#this puts the series up over 90k which doesn't...seem right

[malk1ns]

february 8 @ flyers, 3-2 loss

we managed to skid into the two-week break without anyone else getting hurt in this game yay yippee! let's hope everyone gets healthy now because good grief.

exists in a world where the penguins still had their super bowl party at sid's on sunday the 9th instead of sid flying to montreal for four nations and geno flying to...wherever the fuck he was watching from. let's pretend that the first day of four nations practice was pushed to tuesday.

my honest reaction to the prospect of two full weeks with absolutely no sign of geno at all:

Zhenya has to begrudgingly admit that the visitor’s facilities in Philadelphia aren’t that bad.

They aren’t that good either, nothing compared to some of the newer places—Zhenya’s particularly fond of Seattle—but especially compared to places like Carolina, Philly is perfectly adequate. The locker room isn’t too cramped, the carpet doesn’t stink, the hot water works, and there’s a couch in the lounge that actually faces the TV and can fit more than one grown adult comfortably.

The couch is especially important, because the Penguins stopped requiring its scratches to watch games from the press box a few years ago and Zhenya’s never been back. Given the choice between wearing a suit and having to keep a neutral face while watching his team play without him and getting to kick back in sweatpants and swear as much and as loudly as he’d like, he’s picking the latter every time when he’s injured.

Sid, like the suck-up he is, stuck it out up above the ice for a few games, but pretty soon even he was changing out of his suit the second the cameras were gone for the game and sprawling out over whatever furniture was available, running his mouth at whoever’s stuck out with him about what’s going on in-game.

The season after Zhenya got his second knee surgery was some of the most fun he’d had while out injured, at least while Sid was doing rehab too. They spent a ton of time together, hanging around during each other’s PT times and making side bets on the games.

So, when Sid told him he’d be sitting the last two games before the break, to make sure his arm was back to 100%, Zhenya was excited. Sure, they’d be away instead of at home, but they’d be able to shit-talk the Rangers and Flyers together, and Zhenya wouldn’t have to haunt the bowels of the arenas like a ghost alone. Even better, he’d have a chance to actually spend time with Sid, who’s been acting off for months and annoyingly good at avoiding talking about it.

The Rangers game was a blast. Troy snuck them down some beers from the dad’s suite and Zhenya managed to goad Sid into some truly vicious shit-talking about New York’s entire roster. The win was the perfect cap to the day, and by the time they made it to Philly, Zhenya was ready to pass out in his hotel room with a smile on his face.

Sid was sour on Saturday, though, distracted and frowning at his phone during team breakfast and abandoning Zhenya to face the athletic trainers alone when they head to the arena for morning skate. Zhenya finally tracked him down on the ice, one of the last guys out there like always, shooting pucks at the net all alone viciously hard, with way too much force for someone who’s babying his arm in the hopes of representing his country in less than a week.

Eventually the coaches herded him off the ice. Sid was sullen on the bus back to the hotel.

“One of the caterers canceled,” he finally volunteered as they stepped off the bus and slipped into the hotel lobby. “For tomorrow, the Super Bowl,” he elaborated when Zhenya looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “They emailed me late last night and I’ve been trying to track down a replacement.”

Zhenya sighed loudly. “This why you’re such bitch?” he said, exaggerating his tone to try and eke a smile from Sid. It kind of worked. “Jesus, it’s not so serious, who cares?”

“It’s the wings guy,” Sid said grimly, and Zhenya groaned in empathy. The Pittsburgh Penguins take their chicken wings very seriously. “I think I got a lead, though. I just gotta make one more call and hopefully this gets wrapped up so I can nap.”

They’d knocked on wood at the reception desk, then gone their separate ways.

Sid hadn’t been ready for the early bus, but Zhenya went over anyway, eager to get his PT torture session over with so he could change and relax, and by the time Sid blows into the lounge Zhenya’s installed on the perfectly adequate couch, sucking down a protein shake and flicking through the channels as he waits for puck drop.

“New wings?” he asks, and Sid sneers at him. Zhenya purses his lips and shrugs, tracking Sid through the lounge as he slams open the refrigerator and digs for a snack.

“Other guy didn’t work out,” Sid says through a mouthful of granola as he drops heavily onto the couch. “Keep that on silent, I need to make a call.”

“You’re nap?” Zhenya asks, and Sid shakes his head sharply, jabbing at his phone. That explains a lot.

Sid’s on his phone through most of the first period, putting on his best aw-shucks voice as he tries to convince someone in a fifty-mile radius of Pittsburgh to whip up a couple hundred buffalo wings in under 24 hours. Zhenya half-listens, sending random Instagram reels in the Team Russia group chat and keeping an eye on the game playing out silently on the big screen across the room.

At one point, Sid gets up and paces in tight circles, and Zhenya puts his phone down to watch—Sid on the verge of a hosting-related breakdown is far more interesting than whatever jokes Kirya’s trying to make. Poor kid, he’s been out this season even longer than Zhenya has. Eventually, though, Sid drops his phone into his lap and sighs.

“All good?” Zhenya asks, passing the remote over before Sid can snatch it from his lap. 

Sid shrugs. “I found someone,” he says, but he still sounds pissy. “It was pretty far down my list, but the reviews are okay…hopefully it works out.”

“Bummer for not get usual, I’m like best,” Zheya says, stretching his legs forward and cringing when his left knee pops.

“Yeah, well, sorry about the letdown for your last ever Super Bowl party,” Sid mutters, and Zhenya whips his head around. Sid’s staring at the television with a surly look on his face.

The pieces are starting to come together. Sid’s avoidance, his odd caginess when Zhenya tries to talk about summer plans…

Over the summer, Sid and Zhenya talked a lot. Sid had been waffling about his contract extension, first wanting six years, then one, and Zhenya spent a lot of time listening as Sid talked himself into, then out of, and then back into the terms he was going to ask Pat to send to the team.

At some point, he’d tried to lighten the mood with a joke. He doesn’t remember exactly what he said, but it was something like, why not just ask for max term and if he feels like he wants to be done sooner than it expires he can just retire—Zhenya’s thinking of doing the same after this upcoming season, after all.

It hadn’t been serious. He’d thought about it; he’s still thinking about it. But he still doesn’t quite feel ready to be done with the Penguins as a player, so it’s really nothing more than a fancy, an idea he revisits when his knees ache so badly they wake him up in the middle of the night. The comment to Sid was nothing, less than a throwaway.

Sid had gone quiet, and that conversation had ended quickly. Zhenya didn’t hear from Sid for a few days. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time; they’re both busy, and Zhenya loses track of how long it’s been between travel, charity tournaments, and arguing with Anya through their lawyers.

When they got back to Pittsburgh, though, Sid was still acting off. He’s lightened up as the season’s worn on, but Zhenya still catches Sid watching him with a strange intensity sometimes. He clams up when Zhenya asks what’s wrong, neatly avoids all efforts at a serious conversation before Zhenya even realizes he’s changed the subject.

Now, though, it’s making sense.

“Sid,” Zhenya says, reaching out and trying to touch Sid’s shoulder. Sid flinches away from him. “You’re mad I make joke that maybe I retire this year? It’s not serious, like, okay I think about, but I’m still here, you know, I’m still do my best to play.”

“Whatever,” Sid snaps. He’s turning the remote over in his hands, and Zhenya wants to reach over and take it away from him. “I don’t care what you do. Go back to Russia now if you want, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything.”

“Change what?” Zhenya demands, lost. Sid’s getting worked up, angry in a way that Zhenya hasn’t seen since they were much younger and Sid was less in control of his emotions. “Who’s say I go back to Russia? Maybe I move to Miami with Nikita. Maybe I stay in Pittsburgh! Jesus, Sid, what’s your problem?”

Sid snorts, turning to glare at Zhenya. “Come on,” he says, scornful. “Everyone knows you’re going to go back to Russia. You’ll move home and play for Metallurg, and once you’re back in Russia you and Anna will figure it out and get back together, and you’ll stay there until your Hall induction, and by then I won’t—” He snaps his mouth shut.

Zhenya feels like he’s scrambling to keep up with a video game he’s never played before. “Sid, I tell you, Anya and I, like, it’s done for real. We’re figure out how to be friends for Nikita, maybe, but we’re not together. Why you’re say all this? You won’t what?”

Sid presses his mouth into a flat line. His eyes flicker over Zhenya’s face, and he squares his shoulders. For a wild moment, Zhenya wonders if Sid’s going to hit him. “I won’t be able to tell you how I feel about you. I’ll have run out of time,” he says.

His words land like bricks in the quiet room. 

“Feel about…” Zhenya knows what Sid means, though, and his entire world tilts on its axis.

The entire twenty years rearrange themselves. Pieces move into place, events take on new meaning.

Sid watches him steadily. Zhenya looks back helplessly. Neither of them say another word.