#anyway. trina's gonna feed that man good!

[dogwhizzer]

ik ur a fat marvin truther so have you ever considered/will you consider fat mendel

fucking DUH i've considered it

[nomorelonelydays]

kick your pretty feet up on my dash

Part 1

-

Sidney retires a little earlier than he thought he would, at age 34.

 He retreats into a small town in Oregon. It’s not a hockey town. No one knows who Sidney Crosby is, and it’s an unexpected blessing.

 He hadn’t meant to land in Cardwell Point. It’s a little vacation-ville that boasts an annual fair every summer; it has an artificial lake, a small, quiet cabin that Sidney now calls home, a garden where he can grow tomatoes (that refuses to grow), and friendly enough neighbors who are all, for the most part, below the age of 18 or over 60 and have been in the town for about three centuries. It’s far enough away from Pittsburgh, he supposes, so that’s a plus.

 He knows the organization had expect him to stay, working with the team as a coach or at least for the sake of the Little Penguins program. He remembers the looks they’d given him when he’d broken the news to the front office. But it hurts more than it should, being so close to Geno hockey and not able to do anything about it.

 Maybe his heart has gotten softer with age.

 Maybe that’s why he packed so quickly, because when Geno asked him so mournfully, “Where you gonna be?” on his last day, he’d nearly changed his mind.

 “I’ll let you know,” Sidney promises. A little white lie.

 “You tell me soon, or I find you,” Geno says fiercely.

 Geno had hugged him like he didn’t want to let go, and perhaps he lingered a bit. But Sidney had simply chalked it up to him projecting. As usual.

 He’s spent the majority of his time in the NHL hoping for a man to love him back. He’d wanted the handholding, the late night, date night kisses on an empty street, and he’d been willing to wait years for it—did wait years for it. He had been ecstatic when they gave the C to Geno, finally. His heart had lurched forward, almost painfully, when Geno beamed at him, shy and determined under the weight of the letter, and Sidney tells himself that he’s happy. He is happy. He will be happy.

 “So what’s next?” Flower asks, voice choppy (always) through the phone.

 He figured he’d get a dog or something, maybe spend his hours fishing and not thinking about hockey or Geno or what anyone must think about him practically vanishing.

 He did not imagine that he’d be dragging himself up at 4 in the morning, post-retirement, to a bakery that must’ve been in this town when Christ himself was born, to be up to his elbows with flour and butter. The owner, Deidre, is 68 years old, had laughed in his face when she first met him, squeezed in the corner of her café and brooding over his coffee, when he’d told her that he’s retired.

 “What the hell do you mean, retired? You’re about 18, right?”

 Sidney knows he looks nowhere near 18, but Deidre also doesn’t look she’s got the best eyesight around, so.

 It takes about four more coffee runs, three “on the house” chess pies that Deidre insists on feeding him, and two times of Sidney helping her transporting bags of flour from the truck to the kitchen when she’d been short-staffed, that he realizes he’s accidentally stumbled into a some sort of volunteer-job hybrid.

 But he likes it.

 He has the time, and Deidre needs the help even if she won’t admit it. He likes listening to Deidre talk about the town and her husband (who hasn’t been alive since 2013, Sidney realizes way too late, when he makes the blunder of asking where he is—to which Deidre responds, ‘Who the hell knows. Fucking around up there, probably’) and her dry humor. He likes bringing out the trays of brioche rolls and learning the names of the regulars, from the adults stumbling in at 6:30 AM for their morning coffee, to the kids who come into the store for their afterschool cookies. (He endures the moms who—not subtly—tries to flirt with him while taking half the day to buy a dozen muffins.) He likes kneading the dough for the tarts, because it helps him forget about all those warnings the doctors said about how if he kept going, hockey’s going to knock out his knee once and for all and he’d be lucky to be able to walk at all.

 Deidre asked him how he ended up at Cardwell Point, just once.

 “You running away from home?” she asks, very seriously. Her glasses are sliding off her nose. “Don’t you lie to me. I’ll know.”

 “Not really?” He’d kind of googled ‘small town’ and ‘West Coast’ and ‘house for sale,’ because ‘where to go after retiring at age 34’ hadn’t given him a lot of useful results (or any).

 “This is a very small town, and I know this because I never left this place,” Deidre says. “No one comes here unless they were trying to get away from somewhere. A girlfriend, maybe?”

 Before Sidney can say anything, she quickly adds, “Boyfriend?”

 His hands stop for a briefly moment, but he catches himself and gets back into the rhythm of piping the cupcake. “Um.”

 “Anyways,” Deidre says, already moving on and washing her hands, “I’ve been thinking of naming the desserts. Like a person name. I think it’d give them character, help them sell better. I’d want to name a cheesecake after my mother—that was her favorite thing to make when I was little, but I never really got the hang of messing around with cream cheese. What do you think?”

 Sidney nods because it doesn’t matter to him either way. He’s suddenly struck with the fact that he hasn’t called Geno in weeks, even though he told Geno he would right after he’s settled in. And Geno hasn’t texted either, which aches like a dull, forgotten thing at the pit of his stomach.

 He doesn’t have the heart to be the one to break their silence streak, because there’s a tiny part of him that’s still that afraid if he hears Geno’s voice, sounding so far away, he’d want to fly right back where he started, to break his heart all over again.

 One afternoon, he’s making tags for the mini cakes and cookies with Deidre when, out of the blue, he blurts out, “I, uh, I really wasn’t lying. I had to leave my job because of medical reasons. My knee, it’s not—I can’t strain it too much. And um—he wasn’t a boyfriend. It wasn’t…it wasn’t ever going to happen.”

 He kind of wants Deidre to spit out some sage, grandmotherly advice, not unlike a fortune cookie. He could use a fortune cookie. She has four kids, after all, all scattered in cities across the East Coast or the Bay Area, working in tech or finance or whatever the hell she had said. But she merely pats his arm and nods.

 “Well, you have Cardwell Point now, if you want it,” she says, finishing up the lettering on her sign with a loopy ‘y’ for Lily. “There. My mother’s name. This one will be for the mini-cheesecakes. When I figure out how to make them right.”

 He doesn’t know if that’s what he’s waiting for. But he’s spent so long chasing after things he can’t have that Deidre unofficially gifting him Cardwell Point makes his chest bubble up with something wonderful. He ducks his head low and finishes up cursive ‘a’ on his own card.

Day 65 into retirement, and Sidney doesn’t write a tell-all, post-retirement article about his life and regrets like what Deadspin is probably salivating for. (To be fair, Sidney doesn’t even know who to go to first to start publishing something like that.)

 It’s way worse.

 He opens an Instagram account.

 @DeesBakeryCafe

Come in to see us and these lemon-curd filled, poppy seed muffins (The Trina) tomorrow! Happy Friday, everyone.

 The muffins are artfully placed next to the window seat, where the sunlight gleams off the drizzled glaze. It gets 56 likes, which Sidney honestly believes might be just about the general portion of the town who have working smartphones and knows how to use it.

 To Sidney’s surprise, they sell out the next day. Seeing Deidre’s display case empty at least an hour before they close and listening to Deidre chatter excitedly over their next seasonal item feels almost as exhilarating as winning a game. Maybe even just as good.  

 He only wishes he’d stop wondering what Geno would say if he knows what Sidney is up to. If he’d even want to know.