only good girls get to touch. you haven’t been very good today.”

he continued using your mouth until he was nearly undone, edging himself. he pulled out and stepped back, and you kept your eyes on him in an attempt to be as obedient as possible. “get back on the bed.” he demanded.

you stood up and sat on the bed, waiting for his next command. he ordered you to strip, so you did, laying back against the pillows completely bare for him.

he crawled up from the foot of the bed and placed his body between your parted thighs. “hmm… you’re so wet baby. what caused that?” he teased, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

“you did, joe.” you breathed, aching for him to finally do something to give you relief between your thighs. “i’m not so sure that’s true.” he snarked.

he placed his hand flat on the meat of your thigh, the size and warmth of it sending your head spinning. “joey, please.. touch me.” you begged, not caring how desperate you sounded. “i am touching you.” he remarks.

“you know what i mean.” you whine, grabbing his hand and moving it down, placing it against your sopping wet core. the tips of his fingers dance gently around your entrance and you shudder, watching him lick his lips as he slowly inserts a finger.

one quickly becomes two, and soon he’s working a third into you, scissoring you open to make sure you can take all of him. your head is thrown back and you’re moaning like crazy as joe continues, he’s working you closer and closer to your high.

“joe, i’m so close!” you moan out, but as soon as the words leave your lips he’s pulling his fingers out, dipping them into his mouth and moaning as he tastes your juices on his tongue. he leans over you and says “open your mouth.”

when you do, he spits right into it. you can taste yourself mixed with his saliva, which only turns you on more. before you can even think anything else his fingers are digging into your hips, harshly rolling you over before placing a smack right against your ass.

“why should i even make you cum, y/n? do you deserve to cum?” he teases, but the irritation is still evident in his voice. “please joey, i need it. i’m sorry for what i said earlier.”

“i don’t think you are princess.” he alleges, landing another harsh smack against your ass.

“i am, joey. i promise. i’m yours, only yours. only you can fuck me right. nobody else.” your voice is strained, you’re on the verge of tears. you need to cum so badly, you need some kind of friction. your response must have satisfied joe enough, because soon enough he’s pressing his tip to your entrance and pushing inside without a single warning. when he’s fully seated in you, you let out a deep breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

he smacks your ass one final time before his fingers find home on your hips, roughly digging into them as his hips thrust against yours powerfully.

after a few harsh thrusts he grabs both your hands and brings them up to the small of your back, holding them together with one of his hands. with his free hand, he slaps your ass hard again as he continues to pound into you from behind.

“say his fucking name.”

“joe— i can’t. i’m…”

“SAY IT.” he demanded. you could feel his eyes burning holes into the back of your head. you knew that’s what this was about but… you couldn’t believe he was asking you to do this.

“m-maxx…” you muttered weakly.

“louder.”

“MAXX!” you screamed, just as joe hit a particularly hard thrust.

“doesn’t hit right, does it? you don’t want him to fuck you, do you?”

“no, joey! only you!” you assured him, burying your face into the pillows. “that’s right. you’re mine. all mine.” you hear the smirk in his words. he continues thrusting and you’re so close, just on the precipice of release.

“nobody else can fuck you like this can they?” he asks, and he punctuates every word with a thrust. “fuck no, joey, only you can make me feel this good. only you can fill me up like this.”

“that’s right.” he agrees, continuing his relentless pace.

“joey, i’m there.. can i.. can i cum for you?” you ask him, begging with a saccharine sweet tone. “cum all over this dick.” he replies, pulling your arms back further. your ass is bouncing against him as he thrusts roughly, and your release finally finds you. stars explode all through your vision and they dance along your skin as the warmth spreads from the top of your head all the way to your toes. joe cums too, the feeling of your walls squeezing around him takes him right to the edge. he wastes no time in pulling out, walking to your shared bathroom to grab a rag and soaking it with warm water. he comes back to the bed and rolls you over before parting your thighs.

joe uses the rag to clean your most sensitive areas, wiping away the mixture of your releases from your skin. he looks nervous now, he always does after he gets rough with you. you reach down and place your hand on top of his, rubbing your thumb along his skin softly.

“you okay?” he asks, sounding more concerned than anything else. “i’m okay. are you?” you reply. he shakes his head yes. you look up at him, eyes meeting again. “was that too much?” he wonders.

“no, i’m okay. a bit uncharacteristic but… you know i like when you get rough like that. but for the record joe, i like everything you and i do. and it was out of line for me to say that about getting attention from another man.”

he gets up to take the rag to the laundry bin before sliding into bed with you, pulling the blanket over you both. “what was out of line was how i’ve been treating you, y/n. i deserved what you said. i deserved the attitude you’ve given me all week.”

you reach up to stroke his cheek, letting him know you’re still listening, you’re receptive to what he’s saying. “i’ve just been nervous and frustrated, i know you know that. obviously the season hasn’t been going anywhere near where we’ve wanted it to and the stakes are higher than ever. and then on top of that, crosby just pissed me off. he does that to all the guys, tries to rile them up but… i think it got to me because i knew i’d been treating you poorly all week. and i’m sorry.”

your thumb runs over his cheekbone before you pull him in for a kiss, your lips meeting with an equal tenderness. “i forgive you, joe. i love you. thank you for saying that.” you say, pulling him closer to you.

“there’s one more thing…” he says nervously, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. “spill it.” you plead, eager to know what it is, especially because he looks so nervous.

he rolls over and rummages through the top drawer in his bedside table, producing a small box. you can feel your heart beating hard against your chest because… this can’t be happening, right?

when he rolls back over to face you he realizes you’re just as nervous as he is, and he laughs before opening the box.

“don’t worry, baby. i’m not proposing. at least not yet anyway.” he winks. you look at him expectantly.

“this is another reason i’ve been moody this week. i was… worried about doing this. i know i want to do it, but i was just a little afraid. after the shit with maxx today though, it feels like the right time.”

“go on…” you tease, waving your hand in a little ‘keep going’ motion. he opens the box and inside it are two small golden bands, one for you and one for him. “they’re promise rings, for us both to wear. i know i wanna marry you one day and.. they’re a constant reminder, i’m yours and you’re mine.” he smiles softly.

you can feel tears welling up in your eyes at the sweet gesture, and all the anger from the past week fades away as he takes the small golden ring from the box and places it on your finger. you do the same for him and he smiles, leaning over to kiss your forehead. you giggle as a thought pops in your brain.

“what’s funny, punk?” he asks you, rubbing soothingly at the small of your back. “it’s like spongebob and patrick! best friends forever, best friends forever, ring!” you sing, and joe laughs loudly.

“i love you baby. i’m sorry for being a dick this week.”

“i love you too, joe.” you assure, patting him on the chest. “i think you’ve more than made up for it now.”

“good.” he smiles, before a devious look crosses his features. he rolls over you, holding you down before hopping off the bed and heading for the bathroom. “last one to the shower is a rotten egg!” he yells.

you hop up and launch yourself off the bed, landing on his back. he was unprepared for it and you both topple to the floor, landing in a fit of giggles. you roll over and joe rolls on top of you, catching your lips in a sweet kiss before he stands and runs to the bathroom door, locking it behind him.

“joey, come on let me in!” you scream, laughing loudly as you bang your fists against the door. “hell nah!” he answers, his own loud laugh ringing in your ears. “i’m not showering with a rotten egg!”

“okay fine, guess i’ll drive back to the stadium and see if maxx is still there, i’ll shower with him.”

the bathroom door slams open and joe rushes out wrapping his arms around you and slapping your bare ass. “like hell you will!” he says, picking you up and carrying you to the shower.

taglist: @slimshiesty @starsinthesky5 @kykysinlovewithafairytale @burrowdarling @bengals-barnesbabe @joeyb1989 @loveyatopluto @toterry @unhingedfangirl @superheroprincess22 @burreauxsworld

[acekazoo]

nhl players as textposts part ???

[goldfades]

ICE QUEEN & HER HOCKEY PLAYER──CROSBY⁸⁷

for this request!

─ summary | long awaited: crosby x figure skater where they both meet early in their careers and are not impressed by each other, so kinda enemies, they end up at the 2010 olympics and they still dont like each other but they both carry great pressure and basically just them falling in love over the years and of course the media would be highly involved in two generational talents

─ pairing | sidney crosby x fem!reader

─ word count | 19k

─ warnings | slooooow burn, angsty but gets very fluffy toward the end, lmk if yall want a part 2!!

─ ev's notes | thank you my babies cassie & amber for beta reading, yall are the best!!!!!! go give them some love<3 @v6quewrlds @sc0tters

ok love u bye!!! pls send me requests!!!!!!

⇨ missing out on updates? check out my masterlist!

You first saw him across the rink, his focus sharp as he moved effortlessly through drills, like he was born on ice. It wasn’t admiration that struck you, though—more like irritation. Sidney Crosby. The “next one,” they called him. All this talent, all this praise, and yet here he was, gliding around like he had something to prove.

Not that you cared.

You had your own path, your own climb. Figure skating was different, but the pressure was just as suffocating. Every jump, every spin felt like the world was watching, expecting perfection. So why did it bother you, seeing him here, looking so... untouchable?

Your coach nudged you, urging you to focus, but you couldn’t help the flicker of competition that lit in your chest. He was just another athlete. Another story. And you, well, you were writing your own.

But something in the way his eyes met yours—cool, unreadable—told you that this wasn’t the last time you’d cross paths with Sidney Crosby.

You try to brush it off, turn your focus back to the ice beneath your feet, but that small moment lingers. His presence sticks with you, even as you push through your routine, every movement precise, practiced. It’s all muscle memory at this point, but somehow, your mind keeps drifting back to him. The way he didn’t seem phased by anything, not even you.

You lace your skates with a quiet determination, the cold air of the rink biting at your skin even though you’ve grown used to it. Every day, same routine. You’ve always found a strange comfort in that—the familiar rhythm of blade on ice, the tension before takeoff, the brief moment when you’re airborne, weightless, before gravity pulls you back. It’s your world, your escape. Everything else fades away here.

Except today, something lingers. Or rather, someone.

Sidney Crosby.

The name alone carries an echo in every corner of the sports world, like he’s already a legend and not just some kid skating circles with his team. You’re not immune to the whispers that float around the rink whenever he’s nearby—the excited murmurs from your teammates, the starry-eyed awe in the younger skaters who dream of meeting him, as if proximity to greatness might somehow rub off on them.

But that’s not you.

You’ve worked too hard to be impressed by anyone anymore. You’ve scraped your way to this point, each pirouette and double axel carved out of relentless practice, not natural-born talent. Sure, you’ve got skill, but it was earned—honed through hours of falling and getting back up again. Nobody handed you anything.

And him?

You glance toward the far end of the rink where he’s going through drills with the same cool precision you’d expect from someone nicknamed “The Next One.” It’s not that you don’t respect his ability—no, that’s not it at all. The guy moves like he was built for this. But there’s something infuriating about the way he carries himself, as if being good—no, great—comes so effortlessly to him, like it’s just a given.

You bend down, adjusting the tightness on your skates. You're focusing on the details, making sure everything is just right, because that’s what you do. That’s who you are. Everything has to be perfect, controlled. Sidney Crosby, meanwhile, looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world, and for some reason, that grates at you.

Your coach claps his hands, snapping you out of your thoughts, and you move into your routine. Instinct takes over as you push off from the boards and glide onto the ice, the familiar sting of cold rushing against your cheeks. Your legs pump rhythmically, each motion deliberate and precise. You lose yourself in the movement—the stretch of your arms, the swing of your leg as you enter a jump. For a moment, it’s just you and the ice, the world falling away in the face of the one thing that still makes sense.

But not for long.

Because when you land, your gaze drifts again—over to where Crosby’s skating, his sharp turns cutting into the ice with a sound that digs under your skin. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying. It’s infuriating.

You’re coming down from a series of spins when you hear a voice—your teammate. “You’re really in the zone today,” she says, breathless and smiling as she skates up beside you.

“Yeah, trying to be,” you reply, breathing heavily, trying to focus on anything but him.

Your teammate leans in a little, lowering her voice like she’s about to share some big secret. “Did you hear the news? Crosby’s making waves already. Some scouts are saying he’s the real deal—like, generational talent.”

You roll your eyes before you can stop yourself. “Aren’t they all?”

She grins, nudging you playfully. “Come on, don’t pretend like you’re not a little curious. Everyone’s talking about him.”

“That’s the problem,” you mutter under your breath.

Your teammate skates off, oblivious, leaving you standing there with the weight of that name hanging over your head. Sidney Crosby. It’s like the universe just wants to shove him in your face.

Fine, you think. Let him have his spotlight. Let him be the guy everyone’s fawning over. But you? You’re not here for that. You’ve got your own goals, your own pressures, and the last thing you need is to get wrapped up in some star athlete’s orbit.

You push off again, forcing yourself back into your routine, ignoring the nagging itch that comes with every glance toward his side of the ice. But it’s impossible to drown out completely. You can feel his presence like a shadow, always there, always in the corner of your eye.

When you finally step off the ice, muscles aching in that satisfying way that comes after a hard session, you tell yourself you’re done with him. Done with thinking about the golden boy who’s probably coasting on talent alone.

Yet, as you untie your skates, his image still clings to the edges of your mind—the sharpness in his movements, the quiet intensity in his face, the way he seemed so utterly... unbothered. Like nothing, not even you, could break his focus.

In the locker room, the conversation drifts back to him, as it always seems to. The chatter is almost relentless—"Did you see how fast Crosby is? The way he handles the puck?"—and it takes everything in you not to roll your eyes again. You try to tune it out, focusing instead on the methodical task of packing your gear.

But as you sling your bag over your shoulder and head for the exit, the door swings open. And of course, there he is. Crosby, walking in with that same laser focus, gear in hand, barely acknowledging anyone around him.

He doesn’t look at you. Not even a flicker of recognition as he passes by. It’s almost laughable, how oblivious he is. You half expect him to at least give you a nod or a half-smile, something—anything—to show he knows you exist.

But no. Nothing.

You let out a huff, brushing past him as you walk out. There’s no reason for this to bother you, really. You don’t need his approval, and you definitely don’t need him to notice you.

Still, as the door swings shut behind you, you can’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, this won’t be the last time you cross paths with Sidney Crosby.

Not by a long shot.

───

“Again!” Your coach’s voice cuts through the air like a whip, sharp and biting, echoing across the empty rink. You’ve been at this for hours, it feels like—your muscles are screaming, every part of your body aching, but none of that matters. Not to him.

You swallow the frustration that bubbles in your throat, biting back the urge to snap. Instead, you skate back to the center of the ice, forcing your legs to cooperate, the burn in your calves a constant reminder of how long you’ve been doing this. It’s not good enough, though. Not for him. And, if you’re honest with yourself, not for you either.

You’re trying to perfect your triple Lutz, but every time you attempt the jump, something feels off—your rotation, your timing, maybe even your mindset. Your blade scrapes the ice as you reset, steadying your breath, forcing yourself to focus.

“Go again!” he shouts, his voice almost hoarse now, and you push off, gathering speed. The rink blurs around you as you build up momentum, arms tight, posture straight, the way you’ve been drilled to do since you were a kid. You hit the jump—lift off—but somewhere in the second rotation, it happens again. You come down wrong, your ankle buckling as you land too heavily on your right skate.

Your coach swears under his breath. “What was that? You’re rushing! Slow down, get your rotation tighter—again!”

You don’t say anything. You just grit your teeth and skate back into position. It’s not like you’re unfamiliar with this kind of pressure—no, this is your life. Perfection or nothing. You’ve heard the speeches, felt the disappointment every time you come up short. You know it’s about pushing yourself past your limits.

But right now, with every muscle in your body screaming at you to stop, you’re beginning to wonder if there’s anything left to push through.

“Let’s go, again!”

You roll your eyes but quickly hide it. He’s watching, waiting for you to slip, and he’ll never let you hear the end of it if you show any sign of weakness. So, you breathe in deeply, shake out your arms, and steel yourself. Just one more. One more and you’ll nail it.

You skate hard, the familiar whoosh of ice beneath your blades almost comforting, like the calm before the storm. As you go into the jump, everything seems to click—your body feels lighter, your rotation sharper, and you think, for a second, that you’ve got it.

Then the ice meets you like a slap to the face. Your blade catches, and you fall, hard, knees scraping the cold surface as the impact sends a sharp shock through your legs. You feel the familiar sting of embarrassment heating your cheeks before the pain even registers.

“Are you kidding me?” Your coach’s voice booms across the ice, frustration crackling in every word. “You’re better than this! Do it again, and this time, stop messing around!”

Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you haul yourself up, limbs heavy and protesting. You can feel the sharp eyes of your coach drilling into you, his disappointment palpable even from a distance. And as you push yourself upright, swallowing down the lump of frustration lodged in your throat, something shifts at the edge of your vision.

Sidney Crosby.

Of course.

He’s on the ice now, on the other side of the rink, going through his own drills with an almost inhuman precision. His strides are powerful, fluid, each movement perfectly controlled. He makes it look easy. Like he always does.

You hate that it bothers you, but it does. Watching him now, so effortlessly skating through his practice, it only sharpens the contrast between his ease and your exhaustion. It’s like the universe has decided to throw him in your face every chance it gets.

You force your gaze away, back to the task at hand. You’ve got bigger things to worry about than whatever golden-boy magic Crosby is working over there. Your coach is waiting for you to try again, arms crossed, his face a storm of impatience.

“Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to land this?” he snaps.

You nod, swallowing down the irritation that’s rising in your chest. He’s right. You can’t let this beat you. You won’t.

You take a deep breath, center yourself, and push off, the sound of your blades cutting through the ice grounding you. This time, you focus harder, your mind narrowing in on each detail of the jump. Speed, lift, rotation, land. One step at a time. You block out everything—your coach, the ache in your legs, and definitely Sidney Crosby.

You launch yourself into the air, feeling the smooth power of the jump. For a moment, you’re weightless, and it feels right—until, once again, you come down a hair too early, your blade skidding out from under you. You stumble but don’t fall this time, catching yourself just in time.

“Better,” your coach mutters. “But not good enough.”

You barely hear him, though, because when you glance up, you catch Crosby watching you out of the corner of his eye. It’s subtle, just a flicker of attention, but it’s there. His face is unreadable, but you don’t need to see his expression to know what he’s thinking.

She’s struggling.

And for some reason, that thought sets your nerves on fire.

I’m not gonna let Crosby win.

The thought flares in your mind, sudden and irrational, but you grab onto it like a lifeline. It’s ridiculous—you know that. He’s not even competing with you. Hell, he probably doesn’t even care about you right now, but it’s too late. The idea’s already wormed its way in, digging deep into that part of your brain that refuses to back down from a challenge. Even if it’s one you made up.

You grit your teeth, fists tightening as you push off for another go. The anger fuels you, hot and biting, spreading through your limbs like wildfire. Suddenly, the exhaustion that’s been weighing you down all practice disappears, replaced by a sharp, laser-focused determination.

This time, when you skate, it’s different. Every movement is smoother, sharper. The ice feels like it’s bending to your will instead of working against you. As you approach the jump, you don’t hesitate. There’s no second-guessing, no nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you what could go wrong.

You launch yourself into the air, and everything falls into place. The height, the speed, the rotation—it’s all perfect. You land with a crisp, sharp sound, your blades slicing through the ice as if they were always meant to. No stumble, no misstep. Just perfection.

The rink is silent.

You glance over at your coach, and he’s standing there, mouth slightly open, completely stunned. His arms drop to his sides, the frustration and irritation from earlier replaced with disbelief. For a split second, even he can’t believe what just happened.

“That…” he starts, still catching up to what he’s seen. “That was perfect.”

You feel the rush of satisfaction, a grin tugging at the corners of your lips, but before you can fully relish the moment, your gaze slides across the ice—right back to Sidney Crosby.

And there it is.

A smirk.

Small, barely noticeable, but unmistakably there, tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watches you. It’s infuriating. The heat of your anger that had just started to cool flares up again, boiling over. You know it’s ridiculous. You know you shouldn’t care. But there’s something about the way he’s looking at you—like he knew exactly what just happened, like he’s somehow responsible for flipping that switch in you.

It’s smug. Too smug.

You feel your fingers curl into fists at your sides, the triumph of your flawless landing fading as quickly as it came. It’s not enough. Not when he thinks he had something to do with it. The thought of him thinking that he was the reason you nailed that jump makes you grit your teeth all over again.

Your coach calls out, voice still tinged with amazement. “Take a break—you earned it. That was the best I’ve seen all season.”

You nod, skating off toward the edge of the rink, but your eyes never leave Crosby’s. He’s back to his drills now, that infuriating little smirk gone, replaced by that same focused intensity he always has. Like you don’t even exist. Like he’s already moved on.

But you haven’t.

I’m not gonna let Crosby win. You repeat the mantra to yourself, feeling that fire spark inside you once more.

This is only the beginning.

───

“I’m telling you, he’s got it out for me,” you say, waving your glass in the air as you slump back in your seat. “It's like, every time I look up, there he is, judging me with those stupid, intense eyes. Like he’s some kind of skating god who knows better than the rest of us.”

Your teammates snicker around the table, but you can tell they’re more amused by your dramatics than actually concerned. Abby, sitting across from you, rolls her eyes, sipping her drink with an amused smirk.

“Uh-huh, sure,” she says. “Because Sidney Crosby is totally obsessed with you, out of all people. That’s what he does with his free time.”

“I’m serious!” You huff, propping your elbows on the table. “Every time I mess up, he’s there. Just... lurking in the background. Like some smug, perfectly-groomed shadow, judging me. I swear he enjoys it.”

Tasha, who’s been quietly sipping her beer next to you, finally chimes in. “Are you sure he’s not just, you know, existing and you’re projecting all your frustrations onto him?”

You glare at her, but she only grins, nudging your arm. “I’m just saying, maybe he’s just trying to live his life and it’s not all about you.”

“I don’t project,” you grumble. “I’m very rational. This is just... observation.”

Abby nearly spits out her drink, laughing. “You’re so full of it. Admit it, you just don’t like that he’s good at literally everything. It messes with your perfectionist brain.”

“You’d hate him less if you stopped watching him all the time,” Tasha adds, teasing.

You groan, dropping your head onto the table with a thud. “I don’t watch him. He’s just always there. Like a bad omen with a hockey stick.”

“Yeah, well,” Abby shrugs, “I’d be there too if I were as good as him. Honestly, if you weren’t so busy hating him, you’d probably respect him a little. Maybe you two would even be—”

“Don’t.” You cut her off, lifting your head with a glare. “Don’t even suggest we could be friends. Or worse—something else. That’s the last thing I need right now.”

Tasha grins mischievously. “Well, considering how much you’re talking about him, it sounds like he might be the only thing you need right now.”

You swat at her playfully, but before you can respond, the loud crash of a door opening interrupts your rant. The energy in the bar shifts immediately as a group of loud, rowdy voices enters the room. You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is. You can feel it—the sudden frat-boy energy that seems to follow them wherever they go.

“Speak of the devil,” Abby mutters under her breath, clearly amused.

Sure enough, you glance toward the entrance, and there they are. Sidney Crosby and his teammates, rolling into the bar like they own the place. They’re loud, obnoxious, the exact opposite of what you wanted for this low-key evening. You watch as they laugh, shove each other, and call out to the bartender as if they’ve been best friends for years.

Sidney, of course, is in the center of it all—looking as effortlessly cool as ever in a black jacket and backward baseball cap. His laugh booms across the bar, and you can’t help but roll your eyes.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter. “Why are they always like this? Who gave them permission to act like frat boys in public?”

“Relax,” Abby says, still laughing at your expense. “It’s not like they’re doing anything wrong.”

“They’re just breathing, and it’s bothering you,” Tasha adds with a smirk.

“I can’t help it!” You say, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “They walk in here like they own the place. No one’s even looking at them, and somehow they just... demand attention.”

As if on cue, Sidney’s voice rises above the noise, calling out to one of his teammates with a laugh that carries through the entire bar. His presence is magnetic, drawing attention even when he’s not trying, and you hate how aware of him you are.

“I’m telling you,” you say, turning back to your friends. “This is a sign. The universe is trying to ruin my peace.”

“You’re such a drama queen,” Abby teases. “The universe doesn’t revolve around you and Sidney Crosby. Just let it go.”

“I don’t want to talk about him anymore,” you declare, crossing your arms stubbornly. “He’s not worth my energy.”

But as soon as the words leave your mouth, you feel a pair of eyes land on you. You glance up—and of course, it’s him. Sidney freaking Crosby. He’s looking right at you, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, almost as if he knows exactly what you were just complaining about.

Your stomach flips, and suddenly, the heat rushes to your face. Great, just what you needed. You quickly look away, trying to pretend like you hadn’t been caught mid-rant about him for the umpteenth time.

Abby leans in, her voice low and teasing. “So... what’s that about not caring?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, grabbing your drink and downing the rest in one go.

Tasha bursts out laughing. “You’re so done for.”

“Am not,” you grumble, avoiding Sidney’s gaze. But you can still feel his eyes on you, that stupid smirk lingering in your mind, and you can’t shake the thought that, maybe, just maybe, he does enjoy messing with you.

Or worse—maybe you enjoy it too.

Later, you found yourself alone. You lean against the bar, the cool wood pressing into your forearms as you wait for the bartender to notice you. The noise of the bar hums around you—laughter, clinking glasses, some bad country song playing in the background. But for the first time since Sidney Crosby and his squad of obnoxious teammates showed up, you’ve managed to relax a little. Maybe it’s the alcohol kicking in or maybe it’s because you’ve successfully avoided looking in his direction for the past half hour. Either way, you feel lighter.

You tap your fingers against the counter impatiently, scanning the crowd for the bartender, trying not to let your mind wander back to Sidney. You promised yourself you weren’t going to let him ruin your night, and you’re doing a decent job of it so far. No reason to let him take up more space in your head than he already does.

"Hey, can I get another drink over here?" you call out to the bartender, who finally catches your eye and nods.

Just as you start to relax, though, you feel it—that presence. It’s like your body knows he’s there before you even see him, a tingle that runs up your spine, making your muscles tense involuntarily.

You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Sidney’s voice is smooth, low, and far too casual, like he’s not already driving you insane.

You grit your teeth, rolling your eyes before you even face him. Great. Of course, he’d pick now to show up. When you’re alone. Just your luck.

Sidney leans against the bar beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, but not so close that it feels like he’s crowding you. He’s got this irritatingly effortless way of taking up space without trying. It’s like the universe bends around him, making sure everyone notices when he’s around.

“What do you want?” you ask, not bothering to hide the irritation in your voice as you finally turn to face him. You don’t have the patience for his smug attitude tonight.

He’s leaning casually with one elbow on the bar, looking at you with that infuriating half-smirk, like he finds the whole situation amusing. His backward cap is still in place, strands of hair peeking out messily, and his eyes glint with something that feels way too much like a challenge.

“What makes you think I want something?” he asks, his voice almost teasing.

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Because you don’t come over here for no reason.”

Sidney chuckles softly, and the sound grates on your nerves. “Maybe I just wanted to say hi. You know, be friendly.”

“Since when are we friendly?” you shoot back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Pretty sure we’ve never been that.”

He shrugs, still smiling, as if your hostility only makes this more fun for him. “There’s a first time for everything.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to gauge his angle. It’s impossible to tell if he’s genuinely trying to make conversation or if he’s just here to mess with you. Either way, you’re not having it.

“Look, Crosby,” you say, your voice sharp, “if you’re here to annoy me, you’re wasting your time. I’m not in the mood.”

His smirk widens, and for some reason, it makes your stomach flip in a way you don’t like. “Who said anything about annoying you?”

You let out a huff of frustration, leaning back against the bar and glaring at him. “You always do. Every time you show up, it’s like you can’t help but get under my skin.”

Sidney tilts his head slightly, like he’s considering your words, but the smirk never leaves his face. “Maybe that’s because you make it so easy.”

The nerve of this guy. You open your mouth to fire back, but the bartender finally appears with your drink, placing it in front of you. You grab it with a quick thanks, eager for a distraction. Anything to avoid looking at Sidney and that stupid grin of his.

“Why do you even care?” you ask, taking a sip of your drink. “You don’t know me. We’re in completely different worlds.”

Sidney doesn’t respond right away, just watches you with those annoyingly intense eyes, like he’s trying to figure something out about you. It’s unsettling, but you refuse to let him see that he’s getting to you. You’ve already let him mess with your head enough tonight.

“Maybe I don’t know you,” he says after a moment, his voice lower now, more thoughtful. “But you’re interesting. More interesting than half the people I’ve met in this sport.”

You blink at him, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. “Interesting?”

He nods, that playful glint still in his eyes. “Yeah. You’re not like everyone else. Most people just... try to stay out of the way, keep their heads down, play nice. But you? You don’t take shit from anyone. I like that.”

You snort, unable to help yourself. “So what, you’re saying you like me because I don’t like you?”

Sidney laughs, and the sound is so warm, so genuine, that it throws you off for a second. It’s not the cocky laugh you’re used to hearing from him on the ice. This one feels... real.

“I’m saying I like a challenge,” he says, his eyes gleaming with something that makes your heart race even though you really don’t want it to. “And you’re definitely a challenge.”

A challenge. That word lingers in the air between you, heavy and charged, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the way he said it or because of how it makes you feel. Because on some level, you know he’s right. You are a challenge. You’ve always been a challenge. And maybe that’s part of why he gets under your skin so easily—because he’s not backing down.

But you’re not backing down either.

“Well, if you think you can just waltz in here and... what? Win me over?” you scoff, taking another sip of your drink. “Good luck with that, Crosby. I don’t go down that easy.”

Sidney leans in just a fraction, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “I never said I wanted you to go down easy.”

The words hang between you, thick with tension, and you feel your pulse quicken, the heat rising in your chest despite your best efforts to stay calm. His eyes stay locked on yours, and for a split second, you forget where you are, forget everything except the way his gaze makes you feel like he’s seeing through every layer of defense you’ve built up.

It takes everything in you not to let him see how much he’s affecting you. You keep your expression neutral, lips pressed into a tight line as you lean back, forcing some distance between you.

“You really think you can get to me with a few smooth lines?” you ask, your voice sharper than you intended.

Sidney shrugs again, but this time there’s a hint of something more serious behind his smile. “I don’t know. Guess I’ll find out.”

You glare at him, feeling that familiar frustration bubbling up again, but there’s something else there now too—something you don’t want to acknowledge. Something that feels dangerous and thrilling all at once.

“Well, don’t get too comfortable,” you say, standing up from the bar and giving him one last, pointed look. “I’m not as easy to figure out as you think.”

Sidney just smiles, leaning back against the bar as he watches you walk away, and you can feel his eyes on you the whole time.

“Good,” he calls after you. “I like a good mystery.”

You don’t look back, but damn it, his voice follows you all the way out of the bar, and it’s all you can think about for the rest of the night.

───

The rink is nearly deserted when you stayed that night, after practice. The cold air bites at your exposed skin, but it feels like a relief after the stuffiness of the bar. You needed this—the wide-open space, the sound of your skates carving into the ice, the familiar rhythm of movement that helps drown out all the noise in your head.

You plug in your phone to the speaker system, scrolling through your playlists until you settle on something fitting for the mood—dramatic, sweeping classical music, the kind that builds and builds until it feels like it’s going to break something wide open. It’s exactly what you need right now.

As the first notes fill the rink, you skate to the center, closing your eyes for just a moment, letting the music wash over you. The stress, the frustration, the lingering burn from your interaction with Sidney—it all simmers beneath the surface, but here, on the ice, you know how to channel it. You’ve always been able to let the pressure fuel you, turning frustration into focus.

Opening your eyes, you push off, gliding across the ice with an easy grace that comes from years of muscle memory. The music builds, and you pick up speed, letting the intensity of the sound guide your movements. Each jump, each spin, feels sharper than before, more deliberate. There’s no audience, no competition, just you and the ice and the echo of the music in the empty arena.

You land a triple axel cleanly, but it’s not enough. Not tonight. You need more.

I’m not going to let Crosby win. The thought flashes in your mind, unbidden, but once it’s there, you can’t shake it. It’s ridiculous—Sidney’s not even here, not even part of this—but somehow, he’s still under your skin, pushing you to go harder, to be better.

The frustration builds, a knot tightening in your chest, and with a surge of anger, you launch into another jump, pushing yourself to the limit. You flip in the air, body twisting with precision, and when your skates hit the ice again, the landing is so clean, so perfect, that even you’re stunned for a moment.

Your coach isn’t here to shout or correct you, but if he were, you know he’d be speechless. You nailed it.

You stop in the center of the rink, breathing heavily, staring down at the ice beneath your feet. How did you flip that switch so quickly? One second, you were spiraling, frustration threatening to spill over, and the next, you’re here—executing moves with a sharpness you didn’t think you had tonight.

It’s almost like—

“Nice landing.”

Your heart leaps into your throat, and you spin around, your skates squeaking on the ice as you search for the source of the voice.

Of course.

Sidney Crosby is standing in the entrance to the rink, leaning casually against the boards with his arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that same infuriating half-smirk. His dark hoodie is pulled over his head, casting shadows over his face, but you’d recognize that voice anywhere. You’d thought you were alone, but apparently, Sidney had other plans.

“Jesus—what the hell are you doing here?” you snap, pulse still racing from both the exertion and the shock of seeing him.

Sidney shrugs, as if he hasn’t just interrupted your entire night. “Could ask you the same thing.”

You narrow your eyes at him, pushing down the urge to scream. “I’m here because I’m training. What’s your excuse?”

He lifts an eyebrow, pushing off the boards and stepping onto the ice with ease, his skates gliding smoothly over the surface. “Didn’t realize you had the rink reserved.”

You cross your arms, glaring as he skates a slow circle around you, as if he’s sizing you up. The way he moves is so infuriatingly confident, like he knows exactly how to get under your skin.

“Sidney, I swear, if you’re here just to mess with me—”

He stops right in front of you, cutting you off with a grin that makes your stomach twist. “I’m not here to mess with you.” His voice drops a little, that playful edge still there but softer now. “Not unless you want me to.”

You take a step back, suddenly feeling a little too close to him. The music still plays in the background, dramatic strings swelling through the speakers, matching the tension that’s building between you two.

“Why are you really here?” you ask, trying to sound more composed than you feel. You’re not sure if it’s the adrenaline from skating or the fact that Sidney’s presence always seems to set you off, but your pulse is racing, and not just from the workout.

Sidney tilts his head slightly, watching you with those annoyingly intense eyes. “I could ask you the same thing,” he says, echoing your earlier words. “You’ve been skating for hours. What’s got you so wound up?”

Your mouth opens to snap back, but you stop yourself, unsure how to answer. It’s not like you can tell him he’s part of the problem, that every time he shows up, he stirs something inside you that’s equal parts frustration and... something else you refuse to acknowledge.

“I’m fine,” you finally say, your voice tight. “Just working on a few things.”

Sidney steps closer again, his eyes not leaving yours, and you can feel your defenses rising instinctively. He has this way of making you feel exposed, like he sees through every layer you put up.

“You don’t look fine,” he says quietly, the teasing edge fading from his voice. “You look like you’re trying to prove something.”

“I don’t have anything to prove to you,” you snap, more harshly than you intended.

Sidney doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even react to your tone. Instead, he just watches you, like he’s waiting for you to let your guard down.

“You don’t have anything to prove to me,” he agrees, his voice low, almost gentle now. “But it seems like you’re trying to prove something to yourself.”

The words hit you harder than you want to admit, and for a second, you feel the weight of the pressure you’ve been carrying—the constant need to be perfect, to land every jump, to be better than you were yesterday. And maybe, just maybe, part of that pressure comes from knowing that Sidney Crosby, of all people, has seen you falter.

Your hands tighten into fists, frustration bubbling up again, but this time it’s not aimed at Sidney—it’s aimed at yourself.

“What do you know about it?” you mutter, looking away from him, focusing on the ice instead of the way his presence is making you feel.

Sidney doesn’t respond right away, and when he does, his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. “More than you think.”

Something in his tone makes you glance up, and for the first time, you see something different in his eyes—not the usual cocky smirk, not the playful teasing. It’s something deeper, something you recognize.

Pressure. Expectation. The weight of the world on his shoulders, just like you carry on yours.

For a moment, the air between you shifts, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the music still playing softly in the background or because of the way Sidney is looking at you. There’s something unspoken hanging in the space between you, something fragile and real.

“I get it,” he says, his voice quiet. “The pressure. The feeling like you have to be perfect every time you step on the ice. I know what that’s like.”

You swallow hard, the walls you’ve built around yourself trembling slightly. You’re not used to Sidney Crosby being... this. Open. Vulnerable. It throws you off balance, makes you feel like you’re standing on shaky ground.

But before you can say anything, he steps back, giving you space, and the moment passes as quickly as it came.

“Anyway,” he says, his usual smirk slipping back into place, “just wanted to check in. See if you needed anything.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to regain your composure. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Sidney grins, his playful edge back in full force. “Good. I like seeing you fired up.”

And just like that, the tension is back, simmering under the surface, and you’re left standing there, wondering how Sidney Crosby has managed to flip your world upside down in a matter of minutes.

As he skates away, you’re left with the echo of his words in your mind—and the realization that maybe, just maybe, he’s not the only one who likes a challenge.

───

A few weeks later, the cold of early winter is biting harder, a constant reminder of what’s looming: the Olympics. The most important competition of your life. Every jump, every spin, every session on the ice has been building to this moment, and now, the pressure is so thick, it feels like it's settled in your bones.

You’re sitting in the locker room, your gear strewn across the bench beside you. The atmosphere is tense but electric. Today is the day they announce the official Olympic figure skating team, and though you know you've earned your spot, the nerves are impossible to shake. Even after years of preparation, the thought of representing your country on the world’s biggest stage makes your heart pound.

Your coach comes in first, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He claps you on the back, and you can feel the energy shift in the room.

“They’ve posted the roster,” he says, barely containing his pride. “You’re on the team.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and then the weight of them crashes down on you. You’re on the team. You’re going to the Olympics.

You let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding, your chest tight with a mix of relief and exhilaration. All the hours on the ice, the grueling practices, the mental battles—it’s all been worth it. You’re going to be part of something bigger than yourself, and for a moment, you let yourself revel in the feeling of accomplishment.

But then, like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon, another thought creeps in: Sidney Crosby.

You haven't seen him since that night at the rink, but his presence has lingered, a constant shadow in your mind. He’s been picked too—you know it without even needing to check the roster. Of course he has. He's Sidney Crosby. A generational talent, just like they call you, only... more somehow. More polished, more famous, more everything. And now, the media will eat this up, won’t they? Two stars, both at the top of their games, both chasing Olympic glory, both—

You shake your head, pushing the thought away. You’re not going to let Sidney Crosby get into your head. Not when you’ve worked so hard to get here.

Your teammates rush into the room, their excitement contagious as they celebrate together. You laugh with them, letting the energy lift you for a moment, but in the back of your mind, that quiet tension still lingers. You can’t shake the feeling that this is just the beginning of something bigger—and that Sidney is somehow going to be a part of it, whether you like it or not.

───

The night before the team heads out for the final round of pre-Olympic training, you find yourself back at the rink, once again pushing through a late-night session. The music is quieter this time, more contemplative, as you work on fine-tuning your routine. It’s just you and the ice, and for a little while, that’s enough.

Until the door creaks open again.

You stop mid-spin, your breath catching in your throat. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is—somehow, you can always tell when Sidney’s around. It’s like your body is wired to notice him, even when you don’t want to.

“What are you doing here?” you call out, not bothering to mask the annoyance in your voice.

Sidney doesn’t answer right away, but you hear the sound of his skates as he steps onto the ice, gliding easily toward you.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he says, his voice calm, almost too calm, like he knows exactly how to get under your skin. “Training late again?”

You grit your teeth, refusing to let him get to you. “Yeah, well, some of us still have work to do.”

Sidney chuckles softly, skating closer until he’s just a few feet away. “You really think you’ve got that much left to prove?”

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “Don’t you?”

For a second, he doesn’t answer, his eyes searching yours. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something almost… curious. Then he shrugs, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Maybe,” he says, his voice low. “But I’m not the one staying up all night to try and be perfect.”

His words hit a little too close to home, and you feel the flare of anger rise again. But before you can respond, Sidney’s already moving, skating around you with that effortless grace that somehow makes everything seem easy for him.

“You know,” he says, his tone light, “the media’s having a field day with this whole thing. Two Canadian stars, same Olympics, both at the top of their game. They love a good story.”

You roll your eyes, spinning around to face him. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Sidney’s grin widens, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s enjoying this more than he should. “You think they’ll keep us apart, or you think they’ll try to milk this for everything it’s worth?”

You cross your arms, refusing to play into whatever game he’s trying to start. “I don’t really care what the media does.”

Sidney stops in front of you, his eyes locking onto yours with that same intensity you’ve come to know all too well. “You sure about that?”

The question hangs in the air between you, and for a second, you’re not sure if he’s talking about the media… or something else entirely.

You stare at him for a moment, the weight of his gaze making the rink feel smaller, more intimate than it has any right to be. The soft hum of your music in the background seems distant now, a faraway echo compared to the silence between you. You want to say something cutting, to brush him off like you always do, but there's something different about this moment. It's not just annoyance. There's a challenge here—a tension, thick and electric, hovering just out of reach.

Sidney's eyebrow quirks up, and you feel your stomach twist in frustration. He's baiting you, but you don't know what game you're even playing anymore. And the worst part? He’s winning. Again.

"I'm sure," you finally manage to say, but your voice doesn’t carry the sharpness you intended. It's a little softer, almost uncertain, and you hate it. His smirk widens ever so slightly, like he's noticed it too.

"Good." Sidney pushes off the ice and skates a lazy circle around you, his movements fluid and deliberate, like he's taking his time to think about his next words. "Because it doesn't matter what they say. We're both here for the same reason—to win."

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but there's a part of you that knows he's right. You didn’t get this far by letting other people’s opinions get in your head. You worked for this. Hard. Late nights, endless drills, pushing yourself past your limits just to prove to everyone—and maybe to yourself—that you deserved to be here. That you belonged.

But somehow, Sidney Crosby always finds a way to make you feel like you're still fighting for that validation. Like there's always something left to prove.

"And here I thought you were just here for the cameras," you say, your words sharper now, biting back with the edge you'd been missing earlier. "They do love a good Sidney Crosby story, don't they?"

Sidney doesn't react the way you expect. He doesn’t bristle or fire back. Instead, he just smiles, a slow, knowing grin that almost��almost—looks genuine. "Maybe. But they’re not the ones I’m trying to impress."

Your heart skips, just for a second, caught off guard by his sudden sincerity. You blink, trying to keep your composure, to ignore the way your body betrays you under his gaze.

"Right." You scoff again, trying to laugh it off. "You don’t have to impress anyone, do you?"

Sidney stops, coming to a smooth halt just in front of you. He's close enough now that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his breath fogs in the cold air between you. He tilts his head, that smirk fading into something else. Something more serious.

"Everyone's got something to prove," he says quietly. His voice is low, almost a whisper, like it's a confession meant for you and only you. "Even me."

For a second, you don’t know what to say. His words catch you off guard, and you feel the weight of them sink in, wrapping around you like the cold air of the rink. You've always seen Sidney as untouchable, a star so far beyond reach that nothing could ever shake him. But now, standing here, staring at him, you realize he’s just as human as you. Maybe even just as scared.

Your throat tightens, and for a moment, the walls you’ve built around yourself start to crack. But before you can respond—before you can even process what’s happening—Sidney’s already pushing away, skating back toward the other end of the rink, like the moment never happened.

"Good luck with the routine," he calls over his shoulder, his voice light again, casual. "See you in Vancouver."

You stand there for a long time after he’s gone, the rink feeling empty without him. Your mind is racing, filled with thoughts you don’t want to acknowledge. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter—that he doesn’t matter. You’ll go to the Olympics, skate your heart out, and that’s all that matters.

But deep down, you know things have changed. And no matter how hard you try, Sidney Crosby is already under your skin.

The weeks leading up to the Olympics pass in a blur of training, media appearances, and endless speculation. The pressure builds with every day, every practice, every headline that pits you and Sidney against each other. It’s exhausting, and yet, part of you thrives on it. The stakes, the attention, the challenge. It's what you’ve always worked for.

But it’s also terrifying. Because every time you step on the ice, you know there are a million eyes watching, waiting for you to slip. And every time Sidney’s name comes up—whether it’s in an interview or in passing—it’s like a spark of irritation flares up inside you, reminding you that he’s still there, always lingering in the background of your mind.

The final week before the Olympics, you find yourself at a press conference, surrounded by reporters. You’ve done a thousand of these before, but this one feels different. The energy in the room is palpable, buzzing with anticipation as everyone prepares for the biggest event of the year.

And of course, the first question they ask isn’t about your routine or your preparation. It’s about Sidney.

“So, Y/N, you and Sidney Crosby have both been named as Canada’s biggest medal hopes this year. How do you feel about that?”

You force a smile, even though you want to roll your eyes. “I feel great about it. Sidney’s an incredible athlete, and it’s an honor to be mentioned alongside him.”

The reporter doesn’t stop there. “Do you think the rivalry between the two of you has helped push you both to new heights?”

You want to laugh. Rivalry? Is that what they’re calling it now?

“I think we’re both just focused on doing our best for our country,” you say diplomatically, but the answer feels hollow even to you. Because if you’re being honest with yourself, the rivalry is there. It’s always been there, even before the media latched onto it.

It’s not just about skating or hockey or who wins the most medals. It’s about something deeper—something neither of you has been willing to admit yet.

After the press conference, you slip out of the room as quickly as possible, your mind still buzzing with thoughts of Sidney. You’ve seen him a few times in passing since that night at the rink, but neither of you has said much. There’s been no need. The tension is there, lingering between you, always simmering just below the surface.

And now, with the Olympics just days away, it feels like everything is coming to a head.

You don’t know what’s going to happen in Vancouver, but one thing’s for sure: Sidney Crosby isn’t going to be easy to forget.

───

The sun barely peeks over the Vancouver skyline as you step into the bustling arena, the energy already electric despite the early hour. It’s the first day of the Winter Olympics, and the anticipation in the air is palpable. Athletes mill around, warming up and going through their routines, while coaches and officials rush to prepare the rink and finalize schedules.

The ice skating events are divided by discipline, with singles, pairs, and ice dance categories each occupying different time slots throughout the day. You’re scheduled for the women’s short program later this afternoon, but you arrive early to settle your nerves and observe the competition. It’s been a long time coming—years of training, countless sacrifices, and now, it’s finally here.

As you watch the men’s short program unfold, you catch glimpses of familiar faces—skaters you’ve competed against on the international circuit. The stands fill with excited spectators, flags waving, the hum of different languages mingling in the air. You take it all in, your gaze flitting from one skater to the next, mentally noting their performances.

And then, you see him.

Sidney is seated with a group of Team Canada athletes near the edge of the rink, his attention fixed on the ice. He’s wearing the official red and white tracksuit, his posture relaxed, and his expression serious. You know he’s here to support his teammates, but it doesn’t stop your heart from fluttering. You haven’t spoken since the night at the rink, and the tension still lingers, unspoken but ever-present.

You try to focus on the skaters on the ice, but your gaze keeps drifting back to Sidney. He’s surrounded by people, but his eyes seem distant, as if his mind is somewhere else. A part of you wants to approach him, to say something, anything, to break the silence that’s grown between you. But there’s no time for that now. Not when everything you’ve worked for is at stake.

A sudden cheer erupts from the crowd as one of the Canadian skaters finishes his routine with a flawless quad jump. Sidney stands, applauding along with the rest of the crowd, and for a moment, his eyes meet yours across the arena. It’s a fleeting connection—one that sends a jolt through you—before you quickly look away, your pulse quickening.

You remind yourself why you’re here. It’s not for Sidney. It’s for the chance to compete on the world’s biggest stage, to prove to yourself—and to everyone else—that you belong.

Hours later, as the women’s short program draws near, you’re in the locker room, lacing up your skates and taking deep breaths. You can hear the muffled sounds of the arena through the walls—cheers, announcements, and the faint strains of music from other performances. Your coach is by your side, offering words of encouragement and going over last-minute details of your routine.

When your name is called, you make your way to the ice, nerves and adrenaline surging in equal measure. The arena is packed now, the crowd buzzing with excitement. You take your position at the center of the rink, the bright lights shining down on you, and as the music begins, you shut out everything else—Sidney, the pressure, the noise—focusing solely on the routine you’ve practiced countless times.

As you step onto the ice, the chill bites at your exposed skin, the cold seeping into your muscles despite the hours of warming up backstage. You close your eyes, inhaling deeply, the familiar scent of the rink—a mix of ice, metal, and adrenaline—filling your lungs.

The bright lights of the arena are almost blinding, but you’ve grown used to the glare. It’s everything else that’s harder to ignore: the noise of the crowd, the anticipation hanging in the air, and the weight of every expectation you’ve ever placed on yourself.

Your name echoes through the arena, and you take your starting position at the center of the rink, feeling the world close in around you. It’s just you and the ice. You’ve done this routine a thousand times—maybe more—in practice. You know every step, every jump, every nuance of the music. But the stakes are different now, and doubt has a way of creeping in when you need confidence most.

The music begins, a soft piano melody that rises and falls like a tide. You push off, gliding into your opening spin, your body rotating effortlessly as your arms sweep out to the sides. For a moment, you feel a flicker of hope—this part, at least, feels right. But as you transition into the next sequence, the familiar pattern you’ve rehearsed starts to fray at the edges.

Your first jump, the triple flip, is where the anxiety tightens its grip. You approach the takeoff, heart racing, and launch yourself into the air. For a split second, you feel weightless, suspended above the ice, but then something feels off. Your body twists at the wrong angle, your balance shifts too soon. You land, but the landing is sloppy—your skate scrapes the ice, and you wobble, arms flailing to steady yourself.

Panic surges through you, hot and electric. It’s only the beginning of the program, and already you’ve stumbled. You try to shake it off, but the rhythm is broken, and your mind spirals into self-criticism.

You practiced this a thousand times. Why didn’t you get it right?

The next element is a step sequence, a chance to regain your composure, but the nagging voice in your head won’t let up. You force a smile, hoping to mask the growing frustration and fear. As you weave through the steps, your feet move, but your mind is still stuck on the failed jump. You feel disconnected from the music, from the ice, from the performance that’s slipping through your fingers.

You approach the triple Lutz—one of the most challenging elements in your routine. You breathe deeply, telling yourself you can still save this, but the seed of doubt has taken root. You accelerate into the jump, feeling the power build in your legs, and then you launch into the air. This time, you feel the rotation, the speed, the familiar rush of adrenaline, but it’s too fast, too uncontrolled. When you come down, you feel your left skate catch, and before you know it, you’re pitching forward. You barely manage to stay upright, catching yourself with a hand on the ice.

The gasp from the crowd feels like a punch to the gut.

I can’t believe I just did that. This is a disaster.

You’re only halfway through the program, but every second feels like an eternity. Each movement feels heavier, each step more labored. Your body moves through the motions, but your mind is stuck on replaying your mistakes. The music swells, urging you to keep going, but all you can think about is how much you’ve already ruined.

The spins that follow are supposed to be your strength, your signature—a moment when you can let go and show your artistry. But you’re too distracted, your mind racing with self-doubt. You rush into the first spin, and it feels off—your center of gravity isn’t where it should be. You struggle to maintain speed, and by the time you come out of it, your legs feel shaky. You curse yourself under your breath, frustration bubbling up. You’ve never felt this out of control in a competition before.

You’ve blown it. Everyone’s watching you fall apart.

The final jump, a double Axel, should be simple compared to the others, but the fear of messing up again overwhelms you. You take off, and for a second, you think it might be fine—until you under-rotate. The landing feels heavy, and you stumble. This time, you can’t save it. You fall, hitting the ice with a thud, the sound echoing in the silent arena.

You want to stay down, to disappear, to let the ice swallow you whole. But the music pulls you back up, and you force yourself to your feet, biting back the tears threatening to spill. Your legs feel like lead as you move through the final moments of the routine, each movement mechanical and empty.

As the music fades and you hold your ending pose, all you can think about is the silence. It’s deafening. The applause comes a few seconds later, polite but subdued, and it feels like salt in the wound. You know what the crowd saw. You know what you felt. It wasn’t the performance you’d spent years dreaming of; it was the kind that haunts you.

You skate off the ice, head down, feeling the heat of embarrassment burn through you. Your coach approaches, a hand on your shoulder, whispering words of encouragement you can barely hear over the sound of your own self-recrimination.

You blew it. You had one chance, and you blew it.

In the kiss-and-cry area, the scores flash on the screen, but you don’t need to see them to know what they’ll be—low, lower than you’ve ever had in an international competition. You feel tears prick at your eyes, and you clench your fists, willing yourself not to cry in front of the cameras.

When you finally look up, you see Sidney standing near the boards, watching. His face is unreadable, but you know he saw everything. The thought makes your stomach twist. You wanted him to see you at your best, to show him the skater you’ve worked so hard to become. But instead, he saw you at your worst.

You tear your eyes eyes away, feeling your throat forming that familiar lump. “God fucking damn it,” you mumble as you shut your eyes. You rush off to the bathroom, shutting it behind you swiftly.

It feels like your world was upside down.

You can't control the sobs that come next as you slid down the door, as your legs give out beneath you. The sobs rip through you, harsh and unrelenting, and you press a hand over your mouth, desperate to stifle the sound. The last thing you need is for anyone else to hear you breaking down. But the tears keep coming, hot and uncontrollable, and your chest tightens with the weight of your own disappointment.

You curl up on the cold tile floor, knees pulled to your chest, feeling the ache spread through your entire body. Every mistake from the routine replays in your mind on an endless loop—the missed jumps, the stumble, the fall. Each one feels like a punch, and you can’t help but berate yourself for every single one.

Why couldn’t you get it right? Why did you choke?

You lean your head back against the door, the cool wood grounding you for a moment. But then the wave hits again. You’ve worked for years—years—for this moment, and you blew it in front of everyone. All those hours of practice, all those sacrifices, and for what? For a performance that feels like it’s ruined everything you’ve worked so hard for.

The tears blur your vision, and you rub at your eyes, only to feel the sting of makeup smearing across your cheeks. It’s a mess—everything feels like a mess. You dig your fingers into your hair, pulling slightly as if the pain might drown out the thoughts that won’t stop tormenting you.

You were supposed to be better than this. You were supposed to prove you belonged here.

The worst part is knowing that Sidney saw it all. You tried so hard to ignore the tension, to push past the uncertainty of what’s between you two. But in that moment on the ice, with the lights bright and the stakes high, all you could think about was wanting to impress him, to show him the best version of yourself. And now he’s seen you fail, seen you fall apart, and you can’t bear the thought of what he must think.

The thought twists in your gut, making the sobs come harder. You bury your face in your hands, shoulders shaking. You feel like a little kid again, like all the progress you’ve made, all the strength you’ve built up, has crumbled in an instant.

After a few minutes, the sobs finally start to subside, leaving you feeling drained and empty. You breathe in, ragged and shallow, trying to calm the storm inside your head. But the silence only makes the thoughts louder. You can still hear the crowd’s disappointed murmur, see the faces of the judges as they wrote down your scores.

You’re not sure how long you stay there, slumped against the door, before the sound of footsteps approaching makes you freeze. You quickly wipe at your face, scrubbing away the tears and trying to pull yourself together. The last thing you need is for anyone to find you like this, crumpled up and broken.

There’s a knock on the door, soft at first, and you hold your breath, hoping whoever it is will go away. But then the knock comes again, a little more insistent.

“Hey,” a voice says quietly, and your heart sinks. You’d recognize that voice anywhere—Sidney.

You bite your lip, trying to steady your breath, but it’s no use. You know you can’t face him like this, not when you feel so raw and exposed. “Go away, Sid,” you manage to choke out, but it comes out weaker than you intended.

“Please, just… let me in.” His voice is gentle, and that makes it worse. You don’t want his pity, don’t want to be reminded of how badly you’ve messed up in front of him.

You wipe at your face again, even though you know you look like a mess. “I don’t want to talk right now,” you say, your voice breaking on the last word. You feel pathetic, and all you want to do is disappear.

There’s a long pause, and for a moment, you think he might leave. But then he speaks again, softer this time. “It’s okay to be upset. You don’t have to hide.”

The words are kind, and they cut through you. You hate that he knows, that he sees you like this. You hate that part of you wants to open the door, to let him in and just collapse into his arms. But you can’t. You can’t let him see how much you’re falling apart.

“I’m fine,” you lie, voice cracking again. “Just… go.”

But he doesn’t move. “Look, I know you’re upset. I saw what happened out there, but it doesn’t change anything. You’re still one of the best skaters I’ve ever seen.”

You press your lips together, shaking your head even though he can’t see. “I don’t need a pep talk, Sid.”

There’s another silence, and then, softer still, “I just want to be here for you.”

The vulnerability in his voice makes your chest tighten. You want to believe him, want to open the door and let yourself lean on someone for once. But the fear is too strong—the fear of being seen, of being judged, of letting someone close enough to hurt you.

“I can’t do this right now,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face again.

“Okay,” he says quietly, and you can hear the hurt in his voice. “But if you need me, I’m here.”

You don’t respond, biting down on your lip as the tears fall harder. You wait until his footsteps fade away, leaving you alone in the silence once more. Then, finally, you let out a sob, sinking back against the door, feeling the weight of everything crash down on you again.

───

The hotel room feels suffocating, the walls closing in as you sit cross-legged on the bed, staring blankly at the TV screen. The Olympics news channel is on, and you can’t help but watch, even though every fiber of your being screams to turn it off. They’re showing highlights of the day’s performances, and you know it’s only a matter of time before they replay yours.

The phone is pressed to your ear, and your coach’s voice crackles through the line, rough and familiar. He’s the one who’s seen you at your best and your worst, the one who’s pushed you to reach your full potential. But tonight, his words sting more than they usually do.

“You know, that wasn’t the skater I’ve been training for the past ten years,” he says, his voice firm, the edge of disappointment unmistakable. “What happened out there? You choked, plain and simple.”

You swallow hard, clutching the phone tighter. You know he’s trying to push you, trying to get a reaction—he always thinks tough love will get you back on track. But right now, every word feels like another weight pressing down on your already heavy chest. “I know, okay? I messed up,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, but you hear the waver at the end.

He sighs, and you can picture him running a hand over his face. “Messing up is one thing, but letting it get to you out there? That’s not you. You looked like a deer in headlights after that first fall. Where’s your fight? Where’s the girl who pushes through, no matter what?”

The criticism feels like salt in an open wound, and you bite your lip, willing yourself not to cry again. You’ve already spent most of the evening crying in the bathroom, and you refuse to do it now, not when he’s on the other end of the line. “I tried, but—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“But nothing,” he snaps. “Trying isn’t good enough at this level. You either do it, or you don’t. And today, you didn’t.”

You pull the phone away from your ear for a second, taking a deep breath as you try to keep your emotions in check. You know he’s right—of course, he’s right. This isn’t the first time he’s laid it out like this, and usually, it works. Usually, it fires you up, makes you want to prove him wrong, to prove to yourself that you’re capable of more. But tonight, all it does is make you feel small.

“I get it,” you say quietly, struggling to keep your voice even. “I let everyone down.”

He’s silent for a moment, and then his tone softens, just a little. “It’s not about letting anyone down. It’s about you. You know what you’re capable of, and today, that wasn’t it. You’re better than this.”

You glance up at the TV, and your stomach drops. They’re showing footage of your routine, the slow-motion replay of your first stumble, the way you clutched your ankle like it was the end of the world. The announcers are discussing it with hushed tones, one of them saying, “A disappointing performance from someone who’s been touted as a medal contender. You can see the hesitation after that initial fall—she never fully recovered.”

It feels like someone’s twisting a knife in your gut, and you have to look away, turning your attention to the wall instead. “They’re showing it on the news,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper. “They’re saying I looked scared.”

“Well, they’re not wrong,” your coach says, and the bluntness hits you like a slap. “You did look scared. You were scared.”

You clench your jaw, fighting back the tears threatening to spill over again. “I know that,” you snap, more harshly than you intended. “I know I messed up, and I don’t need you or the whole world reminding me.”

There’s a long silence on the other end, and for a moment, you worry he’s going to hang up. But then he sighs, and you hear the weariness in his voice. “Look, I’m not saying this to make you feel worse. I’m saying it because you’ve got two options now: you let this break you, or you use it. You’ve got another routine, and if you want any shot at the podium, you’ve got to be perfect.”

The words hang in the air between you, and you stare down at your lap, the weight of everything crushing you. “I don’t know if I can,” you admit, the vulnerability slipping out before you can stop it. “I feel like… I don’t know, like I’ve lost it.”

“You haven’t lost anything,” he says, his voice sharp again, like he’s trying to pull you back from the edge. “One bad routine doesn’t erase everything you’ve worked for. You’ve been down before, and you’ve come back stronger every time. This is no different.”

The TV cuts to the end of your routine, the moment where you bowed your head and skated off the ice, and the announcers are speculating about whether the pressure of the Olympics got to you. You grit your teeth, feeling the shame creeping back in.

“I just— I don’t know how to fix it,” you say, your voice cracking. “I felt like everything was slipping away out there, like no matter what I did, I couldn’t get it right.”

“That’s your head talking,” he replies. “You need to get out of your own way. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about finding that zone where you stop thinking and just skate. You know how to do that. You’ve done it a thousand times.”

You want to believe him, but the doubt clings to you like a shadow. “What if I can’t? What if I mess up again?”

“Then you get up again,” he says simply. “That’s the only way forward.”

You lean back against the pillows, closing your eyes and trying to steady your breath. You know he’s right, deep down. But right now, it feels impossible to shake the disappointment and the fear. “Okay,” you say, even though it doesn’t feel okay. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” he says, and for a moment, his tone is almost gentle. “Get some rest tonight, clear your head. Tomorrow’s another day.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “Yeah. Thanks, coach.”

“Hang in there, kid,” he says before hanging up.

You set the phone down on the bed, feeling the quiet of the room settle around you. The screen still shows highlights of the other skaters, and you watch as they soar effortlessly through their routines, their movements flawless, their expressions confident. You envy them—the way they make it look so easy, so natural.

But you know it isn’t. You know the hours, the pain, the sacrifices that go into making it look that way. You’ve lived it, day in and day out. And as much as you want to curl up and shut the world out, there’s a part of you that refuses to give up. A part that knows you have another chance, another routine.

The channel shifts from figure skating highlights to coverage of the hockey events. You immediately recognize the familiar red and white jerseys of Team Canada as the highlights reel begins, showing clips of their opening game. There’s Sidney, in perfect form, weaving around defenders with effortless grace. The crowd roars as he shoots and scores, the puck finding the back of the net like it was meant to be there all along.

The announcers are gushing, their voices rising with excitement. “And there’s Crosby with yet another goal—what an incredible start for Team Canada. Their chemistry on the ice is flawless, and they’re looking unstoppable.”

The camera zooms in on Sidney’s face, beaming as he’s mobbed by his teammates. There’s that calm, confident look you’ve seen so many times before, the look of someone who’s exactly where they belong, doing exactly what they were meant to do. The arena explodes in cheers, and you can almost feel the energy from the screen, the way the city has rallied behind their hockey hero.

You grit your teeth, feeling your hands ball into fists on your lap. Of course, he’s perfect. Of course, everything falls into place for him. While you’re stuck in this hotel room, replaying every mistake you made, Sidney’s out there doing what he always does—winning. Being flawless. Making it look easy.

The replay shifts to another play, this one showing Sidney setting up a teammate for a goal with a precise, lightning-fast pass. The announcers’ voices swell again. “Crosby’s vision is unmatched—he makes it look effortless. The chemistry and connection he has with his teammates are just on another level.”

You feel the knot in your stomach twist tighter. It’s not that you begrudge him his success; he’s worked hard for it, and you know how much pressure he’s under. But right now, it’s like every moment of his triumph is rubbing salt in your wounds. It feels personal, like the universe is reminding you of how far you’ve fallen, how badly you’ve failed.

And the worst part is, you can’t get his face out of your head. The way he looked at you after your routine—his expression soft, the same reassuring look he’s always given you when things went wrong. At the time, it felt comforting, like he was there for you when you needed someone the most. But now, seeing him bask in the glory of his victory while you’re drowning in your own defeat, it only makes the ache worse.

The camera zooms in again, catching Sidney in a post-game interview. He’s all smiles, his helmet still perched on his head, hair damp with sweat but eyes bright and full of that competitive fire you’ve always admired. “It’s great to start the tournament off strong,” he says, his voice full of confidence. “The guys have been working hard, and it’s awesome to see it pay off on the ice. We’re just taking it one game at a time, but we’re feeling good.”

The reporters laugh, clearly enamored with him, and you can’t help but scowl. It’s so easy for him to stand there and say that, to talk about feeling good when everything is going right. When he hasn’t been the one to crash and burn on the world’s biggest stage.

Your fingers dig into the comforter as the segment continues, showing highlights from the locker room—Sidney laughing with his teammates, high-fiving, all smiles and celebration. They look relaxed, like they’re already sure of their place in the finals. And why wouldn’t they be? They’ve got Sidney Crosby, and when you have someone like him, everything else falls into place.

You mute the TV, unable to watch anymore. The image lingers, though, and you can feel the anger building in your chest, tightening like a vice. It’s not fair. You’ve worked just as hard as he has, put in the same hours, made the same sacrifices. And yet, here you are, hiding in a hotel room, while he gets to be the golden boy, the hero.

You know you’re being unfair. Sidney was nothing but kind to you earlier. But you can’t help it—the jealousy and frustration bubble up, making it impossible to think straight. You want to scream, to throw something, to lash out at the injustice of it all.

Instead, you bury your face in your hands, trying to take deep breaths, but all you feel is the heat of your tears building again. “Why can’t I just be better?” you whisper to the empty room, the words cracking in your throat. “Why can’t I be like him?”

You know there’s no answer, and that’s the hardest part. You know that no amount of hard work or preparation can guarantee perfection. You’ve been told your whole life that you have to fight for what you want, that success doesn’t come without failure. But in this moment, it all feels so hopeless, like you’re swimming against an unstoppable current and no matter how hard you kick, you’re just sinking deeper.

You hear your phone buzz on the nightstand, and you almost ignore it, but a part of you hopes it might be a message from home—maybe your mom or your sister, someone who’ll tell you that it’s okay, that one bad skate doesn’t define you.

But when you check, it’s a notification from one of those sports apps, and your heart sinks again as you read the headline: Sidney Crosby and Team Canada Dominate in Opening Game. It’s everywhere, inescapable. Another reminder of how easily the world seems to fall in love with him, and how quickly they move on from the skaters who stumble.

You drop the phone back on the bed, shoving it away as you curl up against the pillows. You shut your eyes, trying to block out the noise, the pressure, the image of Sidney’s perfect smile and the sound of the crowd chanting his name. But it doesn’t help.

No matter what you do, it feels like you’re stuck in a loop, replaying your mistakes and wondering why, for once, you couldn’t have been the one with the perfect routine, the one who had everything fall into place.

Then, that familiar mantra repeats in your mind. I’m not gonna let Crosby win.

“Damn right,” you whisper to yourself as you lay back in the hotel bed.

───

The alarm blares, pulling you out of a restless sleep. You groggily reach over and shut it off, squinting at the clock—4:00 a.m. The room is dark, and the cold air bites at your skin as you push yourself out of bed. You’ve always been an early riser, but today is different. It’s not just about getting ahead of the competition; it’s about making up for yesterday, about proving to yourself that you can still pull it together.

You slip into your warm-up clothes, tying your hair back tightly, and grab your skates and jacket. You move quietly through the hallways of the hotel, the only sound being the soft hum of the lights and the shuffle of your footsteps against the carpet. The entire place feels eerily quiet, as if the world hasn’t woken up yet. And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe that’s what you need—a chance to reset, to work without anyone watching or judging.

When you arrive at the rink, the lights are dim, and the ice is a blank canvas, untouched. You breathe in deeply, letting the chill fill your lungs, feeling the weight of your skates as you lace them up methodically. The rink is your sanctuary, your space to figure things out. Today, it feels even more important to reclaim it. You stand and step onto the ice, the familiar glide grounding you, and take a deep breath before you start.

You begin your warm-up routine—edges, spins, quick footwork. The movements feel stiff at first, but you push through, repeating them until your body remembers how it’s supposed to move. Every turn is sharper, every spin faster than the last. You skate hard, pushing your muscles to the limit, sweat starting to bead on your forehead despite the cold.

As you go through your jumps, you land a clean triple toe loop, and for a moment, it feels like progress. But then you try again, and your skate catches the ice wrong, sending you stumbling. You curse under your breath and reset, gritting your teeth as you go for it again. Over and over, you repeat the jump, and each time, it feels like it’s getting worse.

Your frustration builds, and before you know it, you’re skating full speed into your program. You launch into the combination sequence that tripped you up yesterday, determination burning in your veins. It’s messy—your timing’s off, your landings shaky—but you keep going, pretending that if you just push hard enough, you can force it to be perfect.

You don’t even realize how hard you’re pushing yourself until you skid to a stop, panting, your legs burning. The sound of your ragged breaths echoes in the empty rink, and you slam your hands on your thighs, hunching over. “What’s wrong with me?” you whisper to yourself, your voice echoing in the silence.

Just as you’re about to push off for another round, you hear a voice that makes you freeze. “Up early, huh?”

You whip around, and there he is—Sidney Crosby, leaning against the boards, still in his sweats. His hair is messy, and there’s a slight grin on his face like he knows he’s interrupting something private. You feel your stomach drop, the annoyance already bubbling up. Of all the people to show up at this hour.

“Yeah, well, some of us need the extra practice,” you snap, more harshly than you mean to. The last thing you want is to let him see how much this is getting to you, how much yesterday is still hanging over your head.

Sidney raises an eyebrow, his expression still annoyingly calm. “I figured as much,” he says, his voice annoyingly relaxed. “Saw the lights on and thought I’d come check it out.”

You glare at him, your grip tightening on the edge of the rink. “Well, you’ve checked it out. Congratulations. You can leave now.”

But he doesn’t move. Instead, he pushes off the boards and steps closer, resting his arms casually. “You know, beating yourself up like this isn’t going to help.”

“Oh, thanks for the tip, Coach.” You can’t help the sarcasm that drips from your words, your fists clenching at your sides. “I’m sure you’ve had so many moments where you just sucked and needed to figure out how to get it back together.”

He tilts his head, and you see a flicker of something in his eyes, but it only makes your annoyance grow. “Actually, yeah,” he says, his tone softer now. “I’ve had plenty of bad games. Plenty of times where I felt like I was completely off. It happens to everyone.”

You roll your eyes, looking away. “Not like this. You don’t know what it’s like to feel like everything you’ve worked for is slipping through your fingers.”

“Maybe not exactly like this,” he admits, and for a moment, you hear genuine understanding in his voice. “But I get it. The pressure, the expectations—everyone watching, waiting for you to mess up or be perfect. It’s not easy.”

You want to tell him to stop, that his sympathy isn’t what you need right now. But the more he talks, the more it feels like he’s seeing right through you, and that makes you feel exposed, vulnerable. “I don’t need a pep talk, Sidney. I just need to work.”

“Yeah? And how’s that going?” he challenges, gesturing to the rink. “You think pushing yourself like this is going to fix everything?”

“I don’t know,” you snap. “But what else am I supposed to do? Sit around and watch the highlights of you and your perfect team?”

His face darkens, and he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m not here to rub anything in. I just—I saw you, and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Well, I’m not,” you admit, the words coming out harsher than you intend. “I’m not okay, and I don’t need you pretending to care. I just—” You cut yourself off, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak.

He looks at you for a long moment, the frustration still in his eyes but mixed with something else—maybe concern, maybe understanding. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” he says quietly. “You’re not the only one who struggles.”

But you don’t want to hear it. Not from him. Not right now. “Just leave me alone, Sidney. Please.”

For a moment, it looks like he might argue, but then he nods, the disappointment clear on his face. “Fine,” he says, stepping back. “But if you ever need someone to talk to, you know where to find me.”

He turns and walks away, and you watch as he disappears down the hallway, leaving you alone in the cold, empty rink. The silence feels heavier now, and the frustration sits like a weight in your chest. You push off again, skating into another spin, determined to work through it, but all you can think about is the look in Sidney’s eyes and the feeling that, for once, maybe you’ve pushed the wrong person away.

───

The next day, you walk into the rink with a heavy sense of dread. The weight of your previous performances and the mounting pressure of the competition is starting to feel like an unbearable burden. You arrive a bit later than usual, joining your teammates as they warm up. The mood feels different today—everyone is on edge, focused. No one says much; they just nod in acknowledgment as you step onto the ice.

You take a deep breath, the familiar chill of the rink grounding you as you skate a few laps to loosen up. The routine you’ve been working on still feels rough around the edges, and the more you practice it, the more you feel the lingering frustration. You can’t afford to fall apart again, not this close to competition.

As you glide toward the boards, planning to get some advice from your team’s coach, you notice a familiar figure standing there, arms crossed and a stern expression on his face. For a moment, you think your eyes are playing tricks on you, but then he steps forward, and you recognize the familiar build and the gray streaks in his hair.

“Coach?” you blurt out, stopping in your tracks. The surprise in your voice is evident, and your teammates glance over, curious.

He nods, his eyes sharp as ever. “Heard you were having some trouble,” he says, not wasting a second. “Figured I’d come see it for myself.”

You feel a mix of relief and irritation. Relief because there’s no one who knows your skating as well as he does. Irritation because, of all times, why now? “I didn’t ask you to come,” you say, trying to sound tough, but it comes out weaker than you want.

“I know you didn’t.” He steps onto the ice, his skates making that satisfying scratch against the surface. “But you clearly need it.” He gestures for you to come over, and despite everything, you find yourself obeying, gliding toward him like you’re fifteen again and still trying to impress him.

“You’re skating like you’ve got bricks tied to your feet,” he says bluntly, and you bristle. “I watched the tape, and honestly, it’s like you’re holding back. Why?”

“I’m not holding back,” you argue, feeling the defensive flare rise in your chest. “I just—” You pause, swallowing hard. “It’s the pressure. Everything feels off.”

He gives you a knowing look, one that makes you feel seen and called out all at once. “Pressure isn’t new for you, kid. You’ve handled it before. The only difference now is you’re letting it get in your head.”

You want to argue, to tell him that it’s not that simple, that the stakes are higher now, that you feel like the world is watching your every move. But then, as he stands there waiting, you realize he already knows all of that. “Okay, fine. Maybe I am in my head,” you admit.

He nods, satisfied with your honesty. “Good. Now let’s get you out of it.” He claps his hands together. “Start from the top. Show me the routine.”

You go through the motions, running through your routine as he watches with that critical eye he’s always had. He doesn’t say anything at first, just lets you move through the steps, and you try to shut out the noise in your head, focusing on the feel of the ice beneath your blades, the muscle memory kicking in as you twist into the jumps and glide into the spins.

But when you finish, you can already tell it wasn’t your best. You land off balance, your arms not quite in the right position, and the frustration hits you like a wave. “I can’t—” you start, but Ramirez cuts you off.

“Stop,” he says, holding up a hand. “You’re hesitating. Every time you go for a jump, you’re thinking too hard about sticking the landing. You can’t think. You just have to trust your training.”

He skates up to you, his eyes meeting yours. “We’re going to break it down. One section at a time. And when you hit that jump, you commit to it like it’s the last thing you’re ever going to do.”

You nod, taking a deep breath. It’s been so long since you’ve had someone push you like this, and even though it’s tough love, there’s something comforting about it. You start again, working through the steps slowly. He stops you, corrects your positioning, and has you repeat until it feels right. Then you move to the next part, and the next, until you’re sweating and your legs are burning from the repetition.

“Now, the jump,” he instructs, standing back a few feet. “No hesitation.”

You push off, feeling the adrenaline rush through your veins as you pick up speed. This time, when you go for the triple toe loop, you don’t think about the landing—you just let your body move. And for the first time, it feels right. You nail the landing, your arms pulling into the perfect position as you finish the rotation.

“That’s it!” Coach shouts, and you feel a surge of triumph. “That’s the skater I know.”

You repeat the jump a few more times, and each time it feels smoother, more controlled. The confidence builds, and by the time you finish, you’re panting but smiling for the first time in days.

Coach skates over, nodding in approval. “There you go. You’ve still got it. Just had to get out of your own way.”

You nod, feeling the weight lift off your shoulders. “Thanks, Coach,” you say, and you mean it.

He grins, clapping you on the shoulder. “Don’t mention it. Just go out there and show them what you’re made of. You know you’re better than what you showed the other day.”

As he leaves, you stand in the center of the ice, feeling the energy buzzing in your limbs. You go through your routine again, and this time, everything clicks. It feels natural, like you’re finally skating the way you know you can. The nerves are still there, but they’re manageable, and you feel like you’re reclaiming your rhythm.

Maybe you’re not back completely, but for the first time in days, you feel like you’re heading in the right direction. And that, more than anything, gives you hope.

───

The sun barely peeks through the thin curtains of your hotel room when your alarm breaks the quiet, a sharp reminder of the day that lies ahead. Today is the day, the one you've trained for endlessly. Months of repetition, muscle memory, and strategy all leading to this. You’ve imagined it countless times in your head, playing out the routine step-by-step in your mind, visualizing every move, every spin, every landing. Today, none of that changes—except the stakes.

You sit up in bed, the cool air of the room biting against your skin as you throw the blankets aside. The nerves should be overwhelming, but instead, a sense of clarity washes over you. Today, you’re ready. This is your stage, your time to shine, and no one can take that from you.

After getting dressed in your warm-up gear, you take a moment to glance at yourself in the mirror. There's something different about you today—your eyes are sharp, focused, determined. You’ve been through the pressures before, the tightrope walk between fear and success, but today, something just feels right. It has to be.

By the time you make it to the rink, the buzz of competition fills the air. The sound of skates slicing through the ice, the murmurs of coaches, and the faint cheers of early spectators start to build the intensity in your chest. But you push it aside. You’ve been in big competitions before; this is no different. It’s just another routine. You’ll hit it like you always do.

As you’re stretching in the corner, lacing up your skates, a familiar voice calls out from behind you.

“Looking sharp.”

You glance over your shoulder, finding Sidney standing there, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. He always knows when you need a bit of reassurance. His presence is steadying, calming. You offer a small smile in return.

“Of course,” you reply, your voice low and even. “I’m ready for this.”

Sidney steps closer, leaning down slightly to meet your gaze. “You’ve got this. Don’t let anyone get into your head today, okay?”

You nod, feeling the confidence surge in your veins. “I won’t.”

But as you finish tying your laces and stand up, something—someone—catches your attention.

A skater from Russia, one of the top competitors, is gliding effortlessly across the ice, her movements so fluid and smooth they almost mock gravity. You've seen her before, heard the whispers about how she's one of the favorites. You wouldn't mind, except she locks eyes with you as she spins to a stop, her lips curling into a smirk that drips with arrogance.

“Aw, look who’s here,” she says, her accent heavy as she steps off the ice, making her way toward you. “I thought you’d be smarter than to show up here. You must love embarrassing yourself on the world stage.”

Your heart skips a beat as you register her words, your jaw clenching. For a second, it’s like a hot flame flickers in your chest, spreading through your veins. You know better than to engage—this is a mental game, and she’s trying to get into your head, to throw you off. But your temper simmers beneath the surface, threatening to bubble over.

You take a step forward, your fists balling at your sides as the blood rushes to your face. You're ready to fire something back, something sharp enough to cut through her smugness. Your pulse pounds in your ears, and the ice beneath your feet feels like it's shifting, unsteady, as your emotions rise.

“Excuse me?” you snap, your voice low and dangerous, but before you can take another step, a firm hand grips your arm.

It’s Sidney. He pulls you back, his expression calm but stern, as if he’s reading every thought running through your mind. “Let it go,” he mutters quietly, his voice steady, almost like a tether anchoring you to the moment.

You hesitate, your body still tense, the adrenaline begging for release. But when you meet his eyes, the storm in your chest calms just enough to bring you back to your senses. Sidney’s grip on your arm doesn’t loosen until you take a slow breath.

“She’s not worth it,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze flicking over to the other skater who watches with amusement, a mock pout on her lips. He’s right. She’s baiting you. And as much as you want to prove a point, this isn’t the time. Not now.

You let out a sharp breath, forcing yourself to relax. “Fine,” you say, your voice cold as ice, but you turn away from the smirking skater, following Sidney’s lead.

As you walk toward the locker room, the adrenaline still courses through your veins, but Sidney's presence beside you keeps you grounded. His hand never leaves your arm until you’re far from the other skater’s gaze, and only then does he finally let go.

“You alright?” he asks, his voice softer now, his eyes searching yours for any sign of lingering anger.

You nod, but the fire in your chest hasn’t fully burned out. “I almost lost it back there.”

“I know.” Sidney sighs, running a hand through his hair. “She’s just trying to get in your head. Don’t give her that power.”

You nod again, taking in a deep breath and forcing your mind to focus. Sidney’s right, and you know it. You can’t let anyone throw you off your game today, especially not someone who’s already threatened by you. She’s scared—that’s why she said what she did. You can sense it now.

“I’ll be fine,” you say, finally feeling the confidence return. “Thanks for stopping me.”

Sidney smiles softly, his eyes filled with a quiet understanding. “Anytime. Now go out there and show them why you belong here.”

You feel the weight lift slightly from your shoulders, and as you head back toward the rink, you feel that calm determination return. The fire’s still there, but this time, it’s focused. You’re ready to skate, and nothing is going to stop you.

Not her. Not anyone.

And finally, the time has come.

You stand in the tunnel just before stepping onto the ice, your heart pounding steadily in your chest. Everything about the rink feels different now—the lights seem brighter, the air colder, the buzz of the crowd more intense. You close your eyes, centering yourself, taking in the familiar sounds of blades cutting into the ice and the faint murmur of the audience above.

This is it. This is your moment.

Your name is called, and a roar from the crowd erupts in response. You take a deep breath, feeling the chill of the ice underneath your skates as you glide onto the rink, your body moving with precision. Every inch of you is alive with purpose. It’s as if the weight of months of preparation, of early mornings and late nights, presses down on your shoulders. But you’re not buckling under it. You’re thriving. You can feel the tension in your muscles, that sharp edge of nervous energy, but you channel it into determination.

Before you take your starting position, your gaze drifts—just for a second—across the rink, landing on her. The skater from Russia, poised against the barrier with a smug expression painted across her face, her arms crossed as she watches you. She’s one of the best—hell, you know that. But it’s the way she’s staring at you, like she’s already counted you out, that makes something snap inside you.

You meet her eyes, and for a heartbeat, neither of you look away. There’s a flicker of judgment there, a cruel glint in her eyes that says she doesn’t believe in you. But instead of breaking you, it ignites something fierce in your chest. The fire from earlier flares up, but this time, it’s controlled, burning with a steady, focused heat. If she thinks you're going to falter under her scrutiny, she’s dead wrong.

You shift your focus back to the ice, feeling your breathing steady. You let her condescending expression fuel you. Today, you’ll give her a performance so perfect, she’ll have no choice but to remember your name.

As the opening notes of your music fill the arena, you take off, your blades biting into the ice as you begin your routine. The crowd falls silent, all eyes on you. Every step, every turn, feels deliberate. It’s not just muscle memory—it’s instinct now. Your body knows this choreography so well it feels like second nature, and you trust it. You trust yourself.

The first jump comes quickly—a triple lutz, one of the hardest in your routine. You feel the familiar rush of adrenaline as you gather speed, launching yourself into the air. For a brief second, you feel weightless, suspended in time as your body rotates. Then, the satisfying click of your blades hitting the ice. Perfect. The crowd erupts in applause, but you barely hear it. You're already moving on, focusing on what comes next.

Your mind is sharp, clear, hyper-focused on the moment. You move through your footwork sequence with precision, your blades carving intricate patterns into the ice as you twist and turn, your arms fluid and graceful. Every muscle in your body works in perfect synchronization, and for once, the nerves don’t feel like a burden—they feel like power, like fuel that’s pushing you faster, sharper.

As you glide into your next combination jump, a triple toe loop-double axel, you catch a glimpse of her again—the Russian skater, still watching you, her expression unreadable now. You wonder if she’s realizing that you’re not the pushover she thought you were. The thought brings a smug satisfaction to your lips as you execute the combination flawlessly, the landings soft and controlled.

You're in the zone now, riding the high of perfecting every element, your body responding to every beat of the music, every shift in the ice beneath your skates. There’s nothing but you and the performance, the world beyond the rink fading away.

As the music swells to its climax, you launch into your final spin. You feel the wind rush past your face as you whip through the rotations, faster and faster, your arms outstretched in perfect balance. The crowd is on its feet, the roar of applause echoing in your ears, but you don’t stop until the very last note. You strike your final pose, your chest heaving, every nerve in your body alive with the energy of the moment.

For a beat, there’s silence. Then, the arena explodes into cheers, a standing ovation. You breathe hard, your chest rising and falling as you take it all in, a rush of pride swelling in your chest. You did it. You nailed it. Every move, every jump, every spin was flawless, and you know it.

As you glide off the ice, that familiar sense of calm washes over you, but there’s something else too—a spark of mischief. You pass by her—the Russian skater—standing near the boards, her gaze still locked on you. You can see the flicker of something behind her eyes now. Is it irritation? Jealousy? You don’t care. You savor the moment, letting it fuel your next move.

With a cheeky grin, you blow her a kiss as you skate past, your lips curling in satisfaction. It’s not subtle, and you make sure it’s clear who it’s for. The boldness of the gesture sends a jolt of thrill through you. It’s petty, it’s catty, but damn, it feels good. You don’t even have to look to know the smugness has drained from her face.

By the time you reach the kiss-and-cry area, Sidney is there, waiting, his grin wide and proud. “That was incredible,” he says, his voice low with admiration as you slip off your skates.

“I know,” you reply, your breath still catching up to the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You can’t help but throw another glance toward the Russian skater, who’s still staring after you, no longer smirking.

Sidney chuckles when he catches your look. “Did you really blow her a kiss?”

“Of course,” you say with a laugh, unbothered. “I mean, someone had to put her in her place.”

You sit down next to Sidney in the kiss-and-cry area, letting the coolness of the seat and the reality of the moment settle over you. Your chest is still heaving from the effort, but a euphoric calm is taking its place. The roar of the crowd lingers in your ears, a distant hum compared to the electric rush that’s been running through your veins since the moment your blades touched the ice.

You sit down next to Sidney in the kiss-and-cry area, letting the coolness of the seat and the reality of the moment settle over you. Your chest is still heaving from the effort, but a euphoric calm is taking its place. The roar of the crowd lingers in your ears, a distant hum compared to the electric rush that’s been running through your veins since the moment your blades touched the ice.

Sidney leans closer, his arm resting casually on the back of your seat, his familiar presence comforting. “You were incredible out there,” he repeats, his eyes bright with pride. His grin, that cocky confidence that’s so quintessentially him, makes you feel a surge of warmth. There’s something grounding about having him here with you, someone who understands what it means to perform under pressure, to feel the weight of expectations, and to still rise above it.

“Thanks,” you manage, your voice breathless but light, and you meet his gaze, feeling a smile tug at your lips. “I felt it. Everything just… clicked.”

Sidney nods, his hand gently squeezing your shoulder. “It showed. That last jump? Nailed it. And that spin? Pure magic.” His grin widens. “And the kiss at the end? Bold move. But hey, if anyone deserves to be a little petty, it’s you after that performance.”

You laugh, the tension from the performance finally starting to melt away. “You know, it wasn’t planned, but she just…” You glance back toward the other skater, who’s now talking to her coach with a tight expression on her face. The same smugness she wore earlier has evaporated. “…she pissed me off,” you finish, shaking your head. “I wasn’t gonna let her get in my head.”

Sidney gives you a knowing look, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “That’s the spirit. You didn’t just show her up—you owned the ice. She’ll be thinking about that kiss for a long time.”

You lean back in your seat, still riding the high of the moment. The judges are deliberating now, your scores coming up on the board any minute, but you’re not stressed about it. Not like you usually are. You already know you gave the performance of a lifetime, and no number they flash on the screen will take that away from you.

Still, as the numbers begin to appear, you hold your breath, your fingers nervously drumming on the armrest. Sidney glances up at the screen, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“Here we go,” he murmurs.

The scores start rolling in—technical, artistic, execution—and they’re good. Really good. The kind of scores that make your heart skip a beat, that tell you everything you need to know.

You’ve done it. You’ve not only secured a personal best, but you’ve set yourself up as a true contender for the top spot.

The arena erupts in applause once more as your final score flashes on the screen, and you can’t help the laugh that escapes you, a mix of relief and joy. It’s overwhelming in the best way possible, the weight of all your hard work crashing down on you. You feel Sidney’s hand slip into yours, a squeeze of congratulations, and you turn to him with a beaming smile.

“See?” he says, his voice thick with pride. “Told you.”

You shake your head in disbelief, glancing back at the ice, as if you need to see it again to believe it. “I knew I could do it, but… seeing it up there, hearing them cheer like that…” You trail off, emotions swirling in your chest.

Sidney doesn’t let you stay in that awe-struck moment for too long, though. He smirks and nudges your shoulder playfully. “So, what’s next? Gonna blow more kisses at the competition?”

You roll your eyes, but the grin stays plastered on your face. “Maybe I’ll save that for when I win gold.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “You’ll have to up your game for that.”

“You think?” you tease, arching a brow.

He leans in, his voice low and teasing, “Maybe save a kiss for me when you do.”

His words send a warm flush up your neck, but you manage to keep your composure, glancing sideways at him. “Oh, you think you deserve one, huh?”

Sidney flashes you a grin, leaning back with that easy confidence. “If anyone’s getting a victory kiss, it should be me. I did keep you from tearing someone’s head off this morning.”

You laugh, unable to argue with him on that one. “You’ve got a point.”

Before you can say more, your coach approaches, eyes gleaming with pride, and you’re pulled into a round of congratulations. The victory, the adrenaline, the applause—it’s all so surreal. You’ve done it, and as you sit there, surrounded by your team, Sidney’s presence grounding you amidst the whirlwind of excitement, you realize just how far you’ve come.

But there’s something else. Something that lingers in your chest, stronger now than it’s ever been. This wasn’t just about proving yourself to the judges or the audience or that snide Russian skater who thought she could rattle you. No, this was about you. About finding the strength within yourself to push through, to rise above the doubts, the pressure, and the competition.

As the celebration continues around you, you find Sidney’s gaze once more. There’s a look in his eyes—something deeper, something that tells you he’s proud of more than just your performance. He’s proud of you.

And in that moment, with the weight of your accomplishment settling in, you know that this is only the beginning. There’s more to come—more competitions, more challenges—but right now, you’re ready for all of it.

You stand, pulling Sidney up with you, and before the moment can pass, you do something bold, something just for you. You lean in, pressing a soft, quick kiss to his cheek, the kind of kiss that says more than words ever could.

Sidney’s eyes widen in surprise, but his smile is immediate, warm. “Told you I’d get one,” he teases, though there’s a touch of tenderness in his tone.

You laugh, shaking your head. “Don’t get used to it.”

But as the two of you walk away from the rink, the roar of the crowd still echoing in the background, you know deep down—this is only the beginning of something even bigger.

───

The energy in the locker room is a mix of exhaustion and adrenaline. Your teammates are sprawled out on benches, some still cooling down from their routines, while others are glued to their phones, checking social media and results. You’re still riding the high from your performance, your mind replaying every step, every leap, and that perfect kiss at the end—both of them, in fact.

"Hey, turn that up!" someone yells from the other side of the room.

The television, mounted high on the wall, is blaring Olympic coverage, and everyone’s heads swivel toward it. You don’t pay much attention at first, too busy lacing up your shoes and chugging water, but the buzz of your name from the TV catches your attention.

"And in a stunning turn of events, it seems like all eyes are on Y/N L/N today!" the announcer’s voice booms, and your head snaps up.

“Wait, is that about—”

“Yup,” your teammate grins, elbowing you in the ribs. "They’re talking about you."

The screen shows a slow-motion replay of your final move on the ice, your body twisted into that perfect final pose, followed by the triumphant blow of the kiss aimed squarely at that other skater. The commentators’ voices narrate over the footage, practically salivating over the drama of it all.

“It wasn’t just her skill that had the crowd roaring,” one of them says with a chuckle. “That was a statement, folks. The kiss at the end was dripping with attitude. It’s all anyone’s talking about. People are calling it the ‘kiss seen ’round the world’ already!”

“Not to mention, did you see who she was aiming that at?” the other commentator adds with a laugh. “That wasn’t just a kiss for the audience—that was personal. Our sources are buzzing with rumors about the tension between her and the Russian favorite, and this just confirmed it.”

“Definitely adding some heat to the competition. This is shaping up to be a rivalry for the ages.”

The camera cuts to the Russian skater, her expression still cool and composed, though there’s an undeniable tightness to her posture, a simmering frustration just below the surface. It’s clear to anyone watching that your little display got to her.

“Whooo! She’s probably seething,” one of your teammates laughs, tossing her head back. “You really got under her skin with that one.”

The room fills with laughter and playful jabs, your teammates leaning into the cattiness of the moment. You’re not one to shy away from a little drama when it’s warranted, but you can’t help but roll your eyes, pretending to be above it all—even though a small part of you secretly loves it.

"Yeah, yeah, it was a moment,” you say, waving them off with a smirk. “It’s not that serious.”

“Oh, come on,” another teammate pipes up, sitting across from you. “You know that was the most iconic thing to happen all day. The commentators are practically obsessed with you now.”

You grin, unable to help yourself, but then you hear it—the kiss. The real kiss.

"And speaking of kisses…" the commentator’s voice lowers conspiratorially, as if he’s about to deliver some juicy gossip. “We’ve got some footage from after the routine that’s definitely got people talking."

Your heart skips a beat. They couldn’t be talking about that kiss. The one you shared with Sidney, could they?

The camera cuts to footage of you walking off the ice and into the kiss-and-cry area, and sure enough, there it is, caught on film—the quick, playful peck you gave Sidney on the cheek. The kiss that felt so impulsive but so right, in the moment.

Your teammates erupt into laughter, their eyes wide with delight. “Ohhh, no way!” someone shouts. “They caught that!”

The commentator’s voice returns, sly and teasing. “Looks like our gold-medal hopeful isn’t just a fierce competitor on the ice—there’s clearly something going on off it as well. A little victory kiss for someone special?”

“Is that Sidney Crosby?” the other commentator jumps in, clearly trying to contain his excitement. “It is! I’m calling it now: the hottest couple of the Olympics.”

Your face flushes red, and your teammates lose it. The locker room turns into a frenzy of laughter, teasing, and playful shouts.

“Oh my God, you’re in the tabloids now!” one of them cackles, clutching her sides. “They’re going to eat this up!”

"Seriously, we should be charging people for front-row seats to this drama," another teammate jokes, tossing a water bottle at you.

You cover your face with your hands, trying not to let the embarrassment take over, but you can’t help the smile creeping across your lips. You knew this was coming—Sidney is a massive deal, and your relationship was bound to catch the media’s eye at some point—but having it aired like this, right after one of the most important performances of your life? It feels like a lot.

“That was a cheek kiss, people,” you say, voice muffled as you shake your head. “It’s not a big deal.”

"Sure, not a big deal at all," your teammate mimics in a high-pitched voice. “Just a cheek kiss with Sidney Crosby, no biggie.” She winks. "But seriously, you two are adorable."

You groan, sitting back and letting the playful teasing wash over you. It's all in good fun, but your mind can’t help but wander back to Sidney. The way his cheek had felt warm against your lips, the way he’d smiled at you like you were the only person in the room. The commentators could speculate all they wanted—only you and Sidney knew what was really going on.

“Well,” one of your teammates says, pointing at the screen, “whether you like it or not, the world’s got its new favorite Olympic couple. You’re officially a thing.”

You raise an eyebrow, your lips quirking into a smirk. "Guess that means I’ll have to win gold now, doesn’t it?"

The room bursts into cheers and whoops, and even though you’re still a little embarrassed, you can't deny the spark of pride warming your chest. You may not have asked for the attention, but if people were talking about you, it was because of your performance. The kiss—both kisses—were just the icing on the cake.

As the chatter dies down and your teammates go back to their phones and conversations, you glance at the screen one more time. Your face is still up there, smiling, skating, kissing. The cameras are still following you, and now the world is watching your every move.

And somewhere in the crowd, watching all of this unfold, is Sidney. You can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking, whether he’s amused by all the media buzz or quietly rooting for you to rise above the chaos, like he always does.

───

A couple of weeks have flown by, and life feels like a whirlwind. The days blur into each other, each one filled with intense training, interviews, and media attention, but you’re thriving in it. You’ve hit your stride—the moment where everything just clicks. The routines you’ve practiced for years feel effortless, like second nature, and every time you step on the ice, the crowd roars just a little louder.

You’ve gone from being an underdog to the one everyone’s talking about—the name on every commentator's lips. They’re calling you a "generational talent" now, comparing you to the legends of the sport. It’s surreal.

At every competition, you push yourself further. Your performances are more than just technical mastery—they’re performances, filled with personality, elegance, and a certain kind of fire that no one else has. The crowd can feel it. So can the judges. Your scores reflect that, each one higher than the last, inching closer to the perfect mark.

But the real magic is in how you’ve taken control of the narrative. It’s not just about your skating anymore; it’s about you. The girl who sent shockwaves through the arena with a playful kiss, the figure skater who got her get back. You're unstoppable right now.

The media follows your every move, dissecting each routine, each interview, each glimpse of you with Sidney. They’ve dubbed you "The Queen of Ice"—a title that feels daunting but fitting. You’re skating with a newfound confidence, and your momentum is undeniable. It’s almost like you’re skating for something bigger now, fueled by the pressure and expectation, but instead of letting it weigh you down, you thrive under it.

On top of that, the Canadian hockey team is doing just as well, if not better. Sidney and his teammates are on a tear through the tournament, steamrolling the competition with a precision and intensity that’s impossible to ignore. The headlines are full of glowing reports about how the team is clicking, playing like a well-oiled machine, and Sidney’s name is front and center. Every game, he’s putting on a clinic, and just like you, people are starting to use the word legendary.

It’s crazy to think about how things have shifted so quickly. Not long ago, you were just hoping to make an impact, and now you and Sidney are always in the headlines, dominating in your respective fields. The media plays it up, of course—every now and then you catch an article about "Olympic royalty" or some speculative piece about your friendship-relationship-rivalry (you're not sure what it is, anymore), but you’ve learned to tune it out.

Still, it’s hard not to feel proud when you see your name in another headline. It’s not just about the gossip or the hype—it’s about what you’re doing. You’re succeeding at the highest levels of your sport and you’ve worked your whole lives for this moment, and now, you’re in it. Living it.

You’re in the Olympic Village after practice, sitting with your teammates in the common area, watching the latest round of highlights on TV. The hockey team had just demolished their last opponent, and the commentators are practically swooning over the way Sidney’s been playing.

"Another incredible game from Crosby," one announcer says, his voice full of admiration. "The guy is playing out of his mind. He’s always been good, but this? This is something else."

“Yeah,” another commentator adds, shaking his head in disbelief. “If he keeps this up, there’s no doubt they’ll be in the finals. And honestly? I don’t see anyone beating them.”

One of your teammates nudges you, grinning. “You hear that? Your boy is killing it out there.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you felt a flush rise in your cheeks. “He's not my boy, shut up.”

Your teammate just laughs and shrugs, looking back up at the TV.

The screen cuts to a highlight reel of you from the most recent competition, and the room quiets as everyone watches. The slow-motion shots of you mid-jump, your spins and edges so crisp and precise, make it look almost effortless.

“Look at that,” the commentator gushes. “She’s redefining what’s possible on the ice. It’s not just about her technical skill—it’s the way she connects with the audience. She’s performing at a level we haven’t seen in years. You can see it in the way she moves—the confidence, the passion. She knows she’s the best right now, and she’s skating like it.”

Your teammates break out into cheers, some of them even clapping. You hide your face in your hands, half-embarrassed, half-proud.

“Okay, okay, calm down,” you say, laughing. “It’s just one performance.”

One of your teammates smirks. “Nah, sweetheart, you’ve had like ten of those just one performances. Own it.”

You lean back, still smiling, but your mind wanders for a second. All the attention, all the pressure—it’s a lot. But then you think about Sidney, how he handles everything with such grace and focus. You’ve watched him lead his team to victory after victory, never letting the noise get to him. It’s inspiring. And it makes you want to keep pushing yourself, to live up to that same standard.

As the hockey highlights come to an end, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You glance at it, and your heart skips a beat when you see Sidney’s name.

Sidney: Saw the kiss thing on TV again. Apparently we’re the new "it couple."

You can’t help but smile. You ignore the weird butterflies that begin forming in your stomach—it's just Sidney.

You: Oh, so now you’re famous because of me, huh?

Sidney: Obviously. Also, everyone’s calling you the GOAT now. When are you going to start teaching me how to skate?

You: I’m already teaching you how to win.

There’s a pause before his next text, and you can practically hear him laughing through the screen.

Sidney: Touché. But seriously—you’re killing it. Proud of you.

You stare at the screen, his words sinking in. It’s such a simple message, but coming from him, it means the world.

You: Right back at you.

You tuck your phone away, feeling a quiet surge of giddiness. You glance at your teammates, looking at you almost expectantly—you immediately regret it.

“Oh, shut up!”

[sidsthekid]

this moment in pens history will stay rent free in my mind forever but

mostly for this…for them…

[angelsuecult]

gold dust woman | s. crosby

“and is it over now, do you know how?

pick up the pieces and go home”

warnings: sexual content, implied (f) masturbation, thigh-riding, MDNI, 18+, nsfw, strong language, controversial? age gap, father’s friend, infidelity

summary: Sid has a nice encounter with a daughter (22) who’s existence he hadn’t know about, your father, a childhood friend who hes only just reconnected with.

request description: age gap sid, immediate strong tension, meeting sidney for the first time.

wordcount: 6.9k

song: gold dust woman - fleetwood mac

a/n: hi guys i hope you enjoy this request i tried to do it justice so if u requested it, don't hesitate to let me know how i did. anyways i really enjoyed writing this one so i hope you guys enjoy reading it too. i'm currently planning on releasing two more soon maybe tonight maybe tomorrow so i hope you guys will like those too! okay, enjoy reading!

___

Sidney hadn’t seen your dad in what felt like forever, one of those people he’d lost touch with as life and hockey pulled him in different directions. So, when the invite came through for a summer get-together, it felt like the perfect opportunity to reconnect. He’d been looking forward to catching up with some old friends, but nothing could’ve prepared him for what greeted him when the door swung open.

He wasn’t sure who he expected to open the door, but it definitely wasn’t you.

The moment you opened the door, he was caught off guard. He’d expected someone, but not you. Not someone who looked like that-who carried that kind of presence, the kind that immediately knocked the air out of him.

Standing there, framed by the soft summer sunlight, you looked like you didn’t belong to this world. He took you in all at once, a tidal wave of feeling that knocked the air out of his chest. You were–Jesus, you were stunning. Maybe it was your pretty face, the soft curve of your lips, or the way your half-lidded eyes lazily flicked up to meet his with the kind of confidence that left him instantly, completely whipped. His gaze trailed down, unable to stop itself from following the smooth lines of your body, your legs impossibly long in those fitted jeans that hugged you just right as if they'd been made specifically for you, and that small t-shirt that barely covered the soft lines of your waist. But what did him in, what completely took over his brain for a solid few seconds, were your hands. They rested at your sides, fingers delicate and perfect, the kind of hands that could bring a man to his knees if you wanted. His mind ran wild thinking about what they'd feel like against his skin before he could even stop himself. He tried not to stare, tried to keep it casual. But the way your lips curled slightly as you took him in made his heart skip a beat or two.

It was like you had walked straight out of a dream he didn't know he had.

The moment stretched between you both, thick and charged, until you spoke first, your voice low and teasing, like you knew exactly what he was thinking. It took everything in Sidney not to close the distance between you.

“Hey, you must be Sidney,” you said, stepping back to let him in, your gaze never leaving his. There was something in the way you looked at him, something that had his pulse jumping in his throat. It was too much. Too soon. He hardly knew you, yet he wanted you in a way that felt raw, primal. But he forced himself to keep his cool, to not let it show just how much you were already affecting him.

Your voice. God, it did something to him–a soft, smoky tone that hit his ears like honey. Sidney cleared his throat, feeling suddenly out of his element.

“Yeah, that’s me,” he replied, his voice somehow steady, though his heart was anything but. He walked inside, giving you a smile that he hoped looked casual, but when his eyes met yours again, it was anything but. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop the way his gaze roamed over you again, slower this time, dragging over every inch of your body. “Guess your dad hasn’t told me much about you,” he said, a lazy attempt at teasing, but it felt stiff.

You closed the door behind him, turning smoothly, effortlessly, like you were made for it, made for moving in a way that left him unable to focus on anything but you. Sidney had never been so thrown off his game so quickly. You weren’t just beautiful; you were dangerous. The kind of girl who could walk into any room and leave it spinning in her wake.

Your eyes scanned him slowly, taking your time before answering, “I’m full of surprises.” You led him into the house, your walk slow and confident, hips swaying slightly in a way that felt entirely too intentional. Sid clenched his jaw, keeping his eyes forward, pretending he wasn't completely aware of every single move you made. “My dad’s in the backyard. He’ll be in soon.”

Sidney nodded, his brain still catching up to the fact that you were his old friend’s daughter. That this wasn’t some random woman he could flirt with without consequences. Your dad was a good guy, and Sidney respected him, but damn, it was hard to keep that in mind when you were looking at him like you were right now—like you knew you had him exactly where you wanted him.

His heart pounded in his chest, his pulse loud in his ears. He could feel the warmth creeping up his neck, the heat pooling low in his stomach, and for a split second, he wondered if you could feel it too–this magnetic pull between you. Could you feel the tensions between you two? Because it was damn near suffocating him. The way you looked at him, like you were daring him to make a move, was driving him crazy. He didn't know if it was your face, your lips, or the way your body seemed to make him drive him wild. Probably all of it. But he needed to keep his cool, needed to act like this wasn't affecting him, like he wasn't already thinking about what it would be like to have your legs wrapped around him. He couldn’t let himself go there, not with you. Not with the daughter of an old friend.

Before Sidney could say anything more, your dad’s voice called from the backyard, breaking the spell. Your dad stepped into the room through the sliding door. But you didn't miss the way Sidney’s eyes flickered toward you, the briefest moment of hunger before his expression shifted to something more casual. It was subtle, but the heat between you two was undeniable.

He shook your dad’s hand as if the world hadn’t shifted the second you opened the door. The man clapped him on the shoulder, grinning ear to ear, before excusing himself to the bathroom. “Be right back, Sid–make yourself at home.”

And suddenly it was just the two of you again, the tension simmering between you like an unspoken agreement that neither of you acknowledged outright.

You stood there, leaning slightly against the counter, your eyes flicking to him again. He could feel your gaze tracking him as he took a few steps deeper into the house, pretending to admire the space. But truthfully, he was trying to ground himself, trying to avoid looking directly at you because every glance sent his mind spinning. The way you looked at him wasn't like the usual attention he got, the way people looked at Sidney Crosby. No, this was different. This felt like you saw right through him. And fuck if it didnt make him want you more.

You haven't said much, but everything in your body language screams control–like you knew exactly what you were doing, exactly how to play this game. And Sidney, despite years of keeping his cool under pressure, was starting to feel like he was on the losing end.

He shifted his weight, trying to focus on something else–anything else–but his eyes kept drifting back to you. He couldn't help it. There was something about you that was utterly unattainable, like everyone else wanted you too, but you were just out of reach, untouchable.

And he wanted you.

Fuck, he wanted you.

But he wasn’t the kind of guy to act on impulse, especially not when it was someone as connected to his past as you were. He had to keep it together. Play it cool. You were young, probably just out of college, while he was–well, definitely not in his twenties anymore. But that didn't stop the way his heart kicked up a notch every time you moved or how his body reacted everytime your gaze lingered on him for just a second too long.

Before either of you could say anything else, your dad returned, oblivious to the tension simmering in the room. You straightened up, the teasing glint in your eye softening just a bit, but Sideny felt it, the crackling energy. You flashed at last glance at him, something playful and almost wicked, before you excused yourself to your room.

As you walked away, Sidney found himself watching the sway of your hips, the way your jeans hugged your endless legs, and just as you disappeared down the hallway, you looked back at him. He knew it wasn’t an accident. That look over your shoulder was deliberate, calculated, and he couldn’t help himself.

Sidney caught himself glancing back at you not once, but twice as you disappeared down the hallway, feeling like an idiot for doing it, but unable to stop himself. The second time, though, he was sure you’d noticed. He couldn’t help himself, he had to look, just to be sure he hadn't imagined it. That tiny smirk was there again, teasing, knowing. You didn’t say anything; you didn’t have to. You already had him hooked.

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the way his body reacted to you. He needed to pull himself together. This was ridiculous. He was a grown man, an experienced one at that, but he felt like a kid with a schoolboy crush. All from one glance. One smirk. One little flicker of something between you. He was here to catch up with your dad, not this. Not whatever this was. But the way you moved, the way you looked at him, it was impossible not to want more.

Goddamn, he thought. He was in trouble. He knew that for sure now.

He felt like he'd been thrown into a game he didn't know the rules to, but he wasn't about to shy away. Not when the stakes were this high.

Sidney’s heart pounded in his chest as he turned his attention back to your dad, who was rambling about the backyard, the old crew, and how it’d be like old times again.

But it wasn’t like old times. Not anymore. Not with you there.

“Let's head out back,” your dad said, breaking Sidney’s thoughts. But as they walked through the house and into the backyard, his mind stayed on you, replaying every glance, every tiny shit of your body, wondering what might make him do next.

And somehow, he had a feeling that this was just the beginning.

The backyard was lively, filled with people Sidney hadn’t seen in years, friends of your father, most of whom he recognized from his childhood. Conversations blended into a background hum of laughter, catching up, and the occasional clinking of glasses, but Sidney’s attention was somewhere else entirely.

It was on you.

No matter where he stood, who he talked to, his eyes were constantly searching for you—across the yard, near the fire pit, sitting at one of the tables. And every time he found you, he swore you were looking right back at him. It wasn’t just the occasional glance either. It was a magnetism, a pull, one he couldn’t escape. Whenever you locked eyes, the rest of the world seemed to disappear, like you were the only two people in the crowd.

He tried to focus on conversations, genuinely wanting to reconnect with some of the old friends milling around, but it was impossible to get through more than a sentence or two without wondering where you were. And when you weren’t nearby, he found himself scanning the yard, hoping to catch another glimpse of those half-lidded eyes watching him.

And every single time, you didn’t disappoint.

The tension between you was palpable. When you were close, it was unbearable. And when you were across the yard, it lingered in the space between you, thick like the summer heat. Everyone else was completely oblivious, laughing and chatting like nothing was amiss, like they didn’t feel that electric charge in the air.

Even your dumbass boyfriend didn’t notice. Sidney hadn’t seen you get within arm’s length of the guy all night. Not that he was complaining. Actually, it made him feel a little smug. The way you barely acknowledged him, how you avoided his touch, how you actually looked annoyed every time he tried to get close—Sidney noticed every bit of it.

In fact, your disinterest in your boyfriend became the clearest when everyone had gathered around, embracing him like some long-lost hero. Sidney could feel the weight of your gaze from the edge of the group, the way you hung back while everyone else threw their arms around him, exchanged jokes, and reminisced. You stayed away, distant, cool, those pretty eyes of yours watching him with an intensity that made his stomach tighten.

It wasn’t lost on him either how much you tilted your head when you watched him, like you were studying him, trying to figure out what made him tick. It drove him crazy. He wanted to know if you were thinking the same thing he was. Did you want him like he wanted you? Was your pulse racing every time your eyes met his, or was that just wishful thinking on his part?

He wanted so badly to know what was going through your head.

And then there were the moments when you got close—too close.

Whenever you passed him, whether it was reaching for a drink or moving around the yard, your hand would graze his ever so slightly. Just enough to send a jolt of heat straight through him. He wondered if you knew what you were doing or if it was just coincidence, but after the third or fourth time, he had a feeling it was no accident.

At one point, you brushed by him to grab something off the picnic table, your fingers trailing just barely against his arm. Sidney’s breath caught, and he could feel his skin tingle where you touched him, like a burn that wouldn’t go away. His eyes flicked to yours, and for a split second, the world stopped again. The air between you crackled, heavy and charged. Your lips curved into the smallest smirk, and Sidney had to force himself to tear his gaze away before he did something reckless, like reach out and grab your wrist just to see if that same spark would shoot up his arm.

He shifted his weight, trying to keep himself grounded. His head was spinning, but he couldn’t let it show. Not here, not now. He had to play it cool, even though all he could think about was the way you looked at him with those pretty eyes, your lips slightly parted, as if waiting for him to make the first move. He imagined what it would be like to close the gap, to feel your mouth on his, the warmth of your body pressed against his, the taste of you on his tongue.

But every time the thought crossed his mind, your boyfriend would appear—clueless and completely unaware. The guy didn’t even seem to realize that you were avoiding him, that you were never affectionate, never close. And honestly, Sidney couldn’t help but feel a little smug about it. It wasn’t his fault the guy didn’t notice how your attention was elsewhere.

Sidney’s eyes followed you again as you moved across the yard, your hand brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, your fingers grazing the side of your neck. His mouth went dry. He tried to focus on the conversation happening around him, but he couldn’t keep his mind from wandering, from picturing you pressed up against him, your breath warm on his neck, your fingers tangled in his hair.

He needed to get a grip.

Your dad called out to him from across the yard, pulling him back into the moment. Sidney plastered on a smile, lifting his beer in acknowledgment, but his thoughts were still tangled up in you, still replaying every look, every touch.

As the evening wore on, the tension between you only seemed to build. Even though you weren’t constantly in the same group, there was an undeniable pull that kept dragging his attention back to you. Every time he caught you glancing at him from across the yard, every time your hand brushed against him, it felt like another layer of control peeled away.

By the time the sun started to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in soft shades of pink and gold, Sidney was practically buzzing with need. He was worked up, his mind racing with thoughts he shouldn’t be having, thoughts that would get him into trouble.

But all he could think about was you—about the way your body would feel pressed up against his, the way your lips would taste, the way you’d sigh his name if he touched you the way he wanted to.

It took everything in him not to cross the yard and find a way to get you alone. And from the way you kept glancing at him, he had a feeling you wouldn’t exactly mind if he did.

The night hadn’t ended as he hoped. Sidney's fingers tapped absentmindedly against the steering wheel as he sat in his car, parked in front of your house. His mind was running in circles, replaying every moment of the evening in agonizing detail—the way your eyes lingered on him, the brush of your hand against his arm, the subtle smirk that curved your lips whenever you caught him looking at you.

You were impossible to forget.

The way you had smiled so sweetly, just for him, your fingers brushing against his arm as you whispered, “Goodnight, Sidney,” made his pulse race. But then you had dragged your boyfriend—whom it was so clear you hated—into the house. That should have been his cue to go. It was. He’d told himself there was no point in sticking around when everything was so painfully out of reach.

And yet here he was, still sitting in his car, parked in front of your dad’s house like an idiot, his heart thudding in his chest. He couldn’t stop thinking about you, replaying the way you looked at him, the way your lips had quirked into that teasing little smile. And the worst part? He didn’t want to leave.

He sighed, dragging his hand through his hair, trying to shake the thought of you from his mind. But it was useless. You were everywhere—on his skin, in his thoughts, making him feel like he was going to explode. He needed to get himself together.

Just as he started to gather himself, he heard the passenger door click open. His heart stopped for a second, and when he turned, there you were.

You didn’t say a word as you slid into the car, freshly showered, smelling faintly of soap and shampoo. Your legs, bare beneath those tiny boxer shorts, brushed against the center console, and your top left almost nothing to the imagination. Sidney’s breath hitched, his chest tightening at the sight of you.

“Couldn’t sleep?” His voice was low, raspy, barely above a whisper. He wasn’t sure if he was asking you or himself.

The tension that had been building all night, the unspoken pull between you, snapped the moment you settled into the seat beside him. Without even thinking, Sidney reached for you, and you leaned over the center console, your lips crashing into his with an intensity that stole his breath.

The kiss was desperate, hungry, like neither of you could get enough. Sidney’s hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and you made a sound—a soft, breathless sigh that sent a rush of heat straight through him. God, you tasted sweet, sweeter than he could’ve imagined, and he couldn’t get enough.

Your lips moved against his, feverish and demanding, and Sidney was lost in you. His other hand slid down your side, feeling the soft, bare skin beneath his fingertips, and you shivered under his touch. Your lips parted, and he didn’t hesitate, his tongue sliding into your mouth, tasting you, exploring every inch. The kiss was messy, all tongue and teeth, but it was perfect—so perfect it made his head spin.

He broke away just long enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing hard, your lips swollen and red.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his voice rough and thick with desire. “You’re so—”

You didn’t let him finish. Your hands were on him, fingers curling into his shirt as you pulled him back in, your lips crashing into his again. Sidney groaned into your mouth, his hand slipping under the hem of your top, sliding up the smooth expanse of your back, desperate to touch more of you.

Your hands moved, fingers curling into the length of his hair as you leaned over the console, practically climbing into his lap. He kissed you like a man starved, each touch, each stroke of his tongue against yours making it harder to remember why this was a bad idea.

“Sidney,” you breathed, your voice a soft, breathy plea that made his blood run hot.

He groaned, his hands sliding down to your waist, his fingers pressing into your skin as he guided you closer. “Come here, baby,” he muttered, pulling you fully onto his lap.

You shifted, and suddenly you were climbing over the center console, straddling his lap, your knees pressing into the seat. Sidney’s hands instinctively found your hips, holding you in place as you settled onto him. The moment you sat down, you both gasped, the heat between you sparking like a live wire.

“God, you’re so pretty,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours before trailing down your jaw to your neck.

You tilted your head back, giving him better access, and he didn’t hesitate, his lips and teeth grazing your skin, eliciting a soft gasp from you. “Fuck,” you sighed, your fingers tangling in his hair as he kissed a path down to your collarbone.

He couldn’t stop the low growl that escaped him as you rolled your hips against him, the friction making him grip you even tighter.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to look at you. Your lips were swollen, your cheeks flushed, and your eyes were dark and full of want. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

You smiled, a teasing, almost wicked smile, as you leaned in to kiss him again. This time, it was slower, deeper, your lips moving against his in a way that had him completely unraveling.

“I think I have some idea,” you murmured, your voice full of that quiet confidence that had been driving him insane all night.

“Jesus,” he breathed, his voice low and strained, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he fought to catch his breath. He could feel the warmth of you through your shorts, pressed against his thigh, and it was driving him absolutely wild.

You rocked your hips, testing the waters, and Sidney’s grip tightened on your waist, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

A soft, breathless laugh escaped your lips, and Sidney couldn’t help but smile against your skin. But then you moved again, this time slower, more deliberate, grinding your hips against his thigh, and all traces of humor disappeared.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his head tilting back against the headrest, his hands guiding your movements. “That’s it, baby. Just like that.”

You leaned in, your lips brushing his ear, your breath warm against his skin. “You like that?” you whispered, your voice low and teasing.

Sidney’s hands slid up your back, tangling in your hair as he pulled you down for another kiss. This one was slower, but no less intense. Your lips moved against his in a lazy, sensual rhythm, your hips still grinding against his thigh, sending wave after wave of pleasure through him. His tongue slipped into your mouth again, tasting you, exploring every inch, and you moaned softly into the kiss, the sound making his blood boil.

“Sidney,” you murmured, your voice soft but full of need.

“Yeah, baby?” he asked, his hands sliding down to your thighs, squeezing gently.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his as you spoke.

“Never,” he promised, his voice low and rough as he kissed you again, his hands gripping you tightly as he guided your movements against him.

You leaned forward, your lips finding his neck as you pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to his skin. He groaned, his hands gripping your hips even tighter as you sucked gently, leaving a faint mark just below his jaw.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, his head falling back against the headrest as you continued your assault on his neck.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes meeting his as you smiled, that teasing, confident smile that had been driving him crazy all night.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” Sidney murmured against your lips, his hands moving to your hips, guiding you as you moved. “So damn sweet.”

You bit down on his bottom lip, tugging it gently between your teeth, and Sidney groaned, his hands tightening on your waist. “God, you’re perfect,” he whispered, his voice rough and desperate. “So perfect.”

Your hands were in his hair, tugging gently as you kissed him, slow and sloppy, your lips swollen and red. Sidney’s hands moved down, gripping your hips as he guided you against his thigh, feeling the heat of you through your shorts.

He pulled away just enough to look at you, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Fuck, baby,” he whispered, his voice thick with need. “I need you. I need you so bad.”

Your lips curved into a slow, teasing smile, and you leaned in, brushing your lips against his. “Then take me,” you whispered, your voice soft and sweet, but full of promise.

Sidney didn’t need any more encouragement. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer, his lips crashing into yours once more. The kiss was hot and messy, full of tongue and teeth, and neither of you cared. All that mattered was the feel of you in his arms, the taste of you on his lips, the heat of your body pressed against his.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathed, his voice rough with desire as his hands slid down to your hips again, pulling you harder against his thigh. “I’ve been wanting this all fucking night.”

Sidney couldn’t remember the last time he felt this out of control. Every kiss, every movement of your hips against him had him feeling like he was seconds away from losing it entirely. You were perched on his lap, legs spread over his thighs, and the way you rocked against him, the heat of you soaking through the fabric of your little boxer shorts—it was intoxicating. His hands were on your waist, guiding your movements slowly, deliberately, just enough to feel the friction but not enough to give you what you so clearly wanted.

Your lips were swollen, a little bruised from how hungrily you had been kissing him, but you didn’t stop. Neither of you did. The taste of you was addictive, and Sidney couldn’t help but groan into your mouth when you kissed him again, your fingers tangling in his hair as you deepened the kiss. Your breathless sighs and quiet moans sent shivers down his spine, each sound like music to his ears, pushing him closer to the edge. He felt like a teenager again, like this was his first time sneaking around and making out in the front seat of his car.

But this was so much more intense, so much more desperate.

“Shit,” Sidney muttered, his voice hoarse as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His hands were gripping your hips tightly, guiding you slowly against his thigh, but he could feel the tremble in your legs, the way you were growing more and more restless beneath his touch. You wanted more—he could feel it.

Your head tipped back, lips parted as a soft moan slipped out, and Sidney swore it was the prettiest sound he’d ever heard. He shifted beneath you, the friction of your body against him sending sparks of pleasure coursing through his veins. He wanted to touch you everywhere, to feel every inch of you, but he was holding himself back, trying to maintain just an ounce of control.

But when you started to get impatient, your body grinding harder against his thigh, his restraint started to slip.

“God, you’re driving me nuts,” he breathed, his voice low and rough as his hands slid under the hem of your shirt, his fingers brushing against the soft skin of your back. He could feel the warmth of you through the thin fabric of your shorts, and it was taking everything in him not to just lose it right here in the front seat of his car.

You whimpered softly, your fingers tightening in his hair as you rocked against him harder, chasing the friction, needing more. Sidney’s lips found your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin, feeling you shiver against him.

"Please, Sid," you whispered, your voice soft and needy, the sound sending a jolt of heat straight through him. You tilted your hips, trying to guide his hands lower, to where you really wanted him, but he resisted, keeping his touch light and teasing.

“Not yet,” he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing against your collarbone as his hands gripped your hips tighter, holding you in place. “I want to take my time with you.”

A frustrated moan escaped your lips, and Sidney could feel the tension in your body, the way your breath came in short, shallow gasps as you rocked harder against him, trying to find release on your own. He groaned softly, his hands gripping your hips tightly, guiding your movements against his thigh as you ground down, your breath hitching with each movement.

You were so close—he could feel it.

And so was he.

Sidney’s hands wandered beneath your shirt, exploring the soft curves of your body, but still, he didn’t touch you where you wanted him to. He was drawing it out, making you work for it, and the more he held back, the needier you became.

He could feel the heat of you through your shorts, the dampness pooling between your thighs as you pressed harder against him. The thought of you so worked up, so desperate for him, was enough to drive him insane.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” Sidney muttered, his voice thick with desire as his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, brushing against your bare skin. You gasped softly, your body trembling beneath his touch, but he didn’t give you what you wanted, not yet.

"Sid, please," you whimpered, your voice breaking as you grabbed his hand, trying to guide it lower. But instead, he pulled his hand away, his lips curving into a slow, teasing smile.

“Uh-uh,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear as he kissed your neck again. “You’re gonna have to work for it, sweetheart.”

You groaned softly in frustration, but instead of protesting, you did exactly that. Your hands gripped his shoulders for balance as you started to rock your hips against his thigh, faster, more desperate this time. Each movement sent a wave of pleasure washing over you, and Sidney could feel the way your breath hitched with each grind of your hips. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your head tipping back as you let out a soft, breathless moan.

Sidney’s grip tightened on your hips, guiding you, helping you chase that high you were so desperate for. He was losing control, too—his breathing ragged, his skin flushed, and every moan that escaped your lips was pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

“You feel so good,” Sidney muttered, his voice rough as he kissed your neck again, his hands sliding down to your ass, squeezing gently as he guided your movements. “So fucking good.”

You whimpered softly, your body trembling as you ground against him harder, faster. Sidney groaned, his hands gripping your hips tightly, pulling you down harder against his thigh, feeling the heat of you through the thin fabric of your shorts. He was so close to losing it, so close to just taking you right here in the front seat of his car.

But then you moved your hand between your legs, pressing your fingers against the slick fabric of your shorts, and Sidney’s breath caught in his throat. You were so needy, so desperate for him, and he could feel it in every strained sound you made, every trembling movement of your body.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his hands gripping your hips tighter as he watched you, his heart pounding in his chest.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps as you touched yourself, your fingers moving in slow circles over your soaked shorts. Sidney groaned, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer as he kissed you again, his lips moving hungrily against yours.

He should stop you—he knew that. He should tell you that this was wrong, that someone could walk by at any moment and see what you were doing. But you didn’t care, so why should he?

Sidney’s hands slipped beneath your shirt, his fingers tracing the soft skin of your back as he kissed you harder, deeper. He could feel the heat radiating from your body, the way you trembled beneath his touch, and it was driving him insane.

“You’re gonna get us caught,” Sidney muttered against your lips, his voice thick with desire as he kissed you again, his hands wandering beneath your clothes.

You let out a soft laugh, your lips brushing against his as you whispered, “Who gives a shit?”

Sidney chuckled, his breath hitching as you ground against him again, harder this time. He groaned, his hands gripping your hips tighter as he pulled you down against him, feeling the heat of you through your shorts. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You smiled, your lips curving into a teasing smirk as you kissed him again, slow and lazy, your fingers tangled in his hair. “You love it,” you whispered, your breath hot against his lips.

Sidney groaned softly, his hands sliding down to your thighs, squeezing gently as he pulled you closer. “Yeah, I fucking do,” he muttered, his lips brushing against yours.

The air inside the car was growing thick with heat and tension, and Sidney could barely think straight. The windows were starting to fog up, the outside world slowly disappearing from view as if the two of you were in your own little bubble. Each kiss was deeper, messier, and more desperate than the last, your breath mingling with his as your lips moved together in a rhythm that neither of you wanted to break.

Sidney’s hands were everywhere—on your hips, your thighs, slipping beneath your shirt, exploring every inch of your body. He could feel how soaked you were through your shorts, how your body trembled with need, and it was driving him wild. You were grinding against his thigh, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your little moans making it almost impossible for him to hold back.

The tension between you was unbearable, like a rubber band stretched to its limit, ready to snap at any second. Sidney knew that if you stayed like this any longer, he was going to lose control completely. And the thought of taking it further—of giving you exactly what you wanted—was tempting, so damn tempting. But there were people just a few feet away. One wrong move, one sound, and the entire night would unravel. As much as Sidney wanted you, as much as he ached to take things to the next level, he couldn’t risk it.

You were breathless, your body trembling as you rocked against him, your fingers still pressing between your legs, and Sidney’s mind was a blur of need. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the pulse of desire thrumming through his veins, but he couldn’t help the small voice in the back of his head reminding him of the reality of the situation. If you two didn’t stop now, someone would notice.

The windows were fogging up more and more, a telltale sign of what was happening inside the car, and Sidney knew it was only a matter of time before someone got suspicious. You must have sensed it too because your movements slowed, your breath coming in soft, shallow gasps as you kissed him again, a little slower this time, but just as needy.

Sidney muttered against your lips, his voice rough as he broke the kiss for a second, his forehead pressed against yours. “We’re gonna get caught.”

You didn’t seem to care, your lips moving to his neck, kissing and nipping at his skin as you ground against his thigh one last time. “I don’t give a shit,” you whispered, your voice hushed, but full of need, your breath hot against his skin.

Sidney groaned, his hands tightening on your hips as he tried to hold back, tried to be the voice of reason, but you were making it so damn hard. “I know, but—fuck, we need to stop. Just for now,” he whispered, though it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself.

Reluctantly, you pulled back, your lips leaving his neck, your eyes heavy with lust as you met his gaze. Your body was still pressed against his, and the heat between you was almost unbearable. Sidney swallowed hard, his breath coming in short gasps as he tried to regain some semblance of control.

But you didn’t make it easy for him.

With a slow, deliberate movement, you pulled your fingers from between your legs, slipping your hand out from beneath your shorts, your fingers glistening in the low light. Sidney’s eyes darkened as he watched you, his breath catching in his throat as you brought your fingers to your lips, giving him a taste of yourself with a slow, teasing lick.

His head fell back against the seat, a low, desperate groan escaping his lips as he watched you, his skin buzzing with the need to pull you back into him, to kiss you until you were both out of breath again. But you were already shifting off his lap, your body moving away from him, leaving a trail of heat in your wake as you settled back into the passenger seat.

“This isn’t over,” you whispered, your voice low and sultry as you leaned in one last time, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Next time, you’re gonna give me what I fucking want.”

Sidney’s chest tightened at your words, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched you, his mind already racing with the possibilities of what next time might bring. “You think I won’t?” he murmured, his voice deep and full of promise. “You have no idea.”

Your eyes flickered with amusement, a teasing smile on your lips as you leaned in close, your breath warm against his ear. “I’m counting on it.”

Sidney let out a low, rumbling laugh, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his hair, trying to cool down. “Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered, but there was no mistaking the anticipation in his voice, the thrill of knowing that this wasn’t over—that next time, you would both cross the line you were dancing so dangerously close to tonight.

The two of you stayed like that for a moment longer, the tension still heavy between you, but there was an unspoken agreement now. You couldn’t push it further, not here, not tonight. But Sidney was already counting down the minutes until the next time he could get you alone, until the next time he could finally give you everything you wanted—everything you both wanted.

You slipped out of the car, your body moving with an easy grace that had Sidney’s eyes following your every movement. You glanced back at him one last time, a knowing smile on your lips before you turned and disappeared into the house.

Sidney watched you go, his mind still reeling from everything that had just happened. His skin was buzzing, his heart racing, and he couldn’t stop thinking about the way you felt against him, the way you tasted, the way you sounded when you said his name.

He leaned back in the driver’s seat, letting out a shaky breath as he ran a hand through his hair, his fingers brushing against the fogged-up window. He was already imagining the next time, the way he would pull you close, the way he’d kiss you until neither of you could think straight, and this time, he wouldn’t hold back.

Next time, you were going to get exactly what you wanted.

And Sidney couldn’t fucking wait.

[obessedwithfictionalmen]

Too sweet

John Egan X RedCross! Reader

Summary: When Y/n breaks up with Harry Crosby, Bucky goes to help her...

Warning: Asshole!Harry Crosby/+18/ smut/ riding/ unprotected sex/ p in v/ hickey/ swearing/ kissing/ alcohol/ use of Y/n

Word count: 2.7k

The band was playing as Y/n and Harry Crosby made their way into the room. It was a party for someone’s 25th mission. Y/n was excited to drink what the barman was going to propose, words on the street was that he was good with fruity drinks. It was something new for the base, they usually drank whiskey, rhum and coca cola. ‘’I’ve heard that he makes new drinks, fruitier than your usual whiskey’’ she joked, but Crosby was not laughing. He was growing tired of Y/n’s sunshine personality. He liked her, but he liked her body more. They were just having sex at first, to blow off some steam, but Y/n started to visit him, and Crosby didn’t have to balls to tell her that it was just sex.

‘’He doesn’t deserve her’’ John Egan said to his friend, Buck. ‘’I completely agree with you, he seems tired of her’’ he adds. Ever since she came on the base as a Red Cross volunteer, Bucky was in awe of her. She was so beautiful, and she had this confident attitude that attracted the Major. Bucky kept looking at her from across the room as Crosby dragged her in front of the bar. ‘’You should convince her to, y’a know, leave him’’ Rosie Rosenthal said, taking a sip of his drinks as he joined the conversation. Egan’s head turned to look at Rosie, questioning his motive, but still, John agreed with him. Helen joined the men, with her drink in the hand, she came next to Rosie. ‘’I heard that he’s the missionary king. Kinda boring if you want my opinion’’ she took a sip, smirking. Gale Cleven scoffed before looking at Y/n, the woman looked desperate for someone to save her.

She adjusted her dress, the one she wore for him. It was bright red, the buttons stopped in the middle of her breast, exposing cleavage, the dress stopped mid thigh. It was beautiful, Y/n thought she looked amazing in it; but when Harry Crosby saw her, he just said that she looked nice. It pained her, she put a lot of effort in her look to just be told that she looked nice. ‘’I’ll have a whiskey, neat’’ Crosby ordered. Y/n stuttered a little bit, she didn’t know what to say. She looked at the menu, filled with colorful drinks before choosing one with grenadine and gin. Helen came to her rescue, pulling her away from Crosby as Y/n grabbed her drink. ‘’I’m borrowing her’’ Helen said to Harry. She almost spilled her drink, but when she sat on the table, Helen looked at her. ‘’Him? Y/n you deserve better’’ she stated. ‘’We’re not official, and he’s really tired, his job is hard.’’ she excused him, again. Helen rolled her eyes, before looking at John Egan. ‘’By the look of things, you’ll never be official with him. He looks bored’’ she tries to reason her friend. Y/n fidgeted with her fingers, taking a sip of her drink. It was really tasty! ‘’It’s complicated, he’s still with Jean’’ Y/n whispered. Helen choked on her drink, almost spitting it. ‘’WHAT?!’’ she exclaimed; Y/n looked at the ground.

John Egan was looking at Y/n, that red dress suited her perfectly. She was breathtaking. When they heard Helen exclaim loudly, Buck and Rosie looked at each other. ‘’Holy shit’’ Rosie chuckled as he read Helen’s lips. ‘’What?’’ Bucky asked, looking at Rosie. ‘’If I understand correctly, he’s still with his wife’’ Rosie whispered. Bucky started to laugh. ‘’Harry Crosby, you son of a bitch’’ he mumbled, chuckling. Harry Crosby made his way into the crowd, looking for Y/n, when he got to her, he practically pulled her away from her chair. Y/n walked past Bucky, smiling to him as she was being dragged in the room.

‘’Another whiskey, neat please’’ he ordered the same thing. Y/n tried a lot of things, it was all good, she tried to convince Harry to try other things, but he was sticking with his whiskey neat. ‘’Croz, the Cosmopolitan is really good, I’m sure you’ll like – ‘’ Harry Crosby slammed his hand on the table, not to strong, but loud enough to make the woman flinch. ‘’Goddamnit, Y/n, for the last time. I don’t want to try your fruity drinks! God, how many times do I have to tell you?!’’ he said, aggressively. ‘’I, uh, I’’ she stuttered, in shock of what just happened. ‘’You and your sweet stuff. *scoff*, pathetic. Why can’t you just be like Jean, obedient and silent. No, I have to deal with your sweet and ‘I always see things in a positive way’ bullshit. Your just too sweet for me!’’ he spat. The waiter put his whiskey on the table. Y/n had enough, she took his glass and got up her seat. ‘’You know what? I’d like to see things for your point of view, but I can’t get my head so far up my ass. Fuck you Harry Crosby, we’re done. Go back to your wife, you must miss her after all!’’ she said as she threw his whiskey on him.

That’s my girl! That’s what John Egan thought when he saw Y/n throw whiskey on Harry Crosby. He had it coming for a while now. He was so proud of her; he had a huge grin on his face. ‘’Go after her’’ Helen suggested, and that’s what he did. He saw her going outside, so that’s where he went. ‘’Y/n, wait!’’ he called her out. She had pure anger running through her veins. But she knew that it wasn’t Crosby going after her. She turned around and saw him. ‘’Bucky, hi’’ she cleared her throat. ‘’Are you okay? I, uh, saw the scene’’ he scratched the back of his head. She replaced her hair, looking at Bucky. ‘’Yeah, he's such an asshole’’ she scoffed. John walked closer to her, she wasn’t crying, but she was angry at Crosby. ‘’You want to get out of here?’’ he asked her, she tilted her head in confusion. ‘’Where would we go?’’ she asked. ‘’Not out of the base, but out of this aera, where he could come out’’ he clarified. She nodded as John led her gently to his Jeep.

They entered the woman’s quarters, but they were empty, since everyone was at the party. ‘’By the way, you look astonishing in that dress.’’ He complimented her. Her cheeks grew red as she bit her bottom lip. ‘’Thank you, Bucky, I, uh, you look handsome too’’ she stuttered. ‘’Those drinks looked really good; I wished I tasted one’’ he said. Y/n smiled, truly happy. That’s all he had to do, was it so hard Harry? ‘’Yeah, they were’’ she whispers as she awkwardly looks around the room. ‘’Can I ask you a question?’’ he asked her. She nodded as she sat on her bed. ‘’Why were you with him?’’ he asks. Y/n smiles as she thinks. ‘’Honestly, I thought he was going to be nice and caring. But he wasn’t, and the sex was bad’’ she blurted out the last part, putting her hand in front of her mouth in shock. ‘’God, I’m sorry, please forget I said that’’ she chuckles nervously. ‘’Don’t worry, I already knew that Helen told me’’ he confessed.

They’ve been talking for a while now; nurses were starting to come back. ‘’You have to go; you’re not supposed to be here’’ Y/n signs. John got up, so did Y/n. ‘’I’m not ready for this night to be over’’ he confesses. She blushes as she looks at him. ‘’Me neither’’ she whispers. Bucky smirks as she takes her hand, leading her outside. They got up in his Jeep as they went inside Bucky’s quarters, since he was important on the base, he had his own room. It was in the building where everyone lived, but still, it gave him a little bit of privacy. ‘’Don’t worry about them’’ he whispered as she saw men on their bed. Some men were already sleeping, others were reading and the ones that looked at her were smiling, because they saw what happened with Crosby.

When they entered his room, she felt a weird sense of déjà vu. She’d been here, in this building multiple times with Crosby, but now, she felt like she was important. When she was here, they would have fast and boring sex, usually in missionary. After sex, Harry would fall asleep, he fell asleep around 3pm, leaving Y/n alone, bored and unsatisfied. ‘’What’s going on in your pretty head?’’ Bucky asked as he closed the door. ‘’Nothing, I’m happy to be here’’ she said, not too loudly. Bucky smiled; she was so beautiful. She got comfortable, taking her shoes off and taking a seat on his bed, where he joined her after taking off his jacket. He was a little bit nervous, only because she was so beautiful. ‘’What did Helen told you, y’a know, about the sex?’’ she asked, smiling. Bucky chuckled and looked at her in the eyes. ‘’That he was the missionary king, and it was boring’’ he explains. ‘’Yeah, uh, she’s right.’’ She laughed nervously. ‘’He was that bad?’’ he asked. Y/n nodded as she blushes. ‘’He was’’ she whispers.

The air in the small room felt hot and thick. They’ve been talking about sex for a while and Y/n was hot, the small room was not helping. ‘’Tell me something true’’ Y/n said. He let out a breath before finding the courage to say what he was about to say. ‘’I really want to kiss you right now’’ he breathed out. Her breath caught in her throat as she blinked and looked at him. ‘’Tell me something true, Y/n.’’ he said seductively. She didn’t even have to think twice. ‘’I really want you to kiss me’’ she breathed out. She looked at his eyes, then his lips and his eyes again. Their face was so close, the air in the room was so heavy. Bucky put his hands on her cheek before pressing his lips on hers. The kiss felt like sunrise, it felt so good. Harry Crosby wasn’t a good kisser, but John Egan was a really good kisser. They pulled away to catch their breaths. ‘’Please… Don’t stop’’ she whispered. ‘’I wasn’t planning on it’’ he smirked. Their lips crashed against the other again, this time, it was more intense. Bucky hands trailed down her body, he laid down on the bed, making Y/n got on his lap.

His hands were getting under her skirt, trailing on her thighs, getting closer to her panties. ‘’That red dress is driving me crazy’’ he mumbled against her lips. Her hips grinned against his lap, she felt him growing hard under her. ‘’At least, someone found it hot’’ she chuckled. ‘’Yeah, more than hot – ‘’ his hips buckled, making her feel his boner. ‘’- Feel that? That’s what that dress does to me’’ he smirked. ‘’Just a dress? It doesn’t take you much’’ she giggles. He scoffed before kissing her neck. ‘’Yeah, just that. You looked like a goddess’’ he sucked the skin on her neck, making a mark. She was out of breath, she wasn’t used to this much foreplay, she felt a little dizzy, but it was in the best way possible. His hands were still on her thighs, playing with her panties, taunting her a little bit. But, even if she loved what was happening, she was frustrated, she needed Bucky right now. ‘’Major, I need you. I love the foreplay and stuff, but please; I need you’’ she breathed out. He smirked as he reached her panties. ‘’Whatever you want, darling’’ he said as he took her panties off. Her hands reached his belt, she unbuckled it as she eagerly watched him. ‘’As long as I love this dress, I want to see you’’ he said, unbuttoning her dress. ‘’Then, let me see you’’ she replied, looking at him.

They quickly undressed before going in the same position they were in before. She was naked, on top of him, Bucky was also naked. She was soaking wet, she wasn’t used to this much attention, so it turned her on a lot. ‘’Ride me, sweetheart, c’mon’’ he encouraged her. She sunk down on him, her breath caught in her throat because of the size of his length. ‘’Holy shit’’ she moaned. ‘’Breath, Y/n, take your, shit, take your time’’ he mumbled. His head was thrown back, she was really tight and felt heavenly. She began grinding on him, slowly, to make sure that it didn’t hurt. ‘’Atta girl’’ he breathed out. As she familiarized herself with his size, Y/n began to move a little faster. Bucky’s hand went on her hips, he wanted to guide her. But she was going to the pace that he was looking for. ‘’You’re so big…’’ she moaned as she leaned to kiss him. He chuckled before kissing her. When she felt one of his hands on her breast, she moaned inside his mouth. He played with her tit, teasing her nipple; he loved watching her body react to him, it felt good, seeing the effect he had on her.

The heavy breathing coming out of their mouth was erotic, the fact that they had to keep quiet was pure torture. As they came closer to their orgasm, it was more difficult to keep quiet. She felt a not in her stomach, her climax was close, but a small part of herself didn’t want it to be over, she was truly enjoying it. ‘’I’m close’’ she managed to whisper. ‘’Me too, cum with me’’ he pleaded. She tried to hold her orgasm, but it was hard. Her thighs were shaking. ‘’Bucky, I need too – ‘’ ‘’Cum, now’’ he ordered. They both reached their climax at the same time, they tried to keep quiet, but the pleasure was too much. Bucky sucked her neck again to keep quiet, marking her again.

Bucky and Y/n had to take a moment to recover from what just happened, it was truly amazing, they couldn’t believe it. ‘’Thank you for this amazing sex’’ she breathed out, smiling. ‘’You’re welcome, and I agree, it was amazing’’ he smiled. She decided to sleep here, postponing her walk of shame tomorrow. She put on one of his shirts as she laid beside him. She felt happy, her stomach had butterflies. When she fell asleep, she didn’t even think about Harry Crosby, she thought about John Egan.

A knock on the door woke them up, it was potentially someone telling Bucky that he was flying today, but when she opened the door, Y/n was surprised to see Harry Crosby. When he saw her, his mouth slightly opened. ‘’Y/n, what are you doing in Bucky’s room?’’ he asked. Bucky walked behind Y/n, she felt like she had a scary dog privilege. ‘’What do you want, Croz?’’ Bucky asked. ‘’You, uh, you’re needed, the, uh, Colonel wants to see you’’ he stuttered, seeing the marks in Y/n’s neck. She looked at her watch, it was almost time for her shift. ‘’Shoot I gotta go, see y’a’’ she kissed Bucky’s neck as she put her dress on, not bothering to button it since she was going to change. Crosby had his jaw on the floor, it wasn’t a walk of shame, it was a walk of power.

She was sitting on a table; it was her break. She’d been giving out coffee for hours, she didn’t want a boring black coffee, she wanted a good coffee, with milk and sugar, sadly milk and sugar was for Majors. ‘’Is there anyone sitting here?’’ Harry Crosby asked, with two cups of coffee in his hands. She didn’t want to talk to him, but he sat down on the table anyway. He pushed one cup in front of her: black coffee. Y/n looked at the cup, then slowly rose her head to look a Crosby. ‘’What do you want?’’ she asked. ‘’I’m so sorry for yesterday, I didn’t know – ‘’ she cut him off with her hand. ‘’Crosby, you came here to get me back?’’ she asked, with a hint of disgust. He nodded. ‘’I don’t want to hear it, you humiliated me, told me I was boring, and you’re married!’’ at the same time, Bucky came to sit next to her, handing her a cup of coffee with milk and sugar. ‘’Milk and sugar, just how you like it’’ he smiled as he sat down. Bucky kissed her cheek before looking at Crosby. ‘’You said it yourself, Harry, I’m too sweet for you’’

[sportsthoughts]

a sid anthem gif a day keeps the real life hockey woes away

[rowdyluv]

Sleepless in Pittsburgh

Summary: Sidney and Y/n are supposed to be taking turns getting up at night to take care of their infant.

Warnings: none?

Notes: request @thedevilrisen

In the quiet sanctuary of their suburban home, Sidney and Y/n danced a nightly ritual that was as tender as it was tiring. Their baby girl, a delightful bundle of eight months, had just been fed and was now nestled in Sidney's strong arms, her eyes drooping as she fought the call of sleep. The nursery, a soft palette of pastels, hummed with the gentle white noise machine designed to help soothe her, a modern lullaby that filled the room. Y/n, her hair tied back in a loose bun, moved quietly, finishing up the bedtime routine. She glanced over at Sidney, who wore a look of quiet determination, his soft gaze fixed on their daughter's sleepy face. His eyes filled with raw pure joy and love. Emotions that strong had only ever been shared with her before.

With a soft sigh, the baby's eyes finally closed, and Sidney carefully placed her in the crib. The couple exchanged a knowing look, one that spoke of shared responsibilities and silent promises. They had agreed to take turns getting up in the night to ensure that neither was overwhelmed by the constant wake-up calls. It was a plan that had worked well, or so Sidney thought. Y/n had been shouldering more of the childcare lately, and it was etched on her face, in the dark circles beneath her eyes and the way she moved with a slightly slower grace than usual. He felt a twinge of guilt, but also a fierce protectiveness. He knew she was tired, but she never complained, not even when he could see her stifling yawns. She would never complain about being tired because of a little extra responsibility on her because Sidney was a little more busy with work. She knew way before the thought of having a child ever entered her mind that this would be a different rodeo.

Sidney held out his hand to Y/n, and she took it gratefully, her own feeling small and cold. They padded out of the nursery together, the floorboards creaking slightly under their weight. As they entered their bedroom, the room was bathed in the soft glow of the moon, which streamed through the curtains and painted intricate patterns on the wooden floor. The room was a sanctuary of their own, filled with the faint scent of the vanilla candles Y/n had lit earlier to create a calming atmosphere. Their bed looked inviting, the crumpled sheets whispering of a much-needed rest.

Sidney could see the exhaustion etched in every line of Y/n's face as she climbed into bed. Him being gone for road games and simply being so worn out from home games, she was getting up more often than not. Plus she was here all day with the little one and it was taking a toll on her. He had noticed it in the way she had been quieter than usual, and how she sometimes forgot simple things like where she had put the baby's pacifier, and it would still be in her hand. As he sat down next to her, his thoughts swirling with love and concern, he made a silent vow to do more. He didn't want her to bear this burden alone. He couldn’t become that type of dad.

Gently, he kissed the top of her head, his lips lingering for a brief moment, a silent promise of support. She leaned into the touch, closing her eyes and letting out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world. They both knew the baby could stir at any moment, but for now, they had a few precious minutes to themselves. Sidney pulled the covers up to their chins and wrapped an arm around her, feeling her body melt into his warmth. The room was silent except for the steady rhythm of their breathing, which synced up almost immediately.

They lay there, the moonlight playing across their faces, the lines of fatigue standing out in stark relief. Sidney studied Y/n's features, the way her eyelashes fanned out on her cheeks, the soft curve of her nose, the gentle slope of her neck. She was beautiful, even exhausted. He felt a pang of regret for the moments he had missed, the nights he had been away for his games, unable to share in the middle-of-the-night moments that had bonded them so deeply.

The sudden wail of their baby girl pierced the quiet, jolting them both awake. Sidney sat up, his heart racing. Y/n's eyes snapped open, and she started to push herself up, but he placed a firm, reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I've got this one," he whispered, his voice low and steady. She looked at him, a mix of surprise and relief in her eyes, and nodded, collapsing back onto the pillow. Asleep almost instantaneously.

Sidney slid out of bed, his bare feet landing softly on the cool floor. He knew the drill by heart now; tiptoe to the nursery, check on her, soothe her, lay her back down, and maybe get a little more sleep before the next round. The crib's mobile twirled gently in the dim light, casting shadows on the walls. He picked her up, her small body fitting perfectly into the crook of his arm, and cradled her close to his chest. Her cries grew quieter, and she nestled her head into the nook of his shoulder, seeking comfort. He rocked her gently, feeling the weight of her trust in his arms, and he was filled with a fierce love that seemed to surpass any tiredness he felt.

As he sat in the rocking chair, he couldn't help but think of the times he'd seen Y/n do this. The way she'd coo and whisper sweet nothings, the gentle strokes of her hand on their daughter's back, the way she'd rock back and forth with such a natural rhythm. It was moments like these that made him realize just how much she did for their little family. And it was moments like these that he realized he needed to do more to share the load of work.

After soothing their baby girl back to sleep, he gently placed her back into the crib, the soft cradle of the mattress welcoming her tiny form. As he backed away, her eyes fluttered for a moment, as if she was searching for the source of the movement. He held his breath, willing her to stay asleep. When she finally settled again, he let out a sigh of relief and turned to leave.

Sidney tiptoed back to his and Y/n’s shared bedroom, his steps measured so as not to disturb the peaceful silence. He slid into bed next to her, feeling the warmth of her body as she stirred slightly in her sleep. He watched her for a moment, her chest rising and falling evenly, and allowed himself a small smile.

The digital clock next to the bed read 4:00 AM. He knew that this was likely not the last time the baby would wake up tonight. It was a cycle that had become all too familiar. But this time, something was different. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Y/n needed the rest more. He’d been up three times now, her twice. He didn’t want her up again if possible.

So, he made a decision.

He would stay in the nursery for the rest of the night.

Sidney carefully picked up the baby again and made his way to the rocking chair, the old oak creaking gently as he sat down. The chair had been a gift from Y/n's mother, a relic from her own parenting days, and it held a certain charm that filled Sidney with warmth. He tucked a blanket around both of them, the soft fabric brushing against his skin, and began to rock. The chair's steady motion was almost hypnotic, and he found himself slipping into a light doze, his eyes flickering open every few moments to check on their daughter.

The baby's breathing grew even, her tiny body relaxing in his embrace. He felt her heartbeat against his chest, a gentle reassurance that she was safe and loved. The room was bathed in the glow of the nightlight, casting a soft blue hue across the nursery. He studied her features, so much like Y/n's, and felt a swell of pride that washed away his weariness. He whispered a promise to her, one that only the two of them would ever know, to be the best father he could be for her.

"I'll always be here for you, little one," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "I'll protect you, love you, and support you, no matter what life throws our way." He kissed her forehead, feeling the warmth of her skin and breathing in her sweet baby scent. It was a promise that seemed to echo in the stillness of the room, a vow that filled him with purpose and resolve.

Her tiny hand curled around his finger, and he marveled at the way she held on so tightly. It was as if she understood the gravity of his words, as if she was already counting on him to be her rock. He stroked her cheek with his thumb, feeling the velvety softness of her skin. "You're going to have the best life, I promise," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You'll never have to doubt how much you're loved by your momma, by me, or my teammates. The new ones that find their way onto the team will love you.”

Y/n's voice, soft and warm, floated into the nursery from the doorway. "You'll just have to figure out who loves you most," she said with a tired smile, her eyes still heavy with sleep. Sidney looked up to see her leaning against the doorframe, her silhouette framed by the dim hallway light. “Did you forget that this was on?” She shook the baby monitor. “Your chatter was interesting to wake up to and not find you in the bed.” She giggled.

"I guess I did forget," he laughed, the sound low and rich, bouncing off the walls of the quiet room. It was a rare moment of levity in the tapestry of their sleepless nights. The baby stirred slightly at the sound but didn't wake, her grip on Sidney's finger tightening. Y/n's smile grew, the shadows playing across her features as she padded closer.

"Thank you," she murmured, her voice a gentle caress in the night. "I know you're tired too, but you're so good at this." She leaned down to kiss him, her hand brushing against his cheek. He could feel the heavy truth of her gratitude, and it was more invigorating than any cup of coffee could ever be. “You have your hockey career that is so demanding, that supports us, and here you are still trying to take on the bulk when you can.” She kissed him once more.

Sidney beamed with happiness, his heart swelling with love for both his wife and their daughter. "This is nothing," he said, his voice earnest. "You're the real MVP here, Y/n. I just want to make sure you get some rest." He grinned at her, his eyes shining with affection. "I think I'll stay right here with my baby girl for the rest of the night."

Y/n returned his smile, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. She knew Sidney was tired, too, but she couldn't deny the comfort his offer brought her. "Are you sure?" she asked, her voice a mere whisper. "You have practice tomorrow."

A simple nod and a genuine smile was all Sidney needed to give her and she was off to bed. Sidney however, was in the rocking chair until 8am holding his little girl happily and lovingly.

[ohmyeyesmyeyes]

you never knew how much i really liked you - s. crosby

summary: 'In truth, it wasn’t nothing – it was never nothing with Sid. It was always something, and usually it hurt. The timings; what wasn’t said; the history. There was more to the two of you than what even Nate and Taylor knew of – not even when they seemed to stop breathing when you admitted what it could be.'

warnings: sid x f!reader (ex-hockey player), swearing, miscommunication trope, mentions of the consumption of alcohol, bonus point if you spot the unintentional olivia rodrigo lyric, mentions of food aversion (in relation to illness & hints at anxiety), passing mentions of someone potentially having alcohol poisoning, confrontation

< a/n: the ending is abrupt but i can't be arsed changing it! sorry! ALSO: IT'S PENS PRE-SEASON DAY!! >

word count: 13k

 There was a chair, this time. They’d never been a chair there before, ever. You’d been to this house and you’d sat on the end of the deck with your feet hanging over the edge countless times in the last decade or so, but there had never been a chair there before, at least not one that didn’t have to be dragged from inside and unfolded. 

It didn’t particularly strike you as odd or anything, but it did stop you in your tracks at the top of the deck, and you did try to see if you could see him through the windows of his house, but it was early so the sun only reflected against the glass panes, completely blocking your view. But you’d seen his car in the driveway, and you knew he’d be up – probably eating his breakfast or in the gym already.

You gripped your book a little tighter, making your way towards the end of the pontoon and assessing the chair with your own eyes. You almost laughed at the blanket draped across the back of it, but it didn’t stop you from picking it up and covering yourself with it after you got settled.

It was a lovely morning, it always was here, and it was partly why you loved arriving earlier: there was something about the crispness of the sun in the morning and the rawness of the view. It wasn’t one you could ever imagine getting tired of. The water was gorgeous, the trees were gorgeous, the sky was gorgeous, the birds were gorgeous. As usual, it took you a while to work yourself up to actually pick up your book and tear your attention away from the view.

It was a muffled bark that finally did it, your fingers absent-mindedly playing with the pages of the book, and you turned to peer around the side of the chair, a golden labrador bounding down the pontoon, tongue lolling out and ears flapping as she did. You grinned, sitting forward in the chair and anticipating Sam to stop right in front of you, her tail wagging ferociously as you scratched behind her ears.

“Good morning to you, too.” You muttered, clenching your jaw and stroking her fur as she collapsed to lay at your feet, her belly exposed for you to scratch, “Where’s Sid?” At the mention of his name, Sam’s ears perked up and she barked, her head turning to something behind you, “Is he walking down now?” You didn’t turn around, instead focusing your attention entirely on the pup in front of you – until the pair of footsteps echoing against the wood became too noticeable to ignore.

The sun was still blinding from reflecting off the patio doors, but the silhouette of Sid was nearly impossible to ignore, more so when he was effortlessly carrying another chair in one arm and a travel flask with two cups balanced on the lid in the other.

You shielded your eyes with your hand, about to get up to help him in some way, but he shook his head adamantly, “I got it. Here.” He passed you the mug with the cups, and you sat silently, watching him unfold the chair (it looked a lot less comfortable than the one he’d set out for you, though you didn’t comment on it) and settled himself in.

“Morning.” You greeted, passing him one cup before unscrewing the lid and sniffing.

“Morning.” He replied, grinning, “It’s decaf, by the way.”

You couldn’t help but smile at that, “Thank you.”

“‘Course.”

“Are you sure you wanna put this in your body this early?” You asked, taking his cup from him and pouring out the steaming coffee. It warmed your hands nicely through the plastic, and you snuck a look at him out of the corner of your eye. He was sitting comfortably, a little lower than you because of the height of his chair, and he was watching you carefully, completely unashamed at having been caught in the act. His grin did seem to melt into one more bashful, and he looked out across the water, blinking in the light.

“I feel like I’m gonna need it to get through today.” He answered, gently taking his cup from your hand, fingertips brushing delicately against yours.

“Yeah, it’s gonna be pretty hectic.” You agreed, placing the flask on the floor, giving Sam a quick pat before sipping on your own coffee, your book tucked under your chair. You had a feeling you weren’t going to get much reading done now anyway, not when Sid had decided to join you.

You both leaned back in your chairs, the blanket tucked around your waist, and nothing was said for around ten minutes. Nothing needed to be said. Even Sam seemed to get that message; she was curled up at both your feet, her head turned in the direction of the water. Every so often she’d perk up, maybe when a bird flew overhead or when she heard something in the woodland, but she’d always end up placing her head back down on the wooden beams, bathing in the sun.

“This is always my favourite week of the entire year.” You admitted a little shyly. It wasn’t something you were afraid of saying out loud, per se, but you’d known Sid for years. He was the one that started the week-long camp for the kids in Cole Harbour, and for some reason admitting that it was his creation that you always looked forward to the most was a little daunting.

He didn’t seem to think so, but he couldn’t quite keep the shock off his face when he registered what it was you’d said.

“It is?” 

You nodded, “Is that sad? I feel like it is.”

He shook his head, “Nah, it’s not sad at all.”

If it had been anyone else that had admitted that, Sid might have teased a little – or if you’d said something else altogether, but almost as soon as you’d thrown those words out there he felt a twinge of empathy for you. To have played hockey with each other most of your youth…you’d obviously stopped playing against and with boys at a certain age because of the regulations, but you’d managed to secure a spot on a local girl’s team and eventually you’d gone on to play at college. And by the time graduation came around, you had your degree, sure, but there was no women’s hockey league to play for, not one you could live comfortably off anyway.

Sid had often tried to put himself in your shoes…it killed him every time, like getting stabbed in the chest. Only, when you said that, the knife twisted and was pulled out, and he swore his heart broke a little. To have the skill and the talent to play professionally, but no league to play in was his worst nightmare.

To not have hockey, to him, was to not live and breathe. If he didn’t have hockey, he couldn’t even imagine what he’d be doing right now.

You just hummed, clearly not believing him, and he inhaled sharply, resisting the urge to give you a reassuring touch. He was about to say something, but you turned to look at him sharply, an odd expression on your face.

“What?” He found himself asking, taking a self-conscious sip of the coffee to hide his face.

Your eyes narrowed, and a small smile curled at your lips, “Aren’t you gonna make a comment about ‘wow, you must really miss me, huh?’, or–”

“I don’t sound like that.” He shook his head, managing a tight smile. You were trying to cover a wound that had scarred over the years by switching the subject, but Sid could only muster a forced laugh and a curious glance in your direction, “Did you miss me, though?”

There was a brief moment where he thought you’d play his question off and pretend you hadn’t heard him, and in that brief moment there were a few things that happened to him: his heart seemed to pound and drop to his feet at the same time; he realised that if you didn’t miss him he wasn’t quite sure what else to do, and regret. The regret was anticipatory, though, of you ignoring him.

And it also seemed to dissolve completely when you answered: “Yeah. Not as much as I used to, though.”

Sid swallowed, picking at his navy joggers. Instead of regret, it was guilt that ate away at him – for something he couldn’t even control.

“What do you mean?” His mouth felt dry, and his grip on the cup tightened.

You turned to look at him, shrugging hopelessly, “That first year without you was just a lot to adjust to, that’s all.”

“It was?”

Something on your face seemed to flicker; your brows twitched downwards and any trace of happiness that was previously written on your face was suddenly no longer visible. Your head tilted, and you stuttered, clearly not quite knowing what to say or where to start.

“I…” You trailed off, and Sid felt the beginnings of dread begin to creep up his stomach and settle there like a pebble, “Yeah. You didn’t know that?”

He shook his head, jaw clenching. You looked inexplicably sad at his reply, and turned to fix your eyes on the water in front of you, a sip of scalding coffee seemingly hinting at wanting to end the conversation.

But Sid wasn’t quite done, not yet. His first year in the NHL: he remembered it pretty clearly, and he also remembered that neither of you were that good at keeping in touch with each other. You were on the other side of the country in California for college, and he was mainly in Pittsburgh, but nearly everywhere. Moving out of Nova Scotia was a big thing for both of you, but having lived next door to each other for your entire childhood and having played on the same team as little kids? That first year was difficult.

“Did something happen?” He asked, voice a little frailer than he’d liked to have conveyed – so much so that even Sam’s ears seemed to prick at the slight twinge in pitch.

You shook your head, sighing deeply, “I just kind of had the sense that I was never gonna see you again those first few months, that’s all. I psyched myself out…it’s fine now, though.”

***

“Is Sid okay?” Taylor sidled up to you on the edge of the group of kids listening intently to the man in question, skates scratching to a stop as she murmured the question in your ear.

You felt your brows pinch, your gloved hands resting on the top of your stick hiding your mouth as you turned to her, “As far as I’m aware.”

He looked okay from where you were standing: the very picture of effortless leadership as he explained the next game to the group of kids all staring up at him intently, some with dropped jaws and some with frowns of concentration etched on their features. They were all wearing monochrome jerseys and the overhead lights were reflecting off their helmets. Not a single one wasn’t watching Sid talk.

His voice wasn’t wavering, and he was giving the kids his entire attention – devoted as usual to his sport…so?

“Why?” You raised a brow, looking at Taylor out of the corner of your eye.

Her mouth was pulled down at the corners, and she shrugged offhandedly, “I dunno, he just seems a bit off today.”

Yeah, okay. You turned your attention back to him, trying to commit every little motion of his hand to memory, intently keeping an eye out for any trembling or straying of his attention. It must have been another fifteen seconds before you sighed, turning back to Taylor, who was regarding you with an air of amusement, a sly smile hiding on her face.

“What?” You asked, feeling as though she was looking right through you.

“Nothing.” Then, after a pause, “Did he drive you over here?” 

You hummed, nodding, but your mind was stuck replaying and analysing what she’d previously said, “What did you mean by ‘off’?”

“What’s up with Sid?” 

Your heart thundered in shock, not having anticipated Nate to shuffle over to your other shoulder. His voice in your ear was jarring, but still as soft as yours and Taylor’s had been, not wanting to disrupt the talk at the front of the group.

“What do you mean?”

“Three guesses.” 

You and Taylor spoke up at the same time, and when you turned to look at her she was glaring at you rather pointedly, and Nate whistled lowly in your ear, a deep laugh shaking his ribs.

“No way, what did you say to him?” Nate asked, half-giggling, and you sighed, getting slightly infuriated by the lack of real answers and use of cryptic mutters that had you no closer to figuring out exactly just what they were on about.

A part of you was losing your cool a bit because you liked to think you knew Sid pretty well; in fact, you did know him pretty well. It was why you couldn’t possibly fathom another two minutes in the presence of these two without getting an answer, because he’d been like this since…

Oh.

Nate’s laughter immediately halted, and Taylor leaned forward, the two of them sharing a cautious look at the way you seemed to wince.

“What?” They chorused, the combination of their voices causing a few heads to turn in your direction, and you ducked your head, adjusting your skates as an excuse not to draw even more attention to yourself.

After a nudge in the elbow, you lifted your head up. 

There was no way that was what was causing him to be more distracted than usual. It wasn’t even a big deal or anything, and it certainly wasn’t a secret – you thought he knew, that wasn’t your fault. And it wasn’t like he’d actually done anything all those years ago, either. That first year was almost radio silence on both ends, and you were honestly glad that wasn’t the case now.

But, still? No way.

“It’s not much, I don’t even think it could be what I’m thinking anyway.” You shook your head, watching him.

“What’re you thinking?” Taylor whispered, the lip of her cap catching you in the cheek with how close she’d shuffled.

You recoiled slightly, “It’s genuinely nothing. He just apparently didn’t know that I missed him the first year.” Your voice trailed off weakly, “Nothing.”

In truth, it wasn’t nothing – it was never nothing with Sid. It was always something, and usually it hurt. The timings; what wasn’t said; the history. There was more to the two of you than what even Nate and Taylor knew of – not even when they seemed to stop breathing when you admitted what it could be.

There were weeks and months and years where you didn’t talk much, mostly due to the distance and the clashing of schedules, but there was a lull that you’d both managed to keep from everyone else, and if you were being honest, now that you were thinking about it…that and with your earlier admission on top of it…

Maybe it was your fault.

“What did he say?” Taylor said, shaking you out of your own head. You blinked, apparently still looking at Sid.

There was something grave and more serious in her features that hadn’t been there earlier, and when you shot a look at Nate, he was wearing an almost identical expression: his brows were furrowed together and his mouth was pulled in a tight line, altogether looking uncharacteristically morbid.

You felt your pulse quicken in foreboding, “He asked if anything happened and then we got in the car.”

“Nothing else?” 

You inhaled, blinking twice, “Should there have been?”

***

The car ride back to your house was silent. Eerily so. Your body was exhausted and your brain was still playing the soundtrack of pucks smacking against posts, sticks and boards in your head, along with the joyous yells of the kids. That was why you loved it so much – not just the ice time and the familiarity of having a stick in your hands and a puck at your feet – but for the look on their faces when they looked up from the ice to see a grinning Sidney Crosby or Nathan MacKinnon singing them praises.

It made you wonder how many of them would eventually go on to play college hockey or even make it to the professional leagues.

You stifled a grin, your hand over your mouth as you turned to look out of the passenger window.

The only thing that broke through to you was the motion of the driver when his head turned to watch you briefly before returning back to the road. That simple movement had the smile melting off your face. 

You’d never been particularly nervous around Sid – and on the few occasions you had been, all it had taken was a fifteen minute conversation with him and it all dissipated – but this time was different. Not only was what Taylor had told you swirling around your mind, but the tension in the car was palpable, at least in your opinion.

Sid hadn’t said much, just kept his jaw clenched and his eyes focused on the road. Since this morning, it was probably the only glaringly obvious symptom that something wasn’t quite right, or something was playing on his mind.

It didn’t take much for you to box your own miseries and turn to him. You looked at him out of the corner of your eye first: the strong jaw, the full lips, the prominent nose, the dark eyes and darker hair. He really was quite breathtaking. The hands on the steering wheel, the rippling forearms each time he had to turn the wheel. It wasn’t something you were immune to at all: in fact, since the age of about fourteen you’d been hyper aware of the fact that Sid was stunning – and it wasn’t just in his looks, either. His work ethic, concentration, determination, kindness, generosity. He was the insurmountable sum of all of those qualities, and you were a damn fool if you didn’t recognise the fact that you’d been a tiny bit in love with him all your life.

And because of that, you knew him well. Not as well as some people might initially assume, but well enough.

“You okay?” You asked, earning nothing but a nod and a tight-lipped smile.

“Yeah, why?”

You shrugged, “You’re just quiet.”

“I’m tired, that’s all.”

You nodded, looking to your lap. He’d be tired the entire week, that was always how this went. But he’d get by and he’d manage and he’d recover like he wasn’t tired: he still kept smiling, still showed enthusiasm, and maybe he’d gotten used to it over the years, because you could have sworn each time he organised this he was less and less tired.

“You sleeping okay?” 

He nodded, running a hand from his wrist to scratch under his sleeve, and you followed the motion unconsciously with your eyes, “More than. You?”

You shrugged, pulling an unsure face, “The usual.”

He snuck another glance at you out of the corner of his eye before turning his attention back to the road ahead, “What about you, are you okay?” He echoed your own question back to you, and maybe if it wasn’t for the genuine thin film of concern to his voice, you’d have brushed it off with an answer and a huff of laughter. Instead, though, you parrotted his words back to him, nailing the equal part-suspicion and amusement.

“Yeah, why?” 

“You’re hilarious.” He shot back drily, shaking his head.

“Hey, can you drop me off at my parents’ house please, I need to collect something. I’ll literally be five minutes.”

It was Taylor’s voice in your head that kept bashing about, repeating words and flashing images – Nate was thrown in there too from that earlier conversation you’d all had when Sid was oblivious, and it didn’t let up, not even when you pushed the key into your childhood home and shut the door behind you.

The house was pretty quiet, the sound of the door shutting echoing down the hallway. The TV was flashing in the living room, and you could hear voices, from both the news anchors and your parents talking over it. Only then did Taylor’s words quieten. 

“Who is it?” A voice yelled out just as you’d scraped your shoes off your feet, and the smile that bloomed on your face was almost instantaneous.

“Your favourite child!”

There was a brief pause, and you stopped in the hallway, waiting until he replied.

“That doesn’t sound like Sid.”

You pulled a face, snatching a pair of socks from the staircase before entering the living room, pelting the ball at your Dad’s head, the soft cotton smacking him straight in the nose. He was sitting in his PJs: plaid bottoms and a crumpled top, with slippers and no socks on his feet. When the socks collided with his face, that smirk was still there, even as he lobbed them back at you with surprising force to say he didn’t have a lot of arm room.

“Nice to see you, too.” You rolled your eyes, smiling at your Mom, who’d since gotten up off the sofa to peer through the blinds.

“What’re you doing?” Your Dad asked, turning his attention to his wife, and before she’d even answered you knew what she was going to say.

“Sid’s outside in the car.” You said, shrugging when they both turned to you with equal appal written all over their faces.

“Get him in here.” Your Mom grinned, knocking on the window and motioning for the man himself to come inside.

You just rolled your eyes, “I’m just gonna go get something from upstairs.” Your words fell on deaf ears, however, because almost as soon as you’d taken initiative and left the room, the front door was shutting and Sid was standing, smiling, at the door, still decked out in camp kit and looking every bit as nervous as the first time he’d ever met your family. And then he seemed to spot you walking towards him, your parents in front of you, and he let out that telltale breath, his shoulders and face relaxing fractionally.

He’d explained it to you before, about how he still feels awkward meeting people’s parents, no matter how long he’s known them, and you never seem to remember that until you see it with your own eyes: I don’t know, it’s weird, but if I see, say you, someone I know, it kinda gets me out of my head a bit. I don’t know why.

“Come in, come in – oh, she’s just picking something up–”

You immediately turned on the stairs, one hand still clutching the bannister tightly, to look upon a pair of eyes that practically gleamed ‘don’t leave me here’. The rest of his face was pretty neutral, a polite smile as your parents chatted his ears off, the both of them making their way back into the house, and there was a split second where they weren’t looking at either of you.

For some reason, instead of laughing at his misfortune, you inhaled quickly, leaning over the bannister, “Wait, I need Sid’s help with something.” 

Everyone seemed to freeze. Even despite the mental pleading he’d been doing, Sid couldn’t help it when his lips parted in shock, kind of like he couldn’t help it when his brows knitted together. Your mom stopped talking about how nice it was to see Sid again, and looked up at you too. It looked as though she was about to say something, but with the guilty, rather hurried smile on your face she clamped her mouth shut, nodding. Your dad hadn’t stopped walking, but even from the other room the rather loud ‘mutter’ of, “Is that what we’re calling it, now?” 

Needless to say, both yours and Sid’s cheeks were still a little bit pink by the time you’d walked into your old bedroom.

“What’re you looking for?” He asked, desperate to get his mind out of that gutter, and flopped on your still-made bed, picking up the penguin teddy he’d brought home after his draft. He’d bought it in one of the stores in the airport in Toronto on his way back home, and you’d never had the heart to even move it out of this house: it belonged here.

“Do you remember that video camera I used to have?” You pulled open the first contender: the bedside table drawer. There were loose cables, hair ties, various joint support bands…but no sign of the camera.

“Yeah.” Came the reply from near your head, and you blinked, not expecting him to be so close. He’d rolled onto his front, his face smushed into your pillow, and he made no attempt to pretend as though he hadn’t been watching you rifle through your drawers – at least not if that cheeky grin didn’t automatically make its way onto his face.

You pushed his forehead back, stopping your mild attack when he screamed before dissolving into giggles severely reminiscent of when he was younger. It was so incredibly infectious, so incredibly nostalgic that all you could do was crouch, an unconscious open-mouthed smile on your face.

“Why are you laughing?” You slammed the drawer shut, heaving yourself off the floor and over to your old desk. There were still some notebooks scattered across the surface, pens in the stand. The cupboard and shelves were almost full, and it was only as you started to pull everything out, looking inside baskets and boxes that Sid could be bothered to speak again.

“Because I’m pretty sure we had this exact conversation when we were twenty.”

“We did?”

“Yeah.” He punctuated it with a sigh, a despondent one, and you looked at him over your shoulder. He was sitting up now, his hands clamped around his ankles, a thoughtful look on his face.

The ‘twenty’ year with Sid had been very weird, and you never really figured out why. The nineteenth was almost non-existent, the twenty-first good, but it was tinged by what happened at the end of his season (not the winning the Stanley Cup for the first time, but the other thing), which made your twenty-second awkward, and the twenty-third was almost like a reset. You never really realised how much you’d both changed until you got to relearn each other as adults. 

He was eyeing the corner of your room you tried to avoid looking at. 

“So why are you looking for the camera?” He asked, voice sounding far-away. He was still staring at the trophy corner, and you turned your attention back to rifling through old relics in the hunt, gladly looking anywhere but that shrine.

“If I told you Taylor would murder me in my sleep.”

He groaned, “I told her not to do anything for my birthday.” 

“It’s nothing big, I think she just wants photos from when we were younger.”

“We?”

You shrugged, missing the slight catch in his voice, “Well, you, but there’s loads of photos of you on my camera, I think she just wants a look. I always forget how young she was when we left.” You sighed, slamming the cupboard door on your desk shut, before standing in the middle of your room, hands on your hips, “I don’t know where else I could have put it.”

He didn’t say anything, but the creaky springs of your mattress groaned under his hands as he pushed himself up off your bed, before walking straight passed you and into the forbidden corner.

There was a clinking sound of metal, and you whirled on your heel, watching him carefully rifle through the trophies, photo frames, certificates and medals all hung and displayed neatly, before spinning around on his heel, holding the camera in his hand with a knowing look on his face.

***

Saying you were nervous was a bit of an understatement considering what it was you were about to do. The camera’s SD card was safely tucked into your laptop, but you’d been staring at the folder on the homescreen for ten minutes, and you were sure you hadn’t felt this nervous since your driving test. Your hands were clammy, your heart was racing and your brain was loud.

You’d lied to Sid earlier – well, partially. Taylor had wanted to look at some photos, and you had every intention on bringing the camera in to the rink tomorrow so you could giggle at the contents in your breaks, but there was something else she’d also said, something that got your brain working, and you hadn’t been able to think about anything else since. 

You inhaled shakily, before double-clicking the yellow folder, the seconds where the mouse loaded into a swirl of blue almost knocking your soul out of your body from the sheer anxiety of it all. You hoped you were wrong, but a small part of you hoped Taylor had been right. If she had, it’d make so much sense as to what happened when you were eighteen-nineteen, but if she was right? You weren’t entirely sure what you were going to do.

The screen flooded with images…school corridors, ice rinks, soccer fields, bedrooms, cars, bars, Rimouski, until–

Fuck.

You froze, eyes fixated on the one photo that had caught your eye. It was someone’s back garden, you couldn’t remember who exactly, but you remembered being there. It was dark, string lights and strobe lights hung across the verandah and neon streaks flickered from between plants. 

You’d drunk so much that night but you could still remember handing your camera off to some of your classmates – it must have been graduation – and everyone had been drinking, that much you could tell from the quality of the photos, and this one in particular wasn’t any different. It was a blurred photo of someone celebrating a beer pong game, their arms raised over their head and their mouth open in some kind of celebratory roar, but it wasn’t that that caught your attention.

It was the shadowy figures of two teenagers sitting on the stools towards one side of the garden, a makeshift table pressed against the wall. They were sitting close together, knees slotted between each other, and faces mere inches apart. Both were wearing grins, even despite being mid-kiss.

Shadowy, yet so unmistakably you and Sid.

***

“You okay?”

You blinked, the staff room coming back to you. The fluorescent lights glared along the surface of the table you’d picked, your lunch tray sitting untouched in front of you, and there was a general buzz about the place. It was lunchtime, and you’d opted out of kid-duty – partly because you were on the brink of giving yourself a headache and mostly just because you couldn’t really focus on much without immediately thinking about Sid – which meant sitting at a table in a quiet room by yourself just for a breather.

Only, a rather determined, hazel-eyed man seemed to have other ideas if the tray plopped down opposite you was anything to go by. He collapsed against the chair with a sigh, hands picking up his knife and fork with practised ease, and he hadn’t even given you a chance to answer his question before he was pausing, eyeing you with mild concern. His eyebrows knitted together and he ducked his head to try to get a closer read on you.

“Yeah.” You nodded, swallowing, almost nervous.

This thing had happened all those years ago and he’d never brought it up. Yet, that still didn’t explain why he’d then…he was confusing, in the present tense. 

His mouth turned downwards for a brief moment and he shook his head in disbelief, “You disappeared ten minutes ago and you haven’t touched your food.”

You just shrugged, managing a tight smile, “Not very hungry.”

It wasn’t a lie, per se, but it was the honest truth when your stomach rolled just as he put a forkful of food in his own mouth. It revolted you to such an extent you pushed your own tray further away and turned to sit sideways on your chair, all just so you wouldn’t have to look at him eat.

He froze, his fork stilling, “Are you…I can take the food away if you want?” 

You shook your head, closing your eyes, “No, it’s fine.”

There was a brief moment of silence, and your hand found its way into the pocket of your tracksuit bottoms, fingers finding the smooth plastic of the USB stick you’d copied the photos for Taylor on. You had a plan, see. You wanted to kind of broach the topic of the graduation party with Sid, mainly just to test him for a reaction without outrightly admitting anything, and you figured – despite your current situation – that now was…appropriate.

“Do you know where Taylor is?” You asked, keeping your eyes screwed shut.

“No, why?” His answer came all too quickly, a hint of nosiness creeping into his tone. You could imagine the slight raise of one eyebrow and the thinly veiled look of ‘why the heck are you wanting my sister?’ expression on his face. You’d seen it many times before, and it never ceased to amuse.

“I have that USB of photos to give her and I haven’t seen her all morning, I was just wondering if you knew where she was?”

He would, of course. If one thing was ever going to be guaranteed about Sidney Crosby, it was the protective ‘eye’ he kept on Taylor.

“She’s in the canteen. Did you find any good’ens on there?”

“Yeah, actually.” You peeled your eyes open, ensuring to keep them fixated on his face instead of the sickly pile of food on his plate, “Do you remember that graduation party?”

He chewed thoughtfully, his jaw slowing as he nodded his head cautiously, “Yeah.” He said, dragging the word out, and there was a prick of pink on his cheeks, as though he’d suddenly come under a severe amount of stress.

He was getting a little uncomfortable.

“There’s a photo of…Jack, I think it is? Is that right?” He nodded, “He clearly won a game of beer pong or something because there’s a couple of blurry photos of him celebrating and if you look really closely you can see us in the background. It must have been towards the end of the night or something because I looked like I was falling everywhere.”

He nodded, humming interestedly, “What were we doing?”

You felt your mouth part, almost shocked at the sudden ease rolling off his shoulders. It was as though he’d prepared himself to deny, deny, deny this for his entire life, and purely because you were feeling like shit and like a shit, you shrugged, “Couldn’t really…make it out, I don’t know. I can’t remember what happened that night anyway, I drank way too much.”

He nodded once more, shrugging, “Yeah, I remember having to hold your hair back and almost dialling for an ambulance because I was pretty sure you had alcohol poisoning.”

You nodded, staging a faux look of confusion, “Did anything happen that night? You were really weird for a couple of days after.”

There was a pause – a brief one, maybe a quarter of a second, and he looked straight at you, jaw frozen mid-chew and for a moment you thought he’d picked up on something and you were found out. Then he blinked, and with the way he was acting: sitting up straighter, almost hesitating saying something, you thought maybe he was about to tell the truth.

“No.” He pulled a face, “Nothing happened that I can remember.”

***

It turned out the aversion to food was part of a larger issue, a result most likely of possibly contracting a bug from one of the kids – or maybe you were just horrendously unlucky, because you spent the rest of the night in the bathroom, and were so unwell the next morning you had to cancel helping out at Sid’s camp.

He’d sent a string of texts and a few unanswered phone calls, but you didn’t really have the energy to answer them – not when you were feeling so weird around him. You’d thought, prior to finding out about the photos and what had actually happened (bless Taylor’s oblivious nosiness when Nate had asked about you guys before – Sid had actually admitted to the whole graduation thing to the blonde, and that was Taylor’s knowledge of the entire thing), that you and Sid had maintained a pretty honest friendship, but apparently not? You wouldn’t have been so put off by the whole thing if he hadn’t pulled that same stunt later down the line, either.

There was definitely a pattern, and he definitely had a pattern and it seemed to just be deny, deny, deny at all cost.

And you weren’t entirely sure when this had happened, but you’d come to the realisation that you were sick of pretending like the two of you hadn’t been dancing that line for years. What you’d thought was seven years of denial was actually ten. This thing had been going on since you were kids, and each time something had happened you’d get weird around each other and when you tried to talk about it he’d make some excuse.

If it wasn’t a big deal why did it always have such a big impact on the two of you?

That entire thought process was what you’d been unable to escape from nearly all day. No amount of episodes of TV shows or films could distract your brain from that little spiel, it was like having a grating voice go on and on in your ear and you weren’t quite sure how to proceed, what to do to distract yourself.

Your kettle clicked off, and you sniffed, reaching out to grab the handle, the steam from the boiling water offering some kind of relief from the pressure in your sinuses.

You really were ill, but not nearly as ill as you’d made out to be to Sid. In truth you just needed a break, mostly from him, which felt horrendous to admit considering your ‘break’ from that man consisted of an entire NHL season, and your days spent in each other’s company were severely limited anyway.

But there was something in you that knew if you saw his face you wouldn’t be able to hold back saying or doing something.

Taylor knew what was really going on, and if you knew Taylor like you thought you did that probably meant Nate knew, but you know Nate well enough now to guess he wouldn’t go blabbing to Sid about something that’s not his business. The blonde likes his gossip, but he knows when to stay out of certain situations.

You liked Nate.

You inhaled, the hot water turning a bright-yellow from the teabag you’d placed in the mug (a lemon and ginger one you’d managed to snag from a local store a few days ago), and it was just as you’d threaded your fingers through the mug handle that there was a knock at your door.

You froze, brain a little slow to understand you should be moving to answer it, when a voice could be heard through the frosted glass panes.

The mug seemed to slam against the countertop of its own going, not loud enough for the intruder to hear it but loud enough to satisfy your irritation at who it was.

Think of the devil and he shall indeed appear.

He quieted down for a few seconds and you ducked from where you were standing, knowing if he made his way around to the back of the house where your kitchen window was he wouldn’t be able to see you crouched behind the counter.

And then your phone started ringing. It didn’t exactly take a genius to know who it was and the eye roll came almost automatically.

He could be so dramatic sometimes.

It must have taken barely ten seconds for him to stop ringing, and you held your breath, desperately trying to figure out if he’d moved away and given up; your knees and hips were seizing, you could feel them begin to lock from not having moved nearly all day, and you winced, hand reaching up to grip the countertop.

If you were lucky he wouldn’t be looking—

“I can see your hand and your tea.” His muffled voice deadpanned and you sighed defeated, pulling yourself up.

He was standing in your backyard, his phone in his hand and a rather disappointed look on his face as he stared straight at you through the window. 

You had to give him credit where it was due: the man could certainly kick up a fuss and coax you out of hiding.

Granted, you weren’t allocated a set amount of time to even begin to make it look like you were really holed up in bed. If you had, the TV downstairs would be off, as would the lights, and there wouldn’t be an easily visible makeshift blanket bed on the couch. All he’d really had to do was walk along your drive to peer through the front window, and then walk straight down the side of your house to the back gate.

You’d kept it unlocked for the last couple of days because you hadn’t been in much to accept parcels, and you’d never gotten round to locking it again.

Of course you’d come to regret that immediately.

The back door lock clicked open as you twisted the key, and you didn’t spare him a glance, instead making a beeline for the half-made tea. For one, you knew watching him walk through the door with his current sulk on was only going to encourage him to start talking about it, and you absolutely weren’t about to give him that satisfaction. You also really wanted that tea, it was probably the only thing standing between you getting better for the camp and the weird sickness you’d managed to contract.

Your immune system was shit.

He cleared his throat, and you lifted your eyes lazily in his direction, taking out the tea bag and leaving it to drain, “Hi.”

Your voice was scratchy and rough, and the reaction it elicited from the man in front of you: brows raised, mouth dropping open, sprung a rather odd thought to the forefront of your mind: “Did you not believe me when I said I was sick?” You managed, laughing awkwardly and inhaling the vapour from your mug, watching him closely.

He shrugged, pulling off his jacket and hanging it up on the hooks. There was a spare hook, one not used for your own stuff: a plethora of raincoats, boots, kitchen aprons…and Sid’s jacket. 

“I did believe you. Kind of.” He admitted, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaning back against the kitchen counter, “I thought you were maybe avoiding me, though.”

You blinked, keeping your face neutral, actively trying not to scoff at him or narrow your eyes in his direction, “I am avoiding you; I’m not about to give whatever this is to you, am I?” You asked softly, cradling the mug of tea under your chin, feeling the irritation begin to swirl under your skin already.

You shifted uncomfortably, and Sid watched your eyes dart to a chair pressed up against the wall with longing. He knew there was something up, something not linked to being sick – he’d felt it in the car earlier and you were practically drenched in tension yesterday. It was difficult to ignore, and judging from the way you’d been seeking out Taylor recently he had a feeling it might have been something to do with him.

What, though, he had no idea.

“Well,” he inhaled, mouth flattening into a straight line. His chest seemed to ache suddenly when you nodded, an almost sarcastic grin on your lips, purposefully avoiding looking in his direction, and he’d known you long enough by now to know when you wanted him out of the house. Now it was no different, “Thank you, I appreciate the thought.”

An uncomfortable silence.

He wanted to scream.

“I best be going.” He hurried out, the words almost getting tangled in his mouth, and before he could cause himself more harm by looking at you and the action not being reciprocated, he turned his back and reached automatically for the coat he’d literally just hung up.

Sid had never been a cryer – he didn’t class himself as an emotional guy, which was why he was so shocked at the sudden burning of his eyes and the tightness in his throat. Fuck, he couldn’t cry here. One, because it’s embarrassing, and two: he had no clue why he was upset to this extent.

He’d managed to put his arms through his sleeves, just about to start zipping it up after a quick glance at the sky outside when you suddenly spoke, voice somehow even rougher than before.

“What reason would I be avoiding you for?”

Sid froze, swallowing nervously. It didn’t take a genius, even in that exact moment, to dissect the words you’d chosen to come to the conclusion that you’d picked them carefully. Not ‘what made you think I was avoiding you?’ which would certainly have been easier for him to answer, but he had a feeling you knew that. 

It was pretty obvious from the avoidance at lunch yesterday and the weird behaviour in the car the day before that, and then the cold shoulder and lack of interest in conversation now, that something was wrong. The signs were pretty subtle, though, he had to give you that.

He turned slowly, fingers detaching from his zipper. You were now sitting at the chair against the wall, knees tucked up to your chin, the hot mug of tea still clasped in your hands. Your eyes were a little red, probably due to exhaustion, and your hair had been twisted to sit across one shoulder, attention faced solely and rather intensely on him.

“Uhm–” he cleared his throat, blinking quickly to rid of the shining moisture in his eyes. He could feel his heart racing against his sternum, and he wondered briefly if you could hear it from across the room, “I don’t know.” He muttered sadly, eyes flicking to his shoes.

Camp had been great today, as it usually was, but he always found himself scanning the ice for your familiar face. 

You nodded, sighing with disappointment, and Sid felt himself deflate. His fingers tapped against his thigh seven, eight times before he inhaled, throwing the words out in the open before he lost the courage to do so.

“What’s going on with you?” He was about three seconds away from stamping his foot; he was so desperate to know the answer. It was childish and it was stupid, but it meant something to him when you shrugged, eyes suddenly misty.

He knew what you were going to say before you even said it, but he kept quiet anyway.

“Nothing.” You sounded as wrecked as he felt, a hint of sheer resignation in your voice. It was so uncharacteristic of you: to Sid it was as if you’d not only given up on whatever it was that was bothering you but you’d given up on hiding that something was ever wrong in the first place.

It was a victory, no matter how small.

“Come on.” He took a step closer, quite literally on the verge of begging, “Really? That’s all you’ve got?”

Silence.

“I know you. Better than anyone–”

The expression on your face changed immediately, and it felt as though you’d socked him in the chest. You didn’t believe him.

You didn’t believe him.

“I want to know you better than anyone else does.” He sighed, hands pressing against his temples before he dropped them back to his sides, not quite registering what his words meant. They’d flown out of his mouth before he even heard them in his brain, and even when he’d spoken them out loud it felt surreal. He wasn’t sure what was what with all the blood rushing in his ears.

It was because of that, trapped inside himself and his own mind that he failed to register the look on your face.

“Even still,” he continued, plopping himself down on the chair on the other side of the table from you, hands knitted together on the tabletop. He was leaning right across the table but you haven't moved an inch, “This…This, you being quiet, withdrawn, skipping a day of camp – I know you’re sick and everything, but that’s never stopped you before, not when it comes to hockey.” He paused, taking a breath, “What’s going on?”

You took a sip of tea, ignoring the scalding sensation against your tongue in favour of stalling. If you didn’t say anything now, then you probably never would. In fact, if he hadn’t said what he’d just said, clearly without thinking about the meaning of the damn words, you knew you wouldn’t even be considering telling him at all. But where there was doubt…

“Why did you never mention what happened at the graduation party?”

You heard him stop breathing. There was no reason to look at him to see it when you could practically hear the hitch in his chest and the lack of air. When you did look at him his cheeks had paled and his mouth was opening and shutting, shoulders stuck in a shrug as though you’d genuinely caught him off-guard.

You could ask him that question without it meaning anything – it could just as easily be read as ‘huh, funny that you never mentioned it before’ than as ‘you kind of denied me the truth of why we’re so weird because everything that’s ever happened between us since that night has been a direct result of whatever fucked-up miscommunication gig we’ve got going on here’.

“How did you find out?” He breathed, a deep crease between his brows. Now that he’d had time to recover, he looked more concerned – angry, even – than sheepish.

You shrugged, “Those photos I got for Taylor? We’re in the background of ‘em.”

He nodded slowly, mouth pressed in a straight line. This time it was him that couldn’t look at you, probably just to gather his thoughts. You could tell his mind was racing, eyes zipping back and forth against the grain of the table.

You could feel your heart banging in your chest, the speed of it almost stinging. The anticipation was debilitating, and it took everything in you not to spit out question after question, because he was taking ages to say something and it was driving you crazy. Your fingers were tapping against your mug, a sharp exhale blowing the vapour around.

It was maybe that that had him looking up, head tilted backwards slightly, a thumb teasing at his lip. It was probably the first time you’d seen him lost for words.

“You really don’t remember it?” He muttered, brown eyes wide and clear, shiny in the last rays of sun poking through the back windows.

You shook your head, “I told you I didn’t remember.”

“I thought you were…I thought that was your way of letting me down gently.” 

You huffed a disbelieving laugh, staring at him, half-expecting him to take those words back and say he was kidding, but he never did. He just continued to look at you, that damn crease between his brows, eyes glassy and playing with his bottom lip like he didn’t know what to do with himself. He was still wearing his coat.

He never spoke.

“Why would I reject you?”

His hand fell from his mouth, landing with a soft thud on the table as he smiled, in such a self-deprecating fashion that you couldn’t help recoiling from him.

“Why wouldn’t you? I was moving to Pittsburgh, you were going to LA. We would have barely seen each other, and you deserved better than that. You still do. I mean, you know how much of a mess we were that year anyway, right?” He rambled, brows knitted together and mouth hung open. His elbows were resting on the edge of the table, hands palms-up towards the ceiling. He’d asked it like it was a rhetorical question but he was looking at you so intently you had to swallow your mouthful of tea and start talking.

Your mind had been running away with you, spitting counter-arguments for nearly everything he said, but it seemed to keep wanting to come back to the fact that he so clearly just assumed you’d reject him. 

“Did it not occur to you that maybe we were such a mess because of what happened?”

“I thought you didn't remember?”

“I didn’t, but it didn’t take a genius to know you weren’t bothered about keeping in contact with me. I wrote you emails and I got one-word answers – maybe even a full sentence if I was lucky; I called but you either didn’t answer or you cut it short because you had to go to practice. You never called back. On my birthday, the first one away from my family, you never called. I didn’t get anything from you when I got a card from your parents without your name signed because they’d just assumed you’d have written one yourself. For about nine months, the most I heard or saw of you was through the TV.” You inhaled sharply, a sudden burning sensation behind your eyes. That first year was honestly pretty awful for you when it came to Sid. What you’d told him on his decking a few days ago had been true, every single word of it. You’d agonised over every single possible thing that could have happened to change it, and for some reason the realisation of why he’d done what he’d done hit you rather emotionally, “You did all of that because you didn’t believe me when I said I never remembered what happened, didn’t you?”

His hands fell to the table, his expression softening into one of sheer guilt, “I’m sorry.” His voice cracked, “I really…I didn’t know, I thought it was what you wanted.”

You huffed a bitter laugh, suddenly cold, and right as though it had been scripted, rain began to splatter against the window panes, the sky now an overcast, stormy grey, “When have I ever pretended I wanted something if I really wanted the opposite?”

He swallowed, his throat bobbing up and down, “Never.”

You nodded, satisfied with his answer, and took a rather angry sip of tea, ignoring the uncomfortable burn. There was still so much you wanted to know, so many questions you wanted answers to, but at that moment: looking through the window of the back door to see nothing but dark skies and heavy sheets of rain battering your house, there was only one thing that you could really think of.

“While we’re here,” you started, voice lowering almost as though you were anticipating hearing something you weren’t going to like, “Can we talk about your first Cup win?”

Your fingers were back to tapping anxiously against the porcelain of your mug, and the heavy silence broken only by the rustle of his rain jacket was enough of an answer to let you know how this was going to go.

He inhaled, and you risked a glance at him across the table. His eyes were open, but barely, and it looked as though this conversation, or the last few minutes at least, had exhausted him. He suddenly had bags under his eyes, and his eyelids were heavy. He wasn’t smiling but he nodded anyway, face pale and hands beginning to tremble slightly. 

Sid wasn’t one to ever really get emotional about anything. You’d only seen him cry a few times in person, but nearly every single one of those occasions was for something good: a Cup win, a house-warming party in the pantry after he’d moved into his new-build, saying goodbye to his parents at the airport. 

This was entirely different, though. It wouldn’t entirely shock you if he walked back out of your door with a few grey hairs.

“Do you want something to drink or eat?” You eyed his pale cheeks and trembling hands wearily.

He seemed to think about it for a few seconds, before inhaling and casting a quick glance at your cupboards, “Yeah, I’ll get it though, you’re sick.” And then, almost as if something else had occurred to him when he went to push himself up off the chair, he turned back briefly, “You’d tell me when you want me to leave, right?”

The barest of smiles appeared on your face, and you nodded, “Yeah.”

“Good.”

You watched him manoeuvre through your kitchen, flicking the kettle on and reaching to take a mug out from one of your cupboards, as well as taking a tea bag out of the little box you kept them in and shaking the dust out of it, the bag landing in the mug with a soft plop. He turned back when the kettle was still boiling, hands crossed over his chest and standing against the countertop right in front of you.

There was something on his mind, you could tell. There was a high probability that it was something relating to this Cup Incident, but there was something almost impatient about the way he kept shooting an angry glance at the kettle, as though it wasn’t boiling fast enough for his liking, that had you perhaps thinking there was something else playing on his mind.

“What?” You asked, swallowed anxiously.

His head snapped in your direction, eyes wide with alarm and his mouth opened and closed a few times, thoroughly confused, “I didn’t say anything.”

“I know, but you want to.”

He closed his mouth just as the kettle clicked, and there was a brief moment where he turned his back to pour the water into his cup, but before you could even say ‘hockey’ he’d spun on his heel to face you again, “I just…We’re gonna be okay after this, right? I don’t want you to not be in my life, I don’t want to not be in your life.” He sighed, “I don’t want this to break us.”

Us. 

Us.

It echoed in your mind, and despite agreeing with almost everything he said, all you could offer by way of reassurance was a sad shrug, “I don’t want that either.”

He nodded, before finishing off his tea and grabbing a protein bar from one of your drawers and sitting back down at the table, shedding his coat and laying it neatly over the back of the chair.

Neither of you said anything for a good minute. It might have been because Sid was munching on that protein bar, but you really wanted to put the matter off for as long as possible just in case what he said did become true. Prolonging a possible heartbreak – an entire era, person and a piece of your identity – from ever occurring, even if it was only hindered a few more minutes.

It seemed, though, he took the liberty of deciding exactly when to start talking.

“So,” he cleared his throat, “this is about the second kiss, isn’t it? My Cup day.” His tone was firm, but there was a hint of sombreness hidden somewhere.

“Yeah.” You whispered, looking down at your mug. Your knees were still tucked to your chin, and technically Sid was sitting to your left, you still choosing to sit on the chair sideways and face the window instead. You were spending an awful lot of time staring at him though.

You spun, feet hitting the floor and mug clinking on the surface of the table. 

“I’m gonna ask a few questions and I just want you to answer honestly, okay?” You asked, inhaling a deep breath and choosing to ignore the thundering heart rate.

He nodded, leaning forwards in his chair in anticipation.

“We were both pretty drunk, yeah?”

“Correct.”

“Nobody saw, correct?”

“Correct.” He was starting to smile.

“I leant in first,” you started, voice shakier than you’d intended, and despite moving so you could see him without giving yourself a neck cramp, you found it almost impossible to be able to look at him. You’d kept some of this hidden from yourself, locked away in a bottle somewhere in the floorboards of your mind – completely inaccessible, even to yourself. To bare them aloud for the very person who shared the secret was nothing short of absolutely terrifying, “but then I stopped, right?”

You couldn’t tell if he was hesitating or if he was struggling to remember the event that had been burned in your mind for so many years, yet you still couldn’t look at him. Not even when his fingers slowly inched into your line of sight, seeking to touch your own hand still wrapped around your mug.

You didn’t move. It might dissuade him from touching you – you hoped it would because you weren’t entirely sure if you’d be able to admit all of this to him if he did.

“Yeah.” His voice was low, and his fingers dropped on top of the table, tapping silently.

“Then you…made the move.” You struggled not to cringe at your wording of it, eyes screwing shut before peeking open again, just in time to hear him answer. You hadn’t asked it as a question, but he took the hint anyway.

“I did.” 

You paused, thinking. There weren’t many times you’d had to ask for unadulterated honesty when it came to Sid: most of the time he gave it to you anyway, but when it came to this kind of topic – you, it seemed, especially in the more romantic sense than simply lifelong friendship – he always kept his cards to his chest, never really revealed anything too damning.

But you’d asked for his honesty, and the least you could do was reciprocate that. It wouldn’t hurt to also milk it a little.

“I wanted to kiss you.” Want to kiss him, “Did you want to kiss me?” Your voice was higher than you’d like it to be, still a little hesitant and unsure. It somehow all felt unnatural, like scaling a foreign terrain for the first time. You couldn’t quite find your feed, where you could or couldn’t stand that would be safe and efficient.

You risked a quick glance at him. And oddly found you couldn’t quite look away. He still had that one hand almost outstretched towards you on the table, but his other was wrapped safely around his mug, still billowing vapour. His cheeks had flushed since he’d had something to eat, but it was his eyes that you couldn’t peel yourself away from.

He was looking at you, right at you, with something you’d never seen before. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but it was soft without being too gentle, firm without being angry or aggressive. The corners of his mouth were downturned in a sort of sad, melancholic smile, too, and you’d never seen him look at anything else like that – anyone else – apart from when he’d be getting ready to serve a big milestone on the ice.

You’d seen it when he’d put on a gameday suit for his 500th game, you’d seen it when he’d clocked the family in the box at his 1000th game. It was appreciation, gratitude. There was a third answer lurking in the back of your mind, but you refused to acknowledge it for the sake of not getting ahead of yourself.

One question at a time, one answer at a time, only look at the facts.

“Yeah.” The answer flew out of his mouth barely even half a second after you’d looked at him, and he broke into a cheeky grin, quickly ducking his head to his chest to calm himself.

He inhaled, eyes closing briefly before turning back to you with a straight face, and this time it was you breathing an amused laugh.

“Yeah, I wanted to kiss you.” He repeated, nodding for you to continue.

There was one question left. The reminder of it was enough to melt any previous traces of a smile off your face, and instead your mouth twisted at the corner, pulse humming in your head with dread.

“Why did you blow me off the next day when I said we needed to talk?”

His eyes focused on something behind you, and his mouth flattened in a line, self-deprecating and devoid of any true emotion, “I saw it going two ways: you were gonna reject me, or we were gonna do something about it. The way I saw it, I thought you’d already rejected me way back when – I know now that’s not the case – so I wasn’t really scared of that. The thought of it stung but…”

You frowned, “You were scared of me not rejecting you?”

He nodded, “I could never have asked you to sacrifice your entire life just to make me happy. You had a career, a house you’d just bought, friends, you were close to your family. I wasn’t gonna make you choose between all of that and – and just me, was I?”

Your face seemed to crumple sympathetically before you could even control anything. Everything he’d just admitted was nothing short of a testament to his character and who he was, no matter how…you wanted to say he was selfish for choosing for you, and a small part of you believed that, but he was also right. You had everything he’d just listed, and it would have been upsetting to move away if things progressed further and ‘got serious’, but it wasn’t like you would have been completely isolated, either.

He spends a good portion of his time in Pittsburgh, that’s true, but he spends his entire off-season at home in Cole Harbour. An entire four to five months, almost half a year.

You shook your head, hands unclasping from your mug to rest at your temples, “Okay…I kind of get where you’re coming from, but did it ever occur to you how much you had to sacrifice to get to where you are?” 

He blinked.

“You’ve earned the right to be selfish, especially when it comes to me. I mean, sure, I have a life here, I love it, but I never wanted to stay here. That was never my plan. I wanted to play hockey as a career, I wanted to travel and experience things, but that wasn’t what happened. I’m constantly missing a life I never even got to taste and I guess…I guess I’m kind of miserable because of it? I’m grateful for what I’ve got, but it won’t ever equate to what I wanted for myself. I love hockey, I love this camp, but I love seeing you just as much, I always have. It meant something to me.” You hesitated, “You mean something to me.”

You searched his face for a reaction, and it might have taken a few seconds for what you were saying to sink in, because his eyes suddenly went glassy and his jaw clenched. He couldn’t look at you for a while, and he kept sniffing.

You hoped more than anything he wasn’t actively catching your cold whilst you waited for him to say something.

And then: “I mean, for what it’s worth, you mean everything to me–”

“It’s not a competition.”

***

You were lost.

Or, at least, from Sid’s perspective you were: he was standing near the boards on the ice, keeping a close eye on the kids playing the shooting drill he’d set up for them, and he truly was watching them…he just couldn’t exactly help it when his eyes would wander curiously and scour the rest of the ice, practically desperate to drink you in. Wherever you were. He couldn’t see you, and it was getting to that point in the day where he wasn’t sure if that meant you’d left the ice to supervise the locker rooms and talk to parents or if he just wasn’t looking properly (again: he had to watch a bunch of kids with knives screwed to their feet).

See, it had been three days since you’d both sat in your kitchen and mulled things over, uprooting what you both thought to have happened when you were younger and twisting everything into a more truthful, honest version (he admittedly spent the rest of the day in bed; he was so emotionally drained he actually forgot to feed Sam until she started barking relentlessly at him) of events. 

Did he know where you stood with each other now? Not entirely, but he knew you were both thinking about it. That was a shock and a half to have uncovered on a Wednesday evening.

Did he know what he planned to do within the next few weeks? Kind of.

Had you actually seen or spoken to each other since that day? Not apart from group settings: you’d taken another day off to recover from that little bug you’d caught – of which Sid had managed to avoid catching – and the past two days including this one were full of nothing but red cheeks and a peculiar affinity to wrestle a smile off both your faces if you even so much as looked at each other. 

It was a pretty big switch-around from last week, but he welcomed it with…well, he’d honestly never been happier or more excited to be on the edge of starting something with you. He’d thought about it often before, mostly as a weapon to torture himself with when he was already upset over something, remind him of another failure – only that one had been personal and about his life, not anything to do with hockey. It always used to sting more.

He sighed, “Hey, Ryan, try gripping the stick a bit lower, you’ll get more control on your shot next time, ‘kay? Yeah, just like that! Poppy stop poking people in the face with the stick please, I know you find it funny when it gets stuck but it could poke someone’s eye out.” The culprit in question sadly dropped her stick to the ice, and Sid didn’t even have to be near her to know her bottom lip was sticking out in a pout “Thank you.”

It was as Evie pushed forward on her skates with a puck at her feet that something whacked Sid softly on the bum with enough power to send him trailing forwards slightly, but he didn’t take his eyes off the girl in front of him, who sent a powerful slap shot towards the goalie, and the puck couldn’t even be seen until a ding! echoed in the back of the net. Sid huffed a laugh, “Wow, Evie, that was incredible! Keep it up.”

She flashed him an awkward thumbs up, the gloves interfering with the action, and Sid mirrored it before finally turning his attention to a rather beloved blonde. Nate’s brows were halfway up his forehead, mouth contorted like he’d also just breathed a quiet ‘woah’ under his breath, and when he registered Sid was even looking at him, his face melted into one that had become rather synonymous with another person in his life. Nate always smirked when he was about to bring you up to Sid. There were a few occasions where he’d read the room and approached the topic with a bit more consideration, but it appeared this time was no different to usual.

“Kind of reminds me of a certain someone when they were that age, huh?” 

Sid clenched his jaw, trying not to give away just how true that statement really was, before muttering a quick, “You’re too young to have known what she was like at that age.”

Nate made a sound that came from the back of his throat, a short huff of laughter passing his lips, “Dude, you’re so easy to read.”

Sid shook his head, “Next!” Another kid skated forward, and both professionals watched as the goalie caught the puck safely in their glove before chucking it across the ice in their general direction.

“Hey, if you want to skate around for a bit, I can watch this drill.” Nate said, intercepting the puck and adding it to the small pile that had slowly been accumulating next to the boards.

Sid frowned, a crease forming between his brows, “Why?” He drawled, rather suspicious of the sudden generosity.

He had a feeling he knew what it was about, but he wasn’t going to speak ahead of himself and make matters worse – Nate already had enough teasing material when it came to his silent pining.

“It’s pretty obvious you’re distracted and it’s been killing me and Taylor watching you. She’s over there,” Nate lifted his stick, pointing to the opposite side of the rink, where Sid could only just now make out the back of your head. He had no idea what had caught your attention so much as to have your back facing the ice– “There’s a little kid on the other side of the glass with a mini-stick. She’s been pulling faces for the past five minutes, and I just thought I’d warn you before you…y’know–”

“Nate, what the eff?” Sid hissed, watching wearily for any kids overhearing. 

“I’m just kidding. Kind of.” He grinned, “Go say what you need to say and then come back.”

Sid rolled his eyes, but still patted Nate gently as he skated by, “Thanks.”

Nate just shook his head, waving him off, and Sid took that as his signal to skate away, ignoring the undoubtedly humorous glance Taylor was giving him. It was bad enough that they’d noticed what he was doing at all, let alone to have it pointed out right to his face. 

He pushed loose pucks out of the way, skating right around several different drills before crashing into the boards right next to you, his face pressed against the glass to see…three different dribbling toddlers staring up at you both. One had an armful of teddies, the other was wearing a Pens PJ set and the final one was holding a mini stick, the ball left forgotten behind them.

You didn’t even need to turn your head from where you’d leant it against the glass to know who it was that had rather abruptly pulled up beside you. Not only was the side of his face in your peripheral vision enough, but the faces of the parents sitting in the seats were enough to go by. Everyone seemed to sit straighter, smiles a little bit wider at the sight of their local boy interacting with a small herd of toddlers who obviously had no idea who he was.

Except…the kid with the mini stick dropped his fingers from his mouth, stick lazily pointing in Sid’s direction, and even through the glass you could make out the vague words of "Siddie Cosby!” and the excited smile on his face.

Sid waved, spinning the cap on his head the other way around so he could also press his forehead to the glass, and you laughed softly, breath fogging up the panes for a brief moment. The sound had him tilting his head slightly so he could look at you.

He wasn’t sure if he was smiling before he’d turned – he had to have been, though, surely? – but he felt himself smile, if not more than he had been. It was unconscious, like a reflex made worse because you were just so infectious to him.

“Hi.” You muttered lowly, catching him out of the corner of your eye. You didn’t turn your face away from those kids, still pulling funny faces no matter how demanding of your attention he was. You could look at him all you liked later, but for these kids, their moment was this moment.

At least, that’s what you tried to tell yourself. Really, you just felt a little too shy looking at him with all those people watching from the stands.

“Hi.” He grinned, also turning his attention back to the kids. The one with the hockey stick suddenly banged on the screen right in front of him, and even despite his quick reflexes, he couldn’t help jumping at the sudden noise in such close proximity.

The kid just giggled, and when Sid cast his eyes to the seats, heart racing in his chest, some of the parents were trying to hide their own laughs behind their hands. 

He almost forgot he had an audience.

His tongue darted out nervously to wet his bottom lip, and he felt you look at him rather than saw you do it, “Are you coming to my birthday party tonight?”

There was a brief silence between you both, and you struggled to hold in a laugh as Sid registered what it was that he’d just said. His eyes closed and he leant his forehead against the glass, sighing hard enough to fog it up.

“Yes.” You answered, tone full of amusement. 

His eyes opened and he twisted his head, still resting against the glass, “Can I pick you up at five?”

You blinked.

His party starts at seven.

It was probably the easiest yes of your entire life.

[literaryslapshot]

LOVESTRUCK, WENT STRAIGHT TO MY HEAD ⎯ S. CROSBY

y/n just wants the best for her son, she thinks the program rule of no freshmen players on varsity is stupid. she just did what any mother would do...right?

coach!sidney crosby x teacher!single mom!reader

warnings: angst, smut (fingering, handjob, sex on a table), somewhat of an inappropriate relationship, single parent content, light talk of divorce, lowkey based off of "slut!" by taylor swift

word count: 4,244

a/n: look at that....i do still know how to write

The bitterness of the coffee wasn’t doing it’s job. On her third cup and it’s not even ten in the morning, Y/N waits for the next period of students to walk through her door. Taking in one of the few moments of silence she has, she refreshes the page on the sports page on the school website, itching to see her son’s name. 

Carter had tryouts with the hockey team last week, he had been talking about it since the beginning of the month. He was training every day to make varsity; in leagues ever since he was ten years old every single coach and spectator could not brag enough on how much talent he had. Y/N was pressured to send him across the country, even out of the country, to go to the top hockey camps but as a single mother she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t bear to send her baby off to some strangers for a few months, and she couldn't afford to move away from family either. 

But her heart dropped as she refreshed the page, pulled up this season's roster, and saw her son’s name and number on the junior varsity roster instead of varsity. She didn’t understand it, she was told by the coaches herself that he was the best kid on the ice that day. Why didn’t he make varsity? 

Her questions were interrupted by students flooding into the classroom for the start of the next period. She pulled herself out of her thoughts to then teach this class period. Reluctantly though. 

-

The final bell rang and that meant she was done for the day. Saying goodbye to her students Y/N started to gather papers and put them in the “to grade” folder to take home with her before tidying up some areas of the room. She anticipated her son’s arrival. Ever since moving up to high school he always stopped by her room at the end of the day to talk about school and help her carry things to her car. 

“I didn’t make it.” Carter said as a greeting when he walked in the empty room. His face was defeated, his tall slender frame was slumped over in sadness and his eyes welling with tears. Out of all people Y/N knew and saw how hard he worked to make varsity his freshman year. He skated over fifty laps a day, worked on shots in the garage until way past dusk, he also started to lift more weights. 

“Oh baby, c’mere,” Y/N pulled her much taller son in for a hug. There he broke and rested into his mother's arms like a little kid again. He softly cried before pulling away. 

“I don’t get it mom, they told me i’d make it for sure, why would he tell me-” “Don’t worry about it son, I will talk to the coach first thing in the morning. I promise. But for now you have to play the cards you were dealt,” Y/N consoled her son in the way moms know how. Gathering her bags she gave the heaviest one to Carter to help carry out the building. They continued chatting on the way to her car, talking about school and homework he had for the week. Carter was a special kid, he deeply cared about his grade and education. He remembers promising his mom when he was younger that if he ever got to play hockey in college that he would get his degree and not go to the draft early. 

Carter was a momma’s boy through and through. His dad lived an hour away so he spent the weekends there twice a month, but he’s at his mom’s house the rest of the time. Carter is also protective of his mom too. He never told her this, but he’s beat in a couple boys’ faces because they made some lewd comments about her. He’s respectful of her, more than any other man on earth ever has been. Y/N is very proud of how she’s raised her son. 

“Okay son, go to practice. Have a positive attitude, don’t do anything stupid okay? I know you’re frustrated but just go into practice and do you, maybe they got you mixed up with someone else. But-” she saw his facial expressions change and get tense, she knew that he was still angry inside, “hey, don’t get mad at them. Wait until I talk and then you and I will figure something out.”

They walked in opposite directions, Carter to the athletic building and Y/N back to the school for one more item in her classroom. Hustling as best she can so she can get home, she runs into the person she didn’t want to speak to until in the morning. Coach Crosby. 

She felt her body coil and tense up in anger at just the sight. She was supposed to wait until morning, but her tongue got the best of her. 

“Coach! Hey, can I ask you a quick question?” she pulls him to the side, into an empty classroom where the teacher had left for the day. 

“What’s up?” Sidney asked, sitting down on one of the wooden desks. He was wearing black joggers, a tight pullover with a school cap on. Y/N couldn’t help but notice how the material of his clothing clung to his toned body. He had been out of the professional league for at least two years, but he still kept up the physical shape of his body, and it was obvious by the way his pants were stretching at the seams on his thighs. 

“I really don’t want to be that parent, but can you tell me why Carter didn’t make varsity?” Sidney cocks his head to the side. He’s only been on sight three months and he’s already dealing with this. 

“Well, it’s my understanding that freshmen must be on the JV team, no matter how good they are. That rule was put in place before I got here.” He explained while crossing his arms over his chest, his muscles making his pullover look incredibly small on his frame. “He’s a good kid though, he’ll make great improvements this year and I'll look forward to having him on varsity next year.” Sidney said, trying to end the conversation and smooth things over.

“But…you’re the new coach. This is your program now, not someone else’s.” Y/N couldn’t really understand what he was getting at. Did he not see the potential in her son that everyone seemed to say? Did he not see the great player, the great athlete that Carter was? Maybe it was just her being a mother, and so obviously her child is the best compared to other kids. But she swore she didn’t want to be like those parents. She remembers being a kid in youth sports herself and hated parents who thought their kid should be player of the week every week. In her mind, she needed to earn player of the week because of her work ethic, not because her parents were board members. 

“Right but I'm not trying to ruffle any feathers my first year. This is barely my program, I need to establish relationships before I change things here,” Y/N takes a step closer to Sidney, her hands folded in front of her. 

“But you’re Sidney Crosby, who can say no to you?” God she feels horrible for doing this, she feels like…like some junior league mom whose husband has nothing between his ears. But she thinks, if she can just rile him up for a minute, startle him, then he’ll change his mind and put Carter on varsity. That’s her end goal, get her son feeling better. If that means pretending to be a horny college student again, so be it. “I mean really, they had to give you this job cause they trust you. So obviously you can do what you want, like putting my son on your varsity team.”

He sighs, looking down at his shoes. He knows what she’s doing…and he can’t believe it’s sort of working. He hasn’t had a woman flirt with him in heaven knows how long. He doesn’t even know how to respond to such a thing anymore. His life for the past almost twenty years has been nothing but hockey. Sidney’s family has been asking him for a long time when he is going to settle down with someone, but nobody ever scratched that itch quite like hockey did. But now? That he’s got a woman in front of him, a gorgeous one at that, who’s buttering him up? Maybe he’ll give in…just to see what it feels like. 

“Your son is a hell of a player, Y/N. He really could go far,” His words got heavier as she got closer, he could smell her perfume, he could feel her breath, he could see her chest move up and down with every huff she took- “so put him on your team, Coach.” she put her hand on his chest softly and she sighed feeling his stern muscles. “C’mon, what’s it gonna take? Dinner and a show?” 

His eyes, dark and blown, looked into hers and if he remembers what the term eye fucking means then that’s exactly what they were doing. His breaths became short but heavy as she left a heavy hand on his chest. She rubbed her thumb over his cheek, trying her best to work her charm that she used to have. She hopes she’s still got it. 

He thinks, thinks, and thinks. This is a bad decision. 

“My place, six thirty tomorrow evening. Give me your best sales pitch, and we’ll see about the show.” 

Sidney stands up and for a brief second his nose bumps hers, an innocent touch but it makes him take a deep breath in to calm himself down. He exits the empty class room and takes long strides to get to practice, glancing at his watch he’s already a few minutes behind. 

-

She’s eternally grateful that Carter is with his dad this weekend. How could she explain to him that she’s not really going on a date…but she’s going to his coach's house with plans to seduce him..but again it’s not a date. Of course, she’d have to leave out the seducing part. She put on her best dress that she had, it was pretty simple but it hugged her figure nicely. She made sure to spritz some extra perfume on as well. 

The drive to Sidney’s house is silent, it’s her having fake conversations in her head about what to say or what not to say. Debating on if her seduction speech was still on date or if it’s too cheesy now. She suddenly feels like she lives in the lowest tax bracket possible when entering his neighborhood; she's never seen so many fake lawns before. She’s actually never been on this side of town much, except to look at christmas lights when Carter was younger. Now that he’s older he doesn’t care for that stuff anymore. 

“Nice place you’ve got,” she said walking into his entry way. To her surprise Sidney dressed up a little bit, wearing a button up with a nice pair of slacks, the top two buttons undone for visual purposes of course. He takes her coat and her purse, hanging it up by the door. “What’s on the menu?” 

“Well, I figured I'd go simple with just spaghetti and toast, with dessert to follow if that’s okay.” Sidney went into his pantry and pulled out a bottle of red wine. “This okay?” He holds the bottle in the air and she nods her head, sitting at his kitchen bar watching him pour a glass. She takes a glance at the label and she’s taken back. On her teacher salary she definitely can’t afford that brand.

Maybe she’s in over her head here- she didn’t think about any of this stuff. Suddenly she’s this woman who doesn’t have much to her name, sitting in a millionaire’s kitchen drinking wine that costs well over two hundred dollars- but damn if it doesn’t taste good. 

They make small talk before heading into the dining room where he sets dinner onto the table for her, such a gentleman. Continuing the semi dull conversation she thanks him for making a meal for her, joking that she’s never had a man make dinner for her. Only half true, her dad growing up would make dinners for her family. But when she married Carter’s dad, she was the chef in the family. Not that she was complaining, it was just odd for her to be on the reverse side for the first time in a while. 

“I am sorry about that idiotic rule, Y/N. Carter can easily be a varsity player.” Sidney broke the minute silence after finishing off his second glass of wine that night. She huffs, finishing her plate and scooting it away from her on the table. Was she really about to do this?

“Is there anything I can do, sidney? C’mon my boy’s in shambles, he’s thinking that he’s not as good as everyone makes him out to be,” Y/N reaches her hand out to rest on his softly. “Is there anything I can do?” 

Y/N hoped he knew what she was implying and that she didn’t have to say it out loud. 

And he did. 

He understood every word she said and the words that were left unsaid. He knew what she was implying and he knew what she was getting at. But Sidney hated that he was willing to do what she wanted. Y/N was leaning forward on the table, getting close enough to Sidney where he could smell her perfume and her lotion mixed together, he could see a couple small freckles up close as he couldn’t see them from a bit further away. 

There were no words exchanged between them, his eyes kept drifting from her tinted lips to her lustful eyes, back and forth a couple times before resting his hand on her cheek and pressing his lips against hers gently. Immediately he felt a rush of arousal- it’s just a kiss, really? He silently asked himself. He hadn’t gotten this aroused in a while, a long while. 

Both parties leaned into the kiss, wanting and aching for more. They tasted wine on each other and felt each other’s temperature begin to rise. Sidney got out of his chair, lips still connected to hers, and got closer. She stood up, one hand cupping his chin and the other resting on his chest, and she leaned against the dining table. She hadn’t made out with someone in years, she hopes she’s doing it right. 

She gets pushed onto the table just by the force of his body so now she’s sitting on the wooden table, Sidney standing in between her legs with both of his hands cupping her face. He doesn’t care if he seems desperate or if he seems needy, or if this is totally wrong and against almost all of the words he signed in his contract, he can’t seem to get enough of her. Sidney feels her play with the buttons of his shirt and how she begins to pull the shirt up and out of his dress pants. It was easy since he wasn’t wearing a belt. 

He didn’t even know that she completely unbuttoned his shirt until he felt her hands roam all over his naked chest, her hands slowly raking up and down his toned muscles. He takes a breath and scans her body. Her skin is hot to the touch, her eyes are completely blown now and her lips are parted. “How do I get this off you?” he asked, taking a fist of the hem of her dress.

“There's a tie in the back,” she huffed out, not able to take her hands off his body. Plus, she wants him to take it off of her. 

“You tied this yourself?” he asked in shock, surprised at how she tied such a perfect bow on her back with such thin strings. 

“I’ve been tying, zipping, buttoning my dresses myself for the past twelve years now, safe to say I got pretty good at it.” God- has she been alone for the past twelve years? Nobody to love on, kiss on, touch on this wonderful body of hers? Sidney takes in a sharp breath when he pulls the dress off of her and he gives her body a quick scan over. Wearing a strapless bra that she’s almost spilling out of, she has on silk leopard print panties that he can’t help but notice a significant damp spot on. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles, hands roaming over her soft skin. “Don’t make fun of me, it’s been a long time since I've hooked up with someone.” because that’s just what this is, a hookup. Nothing more, nothing less. 

“I haven’t since I got divorced, so it's the same here.” she hooks her leg around his pulling him closer. He pressed his lips against hers again this time most softly. His hand goes down to play with the hem of her panties, “you sure about this?” 

“Very sure, don’t mess with a pissed off mama sidney.” she pulls him down with her as she lays down on the table. He kisses down her body, she arches her back and lets him take her bra off. Tossing it onto the floor Sidney wraps his lips around one of her hardened nipples. She lets out a heavenly sounding moan at the action.

It’s been so long she could cum just from Sidney doing this for a couple minutes longer. One hand slips down over her clothed cunt, rubbing her sensitive and wet area. She arches her body into his, already she’s lost in a great euphoric high that she can’t even mumble words. All that’s coming out is moans and gasps. 

He removes his mouth and Sidney stands up, she watches up on her elbows as he takes his pants off and removes his boxers. She bites her lip at the size - the sight - of his hardened dick in his hand. She reaches out for it herself, “you’ll give me what I want, and I promise you won’t regret it.” he thought for a moment too long, she began to doubt herself but he spoke up, “deal.”

She licks her hand before taking a grip on his cock. Slowly she starts stroking up and down, keeping harsh eye contact with sidney. She gives him a nice squeeze and a twist of her hand which makes him throw his head back in pleasure. He can only do so much with his hand, it’s nice to have someone else for a change. Y/N scoots closer to him on the table, with one of his hands he works his hand over one of her breasts softly massaging it. She leans into his touch and continues to work her hands over his hard cock. 

He moves his hand from her breast down and slips it into her soaked panties. At first his fingers were a little cold but they quickly warmed up after being immersed in her sex. He circles around her clit a couple times, getting familiar with the female body again. He explores for a minute or two, his middle finger teasing her hole. The more he teases her the harder her grip gets on his cock. He pulls his hand out of her panties, they’ve never broken eye contact this whole time and he sucks everything off of his hand. God that was hot. 

Sidney removes her hand from his cock fearing if she kept going he would cum all over her hand and that wasn’t what he wanted to do. He’s panting heavy now, his body forming sweat on his forehead. He pushes her down onto the table with a palm on her chest lining his cock up with her entrance, “wait do I need any-”

She chuckles, “that ship sailed a while ago, just fuck me like you mean it coach.” 

With her permission she slides in and she lets out a long, loud, moan as he does it. He wants to hear that on repeat for the rest of his life, he swears. Sidney puts both hands on her hips, keeping her body steady as he rocks in and out of her, his hips meeting her every time. 

Sidney allows to feel himself in her warm, wet walls. He throws his head back in pleasure and she shuts her eyes tight. Her hands come up to her breasts to add to the pleasure, fingers pinching both of her nipples as she feels his huge cock pump in and out of her small hole. He feels like he’s three feet deep inside of her, he feels lost in how good she feels. His head grows foggy each time he squeezes her. 

Sidney hits the spongy spot in her tight cunt that made her gasp out in pleasure, she sang his name like a chant over and over which made him fuck her harder and harder. She warned him about her orgasm and he did the same, begging her to cum with him. A few more pumps of his cock he spilled his heavy load inside of her and she moaned loudly like a queen when he did. He pulled his cock out of her, watching his load spill out with it. 

Maybe it was the post orgasm haze she was in, maybe it was the lovestruck feeling she had the minute they began making out, but minutes later she’s standing between him and the cold shower wall. His forehead pressed against hers. His fingers knuckle deep in her cunt and a hand wrapped around her throat as hot water rained down on either of them, her cunt squeezing his thick fingers while she couldn’t even say anything but his name. That’s exactly what he wanted. 

The hot shower water kept her eyes shut but she knew that he was gazing at her. He was in awe of her facial expressions, how she bit her lip through a smile with every jerk he made with his hand, when she furrowed her eyebrows when she was on the edge of cumming, and how she cocked her head to the side while he kissed around her neck silently asking for more. 

He took his hand away from her pussy, licking the honey off his fingers. He stayed that close to her though knowing her legs were probably jello and she wasn’t able to stand for at least a minute or two. 

She took a deep breath, “got what you wanted?” she asked in a joking tone, moving her hand up and down his chest in the hot steamy shower. He chuckled, his hands never leaving her body. He palmed her breasts, he seemed to have a thing for those she contemplated, heavy lustful eyes staring into hers. 

“How many more you got in you?” he asked, spreading her legs with his thigh.

“I can give you as much as you want.” Y/N answered, her hands slowly roaming down lower and lower on his chest and stomach. 

“Then no, I didn’t get what I want yet.”

-

She woke up in Sidney’s bed the next morning with messy hair and sore muscles. Looking over on the nightstand the clock read 8:02 AM. She was glad that it was a Saturday and she was able to sleep in. She saw that Sidney was still asleep, he laid on his stomach with his head facing the other way. Looking over his back, studying the freckles, the faded scars. Y/N wants to stay in this moment for as long as she can. 

She hates to admit but she really fell for Sidney. Not because of how skilled he was in bed, or because he could do wicked things with his hands, but she shared a few heartfelt conversations with him before tryouts even began. 

He cared for the kids at school, the kids he taught and the kids he coached. He had a heart for the coming generation. He wanted them to have someone in their corner, and some kids don’t have that at home and he wants to be that. She got lovestruck in the past few months, sure she never planned on sleeping with him, she felt young again with how big of a crush she had. It went straight to her head, it all moved so fast. 

God if her mother were still here she could just hear the word “slut!” come out of her mouth if her mom found out what happened. But she wouldn’t care. She enjoyed it, and she was sure Sidney enjoyed it too. 

But still, she can’t help but think to herself what did I just do?

Sidney turns his head and sees that she’s also awake. Raising up he sees the time, 8:10. He doesn’t even care that he missed his morning workout session an hour late. He puts his arm around her and pulls her closer to him, tucking his head in her neck. With dry lips Sidney placed a tender lingering kiss on her hot skin.

It might be worth it for once, she thinks. 

feedback | masterlist | au tag

tagging mutuals to boost, let me know if you don’t want to be tagged! @fallinallincurls @nylwnder @bitchinbarzal @ilyasorokinn @leafsbabe @twinklelilstarkey @raysofcrosby @lcandothisallday

[gongyussy]

the core + their 1000th game wedding vows

[homestylehughes]

husband sidney headcanons

pairing(s): sidney crosby x fem!reader

summary: sweet and sexy headcanons of sidney!

warning(s): sfw and nsfw!

wc: 520

an: hi loves!!! first time writing for the dilf of hockey himself sidney crosby. idk how it's taken me this long to write about him, but i'm not complaining!!! i saw a picture of him this morning and it makes me feral so i wrote about him!!! lmk if you guys want anymore sidney fics in the future, i'd be morreeeeeee than happy to write about him!!! i'm getting back into the groove of writing again, and after not writing for a week, made me realize how much i missed itttttt. like and reblog if you like! much love as always!!

happy reading <3

sfw:

husband!sidney: Sidney is the type of husband to wake you up with kisses all over your body, causing you to giggle as you wake up. Wrapping you up on the tightest hug ever, sinking into his warm body in the morning is your favorite way to wake up. 

husband!sidney: Sidney would be the type of person who would pick you up from the airport, holding a funny sign in his hands waiting for your arrival. The signs never fail to bring you to tears of laughter from how funny they were, it's the best thing to come home too. 

husband!sidney: You always try to stay up for Sidney when he gets back from long road trips, posting up on the couch with a book in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. You manage to stay awake for a while, before you feel your eyes start to close as your eyes dance across the pages of your book, falling asleep before you even know it. Sideny walks into your shared house, he softly smiles as he sees the living room dimly lit, seeing you sleepy peacefully on the couch he can't help but smile at you with love in his eyes. 

husband!sidney: Sidney is so good with children, seeing how he acts around your nieces and nephews and other children at hockey camps makes your baby fever increase by the second. 

husband!sidney: Sidney loves your baked goods, he's convinced that everything you make is heaven sent from God, but your baked goods? Those are his favorites. Anything from cupcakes, cookies, everything and anything. He gives a request of things he wants you to make for him, at least once a week, even baking things for the team and fundraising events. 

husband!sidney: Sidney loves surprising you with a new bouquet of flowers each week, always doing small things to remind you how much he loves you. 

nsfw: 

husband!sidney: Sidney loves to watch you fall apart from beneath him, the way your head drops back, how your mouth falls open as you gasp for air. The pants and moans are enough to make him come again. 

husband!sidney: Sidney has a huge breeding kink. He wants nothing more than to see you carrying his child. He loves stuffing you full of his come, holding it inside of you, just to make sure you get every drop. 

husband!sidney: Your favorite part about Sidney's body is his hands, especially when they’re wrapped around your throat. The way you gasp and moan out below him telling him to tighten his grip on your neck. 

husband!sidney: sidney is a big fan of car sex, he loves how easy it is to rile you up, then bend you over the back seat and fuck you until you forget your name. 

husband!sidney: He loves loves loves, whenever you ride his face. The way your thick thighs wrap around his head, moaning out above him as he devourers your wet cunt, eating it like a man that hasn't had water or food in days. 

[celbrini]

🧽🧹🧼everything's gotta b upto his standards🧼🧹🧽

[angelsuecult]

welcome home | s. crosby

summary: sidney arrives home at the crack of dawn wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed with you.

warnings: suggestive dialogue

word count: 1.3k

a/n: i thought it was going to be shorter but compared to the previous one id say it is! i’m really liking writing for you guys! got some suggestions, one will be uploaded this saturday, don’t be afraid to reach out! i’m having lots of fun writing for you guys and would love to hear any suggestions or feedback!

You awake to the faint creak of the bed and the soft whisper of someone settling beside you. The room was still bathed in the soft blue-grey of the early morning, just before the sun fully rose. As you blinked your eyes open, your heart skipped a beat at the sight of Sidney sitting on the edge of the bed, his profile softened by the light filtering through the curtains. His face was tired, but content, and just seeing him there after what felt like forever was a relief.

“Hey baby,” he whispered, his voice a soothing balm after two weeks apart. His lips curved into a gentle smile as he leaned in to press a tender kiss to your forehead, longing just long enough to make you feel like he never wanted to leave again. The kiss wasn’t hurried or filled with the urgency of desire, but with affection—like he was savoring the feel of being near you again.

“Hi Sid,” you whispered back, your voice a little groggy with sleep, reaching out to pull down toward you. He easily followed your lead, his body sinking into the mattress beside you as he laid his head on your chest. His exhaustion was clear in the way his muscles seemed to melt against you, his body getting perfectly alongside yours like it always had. You let your hand drift to his hair, running your fingers through the strands, feeling the tension in him begin to ease.

“What time did your plane touch down?” you murmured, almost disbelieving. It had been two long weeks without him—weeks that felt like months, the house always a little too quiet, the bed a little too cold.

He sighed, the sound heavy with relief. “About 7:00 this morning,” he said softly. His breath warmed against your skin as he settled more comfortably against you.

You winced, feeling a pang of guilt. “Oh, I’m sorry I wasn’t there to pick you up.”

Sid shifted slightly, raising his head to meet your eyes, and shook his head with a tired but tender smile. “It’s fine. I actually enjoyed a bit of quiet before coming home. I was just really looking forward to seeing you.”

You could see the fatigue etched into every line of his face—the way his eyelids were heavy and how his usually sharp gaze was softened with weariness. “I should probably shower before I get too comfortable,” he muttered, though he made no effort to move, his body clearly too tired to act on the thought.

“No,” you said firmly, your hand still stroking his hair. “You’ve been on the road forever. Just take your dirty clothes off and go to sleep. You shouldn’t have to worry about anything else right now.”

He let out a quiet chuckle, the sound low and raspy, raising an eyebrow and his lips curling into a teasing smile. “Oh yeah? You want me to strip and sleep, eh? Sounds like you’re trying to get me into bed faster, Y/N.”

You laughed softly, rolling your eyes, “You’re ridiculous, it’s not like that. I just want you to be comfortable. You’ve had a long trip, and that last thing you need is to stand in a shower half-asleep.”

He gave a mock sigh, the mischief still dancing in his eyes. “Alright, alright, if you say so,” he said, though the grin on his face told you he wasn’t done teasing yet. “You sure you’re not just trying to keep me all to yourself?”

You smiled up at him, your fingers brushing against his cheek. “Maybe a little. But seriously, just come to bed. We can worry about everything else later.”

With a lighthearted sigh, he sat up groaning as he reached for his belts, his movements sluggish with exhaustion. As he unbuckled it, and tugged at his pants, you couldn't help but reach out, your fingers brushing lightly against his waist,feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric.

The simple touch made him shiver slightly, his eyes flicking to yours. “Careful now,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he paused, his gaze locked onto yours. “You keep that up, and I might forget about sleep entirely.”

You laughed softly, your hands helping him ease out of his pants. “I’m just helping. The sooner you’re out of those clothes, the sooner we can both settle in.”

He gave a soft sigh as his pants hit the floor, then he turned his attention to the buttons of his shirt. His fingers fumbled “Let me help.” you said, sitting up to gently brush his hands aside. “Sidney Crosby; captain of a hockey team, yet can’t seem to undress himself.” you said softly, as you began to unfasten the buttons one by one.

He gave you a sheepish grin, resting one of his hands on your thigh as you worked on the buttons. “What can I say? I do my best work on the ice,” he teased, his thumb gently rubbing the fabric of your pajamas as he watched you with a lazy smile.

You shook your head, fingers making quick work of the buttons, each one revealing a little more of his skin. The warmth radiated from him, and you couldn't help but feel a quiet satisfaction as you peeled the shirt off his shoulders, sliding it down his arms. He let out a quiet, appreciative hum as the shirt fell to the floor, and without a second thought, you guided him back beneath the blankets.

“You really know how to make a guy feel at home,” he murmured.

You pulled back, “Maybe because you are, no?”

He immediately relaxed, his body sinking into the mattress as he pulled you close,your bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces. The familiar scent of him—something warm and comforting, a mix of his skin and the faint trace of his cologne—made your chest tighten with a feeling that was almost too much to describe.

“Feels good to be home,” he whispered, his voice thick with fatigue but so full of warmth. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you tighter against him, and you could feel the slow, steady, rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your hand.

“I missed you, you know,” you whispered, your fingers tracing lazy patterns over his chest.

“He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there as if he wanted to hold onto the moment just a little longer. “I missed you too,” he murmured, his voice soft.

You lay there in the quiet of the morning, the soft light of dawn filling the room as you enjoyed the closeness. You moved your head to his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, while his fingers traced gentle circles on your back.

As the sun rose, casting a warm glow over the room, you stayed wrapped in each other’s arms. The gentle rays filtered through the curtains, painting the room in soft hues. There were no urgent needs or obligations, just the pure joy of being together, finding comfort in the shared warmth and love.

After a few moments of peaceful silence, Sidney’s stomach rumbled softly, breaking the silence. You both laughed softly, “Sounds like someone’s ready for breakfast, hm?” you tease, nudging him gently.

He groaned, “I might be. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. You name it.”

“Ambitious, are we?” you said grinning up at him. “We can start with breakfast and see how far we get.”

He nods, pulling you closer. “Sounds like a plan. But just so you know, I might be expecting a full-course meal with dessert later. Preferably a dessert on all fours?” He suggests tugging at the waistband of your pajama pants.

You snort, giving him a playful swat on the arm, “I should have let you undress yourself.”

[majoregan]