mrsonmyr

[mrsonmyr]

just us

summary: it’s the summer of 2003. sidney realizes his feelings for his childhood best friend before he leaves for rimouski

pairing: sidney crosby x female reader

wc: 5.1k

It was a quiet, muggy August night in Cole Harbour, the sun was setting and the sky was streaks of coral and pink hues, the buzz of cicadas filled the silence between houses.

Sidney Crosby stood at the base of the oak tree in your backyard. A tree he had climbed hundreds of times to get your attention from your bedroom window. He glanced up toward the familiar second story window. It was open, like it always was in the summer evenings. A soft yellow light poured out of it, and the hum of some indie playlist drifted down to him.

You were up there. Maybe sitting cross legged on your bed like you always did, maybe scribbling in that journal you never let him read, maybe thinking about him, the way he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

It was getting harder to pretend.

You’d grown up together— through scraped elbows and failed math tests and late night pond skates. You knew him better than anyone else.

He picked up a small pebble and rolled it in his palm. He didn’t throw it, though. Not yet. There was a part of him that wanted to just stand there, rooted under that tree, watching the light spill out from your room like it was sacred.

Summer was ending. He was leaving soon. You were headed off to Dal.

So he tossed the pebble.

It tapped the window just light enough not to piss off your dad.

A few seconds passed before your head appeared through the open frame. You looked down, narrowed your eyes like you were trying to pretend you were annoyed. But the corners of your mouth twitched. “Sid,” you called. “If you scratch my window again, I swear to God—”

“You say that every time,” he grinned.

“And one of these days, I’ll mean it.”

“I need a goalie.” He says with a smile, tossing another pebble up and catching it midair like he had all the time in the world.

You raised a brow, arms crossed. “It’s late. Who’s playing hockey at this hour?”

He shrugs. “Me. Maybe you. Come down.”

When you were kids, you were fearless. Or at least, that’s how everyone saw you—diving in front of slapshots, chasing rebounds like your life depended on it, standing in the net without pads while Sidney Crosby wound up from halfway across the driveway. Parents used to wince. His mom once joked that you’d grow up with a dent in your shinbone shaped like his slapshot. But you never flinched. Because to you, playing goalie for Sid wasn’t just a game. It was yours. A ritual. Summer evenings, scraped knees, sweat-stuck shirts, and Sid’s laugh echoing off the pavement.

You would’ve stood there forever if it meant he’d keep looking at you like you were invincible.

But then time happened.

Sid got taller. Way taller. His shoulders filled out, his voice dropped, and his jawline could probably cut glass. He still looked at you like you were his person, but sometimes his gaze would linger a little longer, and you could feel something unspoken start to settle between you.

You stopped dressing like one of the boys. Not because anyone told you to—but because you wanted to. Wanted to feel pretty. Wanted him to notice.

And he did.

He never said anything, not out loud, but you caught it. The way his eyes would flick down when your shirt rode up during a game, or the way he’d go quiet when your cherry lip gloss caught the light. He wasn’t subtle—not with you.

You’d lean back on your elbows after a game, tired and breathless in the summer heat, and his eyes would rest on your collarbones just a second too long before he looked away like it burned.

And then there were the others.

The neighbourhood boys started making comments. Not about you directly at first—just about girls in general. About legs and low-cut shirts and what they’d do if they had five minutes alone with so-and-so behind the bleachers. You weren’t stupid. You heard it all.

Sid heard it too.

The first time someone made a comment about you, it was subtle. A joke. One of his teammates nudged him and said, “Your goalie’s growing up, huh? Damn, if she was mine…”

Sid punched him. Hard. Right in the shoulder. Told him to shut the hell up.

“Hey, don’t joke about Sid’s girl.” Another teammate laughed.

“She’s not my girl,” Sidney huffed, feeling something hot and messy climb into his throat. “She’s just my friend.”

But the words felt wrong the second they left his mouth.

His friend. Yeah. Sure. The same friend he looked for in every room. The one whose number he knew by heart, who could read him better than his own parents. The one whose lip gloss he could taste in the air before she even said a word. Who’d been his summer, every summer, since they were eight years old.

The guys laughed it off, turned their attention back to the rink, but Sid’s jaw stayed tight.

Because the thing was—he hated the way they talked about you. The way they looked at you now, like you were just another girl in shorts and a tank top. Like they hadn’t grown up watching you block every slapshot with nothing but a broken stick and guts. Like you weren’t you.

He didn’t know when it happened, when the line between my goalie and my girl started to blur. Maybe it was the first time you wore that stupid cherry lip gloss that made him forget what he was saying mid-sentence. Or when he saw some junior guy from school offer to carry your books and you smiled, polite but distant. That smile—the one that wasn’t for Sid.

You’d never smiled at him like that. And he didn’t know whether he wanted you to… or not.

“I don’t feel like playing tonight,” you said, your voice softer than usual, but heavy enough to pull him out of whatever thought he’d been stuck in.

“I’m leaving soon,” he said, not accusing, just honest. “Just thought we could get one last game in before I’m gone.”

You didn’t look at him when you answered. “Don’t make it sound like you’re dying.”

You said it like a joke, but it didn’t land. The tension in your chest was too tight, your throat too full. You weren’t mad. Not really. You were proud of him—so proud it hurt. You’d watched him chase this dream since he could barely hold a stick. You were there when he skated circles around kids twice his size, when scouts started showing up at games, when he whispered about the draft like it was some far-off galaxy he might never reach.

Now it was real. And he was leaving. For real.

Not for a weekend tournament or a training camp. This time, he was really going.

“Alright, we won’t play,” Sid said, and you could hear the disappointment under the easy tone. “Come down. We can sit by the dock.”

You hesitated at the window. The sky was streaked in pinks and purples now, the kind of sunset that felt like a painting, and the cicadas were still humming in the trees. You looked at him—standing there in that worn-out hoodie and beat-up sneakers, holding his stick loosely at his side like he couldn’t quite let go of it yet.

It would’ve been easier to say no. To climb back into bed, to turn your music up and pretend that nothing was changing.

But you never could say no to Sid. Not really.

So you climbed down from the oak tree, slow and quiet, and landed in the grass beside him. You didn’t say anything at first, just started walking toward the dock like you’d done a hundred times before—past the firepit, past the line of rocks you used to leap across like some made-up obstacle course when you were kids.

The boards of the dock creaked under your feet as you sat beside him, legs dangling over the water, the lake dark and glassy below.

You pulled your hoodie sleeves over your hands, and he let the silence sit for a minute before speaking.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, surprising you.

You turned to look at him.

“Not of hockey. Not of leaving. I’m scared of what it means if I go and everything’s different when I come back.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just listened to the water lapping gently against the wood, the distant sound of a dog barking down the road, the weight of the words hanging between you like fog.

“It’s already different,” you said quietly.

He nodded, jaw tight. “I know.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him. His face was lit by the last remnants of golden light, his profile soft and familiar and impossibly grown-up all at once.

“I’m not going to ask you to stay,” you said. “Because you wouldn’t, and I wouldn’t let you. But I’m allowed to miss you, Sid.”

He turned to face you, eyes dark and honest. “I’ll miss you more.”

You gave him a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

A week later, you stood at the edge of his driveway, arms crossed against the morning chill, watching as he packed the last of his bags into the back of his parents’ van. Taylor was already in the backseat, headphones on, legs propped against a duffel bag. It was quiet, heavy with the kind of silence that comes when you know something is ending—at least for now.

Sid turned back one last time, eyes lingering on you like he was trying to memorize the way you looked in that moment. Like he didn’t want to forget. His dad whistled, tapping the side of the van, voice calling out, “Say your goodbyes, Sid. We’re rolling out.”

The knot in your stomach pulled tighter.

You didn’t cry. Not until after he was gone.

Sunday nights became something different after that. Sometimes you’d get a call—never promised, but you noticed the pattern. He’d ring you after checking in with his parents, speaking low so he wouldn’t wake his roommates. Just a soft “Hey,” and you’d curl into your bed with your heart in your throat, pretending things hadn’t changed.

About a month after he left, you got his first letter in the mail. Neat handwriting, a little smudged like he’d written it in a rush. Like maybe he couldn’t wait to talk to you in a way a phone call couldn’t touch.

Postmarked from Rimouski, Quebec

It’s late, and I should probably be asleep. Morning skate starts early and the guys already give me hell for looking half-dead on the ice. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you tonight.

Everything’s fast here. Faster than Cole Harbour, faster than I thought I was ready for. The drills are harder, the pressure’s heavier, and every time I step on the ice, I feel like I have to prove I belong here all over again.

But I’ve been doing okay. Better than okay, actually. Coach pulled me aside yesterday—said I was standing out. He smiled when he said it, that kind of rare, real smile like he actually meant it. I should’ve felt proud. I did. But the first thing I wanted to do was tell you.

I miss your laugh. The way you say my name when you’re annoyed but not really. I miss seeing you in that hoodie that’s still technically mine. And the cherry lip gloss. God, I miss that stupid lip gloss.

Tell the dock I said hi.

Always,

Sid

You read it three times.

You didn’t write him back.

Not because you didn’t care—God, you cared too much. His letter sat folded on your desk, worn soft at the edges from how many times you’d picked it up, read it, traced the handwriting like it might tell you what he couldn’t quite say.

He hadn’t said the words. Not exactly. And neither had you.

And maybe that’s what scared you the most.

So instead, you did nothing. Waited. Let the days pass and told yourself he was probably too busy to notice anyway. Told yourself it would be easier to pretend that things were still the same. That nothing had changed.

Until Friday.

You were in your dorm room at Dalhousie, halfway through folding your laundry when you heard a knock on the door—followed by giggles and footsteps from down the hall.

One of the girls you barely knew from your floor poked her head in, a teasing smile on her lips.

“Uh, hey—your boyfriend’s here.”

You blinked. “What?”

She grinned. “Big guy. Kinda ridiculously hot. Said he’s looking for his goalie?”

Your stomach dropped.

No. No way.

You shoved your laundry onto your bed and nearly tripped getting to the door. Your heart was pounding like it wanted out of your chest. You had no plan, no words, nothing prepared.

And there he was.

Sidney. Standing in the hallway like something out of a daydream.

Bag slung over his shoulder. Hockey hat barely hiding the way his hair curled at the edges. And those eyes—those same warm, familiar eyes—locked on you the second you stepped out.

He smiled, just barely. Nervous. Hopeful. “Hey.”

You stared at him. Speechless.

“I was in town for a few days,” he said, shifting on his feet. “Figured I’d surprise you. I didn’t mean to freak you out or anything, I just—”

You shook your head, your voice barely steady. “No. You didn’t. I just—I didn’t expect—”

Him. Here. In front of you. Looking like everything you’d missed and tried to push down since the day he left.

The hallway was suddenly too bright, too loud with the buzz of distant music and the occasional slam of a dorm door. But all you could focus on was him—his hoodie, the way his hands kept twitching like he didn’t know what to do with them, the look in his eyes.

“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” he admitted. “You didn’t answer my letter, and I thought maybe I said too much. Or not enough.”

You blinked. “Come in,” you said suddenly, pulling the door open wider. “You’re making the girls on this floor lose their minds.”

That got a half-smile from him. “Sorry.”

You stepped aside, and he walked in slowly, glancing around your dorm room like it was sacred ground. Like it held more answers than you did.

He dropped his bag on the floor and stood awkwardly near your desk, hands in his hoodie pocket. “You look different,” he said quietly.

“Different how?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Older. Like you belong here.”

You crossed your arms, trying not to let your heart fall out of your chest.

“And you?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Do you feel like you belong where you are?”

Sidney hesitated. His eyes dropped to the floor for a second before coming back to meet yours.

“On the ice? Yeah. But… off of it?” He shook his head slightly. “It’s loud. Fast. I’m always around people but never really with anyone, you know?”

You nodded. You did know.

He glanced around your room again, eyes lingering on the little details—the photos tacked above your desk, the throw blanket on your bed, the notebook half-open beside your computer. It was nothing special, but it was yours.

And for a moment, he looked like he wanted to memorize it all.

“I missed this,” he said. “Just being around you. Talking like we used to.”

“You could’ve called more,” you said, trying to keep the edge out of your voice.

He looked guilty. “I know. I wanted to. I just… I didn’t know how to talk to you sometimes. Not without feeling like I’d screw it all up.”

You stayed quiet.

Sid sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “When I left, I thought I had to push everything else aside. Focus. No distractions. But you… you weren’t a distraction. You were the only thing that ever made it all make sense.”

Your heart stuttered at his words.

The room suddenly felt too small, too quiet, like it was holding its breath right along with you.

You looked at him—really looked at him. The way his shoulders rose and fell with the weight of what he’d just said, the way his jaw clenched like he wasn’t sure if he should’ve kept that to himself. But his eyes didn’t waver.

“You mean that?” you asked, barely more than a whisper.

Sidney nodded once. “I always told myself hockey had to come first. That if I wanted to make it, there couldn’t be room for anything else. But then I’d think about you. About summers at the dock, and Sunday night phone calls, and the way it felt to just… be with you. And none of it made sense without you in it.”

Your throat tightened. You wanted to say something, anything—but it felt like every word you might say was stuck somewhere behind your ribs.

“You weren’t a distraction,” he said again, quieter now. “You were the calm.”

For a long moment, all you could do was stand there, the air between you thick with everything left unsaid for far too long.

It was like time folded in on itself—like you were back in your backyard, under the oak tree, with scraped knees and sunburnt cheeks… except now everything felt heavier. Realer. Like one wrong move would tip everything over.

Sid looked at you like he wanted to say more—but maybe he didn’t need to. Maybe this was the part where words finally gave out and something deeper took over.

You took a breath, your voice barely there. “What happens now?”

He stepped in, slowly, like giving you every chance to stop him. But you didn’t move. You couldn’t.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m tired of pretending it’s not real.”

“Okay,” you said softly, your lips curving just the tiniest bit. “Then don’t go yet.”

You didn’t know what would happen next when you said it—just that you couldn’t stand the thought of him walking away again. Not now. Not when everything felt so close to slipping out into the open.

Things felt like how they used to. Like when you were fifteen and he’d sneak into your room after long games or stormy nights. You’d watch old movies until you fell asleep, tangled in blankets and inside jokes. Back then, it was innocent. Easy.

Now, it wasn’t.

You were both lying on your sides, the narrow bed a little too small, the space between you a little too charged. You wore a big t-shirt that definitely used to be his—soft with wear, sleeves swallowing your hands, his name faintly cracked on the back. He hadn’t said anything when he saw you in it, but his eyes had lingered.

Sid stayed a safe distance away, hands tucked behind his head like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. But every once in a while, your legs would shift beneath the blankets and your foot would brush against his.

Every time it happened, it felt like a spark—quiet, electric, impossible to ignore.

Neither of you said anything.

You could feel his presence like gravity. Like if you moved even half an inch closer, you’d fall right into him. Your fingers itched to close the space, to trace the curve of his jaw, to say what you couldn’t bring yourself to speak out loud.

But instead, you just laid there in the dark, lit only by the soft glow of the streetlamp outside your window, your breaths slow and synced, hearts pounding in the silence.

He shifted slightly. You felt the mattress dip, the blanket pulled tighter.

“Still can’t sleep on my back without you kicking me,” he muttered.

You smiled, eyes still on the ceiling. “I’m not kicking. You’re just always in the way.”

Another pause. This one longer.

“I missed this,” he said finally. His voice was quiet. Honest. Like a secret.

“I missed you,” you whispered back.

The silence that followed was thick and fragile, like if one of you said the wrong thing, the whole moment would shatter.

But no one moved.

Not yet.

The silence wrapped around you both, warm and weighty, like a blanket too heavy to throw off. You could hear Sid breathing—slow, even, but not quite relaxed. Like he was trying too hard to seem unaffected.

You weren’t sure who moved first. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was both of you at the same time, drawn together by muscle memory and something that had been pulling at you for years.

Your fingers brushed under the blanket.

You both stilled.

Then—barely, almost accidentally—his pinky hooked around yours.

It was tentative. Shy, even. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

Your heart fluttered against your ribs, and you didn’t pull away. You didn’t even breathe.

Slowly, your hand turned in the space between you until your palm was facing his. His shifted too. And then, his fingers slid into yours like they were meant to be there.

You let out a shaky breath.

Neither of you said a word. You didn’t need to.

The pressure of his hand in yours—warm, solid, careful—said it all. That he was still here. That he didn’t want to leave. That maybe this thing between you wasn’t just one-sided memories and what-ifs.

It was real.

Sid gave your hand the faintest squeeze, and when you squeezed back, you felt him exhale like he’d been holding that breath for years.

You didn’t fall asleep right away.

You just laid there in the quiet, hands tangled beneath the sheets, both pretending it wasn’t a big deal.

But it was.

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the warmth.

It was early—just past sunrise, judging by the soft pink light filtering through the blinds—and your room was quiet, the kind of hush that only exists in those in-between hours where the world hasn’t fully woken up yet.

The second thing you noticed was him.

Sid was still asleep beside you, breathing steady, his face relaxed in a way you rarely saw. Somewhere in the night, the careful distance between you had disappeared. His arm was draped loosely around your waist, and your legs were tangled with his beneath the blankets. Your head was resting just beneath his chin, tucked into the curve of his shoulder like it belonged there.

And it felt… natural. Like this wasn’t the first time. Like your bodies had remembered something your minds were only just beginning to admit.

You tilted your head slightly, just enough to look at him.

He looked peaceful, younger somehow, like the weight he always carried—expectations, pressure, the whole future of his hockey career—had melted off in sleep. His hair was a mess, and your heart did something stupid at the sight of it. At the fact that he was here, in your bed, holding you like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You should’ve felt awkward. You didn’t.

Instead, you felt calm. Safe. Full of something that buzzed just under your skin.

You stayed there for a while, memorizing the way it felt to be wrapped up in him, like maybe if you stayed still enough, time would stop and this moment could stretch forever.

Eventually, he stirred. You felt him shift, his grip around you tightening just a little, like he was afraid you’d vanish.

Then his voice—raspy and low, still thick with sleep.

“You’re still here.”

You smiled into his shirt. “So are you.”

He pulled back just enough to look down at you, eyes heavy-lidded but clear, searching.

Neither of you said what you were both thinking.

Not yet.

But as his thumb brushed gently over the back of your hand, you knew—it was only a matter of time.

You both lingered in the quiet of the morning longer than you probably should’ve. But eventually, the real world started to creep back in—responsibilities, timelines, and the fact that Sid still had to visit his parents before heading back to Quebec.

He moved around your room slowly, folding his hoodie into his bag, stuffing the sleeves in like he didn’t really want it to fit. You sat on the edge of your bed, knees drawn to your chest, watching him in silence. There was something tender about the way he moved, like every motion was saying I’m not ready to leave yet.

He zipped his bag and slung it over his shoulder, pausing at your door.

“This part sucks,” he said quietly, glancing back at you.

You gave him a small smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “You’ll be back before I know it.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, but it felt like neither of you really believed it. Not the way you wanted to.

You walked with him down the hall, the silence between you thick with all the things you hadn’t said. And when you reached the door, it just… hung there. The moment. Heavy and still.

“I’ll call you,” he said, adjusting the strap on his shoulder.

You nodded. “You better.”

He didn’t move.

Neither did you.

Then his voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “Last night… wasn’t nothing, right?”

You shook your head slowly. “No. It wasn’t.”

Sid’s eyes searched yours—like he needed to be sure, like he didn’t want to make the wrong move. Your heart beat so loud you were sure he could hear it.

“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” he murmured.

Your breath caught. “Then do it.”

He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. But you didn’t. You tilted your chin up just slightly, eyes fluttering shut.

And when his lips finally touched yours—it wasn’t rushed, or desperate. It was soft. Certain. Like every moment between you, every summer night and almost-confession, had been leading to this.

He kissed you like a promise. And you kissed him back like you believed it.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, exhaling like he’d been holding that breath for years.

“See you soon?” he asked softly.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “See you soon.”

And then he turned, walked down the hall, and disappeared around the corner.

But this time, he wasn’t just leaving.

He was coming back to something.

To you.

Six months later

The city lights of Quebec glittered outside your hotel room window, casting a soft glow on the room. You were laying on the king bed when Sid walked into the room, the door clicking shut behind him as he tossed his bag to the side. His team had just wrapped up a practice, and despite how tired he looked, there was something about him that made your heart skip—something about the way he walked into a room like he belonged there, like you belonged there.

“You’re late,” you teased, looking up from your phone, a smile tugging at your lips.

He grinned, shrugging. “You knew what you were signing up for when you agreed to date a hockey player. Practices, travel, interviews. Sometimes I don’t even know what city I’m in.”

You laughed, pushing off the bed and walking toward him. “I’m just messing with you. I know you’ve got your schedule. But I miss you, Sid.”

His expression softened, and for a moment, the playful atmosphere between you two faded. Sid stepped closer, his hands brushing your shoulders before he cupped your face gently. He didn’t need to say anything—his eyes already said it all.

“I miss you too,” he whispered, his voice low and almost secretive, like he was revealing something precious. “But I’m glad you’re here. I hate being away from you. It’s never the same without you around.”

You rested your hands on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms. The last few months had been a whirlwind of letters, late-night calls, and stolen weekends whenever his schedule allowed it. But through it all, there had been a steady pulse between you two, a rhythm that felt so natural, like you were both exactly where you needed to be.

“I’m glad I’m here too,” you said, your voice soft. “I still don’t get how you manage all this. You’re traveling, training, playing… and yet, you still find time to be with me.”

He smiled, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “You make it easy. You make everything easier.” He hesitated for a beat, the words hanging in the air like they meant more than just this moment. “You’re the reason I can do it all, y’know?”

Your breath caught in your throat, the simplicity of the statement making your chest tighten. He looked at you like you were everything.

Before you could respond, he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. The familiar weight of his arms around you felt like home, like a place you could both just exist, without pressure, without rushing to the next thing.

“You’ve changed everything for me,” he murmured, his lips grazing your ear. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You let out a soft breath, your fingers finding his. The world outside was still moving, the clock ticking on, but in that room, in that moment, everything felt still.

“I’m proud of you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “For everything you’ve done, everything you’re going to do.”

Sid pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “I couldn’t have done any of it without you. You’re the best thing I’ve got, y’know that?”

You laughed softly, the words warm and tender. “I’m just glad I’m the one you get to come home to after every game. Even when you’re tired and running on nothing but adrenaline.”

He smiled, leaning in for another kiss, this one deeper, slower. And for a moment, you lost yourself in it, in him. This was what it had all come down to. All the waiting, all the hesitation—it had led here. To you and him, together.

When the kiss finally broke, he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you tightly as he rested his chin on your head.

“I don’t want this to ever change,” he murmured.

“Neither do I,” you said, voice thick with emotion.

And for the first time, there was no uncertainty. There was no fear. Just Sid. Just you. And everything you’d been waiting for, unfolding in front of you.

[mrsonmyr]

the perfect boyfriend

summary: inspired by kris letang calling sid the perfect boyfriend

pairing: sidney crosby x female reader

It was a crisp April evening in Pittsburgh, the rain slicking the streets and making them shine beneath the glow of streetlights. Inside a cozy, dimly lit restaurant tucked off a quiet street, a few of the Penguins veterans had gathered for dinner. A tradition, of sorts—no press, no cameras, just a night to breathe, laugh, and talk like regular people.

Sidney sat near the end of the table, half-listening to a story Bryan Rust was telling while discreetly checking his phone under the table. A quick smile tugged at his lips as he replied to a text.

Kris Letang, seated across from him, caught it.

“Let me guess,” Kris said with a smirk, sipping his wine. “That's your girlfriend?”

Sid shrugged, a little sheepish. “Just making sure she got home okay.”

Kris rolled his eyes playfully. “You really are something else.”

“What?” Sid asked, confused but amused.

“You,” Kris said, setting down his glass, “you’re the perfect boyfriend. I don’t even think you try, that’s the wild part. It’s just… who you are.”

Sid looked like he might protest, but Kris wasn’t done.

“No, seriously. You remember the tiniest things. Like that time she mentioned her favorite flowers were peonies, and you had them sent to her apartment when you were on the road for two weeks? Who does that?”

Sid shrugged again, more bashful now. “It made her smile.”

“Exactly,” Kris said. “You cook for her—even when we’re exhausted from back-to-backs, you’re going home to make grilled salmon and roasted veggies like you’re on Top Chef. You don’t half-ass anything. Not hockey, not life, and definitely not love.”

The other guys at the table started to chime in.

“Didn’t you drive three hours to surprise her at her cousin’s wedding?” Bryan asked.

“He hates weddings,” Kris added, laughing. “But he still wore a suit, danced with her grandma, and pretended to know everyone’s name.”

“Her grandma’s awesome,” Sid mumbled, trying to stay humble.

“You send her coffee when she’s working late,” Kris said, ticking it off like a list. “You let her steal your hoodies, even though you pretend to complain. You’re patient, you listen, you never make her feel like she’s second to the game.”

Sid smiled at that one, quieter now.

“She’s not,” he said simply.

Kris nodded, his voice softening. “That’s what makes it real, man. You make her feel like she’s the center of your world, even when the whole world wants a piece of you.”

Sid leaned back, thoughtful, almost shy in the face of so much praise. But his smile said it all. He didn’t need to be called the perfect boyfriend. He just loved her—and it showed in every quiet, consistent way.

Kris raised his glass, and the others followed.

“To Sid. Captain. Legend. Boyfriend of the damn year.”

Everyone laughed, including Sid, who shook his head but clinked glasses with the rest of them.

And somewhere, probably scrolling through a goodnight message he’d just sent her, you already knew all of this—because being with him wasn’t about the grand gestures. It was about the way he showed up. Always.

The door clicked open softly, just past 10 p.m., and Sidney stepped inside, tossing his bag down and kicking off his shoes with that quiet, deliberate way he always did—like even after a full travel day and a tough game, he still didn’t want to disturb the peace.

You were curled up on the couch with a blanket and a book, candles lit on the coffee table, his favorite hoodie pulled over your frame. The second you saw him, you lit up.

“You’re home,” you said, already standing and walking over to him.

He wrapped his arms around you like he’d been waiting all week for it. “Hey.”

You buried your face in his chest for a moment, breathing him in—warmth, the scent of travel, and a faint trace of the cologne you'd left on his bathroom counter.

“You tired?” you asked, pulling back to look at him.

“A little,” he said. “But I missed you more.”

You smiled, but caught the amused look tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What?”

Sid shook his head, taking off his jacket and hanging it up. “Nothing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “No, there’s something. Spill.”

He tried to act casual as he wandered toward the kitchen, pulling open the fridge to grab a bottle of water. “The guys were giving me a hard time today.”

You raised a brow. “About what?”

Sid took a long sip of water, then looked over at you with a faint smirk. “Apparently… I’m the perfect boyfriend.”

Your laugh burst out before you could stop it. “They said that?”

“Mmhmm.” He walked back over to you, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other still holding the water. “Tanger started it. Rust jumped in. Even Jarry got a shot in.”

You were still grinning. “What, exactly, makes you so ‘perfect’?”

He looked mock-thoughtful. “Could be that I texted you a good luck message before your meeting. Or that I bring you snacks after games. Or that I don’t leave my socks on the floor.”

“That does rank high,” you said, nudging his arm.

“But then,” he added, stepping in closer, voice quieter now, “I told them something.”

“Oh?”

He reached for your hand, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “I told them I’m not perfect. I just love you. And I try to show up for you every day.”

You stared at him, all playfulness fading into something warmer, softer.

“You do show up,” you said. “In every way.

Sid leaned in and kissed your forehead, then rested his against yours for a moment. “They can call me whatever they want. I just want to be your person. That’s enough.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “You already are.”

They stood there in the soft glow of the living room for a beat longer, wrapped in each other and the kind of love that didn’t need proving—but was still felt in every quiet gesture, every joke shared, every honest word spoken.

Perfect? Maybe.

But for you, he was just Sid.

And that was everything.

[mrsonmyr]

hat trick

summary: sidney gets a hat trick and comes home to celebrate

[word count]: 2.3k

pairing: sidney crosby x younger reader

warnings: smut, unprotected sex

It was Saturday night in Dallas, and while the Penguins were dominating the Stars at the American Airlines Center, you were nowhere near the arena. Instead, you were at the Ritz-Carlton just a few miles away, watching the game on TV. You rarely traveled with Sidney to away games unless it was a big event. Even at home games in Pittsburgh, you never sought the spotlight. You kept a low profile—just like Sidney did off the ice—and he appreciated how private you kept your relationship.

The last game you attended, you sat with his parents and watched as Sidney broke the NHL record for points per game. You could hardly contain your excitement, cheering him on. When the cameras panned to his family, you were caught on the big screen, smiling with unmistakable heart eyes as you watched your older boyfriend being honored.

People online had noticed your presence, and that stirred something in you. Being younger than Sidney, and as proud as you were of your relationship, the public attention made you uncomfortable. You weren’t with him for fame or fortune—you were with him because you loved him. So when he invited you to join him in Dallas, you said yes, but couldn’t bring yourself to attend the game.

Now, sitting up in bed at the hotel, you wore one of his Pittsburgh t-shirts—the same one that hugged every curve of his muscles but hung oversized on your frame. Sidney had already scored once, and you’d jumped up in bed to celebrate, heart racing. When he scored his second goal, the tension shifted—he was officially in hat trick territory. You watched intently as the cameras followed him to the bench, catching the moment he sat down and absentmindedly fiddled with his gold 87 chain. It had slipped out from beneath his jersey, the warm gold flash against the crisp white material.

Without thinking, your fingers drifted to your left wrist, tracing the delicate gold chain bracelet he’d given you for your birthday—a Tiffany’s piece with the same 87 charm dangling from it. As you watched him tuck the chain back under his jersey, his fingers brushing the skin at his neck—you could practically feel the heat and dampness of his sweat-slicked skin. And just like that, something in you sparked and burned.

Finally, at the end of the third period, Sidney sealed his hat trick with an empty-net goal. The Penguins took the win, and you watched from bed as the crowd erupted and his teammates mobbed him in celebration. Watching him take control of the game like that made your whole body buzz—you were practically burning up, counting down the minutes until he’d walk through that hotel room door so you could jump him without hesitation.

You needed him—badly—and your body wasn’t hiding a thing. You could feel yourself growing wetter just watching him skate off the ice and disappear into the locker room. You knew the boys would go wild for him in there.

Sidney makes his way down the hall to the locker rooms. He kept his head down, focused, but the adrenaline was still buzzing under his skin. A hat trick win wasn’t just another night—it meant something. In the locker room, the guys were electric, slapping his back, tossing compliments, razzing him with that easy affection only teammates could. He grinned, gave the usual modest responses, and endured the post-game interviews with his usual calm and poise.

But even as reporters asked about the goals and the team’s chemistry, his thoughts kept drifting back to the hotel. To you. He knew you were watching—knew what that kind of game did to you. The thought made something tighten low in his stomach.

After a quick shower, he threw on joggers and a hoodie, running a towel over his damp hair. Skipped the meal, skipped the post-win drinks the boys were hinting at. There was only one person he wanted to celebrate with tonight. He couldn’t get back to you fast enough.

Normally Sidney sends a quick text to let you know he’s on his way home, but an hour after the game ended you hadn’t heard from him. Suddenly you heard the soft click of the hotel room door before you saw him. Your heart jumped, pulse quickening like it always did when it was him. Sidney stepped inside, hoodie still damp at the neckline, hair messy from the quick towel dry, and that familiar post-game glow radiating off him—part sweat, part satisfaction, all him.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just shut the door behind him, dropped his bag by the wall, and looked at you. Really looked. You were still sitting up in bed, his oversized t-shirt slipping off one shoulder, your legs bare, eyes locked on him like you’d been waiting hours—not minutes.

“You watched?” he asked, voice low, already knowing the answer.

“You were insane tonight,” you murmured, voice a little breathless. “Hat trick.”

That crooked half-smile played on his lips as he crossed the room, slow and deliberate. “Yeah? You like that?”

You nodded, eyes trailing down his body. “A lot.”

He was on you in seconds—kneeling on the bed, hands finding your waist, lips brushing against yours with a mix of hunger and tenderness. The tension that had been building all night finally snapped. His hands roamed like he couldn’t touch you fast enough, like scoring three goals wasn’t the win he’d been chasing—it was you.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured against your skin, breath hot as he pushed the hem of the shirt up your thighs. “Wanted to get back here the second I left the ice.”

You had on the black lace thong—the one Sidney had jokingly dubbed “the smallest thong in the world” the first time he saw it, eyes wide with a mix of amusement and lust. It barely covered a thing, more suggestion than coverage, and it drove him insane.

Now, as he knelt between your legs, his fingers traced the delicate string that curved along your hips. He took his time, letting his touch linger, the anticipation stretching thick between you. Then slowly, he slid the lace to the side, just enough to expose exactly what he’d been aching for all night.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured, voice dark and reverent, his eyes locked on yours.

Your breath caught as he looked up at you—his gaze heavy, pupils blown, jaw tense.

“Jesus.”

His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider with quiet command. The air between you pulsed with heat as he dipped his head, his lips ghosting over the inside of your thigh.

“I haven’t even touched you,” he said, more to himself than to you, the edge of a grin tugging at his lips. “And you’re already this wet for me?”

You nodded, too breathless to speak, hips twitching beneath his hands.

He laughed softly, low and sinful. “Fuck, baby,” he whispered, “I missed you too.”

And then his mouth was on you—slow at first, savoring every reaction, every sound that fell from your lips like he had all the time in the world.

His tongue moved with purpose, slow and deliberate, savoring every slick, sweet reaction you gave him. He groaned low against you, the sound vibrating through your core, as if the taste of you, the way your thighs trembled beneath his hands, was the only reward he wanted after three goals and a win.

You threaded your fingers through his salt and pepper hair, gripping just enough to let him know you needed more, and he gave it to you—pressing in deeper, circling his tongue over your clit like he knew your body better than anyone ever could. And he did. He did. He knew every gasp, every tremble, every silent plea you couldn’t voice.

“Sid—” you gasped, back arching off the bed, thighs tightening around his shoulders.

He groaned against you, the sound rough and desperate, like he was the one unraveling, not you. One hand slid beneath your ass, lifting you slightly, angling you just right, while the other gripped your thigh like he was holding on for dear life.

The way his mouth moved—focused, relentless, like he had something to prove—sent you spiraling. He was worshiping you with every stroke of his tongue, every flick, every slow drag over the most sensitive parts of you. And it wasn’t just lust—it was something deeper. You could feel it in the way he gripped you, in the way he stayed locked onto your every sound like it fueled him.

Your moans turned into whimpers, fingers tightening in his hair as your orgasm crept up, fast and sharp.

“Sidney—please—don’t stop—”

His lips wrapped around your clit, sucking gently, and his fingers curled inside you at the perfect angle. The world fractured. Your hips bucked, your back bowed, and the orgasm hit so hard you cried out his name like a prayer. He didn’t let up, drawing it out until you were shaking, breathless, and flushed with heat.

When he finally pulled away, his mouth still slick with you, he looked up, eyes dark, pupils blown, and gave you that half-smile that always undid you.

“You taste so fucking good,” he rasped, crawling back up your body. “You have no idea how much I missed that.”

You reached up, pulled him into a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips, and whispered against his mouth, “Then take me, Sid. I’m yours.”

He kissed you deeply, breath still uneven, hands braced on either side of your head as his body hovered over yours, heat rolling off him in waves. Your legs stayed curled around his waist, keeping him close, but he pulled back just enough to look at you—really look at you.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your cheek, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You reached down, slipping your fingers beneath the hem of his hoodie. “Take this off,” you whispered. “I want all of you.”

That was all it took.

Sidney sat back on his knees, peeling the hoodie off in one slow motion, his broad shoulders and sculpted chest rising beneath the low light of the hotel room. You drank in the sight of him—his skin still warm and flushed from the game, a few fresh red lines from sticks across his ribs, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to him. Raw. Real. Yours.

Next were the joggers. He pushed them down along with his boxers, slow and deliberate, until he was completely bare before you—strong, solid, every inch of him humming with tension and desire. He caught your gaze again, his eyes dark and tender.

He leaned forward, kissing you softer this time, pulling his shirt up and off your body, revealing your perfect tits. He couldn’t help himself and leaned down to take one nipple into his mouth. You felt every inch of him—his weight, his warmth, the way he fit against you so perfectly it almost ached.

“Sid,” you moaned, hand stroking the back of his head. “Please, I need you.”

He reached down, guiding himself to your entrance, and slid into you slowly—inch by inch—like he wanted to memorize how you felt around him. Your breath hitched, hands gripping his back as he filled you completely, perfectly.

He held still for a moment, just feeling you, both of you tangled in the heat and weight of it all.

“God, you feel like fucking heaven,” he groaned, dropping his forehead to yours.

Then he began to move—slow, deep thrusts that had you gasping, your bodies moving together in a rhythm that was instinctual, almost reverent. He kissed you through every roll of his hips, every soft moan, every whispered name.

As he thrusted into you, you couldn’t help but notice his 87 chain dangling just above your face, each thrust it swayed, brushing lightly against your cheek as he leaned in. You reached up, your fingers grazing the cool metal, feeling the weight of it in your hands.

Sidney’s eyes softened as he watched you, his lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “You like that, huh?” he murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper.

You nodded, the closeness of him, the feel of the chain against your skin, only deepening the bond you shared. It was moments like these, small but meaningful, that made everything feel even more real.

Sidney grabbed hold of your hand that was playing with his chain, pinning it above your head— thrusting into you faster, harder. You could feel your release coming as he pounded into you.

“Fuck, Sid,” you whined, nails digging into his back.

“You gonna come on my cock, baby?” Sidney panted above you. His face flushed as he looked down at you as you lost control. Your eyes rolling into the back of your head, teeth biting onto your lower lip.

“I’m gonna come, don’t stop.” You cried as you felt your orgasm wash over you, head thrown back into the pillows. Sidney knew his orgasm was brewing, feeling you soak his cock he could barely hold on. His thrusts began to slow, he finished deep inside of you. He moaned your name as he felt his release, lazily fucking into you.

“Fuck, baby.” He says as he pulls out of you, watching his come drip out of you. “Love filling your pussy.”

You gently traced his forearm, feeling the warmth of his skin as you began to catch your breath. Every time you were with him, it felt as if it was the first time—intense, unforgettable, and full of emotion. The connection between you both was always so powerful, it never seemed to lose its magic.

Sidney stood up and walked to the bathroom, turning on the tap to warm a hand towel. He sat on the edge of the bed and whipped you down, eyes finding each other.

“What do you say, two more rounds and you’ll have another hat trick?” you’re propped up on your elbows, a sly smile playing on your lips, eyes sparkling with mischief.

[mrsonmyr]

let me for once

summary: y/n pays for dinner. inspired by the trend of girls paying for their stubborn boyfriends

pairing: sidney crosby x female reader

authors note: a late night blurb but I am taking Sidney requests <3

Early on in your relationship you insisted on paying for dinner and drinks. With your manicured hand reaching into your purse, you fished out your wallet, only to look up and find Sidney staring at you, utterly dumbfounded.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Paying,” you said, cheeks warming. “You’ve taken me out so many times—I want to take you out.”

Sidney’s lips curled into an amused smile as he shook his head. “You don’t need to do that. I’m taking you out, I’m paying. I always pay.”

“I know you always pay, and I appreciate it. That’s why I wanted to for once.”

His cheeks started to turn pink. “Babe, really. Put your card away.” He reached into his back pocket for his wallet.

“Sidney, I’m serious.” You slid your credit card across the table next to the check.

Without missing a beat, he slid it right back to you, tucking his own card inside instead. “Here,” he said, pushing the checkbook toward you. “Use this to pay.”

You stared at him. “Sidney, I’m not paying with your card. I work, I have money, and I want to treat my boyfriend.”

“But you’re my girlfriend. You shouldn’t be paying for my dinner.” His tone was firm yet affectionate. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m taking you out. I’m paying.”

“So, if I make a reservation somewhere and take you out, then I can pay?”

“No,” he said easily. “I’d still pay.”

You folded your arms, leaning back in your chair with a sigh. “I won’t forget this, Crosby.”

With a smirk, he handed the waiter his card as they came to collect the check, leaving you shaking your head—because, of course, he wasn’t going to budge.

Years later, and it’s still the same—he never lets you pay. Gas, nails, groceries, dinner—nothing. He won’t allow it.

Tonight is no different. It’s a cozy Friday night in, and takeout is the plan.

“Do you want pizza? Wings? We could do Thai—we haven’t had that in a while,” you suggest, scrolling through your phone from your spot on the couch.

“Whatever you want, babe. I’ll eat anything,” Sid calls from the other room. And you know that to be true.

You settle on pizza from your favorite spot, confirm the order with Sid, and a few minutes later, he walks over—wallet in hand.

“It should be here in 45 minutes,” you say, locking your phone and sinking back into the cushions. You ignore the sight of your large boyfriend standing in front of you, waving his wallet like a flag.

“Are they gonna take cash at the door?” he asks, frowning slightly.

“Nope, they’ll just drop it off,” you reply, feigning innocence.

“But… how do we pay?”

“Oh, it’s all good. Don’t worry about it.” You keep your eyes on the screen. “Sit, sit. I’ll start the movie from the beginning.”

Sidney hesitates before sinking onto the couch, placing his wallet on the coffee table. “Did you pay?”

“Yeah, I did.”

Sidney groaned and threw his head back against the couch dramatically. “Why would you do that?”

You shrugged, trying to keep your expression neutral, but the small smirk threatening to form gave you away. “Because I can.”

“No, you can’t,” he shot back immediately, sitting up and turning toward you. “That’s illegal.”

You laughed, leaning into his side. “It’s not illegal, Sid.”

He huffed, crossing his arms like a stubborn kid. “In this house, it is.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “It’s just pizza.”

“It’s not just pizza. It’s the principle.”

You knew this game all too well. He always insisted on paying, no matter what. But after years of him covering everything, you’d decided to sneak one in when you could.

“I think the principle is that I should be able to buy dinner for my own boyfriend every once in a while,” you countered, poking him in the side.

Sidney narrowed his eyes, but you could see the way his lips twitched, fighting a smile. “I don’t like this.”

“You don’t have to like it,” you teased, snuggling closer. “You just have to accept it.”

He sighed, shaking his head. “This isn’t over.”

You grinned, grabbing the remote. “I’d expect nothing less.”

[mrsonmyr]

boyfriend! Sidney Crosby headcanons

Sidney loves taking care of you, and that includes cooking for you. As much as you enjoy cooking together on a Friday night and having a date night at home, you love when he spoils you—letting you sit back and relax while he mans the grill. You’ll pop your head into the kitchen, a glass of wine in hand, and ask if he needs any help, which he’ll respond, “No, baby, I’ve got it covered. You want a refill?”Sometimes, on your way home, you’ll get a text from him asking you to pick up a stick of butter—and that’s when you know he’s baking up a treat for you.

Sidney may value his privacy, but when it comes to you, he’s incredibly touchy—always wanting to feel your presence. When you’re walking together, he’ll instinctively hold his arm out for you to wrap yours around his bicep. At events or parties, his hand will find its place on your lower back, a silent reminder that you’re his. Or at home, an hour into a history documentary he put on, you’ll be snuggled into the couch under a blanket, half asleep, with your feet in Sid’s lap—where he’ll absentmindedly rub them. And in the car, his right hand will always find its way to your thigh, especially if you’re wearing a skirt or a dress.

Unlike any of the men you’ve dated before, Sidney is a true gentleman. He always opens the door for you and gives you his jacket when you’re spending your evening together by the lake in Cole Harbour, as the sun goes down and the air gets chilly. You know all the other girls at work get jealous when a delivery of a dozen red roses is dropped off for you, with a note that says, Just because – Love, Sid

[mrsonmyr]

family skate | s.crosby

summary: you bring your kids to skate with Sid

pairing: sidney crosby x female reader

word count: 1.2k

Two small children in oversized 87 jerseys sprinted down to the glass, their tiny hands pressing eagerly against it as they peered onto the ice.

“Daddy!” they called in unison, their voices muffled by the roar of the rink.

Sidney skated by, immediately pivoting back when he heard them. Stopping in front of them, he grinned. “Hey, guys. You having fun?”

“Daddy, look!” Olivia spun around excitedly, showing off her Crosby 87 jersey that nearly swallowed her small frame.

“Hey, that’s my name!” Sidney teased.

“No, it’s my name!” she shot back with a triumphant smile.

“Mommy says it’s our name,” Patrick added matter-of-factly. At six years old, he was both sweet and protective, always keeping an eye on Olivia, who had a knack for getting into trouble.

Sid chuckled. “You’re right, Pat. It is our name. Where’s Mommy?” He glanced around the stands, searching for you.

“She said she was going to talk to someone,” Olivia answered, twisting around as if she might spot you.

As much as the kids had Sidney wrapped around their fingers, they were undeniably Mommy’s little angels. Patrick was a full-on mama’s boy, always seeking your approval, always wanting snuggles. Olivia, on the other hand, was a perfect mix—equal parts Daddy’s girl and Mommy’s shadow. Spending her days at home with you while Patrick was at school, she relished having your attention all to herself.

“Daddy, can Binky come on the ice with me?” Olivia held up her well-loved teddy bear, its fur slightly ragged from years of constant companionship. You and Sidney had been trying to ease her separation anxiety with it, but she clung to Binky as if leaving him behind would be some sort of betrayal.

“I don’t know,” Sid mused, kneeling in front of the glass. “Does he have skates?”

“Livvy, you can’t bring him everywhere,” Patrick interjected, his big-brother instincts kicking in. “What are you gonna do next year when you can’t bring him to school?”

Patrick, now in first grade, took his new role as an older kid very seriously. Though he secretly wished he could still bring his stuffed animals to school, he knew the other boys would never let him hear the end of it. Still, he’d noticed the older kids seemed to give him a lot of attention—especially when his dad was the one dropping him off or picking him up.

“Binky doesn’t need skates,” Olivia declared confidently. “I’ll hold him.”

After retiring from the NHL, Sidney poured his focus into raising his family and working with young players, coaching peewee hockey and leading the Little Penguins program in Cole Harbour. That, of course, included teaching his own kids how to skate.

Patrick took to the ice naturally, skating with confidence and already mastering his stick handling. Olivia, on the other hand, required a bit more persuasion. She loved skating, but only if there was a reward waiting at the end—like a donut from Tim Hortons on the way home.

The buzzer rang, signaling the end of morning practice, which meant one thing: family skate time. As the teenage players exited the ice, Sid spotted you making your way down toward the rink.

“Hi, Mama,” he greeted, stepping off the ice and onto the bench.

“Hi, baby.” You reached up, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. He was still a little sweaty from practice, but you didn’t mind—you’d always loved him like this.

“Is it your turn to skate?” you asked the kids, watching as they practically vibrated with excitement.

They nodded eagerly, and Sidney grinned. “Alright, let’s get you two geared up.”

In the locker room, Patrick was quick to get his gear on by himself, while Sidney helped Olivia with her shin pads and pants. Though Patrick could tie his skates on his own, he still preferred when Sid did it.

“Are you guys ready?” Sid asked, giving both laces a final tug.

Patrick nodded, his brown eyes peering up at you from beneath his helmet’s cage. “Mommy, are you gonna skate with us, too?”

You smiled, stroking his gloved hand. “Mommy’s gonna watch from the bench and take pictures.”

Olivia held out Binky. “Mommy, will you hold him? I don’t want him to get cold.”

“Of course,” you assured her, taking the teddy and cradling it in your lap. “I’ll keep him safe, and we’ll watch you skate with Daddy.”

Before having kids, you’d loved your one-on-one ice time with Sidney. Even though you weren’t the strongest skater, he’d always held your hand, keeping you steady, keeping you safe. Now, your favorite thing in the world was watching your kids skate with him—seeing the pure joy it brought to your husband’s face.

Life had changed so much since becoming parents. Date nights out had turned into quiet nights in once the kids were asleep. Traveling alone had become harder, knowing how much the kids hated seeing you leave. On your last anniversary, Sidney had surprised you with a weekend getaway to Montreal. As much as you’d enjoyed your time together, you’d spent half the trip missing the kids.

“I wonder what they’re doing right now,” Sid had mused, sliding into bed beside you.

“We can’t call them—it’s past their bedtime,” you had sighed, though your eyes betrayed how much you wanted to.

The last time you’d called them while away, they’d both ended up in tears, begging to know when you’d be home. The guilt had been unbearable. That night, you had cried in Sid’s arms, telling him you never wanted to travel without them again. Eventually, you both agreed—short weekend getaways only, and no phone calls unless it was an emergency.

Now, sitting on the bench, you watched as Patrick skated down the ice, expertly maneuvering the puck toward the net. A few feet away, Sid was bent low, skating backwards, his hands stretched out for Olivia to grab if she lost her balance. You smiled to yourself, pulling out your phone to capture the moment. One day, when the kids were older—when they’d rather be with their friends than at the rink with their parents—you knew you’d cherish these memories even more.

After a few minutes, Olivia skated over to the bench, and you lifted her onto your lap, undoing her helmet.

“Daddy says I did so good, he’s gonna get me a Timbit on the way home.”

You laughed, kissing her forehead. “Sounds like a pretty good deal to me.”