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AND NOWâŠ.WHAT WE ALL HAVE BEEN WAITING FORâŠ. PENGUIN! READER IN COURT.
HAZBIN HOTEL X PENGUIN! READER pt.4
Prompt: after luteâs acting out and hellâs celebration. A court was ordered for the custody for you.

âWe are here in court today to discuss the home and place that reader should be inâ says sera as she eyes Lucifer and his daughter thatâs beside him.
Charlie smiles at the thought of winning this time as she smiles at her father who seemed to be a nervous wreck. He is hair was messy but almost kept as he kept fidgeting with his hands.
âOkay letâs start,â she says as she pulls up some cards. âPlease no definitions this time.â Sera says strictly. Charlie gulps as she pulls out another bunch of cards. âOkayyy..no defining..but I have kept record on how comfortable they are with the hotel and the residentsâ she says with a small smile as Lucifer glances at his daughter hoping she could change the seraphimâs mind.
âDo you have any proof of this suppose claim?â Sera says with a raised brow. âWhy yes! I do and my dad also has some. Right dad?â Charlie says looking at Lucifer who jumped at the sudden spot light. âUh- yeah, yeah. I have some proof and rebuttals.â Lucifer says sitting up correctly.
Sera and Emily look at each other as a ball rises into the room. The angels seem to look each other and watch the ball carefully. Charlie smiles ready to show them how you belong in hell with them, for family of course.
âOh oh oh, I would love to watch this shit show.â Adam says pulling up popcorn out of nowhere as the ball in the court starts to play. Lute grabs two movie glasses to wear with him and herself.
*flashback*
You were sleeping peacefully in Luciferâs bed as he made you another duck toy as you woke up to smell pancakes beside you. You grabbed the pancake and ate them with a cute smile and squeak/quack. Angel busted in the ring leaderâs door to grab you up and take you shopping as you got dressed.
Charlie and vaggie were talking downstairs as Lucifer was after Angel trying to pack up readerâs small little bag just incase there is trouble, like a small phone, small juice box, a rubber duck that turns into a monster to protect the penguin. And while type of stuff. Of course Angel rolled his eyes and took it for you as you two exit the hotel with vaggie and Charlie saying bad. You looked visibly happy as Lucifer gave one more goodbye kiss to your forehead.
*end of flashback*
The court chatters seeing such wholesome moments like that in hell. Adam rolls his eyes as lute basically breaks a mug beside her in anger seeing the angels nod and smile.
âHow do we not know that you forced them to basically like that shit show of your hotel? You bride them with something?â Adam says rolling his eyes âProbably threaten them like the bastards you are.â Lute says as she glares longer at the two Morningstars.
The angels whisper gossiping about this. Charlie looks nervous as Lucifer looked as if he got sent to a death sentence. But Charlie then stood up with a nice compute looking around. âDonât you ever think about what they want?! Theyâre our friend, heck even our family at most. PLEASEEâŠwe just want them to be here with people they feel comfortable and loved around.â
âBLAH BLAH BLAH!â Someone says, ruining the soft moment as the court looks at Adam and lute who are scowling at the demon princess. âWhy keep spitting these bullshit out your mouth and just admit that heaven is their rightful place? I mean, HAHA- they love me and plus they love the food here even better.â Adam says with a snarky smirk and lute smiling evilly.
Charlieâs demon form was slightly slipping from anger at adamâs words before lucifer had put a hand on his daughterâs shoulder. âAdam, that is no way to talk to my daughterâ Lucifer says with a scowl at Adam. Adam just smirks as lute was beside the first man throwing her middle up at him. âAh please, youâre gods most hated thing to ever exist. Why let an ANGEL, who is supposed to be here, go live with you?â
Charlie opened her mouth to speak, âit was a rhetorical question.â Lute says with blunt venom. Charlie closed her mouth embarrassed. The court whispered and gossiped with a few nods as they did agree you were one of them that accidentally got sent to hell instead of heaven itself. ïżŒ
Sera felt a heated stare from the devil himself, he kept his deranged look from the stress of this. The last time he had to be in court was when he got sent to his own kingdom.
âDONT you care Sera! They are just a person who canât control who loves them! They love usâŠand maybe..you guys as well.â Charlie says as she hesitated on saying how you loved heaven as well. She stared around sera as well as sera closed her eyes not wanting to hear it. Emily glanced at the older seraphim uncomfortably.
Her first sentence made it feel like Deja vu in front of the whole court as Adam exclaimed, âHOLD ON HOW BITCH! You donât get to sing in court ever! Plus.â He says smirking. âOf course they love us, weâre fucking heaven for crying out loud.â Sera sighs, âAdam, please no interrupting in court.â Adam scoffs sitting back down with lute who glares at Lucifer with full of hate. âFuckin' bitch.â Adam grumbles under his breath.
Charlie growls under her breath to Adam as she pointed to Adam, âwell, what do you have for claiming they even love heaven at all! What and where is your proof.â Adam smirks as lute flies, getting a presentation. âIâm glad you asked bitch, LUTE HIT IT!â âGREAT PLEASURE SIR!â Lute yells back smiling as she starts up the slideshow.
*flashback*
You were cuddled by Adam as he was hand feeding you some of your favorite chips flavor. You made a nice purr sound as you snuggled against Adam, adamâs tough facade faded as his eyes soften. âYou like me right? You wonât leave me?â You nodded to Adam as you nuzzled your face in his pudgy body. Adam smiled and looked forward at the tv.
The next day was you and lute having a flying race. With your cute chubby penguin body, you couldnât fly well. But lute just smiled and picked you up to her chest and starts to fly around heaven. You smiled as you quacked out how beautiful and exciting this felt to fly with someone you deem who you liked. You clearly liked the fresh and heaven air as lute put you to the ground to go get ice cream with you.
*end of flashback*
Adam smiles with a laugh as lute and fist bump at the presentation they made of you basically feeling cozy as heaven here. The angels awe and coo at adamâs part of the flashback as some clapped at the nice friendly encounter you had with lute in the second part.
The court whispers again as Emily and sera look at each other. Emily grabs onto seraâs hand as sera glances at Emily and her hand. And finally at the Morningstars who have a pleading smile as you are beside them playing with a train you. Sera lets out a deep breath and opened her mouth for the whole court to hear.
âThe court has spoken. The rightful place the reader belongs in, isâŠâŠâ
CLIFF HANGERRRRđ
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Sunday is definitely made for : Books & sweets shopping and for visiting tiny local cafés :)
#studyblr#tmedic#bookblr#coffee addict#booksbooksbooks#bookporn#bookish#new book#bookshop#book life#booklr#zadie smith#grand union#francoise sagan#penguin little classics#penguin reader#penguin x reader#club penguin#penguin books#books and reading#chocolate#sweets#sweet tooth#my stuff#uniblr#books#books not drugs#bookshelf#book shopping#local cafes
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are you still willing to write for surf's up bc,,, i would also like to give cody a smooch
Penguin Crushes and Smooches
Pairing: Cody Maverick x Penguin GN!Reader Warnings: Very loosey goosey with the actual plot of the movie. Also not beta read. never ever Word Count: 1968 Account Navigation Extra notes: Reader is an Adélie penguin :] i also think i got carried away [baffled]
The scenery of Pen-Gu island was stunning. A vast change of pace from your icy and snowy home of Antarctica. Definitely warmer too.Â
The greenery was beautiful, the trees casting natural shade to cool off the penguins that lazed underneath them. The sand below your feet was soft. It very vaguely reminded of the snow back home. Except, well, it wasnât frigid.Â
You didnât come to surf, no. You came as a lifeguard. Or you suppose, to help lifeguard. Only having one penguin on high alert seemed like a bad idea. So why not bring in a second?Â
You may not be the best at surfing but you were a killer swimmer. Years of helping your parents hunt for your younger siblings definitely helped.Â
Lani was nice. She was the lifeguard youâd been asked to help.Â
Sheâd given you your own squid and sheâs spoken to you about the more egregious dangers of the water. Some parts of the bottom were more rocky than others, making it more dangerous for penguins to get swept under the waves.Â
Youâd definitely seen your fair share of monster waves and nasty storms. It was a perk of living on the coast. You knew to be wary of them even if you were confident you could swim through it.Â
Coming as an assistant lifeguard meant you got there a few weeks before the surfers. Plenty of time to get used to the waters and weather of the small island. Youâd even gotten to wander through the forest against the sand line a couple times.Â
You also got stuck helping set up some of the booths, much to your chagrin. You found yourself making faces at the sea otter as soon as he turned his back to you whenever he directed you to do something. Something Lani thought was hilarious.Â
The first wave of surfers came in. It was a penguin on the second wave that caught your attention. He had yellow feathers just above his eyes. He was the first rockhopper penguin youâd seen since you got here. Stranger even was the chicken who hopped off with him.
Lani got to hear all about him. Maybe he reminded you of home or maybe there was something else. Something you couldnât quite put your flipper on.
The day the penguin challenged Tank to a surf off was the day you realized he was a fool. And you were foolishly crushing on him. Lani and you were on the bank, waiting for something to go wrong. And you were glad you were ready.
The rockhopper toppled off his board and went under with a wave. Lani gave the save to you. You tug him from the ocean bed, sliding him onto the life board before beginning to push him back towards shore.
Heâd been knocked out and you could already see the spine of a sea urchin in his foot. A couple chest compressions had him coughing water up- all this while other penguins, Reggie, and his little camera crew crowded around you.Â
He was only conscious for a moment before he fell back into the sand. Lani crouched down next to you, letting out a sigh as she shook her head.
The second time you met the penguin, youâd learned his name. Youâd stopped by Zekeâs hut to check on him. He was awake, much to your surprise. Youâd introduced yourself and he did the same. Cody.
Cody was awake and lively the following days, seemingly more than happy to carry on conversations with you. Zeke had basically confirmed one day, huffing about how Cody couldnât sit still and would ask if you were stopping by that day. Youâd never tell Cody you knew that though.Â
The day Lani and you went to Zekeâs hut to see the two and you found it empty sent fear through you. Youâd nearly been sent into a panic before Laniâs flipper was on your shoulder, leading you back out of the hut and into the forest. Maybe it was foolish to follow her deeper to the other side of the island- you still did it.
Sheâd led you to what seemed like a private beach, another smaller hut situated by the tree line. Different surfboards were scattered around the hut. An empty spot where one should be had you shifting your eyes to the water where Cody was trying and failing to catch some waves.Â
Youâd waddled to the shore line, watching Cody intently just in case a repeat of his âduelâ with Tank happened. Lani had gone to speak to Zeke. Cody had caught sight of you after heâd gone under again and he began swimming back to shore to talk to you.
âHey dude,â he greets, sticking the board in the sand to give you his full attention. âWhat brings you here?â
âLani did,â you tease, enjoying the look of exasperation Cody gave you before you chuckled. âGot worried when you werenât at Zekeâs hut.â
âYou were worried about me?â Cody coos and you donât fight the urge to roll your eyes. âHow sweet.â
You decide to play into it. âSo worried,â you feign, making a show of grabbing Codyâs face, squishing his cheeks between your flipperst. âYou couldâve gotten hurt again and no one wouldâve been there to bring you your squids on a stick!â
It was his turn to roll his eyes as he pulled his face from your flippers, an exasperated groan following the action. You both laugh quietly before Lani and Zeke were calling for the both of you.
You make the trek to the private beach the following days to see Cody, bringing him squids on a stick every once in a while. Heâs waiting for you on the beach when you come and Zeke tends to leave the two of you alone when you stop by.Â
Normally you go down the beach a little ways away in order to not bother Zeke. Every once in a while, youâll drag him into the water and splash around with him. You know heâs not the best swimmer so you stay in the shallows and heâs more than happy to amuse you for a bit.
The day of the competition arrives and with it, a brewing storm. Dark clouds loom over the ocean and youâre on high alert, pacing the shore line while Lani takes occupance in the lifeguard chair.Â
With the storm, the waves are bigger, big looming things as they rise from the ocean only to return a few moments later. A lifeguard's worst nightmare; a surferâs dream.Â
Cody takes one of the first waves in. You know heâs been taking lessons -if you wanna call them that- with Zeke. Despite that, you were still nervous as the wave came down, Cody disappearing into the white foam it created.
You couldnât contain the cheer you let out as Cody reappeared. You heard Lani do the same followed by some of the spectators. Heâs swarmed with the camera crew as he comes to shore and you return your attention to the penguins still in the water.
Cody is in the last three. You were soaked already, having to fetch a couple penguins whoâd fallen off their boards. Looking at the sky, it seemed it was inevitable. You watch in fascination? Horror? As a monster wave forms and the commentator says this is the final wave.
You turn towards Lani who looks just as concerned as you.Â
It went to shit faster than you expected. Cody, as foolish as he is, manages to outdo himself and surfs right into the Boneyards, Tank right on his tail. You run over to Lani, stepping up on one of the lower steps of the tower to get a better view of the two.
You see Tank hit Cody off of his board before the king penguin hits one of the rock formations. Lani and you jump into action, Lani pushing you to find Cody while she takes care of Tank. Youâre able to maneuver surprisingly well despite the weather though you start to panic the longer you canât find Cody. Youâre shouting his name, hoping to get a response over the sound of the wind and rain.
You donât hear Cody but you see Zeke atop the rock formation that has his old surfboard and you see his mouth moving. Heâs not talking to you and you drag your eyes across where heâs looking. You see Cody trying to tread the choppy water.
You take that as a good sign and let yourself drift back to shore, avoiding the rocks as you go. Seems you made the right choice as not long after you make it back to shore, Cody and Zeke are walking down the beach, Zekeâs old board in hand.
Amusement washes over you as everyone leaves the sea otter to his own devices, opting to accept Zekeâs invite to surf on the other side of the island.Â
The sun is setting as you sit on your board, watching the other penguins surf about. Cody seems like heâs having a blast, more than happy to glide over the water. Youâre almost surprised when he suddenly drifts over to you, circling around you a couple times before stopping next to you.
His board touches yours and he gives you a gentle nudge. âImpressed?â He grins. Heâd seen you watching him.
You shake your head with a laugh. âImpressed you havenât fallen,â you joke, leaning into him to nudge him back.Â
Silence falls over the two of you for a moment, Cody watching as waves form, you watching Cody. Maybe it was a surge of confidence on your side but you feel yourself leaning into Cody again and press a kiss against his cheek.
You thought he was going to fall off his board as he turns to you in astonishment. Or maybe excitement? âWhat was that?â He asks, his voice giddy with excitement.
âA kiss?â You laugh nervously, smoothing a flipper over your board.Â
You laugh again as Cody returns the gesture. âTook you two long enough!â You hear Lani laugh from behind you, causing you both to jump before breaking into giggles.
#x reader#penguin reader!!!!#penguin reader#gn!reader#x gn!reader#cody maverick#cody maverick x gn!reader#cody maverick x reader#fluff#pure fluff#def got carried away#surfs up 2009#surfs up#the movie#i had so much fun writing this like actually#thank you anon for requesting i love you#adelie penguin reader
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the captain | s. crosby

warnings: sexual content, strong language, MDNI, 18+, NSFW, minors please do no interact, smut.
summary: Sid is given a hard time by his gf about his very stoic interactions with the media. he's not going to let you off so easy.
request: Younger reader and Sidney are already dating, but she canât help but roll her eyes at his impeccable media training and family friendly personality in the media he does for the league, so she makes fun of him and takes a strong interest in pushing his limits đ (aka ends in smut)
word count: 6.3k
a/n: sorry for the extended hiatus guys! i should be back to regular uploads at this point in time and i am currently working through the request list! more to come to keep your eyes peeled guys! thank you for your patience with me! angelsuecult returns!! also to the original requester please don't hesitate to reach out if i completely missed the mark on this and you want me to retry! and requests are still open and update so dont forget to check that out!
--
Youâre pretty sure Valentineâs Day games are a scam. Some cruel cosmic joke designed to make girlfriends sit through 60 minutes of freezing cold air and overpriced concessions just to watch their man play his heart out in a sport that could, at any moment, take all his teeth and potentially a limb. Â
Not that you minded. Much. Â
Sidney had played his ass off tonightâlike he had something to prove. Not that he ever really didnât, because the man didnât know how to do anything half-assed. Especially not when it came to hockey. Or you, for that matter. Â
But of course, it just had to be Valentineâs Day.
You stood now in the tunnel by the playerâs exit, phone in hand, watching as Penguins fans in Crosby jerseys flooded toward the concourse, buzzing about the win. Your fingers flew over your screen. Â
You: You know I was going to blow you when you got home, but Iâm reconsidering because you just had to make it about you tonight.
Three dots appeared almost immediately. Then vanished. Then nothing. Â
You rolled your eyes and snorted. âCoward.â Â
The man had just been named first fucking star of the game. Of course he had. Two goals, one assist, and a faceoff win percentage so sexy it made you squirm a little. You knew his media obligations were kicking off soonâhe was probably just peeling his sweaty gear off now, miserable about the idea of answering questions about âhow it feltâ and âwhat went right tonight.â Â
Sid: Canât believe youâre texting me shit like that while I have to sit half dressed with 5 cameras pointed at me.
You bit your lip and grinned. Â
You: I can.Â
You: You looked good tonight. Real good. Like Iâd let you put it in my ass kind of good. Â
You: Kidding. Kind of. Â
Another pause. He was slow replying, which youâd expected, and it only made you smirk more knowing he was probably trying not to react in front of his teammates or, worse, the media guys. You could practically see his jaw tightening as he tried to suppress a smile, annoyed but secretly delighted. Â
You could picture him alreadyâstill in his gear, slumped at his stall with his towel around his neck and that half-annoyed, half-resigned expression on his face. Someone probably tossed a mic in his face already. He was probably giving them that polite nod, the âSure, go aheadâ look, all while internally screaming. Sidney, Sidney, Sidney. Too private for his own good.
Sid: Go to my place. Iâll be done soon.
Sid: Stop texting me this shit.
You laughed out loud, drawing a glance from a nearby couple as you stepped out into the cold Pittsburgh night.
You: Oh baby, I havenât even started. Â
You: Maybe Iâll be in your bed. Â
You: Maybe Iâll be in your shower. Â
You: Maybe Iâll be in that stupid jersey you âdonât like me wearing because you take it seriously.â Â
You could practically hear him groaning through the screen.
Sid: Youâre an asshole.
Sid: Say the same shit every time anyway.
Sid: âGood team effort, got the bounces, lucky to come out on top.â
Sid: Happy now?
You: You forgot âcredit to the guysâ and âjust trying to play the right wayâ
You: Gotta hit all the NHL buzzword bingo squares.
You: And donât forget to smile like a humble Canadian virgin!
No reply. You let that one simmer. He was either suffering or plotting. Maybe both. Probably both.
You pulled your coat tighter around you, breath fogging in front of your face as you made your way to your car. The wind cut through your jeans, but your smile stayed in place. There was something so satisfying about teasing him after a big winâespecially when he hated the attention but couldnât stop being the best guy on the ice. You just couldnât help yourself.
You got in the car and cranked the heat while pulling up the radio broadcast. They were still recapping the game, gushing over Sid like he wasnât just a man whoâd once tripped over his own shoe in the hallway.
ââŠand of course, Crosby with a textbook finish. You can see why heâs still one of the most consistent players in the leagueâŠâ
You rolled your eyes, mimicking the voice in the car. âOh yes, Sidney. So clean. So polished. Such a gentleman. Definitely didnât say he was going to fuck me through the headboard if he scored tonight.â
Traffic cleared slowly as you went to his place, a familiar route etched into your brain. His street was quiet when you pulled inâclassic Sid, all understated wealth and privacy. It took you forty five minutes to get from the arena to his house, another five to park and kick off your shoes inside the door. It smelled like himâlike clean laundry, cedarwood, and that subtle vanilla scent of his shampoo youâd teased him for using but secretly loved.
You wandered through his halls, turning on a few lights, getting cozy. It always felt familiar here, even though it was very clearly his spaceâclean, functional. Like a guy who didnât like clutter but had more money than he knew what to do with.
You padded into the kitchen and pulled open the fridge. Full of ingredients. Not a single thing you could just grab and go.
âRomantic,â you muttered under your breath, pulling out a container of strawberries instead and wandering toward the couch.
The rest of the house was dark except for the hallway light, left on for you, and your socked feet were silent on the hardwood as you climbed the stairs to his bedroom. The hallway was chilly as you padded toward the bedroom in your socks, carrying the half-eaten strawberries and your phone tucked beneath your arm. Sidâs place had that always-too-clean look to it. Like he tried to live in it, but barely spent enough time home for it to actually look lived in. You made a note to mess it up later. Nothing too dramaticâjust a sweatshirt on the floor, maybe a bra hanging off the couch cushion, leave a cup on the counter. Domestic terrorism.
You tossed your phone on the nightstand and peeled off your jacket, fingers brushing over the remote on the dresser. Â
TV on. Â
Pants off. Â
You were in his bed now, wearing his shirtâan old Penguins one that smelled like his laundry detergent and game day nervesâand absolutely nothing underneath. Â
Just as God intended. Â
The analysts were falling over themselves about his performance.
ââŠyou know what youâre getting with Sid. Every single night. Discipline. Poise. Heâs just got it.â You snorted.
âYeah, discipline until heâs got me pinned under him telling me Iâm not going anywhere until I apologize for teasing him about his âmedia voice.ââ
Another buzz from your phone. Â
Sid: About to start media. Theyâre dragging it out tonight. Â
Sid: Youâre lucky I like you. Â
Sid: And that I want to fuck you stupid. Â
You choked on your laugh, clutching your phone tighter as you wiped strawberry juice from your fingers onto his shirt. You stretched dramatically across the bed and typed. Â
You: Wow. Romantic. Â
You: Just like I dreamed when I was 10. Â
You: âOne day Iâll date a hockey player who talks to me like a caveman on Valentineâs Day.â
Sid: Donât act like you donât like it. Youâre already naked, arenât you?
You: Youâre not even here yet and you already think you know everything. Â
Sid: I do know everything. And I know youâre wearing my shirt. And thatâs it. Â
Sid: Because youâre predictable. And a little slutty.
You covered your face with one hand and laughed out loud into the empty room. Your heart fluttered like a fucking schoolgirl even as you cursed him out in your mind. Â
There was something wildly unfair about the duality of Sidney Crosby. The version the world knewâstoic, polite, humble to the point of parody. And then the real version. The one who texted you filthy things from the dressing room and called you a brat with that low rasp in his voice that promised you wouldnât be walking straight the next day.
He was such a damn con artist.
You: Youâre the one whoâs gonna cry when I leave you with blue balls tonight. Â
You: âSorry Sid, I got tired waiting for you.â Â
You: âSorry Sid, I used all my energy climbing your stairs.â Â
You: âSorry Sid, I found your toothbrush and that did it for me.â
Sid: Youâre such an asshole.
Sid: Youâre lucky Iâve been horny for you since warmups.Â
Sid: You knew what you were doing, sitting that close.
You had known. Â
You always knew. Â
And he always played better when he knew you were there watching. Â
You yawned, stretched your legs beneath his sheets, and flopped dramatically on the bed, taking up all the space just to be a brat. You could already hear it: his sigh of fake annoyance when he got home, the shake of his head, the way heâd peel your shirt up with one hand and drag your body down with the other. Â
You rolled to your stomach, phone buzzing again beside you. Â
Sid: Iâll be home soon. You better be exactly where I think you are.
Sid: And if youâre not, youâre done. Actually done. Iâll find a Valentine who respects me.
You: You? Â
You: Wanting respect? Â
You: Iâm sorry. I thought this was Sidney âIâll fuck you on the bench if no oneâs aroundâ Crosby.
No reply. Which told you all you needed to know. Â
He was already doing media. Â
Probably giving his same bland ass answers. Â
Probably planning what he was going to do the second he walked through that door. Â
You looked around, debated getting up to light a candle or make the bed look a little less like a war zone. Then shrugged. Â
Let him deal with the chaos he caused. Â
You flipped onto your back and sighed happily, smirking at the ceiling. Â
The remote was still in your hand when the screen switched from the postgame panel to the locker room feed. You didnât even bother turning up the volumeâdidnât need to. You could already hear it in your head. Â
Sidney Crosby, media-trained robot, coming to life in hi-def.
You sighed and settled deeper into his bed, still cocooned in his shirt, bare legs tangled in his sheets. The duvet smelled like him. So did the pillow you were shamelessly half-lying on, half-straddling. Your phone sat close, a loaded weapon in the war of flirtation, but for now, you watched. Â
There he was, perched in his stall, sweat-slick hair hidden under a black team hat, compression long sleeve clinging to his chest and arms like it was painted on. No jersey. No pads. Just muscle, all angles and sharp focus, like the game hadnât even left his bloodstream yet. Cue Captain Canada.
The reporter asked about the teamâs energy tonight, and you muttered out loud to no one, âWe played a full sixty, stuck to our game, did the little things rightâblah, blah, blah.â Â
And then, right on cue:Â Â
âYeah, I thought we played a full sixty tonight⊠stuck to our game, did the little things rightâŠâ Â
You cackled.
âFucking called it.â Â
He looked half dead behind the eyes, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, nodding as another reporter threw a question at him. You didn't even bother listening this time. You just watched his face. That twitch of his mouth when he was trying not to say what he really wanted to say. That calm, serious voice he used like a shield. That stupid, safe, polished version of himself that made you want to throw something at the screen. Â
Because you knew the real Sid. Â
The one who talked absolute filth into your ear with that same mouth. Â
The one who made fun of his teammates the second the cameras were off. Â
The one who said âfuckâ more than he said âI.â Â
And thenâthenâit happened. Â
The reporter asked:Â Â
âItâs Valentineâs Day, Sid. You played a great game. Got any plans tonight?â Â
You sat up a little. That one actually surprised you. When did the reporters get so bold?
He gave them that laughâthat stupid, breathy chuckle he only used when he didnât want to give too much away. Then he smiled, eyes low, lips pressed together like he was fighting off the real answer. Â
âNo,â he said. âJust recover. Get ready for the next one.â Â
That was it. That was all. Â
You stared at the TV, jaw slightly open. Â
âRecover?â you muttered. âThatâs your answer? No wink? No cute little nod? Not even a fucking smirk? You lying sack of shit, Sidney Patrick.â You looked absolutely nuts talking to yourself.
You picked up your phone and unleashed. Â
You: âJust recover,â he says. Â
You: Wow. My pussy just dried up. Â
You: Say hello to celibacy apparently. Â
Still no reply. You fired off another. Â
You: You are such a fucking fraud. Â
You: There is literally a naked woman in your bed. Right now. At your house. Â
You: On Valentineâs Day. Â
You: But nooo, heâs gonna ârecover.â Â
You: Go ahead, Sid. Recover. Iâll just be here. Thinking about life. My choices. The fact I couldâve fucked a dentist. Or literally anyone else but hey.
You bit your lip to hide a smile, watching him wrap the interview up, nodding politely, face locked in full Captain Mode. You could practically feel the tension buzzing under his skin. The itch to get the hell out of there and back to you. Â
One more for good measure:Â Â
You: When they say âCrosby keeps his private life quiet,â Â
You: They donât know itâs because he talks so much shit in bed the FCC would fine him.
That did it.
Your phone lit up almost the second he stood from his stall. Â
Sid: You need to be stopped.
Sid: You need help.
Sid: Iâm not even out of the building yet and Iâm hard.
You flopped backward against his pillows, laughing like a lunatic. Â
You: Iâm sorry did you forget you have a girlfriend? Did your nut brain erase me from memory just because you got first star??
You: Not even a cute little âgonna go home to the girl whoâs been letting me rearrange her insides all seasonâ???
You: Also donât think I didnât notice your compression shirt. You know exactly what youâre doing you manipulative little slut.
Sid: Jesus Christ
Sid: You knew what you signed up for.
You: I signed up for the hot hockey sex. The rest was a scam.
You: Donât worry, Iâll be asleep by the time you get home. Â
You: No recovering necessary. Youâre off the hook.
Sid: Youâre not gonna be able to walk tomorrow if you keep this up. Â
Sid: You want recovery? Iâll give you something to recover from.
You swallowed. Â
Slowly. Â
Okay. Â
So maybe you did like poking the bear. Â
And maybe the bear knew exactly how to fuck you into next week. Â
You tucked your phone under your pillow and let out a slow breath, heart thudding, a little thrill sparking low in your belly. Â
Valentineâs Day. Â
Just another game on the calendar. Â
Until Sid got home.
And the worst part was, you didnât even realize youâd fallen asleep. One second you were tucked under his sheets, limbs comfortably sprawled, phone still clutched in one hand and TV murmuring softly in the background⊠and the next, you were blinking against the warm glow of the bedside lamp and squinting up at a very large, very amused, very smug silhouette looming over you.
âUnbelievable,â Sidney muttered, shaking his head as he stood beside the bed. His coat was halfway off, his cheeks still pink from the cold outside, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and that fucking backwards hat still on his head. âAll that mouth, and look at you now. Out cold.â
You groaned before you could speak, voice thick with sleep and low like youâd swallowed a blanket. â'M not.â
âYou literally just snored,â he said, dropping his bag to the floor with a thud and crouching beside the bed. âLike a full-on little cartoon snore. Tiny inhale, wheeze on the exhale. Real cute.â
âI did not snore,â you mumbled into the pillow. But your voice was gravelly, throat dry, and goddammitâyour limbs were heavy with sleep, and he smelled so good, and everything was so warm.
âLook at you,â he murmured, brushing a few strands of hair off your cheek. âTalked all that shit and knocked yourself out.â Â
You shifted slightly, nose scrunching, a quiet little groan escaping your throat.
âMmph.â Â
He grinned. Leaned in close to your ear. Â
âBabe.â Â
Nothing. Â
âBabe.â He kissed your cheek. âHey. Hey. Wake up.â Â
You grunted, rolling slightly. âMâtiredâŠâ Â
You rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hand, barely lifting your head from the pillow.
ââŠWhat time is it?â
âLate. Or early. Depends who you ask.â He pressed a kiss to your hair. âYou passed out. Didnât even make it to Valentineâs Day sex.â
You groaned again, voice muffled. âI didnât mean to. Your bed is criminally warm. I got cozy. My body betrayed me.â
âYou talked a lot of shit.â
âYeah well, I thought you were gonna be faster.â
He laughed low in his chest, slipping his hand beneath the covers to grab your hip and give it a squeeze. He climbed onto the bed with all the smug grace of a man who had absolutely earned this moment of superiority. He leaned down, one knee pressing into the bed right between your legs, and shoved at the covers just enough to catch a glimpse of your legs tangled beneath his sheets.
âYou look real cozy for someone who was talking an awful lot of shit about how boring I am,â he said, tone low and teasing.
You squinted at him, your voice a gravelly whisper.
âYou are boring. You literally said, ârecover.â Who says that on Valentineâs Day? Recover from what, Sidney? Being 37?â
He let out a sharp laugh and pushed your hair back from your face, warm fingers brushing your cheek.
âYouâre a little shit,â he murmured.
âAnd youâre a liar.â You poked a finger into his chest. âYou lied to the media. There was an actual naked girl waiting for you in your bed and you gave them the âIâm gonna rest upâ speech like a fucking priest.â
Sid rolled his eyes.
âYou know I canât give them anything,â he said. âTheyâve been trained like bloodhounds. If I so much as hint at having plans, Iâll have a fucking headline on every sports page tomorrow.â
âGod forbid people find out youâre not a virgin,â you deadpanned.
âWatch it,â he warned playfully. âI am a role model.â
You burst out laughing, head tipping back into the pillow.
âOh my god, you are so full of shit. You talk like youâre running for office, but then you come home and say things like, âcâmere, baby, Iâve been thinking about fucking you against the kitchen counter since warmups.ââ
He grinned. âStill true, by the way.â
You hummed and looped your arms around his neck lazily.
âYou missed your shot then, Captain Celibate. Shouldnât have let me fall asleep.â
Sid smirked and kissed the corner of your mouth.
âDidnât realize the threat of dick was the only thing keeping you awake.â
âYou shouldâve. Itâs your strongest feature.â
He laughed again, breath warm against your cheek, before ducking his head to kiss you properlyâslow and deep and good, like he had all the time in the world. You melted into it, arms tightening around his neck, legs shifting beneath the covers until you hooked one behind his bent knee, dragging him closer.
Then he nuzzled into your neck again and added, low and dirty:Â Â
âYou wanna go back to sleep, or you want me to give you something real to recover from?â Â
You groaned dramatically. âYou are such a whore, oh my god.â Â
âAnd yet, here you are. In my bed. Wearing my shirt. Wet for me in your sleep, probably.â Â
âShut upââ Â
âYou were,â he said smugly, dragging his hand up your thigh. âI checked. You twitched.â Â
You covered your face with both hands. âYouâre disgusting.â Â
âYouâre worse,â he said, kissing down your throat. âAnd when you wake up tomorrow sore as hell, I want you to remember who was ready when the moment came, and whoââ he nipped your collarboneâ âtook a nap.â Â
âSidney.â Â
âY/n.â Â
You sighed, dropped your hands, and stared up at him. Â
âYou gonna fuck me or give another locker room interview?â Â
He grinned. And with that, he kissed you again, deep and slow and fucking smug. You could feel the smile on his mouth, even as he pressed you back into the mattress like you were the only thing worth coming home to. Â
"Holy shit," you said, breathless as he tugged your shirt up over your hips, revealing those barely there red panties you wore when you knew heâd be seeing them. Lacy. Dark. A tiny bow on the waistband.
Sid looked smug. âIâm so obsessed with you, itâs disgusting.â
âYou're disgusting,â you corrected, but you were already arching up, letting him pull the shirt over your head.Â
He laughed low, all pleased with himself. "You love it."
His hand slipped a little higher, fingertips grazing the side of your hip where your underwear were just barely clinging to your curves.
You sucked in a breath you tried to pretend was casual. "Sid," you warned.
"What?" he drawled, blinking down at you like he hadnât just started setting your entire nervous system on fucking fire. You lifted your head, giving him a look. "Youâre fucking pushing it."
Sid grinned, so goddamn starved it made your toes curl. "You need me to spell it out, Y/N Y/LN?" he teased, voice dropping into that dangerous gravel. "Need me to tell you how bad I wanna fuck you?"
You groaned, covering your face with both hands like that could somehow save you. "Jesus Christ, Sidney."
He pulled your hands away, kissing your knuckles like a fucking gentleman, even while his other hand kept creeping higher up your thigh.
"Could just be gentle," he murmured, kissing the inside of your wrist now, right over your pulse. "Real slow, babe. Let you sit on my cock nice and easy. You barely gotta do anything. I'll do all the fuckin' work."
You whimpered, and he fucking heard it.
He grinned harder, absolutely predatory now, shifting to hover over you more fully, careful not to press too much weight onto you.
"Bet you miss it," he murmured against your ear, lips brushing your skin. You literally had sex in his bed this morning but you hated that he was right, you did miss it.
"Sid," you gasped, arching your back automatically, and fuck, he hadn't even touched you properly yet.
He chuckled low and mean, dragging his mouth along your throat, nipping lightly. "Tell me, baby," he rasped. "Tell me how bad you want it."
You shoved at his chest weakly, more for show than anything else. "I hate you," you breathed. "I fucking hate you."
"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled, grinning into your hair. "You love this dick though."
You burst out laughing, half-horrified and half-scorched alive. "You are so fucking nasty," you managed between giggles, pinching his arm lightly.
He caught your hand easily, pressing it down above your head, pinning you with almost no effort. "And you're so fuckin' wet for me right now, I can feel it through your goddamn panties," he grunted, pressing his hips into yours just enough to make you feel the thick, heavy line of him behind his dress pants.
You whimpered again, biting your lip. "Sid," you whispered desperately.
He kissed the corner of your mouth. "Say it," he ordered softly. "Say you want me."
You squeezed your eyes shut, breathing hard.
It was so unfair, how good he was at this. How easily he turned you into this trembling, needy thing even when you thought you had the upper hand for most of the day
But he looked at you like you were the best part of his night. Like he couldnât wait to ruin you in the best goddamn way.
You cracked your eyes open, meeting his gaze. "I want you," you whispered. "You asshole."
Sidâs grin turned downright feral.
"Yeah?" he rasped, nuzzling into your jaw, his hand finally â finally â sliding under your panties, the rough pads of his fingers skimming where you were already slick and throbbing for him. "Good," he murmured. "âCause you're not gettin' away from me, princess. Not tonight."
You gasped as his fingers slipped deeper, teasing, and you clawed at his shoulders, your nails digging into the solid muscle there.
"Sid," you panted. "Bedâs gonna break if you fuck me the way you're lookin' at me right now."
He laughed low, dirty, and thrilled. "Then we'll buy a new one," he said, voice rough as he sank two fingers into you slowly and deep. "Hell, babe, we'll break every goddamn bed from here to fuckin' Canada if it means I get to feel you come around me again."
You moaned helplessly, arching into him.
And when he bent down, kissed youâ really kissed you, slow and filthy and possessive â it felt like a promise burned into your skin.
Sid couldâve fucked you stupid in under thirty seconds if he wanted. The way you were already whimpering under him, writhing in his hands, he knew it wouldnât take much.
But tonight â tonight he wanted to be slow. He wanted to wreck you proper. Melt every bone in your goddamn body.
He slipped his fingers out of you with a slow, slick sound that made you whimper again. He fucking loved that sound. Loved everything about you like this â messy and needy and all his.
"You gotta relax, baby," Sid murmured, dropping kisses along the flushed line of your throat, working his way lower. "Can't be tense on me. Gotta stay nice and easy for me."
Sid pulled back from your body just enough to catch you breathlessâ just enough to see you, all flushed and desperate, lips swollen, hair a wild halo against the pillows. His heart punched hard against his ribs.
"Fuckin' hell, Y/N," he muttered, staring at you like he couldnât decide whether to devour you whole or build a shrine at your feet. "Look at you."
You whimpered and tangled your fingers into his hair, tugging gently, begging him wordlessly to keep going.
Sid huffed a soft, broken laugh, dragging your panties slowly â so slowly â down your thighs, baring you completely to him. He didnât just toss them. No. He pocketed them. Smirked while he was doing it. Like the absolute sex demon he was.
And he was hard. So hard it was actually starting to hurt. He was damn near grinding in his pants for some kind of friction.
He pressed a kiss right between your breasts, trailing down your belly. You shivered so hard it made the mattress creak.
Sid grinned against your skin. "You already taste so fuckin' sweet," he muttered, nosing at your core, not even touching you properly yet, just letting the heat of his breath drive you crazy. "Bet you could get me drunk off your pussy right now, baby. All thick and fuckin' sweet just for me."
"Oh my god, Sidney," You gasped, tossing your head back. "You're fucking filthy."
"Yeah, well," he said, voice low and smug. "You like it, baby. You like havin' me mouth off about how sweet your pussy is when youâre desperate."
You made a sound somewhere between a moan and a sob, and Sid finally gave you what you needed â flattening his tongue and dragging it up through your folds, slow and deep.
Your entire body jerked.
"Jesus fuck, Sid," you gasped, arching off the bed, thighs trembling.
He groaned into you, his hands sliding under your ass to tilt you up even closer to his mouth. "Youâre fuckinâ drippin', babe," he muttered, voice vibrating against your soaked skin. "Beggin' for it. Havenât even touched my cock yet and youâre already so fuckin' close, huh?"
"Fuck you," you moaned, trying to close your thighs around his head â he loved when you did that, so desperate you wanted to trap him there.
Sid laughed low, all smug satisfaction, and stiffened his tongue to shove into your leaky entrance, bobbing in and out like he was starving. Every little whimper, every twitch of your hips, just made him harder, his cock aching in his dress pants.
He shifted one hand, dragging two fingers back inside you, pumping slow, gentle strokes in and out while he circled your clit with his tongue, slow and deliberate. His fingers moved slow between your legs, curling deep, working that perfect rhythm only he knew. Your thighs quivered, trying to clamp shut, but he squared his shoulder and pushed them open lazily. "None a' that," he said, smirking. "Youâre taking it, baby. Not hidinâ from me now. Not after all that shit you talked on my phone."
You clawed at the dress shirt he was still wearing, trying to yank him back up. "Youâre such a fucking dick," you gasped. "Coulda just got me some flowers and left me the fuck aloneâ"
Sid grinned, slow and greedy, dragging the how tongue down your slick folds, circling your clit just hard enough to make your hips jerk. "And miss this?" he murmured. "Babe, youâre better than Christmas. Better than a fuckinâ playoff win."
He pushed your shirt up higher until your breasts were exposed, beautiful and tender. He palmed one carefully, thumb brushing across your hardening nipple, and you gasped, your legs falling further open for him.
"Sensitive, huh, baby?" he whispered, watching you squirm. "Bet you could come just from my mouth on you right now, no hands, nothing."
"Youâre fucking killing me," you moaned, lifting your hips helplessly, trying to get more friction.
He laughed again â slow, dangerous â and dipped his head to take your clit back into his mouth, sucking softly, then harder, pulling a desperate, broken sound from your throat.
You fisted his hair, hips rocking mindlessly against his face, your whole body tightening.
"Sid, fuck," you gasped, "I can'tâI'm gonnaâ"
He lifted his head, grinning at your flushed, wrecked face. "You gonna come for me already, baby? Just from my fuckin' fingers?" he teased, pumping them harder now, twisting his wrist so his palm rubbed against your clit perfectly. "Fuck, that's hot. Goddamn, you're perfect. So fuckin' good for me,Y/N."
"JesusâFuckâSidney." you cried out, arching hard off the bed as you came, gripping his wrist as if to tell him not to stop, body shuddering, your pussy clenched down so hard around his fingers it almost hurt, soaking his hand and mouth with a gush that made Sid groan into you.
He kept working you through it, slow and patient, until you were trembling, whimpering, utterly wrecked.
He kissed you again, deep and slow, until you went boneless against the sheets, gasping for air.
He pulled his fingers out finally, dragging them slow between your thighs, teasing your slit just to hear you whimper again. Then he sucked his fingers into his mouth, groaning low like you were the best fucking thing he'd ever tasted.
You slapped his chest weakly. "You're disgusting," you muttered, still breathless, half-dazed.
Sid grinned and grabbed your hand, pressing it to the bulge straining against the front of his now wrinkled pants. "Yeah? Feel how bad you got me, baby?" he rasped. "âM about two seconds away from blowin' my load like a fuckin' teenager over here."
You laughed, exhausted and glowing and a little feral around the edges. "Good," you whispered, hooking your legs around his waist. "Now fucking do something about it, Crosby."
He stripped his shirt off one-handed, tossing it somewhere behind him, before finally, finally undoing his jeans.
His cock sprang free, hard and leaking, and you made a broken, desperate sound that made Sidâs heart squeeze. Your mouth actually watered.
âBaby⊠fuck,â he muttered, his voice low and rough as he guided your hands above your head, he tapped his tip against your slick folds, nudging your clit teasing the both of you, you instinctively moved forward, preparing for more stimulation, âYou ready for me, huh?â
You nodded, your breath catching in your throat as you felt the warmth of the head pressing against your entrance, so close yet so far. You could barely form words, the need building inside you too overwhelming, and all you could do was let out a shaky breath, your hips shifting slightly against him. âMhmmm,â you murmured, your voice trembling with anticipation. âneed you.â
With a groan, Sidney shifted above you, his hands holding your hips as he slowly pushed his length into you, slowly, inch by inch. The sensation was overwhelmingâyour heat, your tightness, the way you stretched around him as he filled you. He couldnât hold back the curse that slipped from his lips as he bottomed out inside you, his breath ragged as he held you close.
"Fuck, baby," he groaned into your neck, "tightest fuckin' thing, swear to god...made for me."
Sid stayed still for a moment, just breathing, letting you adjust, feeling your soft, fluttering muscles pulsing around him.
You let out a soft moan, your head falling back further into the pillow as you adjusted to the feeling of him inside you. The stretch was delicious, filling you completely, and the slow, steady throb of him buried deep inside made your pulse race. You could feel every inch of him, the way he fit perfectly against that gummy spot inside you, and it made you dizzy with need.
It took every ounce of control he had not to just start pounding into you like a goddamn animal.
Instead, he pulled out slow, almost all the way, and slid back in with one long, careful thrust that made you whimper and dig your heels into the mattress.
"Thatâs it," he murmured against your temple. "Just like that, princess. Let me take care of you."
He fucked you slowlyâlong, hard, deep strokes, savoring every twitch and gasp and curse. You arched under him, hips pushing up, body moving with his like youâd been built just for this.
The sound of his hips hitting the back of your thighs filled the room. He kept a first grip on your hips as he continued a consistent pace. At some point your brain just melted. Your eyes could no longer focus on him above you and your mouth hung open, moans no longer falling from your lips. The only thing you could do was tighten around him.
Sid could feel you getting close. He dropped down, his chest pressing right up to yours stopping his thrusts. But in your cockdrunk you started to grind upwards when Sidney wouldnât move. Caught between needing the break but also wanting him to continue.He wanted this to last though.Â
And just like that, he was sitting back, pulling you up with him. Chest to chest, you were now on top. His lips catching yours in something deeper nowâhotter, messier. You gasped as he lifted you slightly, maneuvering with muscle memory and intention, letting you sink down completely onto his cock.
âI got you,â he murmured, one hand on the small of your back, the other moving down to stroke your thigh. âJust move how you want. Iâll follow your lead.â
You couldnât answer â too full, too overwhelmed, too in love â so you just sat on your knees and began rocking your hips in desperation. He knew you were getting impatient. It was in the way your hips started moving impatiently against his aching cock. He knew you needed to come and that you were close. It was in the way you took everything he gave you, every rough upward thrust, every whispered praise.
You leaned forward, one hand braced on his broad shoulder, the other tangled in his hair as you rode him slowly â hips rolling in little waves, the angle hitting all the right places, making your whole body quake.
ââM close Sid,â you whispered, gasping when his thumb found your swollen clit again.
âGood,â he said hoarsely, âYou need it. Look at you. All needy and swollen. Youâre the hottest thing Iâve ever seen. You know that?â
âDonât stop ohmygodohgodfuck-â you whined, burying your face in his neck.
Sidney couldnât stop even if he tried to. Youâre too damn addicting.
He starts to thrust upward, matching the pace in which you're riding him. He desperate to watch you fall apart on top of him. He pushes two fingers into your mouth, you instinctively start sucking on them as if theyâre his cock.
âThere she is,â he whispers, rough and low.
You clamp down around his cock, coming hard and fast. It rolled through you in heavy, pulsing wavesâwarm and all consumingâpulling a wrecked cry from your lips.
âFuckingâJesusâIâmâGoddammit Sidââ
Sidney came with a deep, desperate groan, burning his face in your neck as his cock twitched inside of your pussy. He emptied himself inside, thrusting up lazily a few times, fucking his come deep inside of you, even as you writhe above him in overstimulation. He watches as his cock drags in and out of you, a circle of your cream circling the base as his come leaks down his length and down to his balls.Â
Sid pressed you back onto the mattress, unintentionally thrusting his softened cock into you. You whine softly, already spent and tired and ready for bed. He presses gentle kisses to the side of your face.
âYou okay?â
âMm.â You mumble softly, already drifting off.
You had all the time in the world now. Sid had made damn sure of that.
--
#angelsuecultwrites#angelsuecult#the captain | s. crosby#sidney crosby#sidney crosby fic#sidney crosby imagine#nhl#nhl imagine#nhl players#pittsburgh penguins#sidney crosby x reader#sidney crosby smut#reqs open
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Emergency Contact - Sidney Crosby
summary: after an incident at work you wake up in the hospital, much to your surprise your ex-boyfriend is there too
pairing: Sidney Crosby x female!reader
word count: 3.2k
warnings: hospitals, fainting, mentions of needles, age gap relationship (reader described to be in her mid 20s)
authors note
greetings from the sunny South of France
----------------------------------
When you blink your eyes open you were in an unfamiliar setting. A rhythmic beep was coming from somewhere, but you couldnât quite make out from where because consciousness hadnât completely returned to your body yet.
You didnât know where exactly you were. The last thing you remembered being suddenly feeling incredibly ill on the way to your next meeting and no matter how hard you tried to think about what happened next you could not remember.
You had a few very stressful weeks. A big project deadline was coming up at work and in the middle of all of it you broke up with your boyfriend.
Sidney and you ending wasnât something that came completely out of the blue, it wasnât like you were fighting or anything dramatic turned the tide in your relationship. Life got busy. Not living together and him being gone half the month wasnât helping to keep the relationship what it was in the beginning.
Sometimes you thought he felt bad for keeping you in his house during the weekends. âYouÂŽre young, you should be out partying not watch old movies with me on the couch.â He once said to you. When you tried to argue that you loved the quiet evenings with him, he just shrugged it off.
The ten-year age gap hadnât been something that bothered you. You enjoyed a quiet life after being the life of the party when you were in college. Settling down in your mid-twenties something you hadnât imagined for you but werenât complaining about.
But you knew it bothered Sidney sometimes, that paired with the lack of seeing each other lead to the eventual end of your relationship.
It wasnât an easy talk but neither of you had hard feelings. You had gathered your things from his house with the promise to drop his off as soon as you had time to gather them and that was the end of it.
Sure, you missed him and deep down you knew there would always be some sort of feelings for the man you had spent almost a year with, but it wasnât the worst break-up you ever had.
Locking eyes with exactly that man when you fully gained consciousness again was not what you expected.
Sidney looked exhausted. Like he hadnât slept in days. Head hung low; a penguins hoodie draped over his broad shoulders; team issued sweats on his legs. He looked like he was fresh out of practice and didnât have time to change yet.
You blinked a few times to make sure you werenât imagining him being there. While doing that you finally fully realized where you were. A hospital room. A needle poked in the back of your hand, a bag with fluids hanging on a metal rod next to you. Stiff sheets wrapped around you.
âOh great, youÂŽre awake,â a nurse, entering your room, said. Sidneyâs head snapped up immediately, his dark eyes locking with yours. âDo you remember what happened? Or why you are here?â she questioned, while you still starred at your ex-boyfriend with an open mouth and wide eyes.
Closing your mouth when her words registered, you tried to remember once again, but nothing came back to you.
âThe last thing I remember was being at work, rushing from one meeting to the next and then I woke up here,â you mumbled. The nurse wrote something down on a tablet she was carrying before looking at you with kind eyes.
âYou fainted at work. One of your co-workers called an ambulance because you werenât waking up for a few minutes and they were really worried. You have been resting for a couple of hours now. How are you feeling?â she explained the situation.
Blinking a few times a faint memory of being in the ambulance came back to you. The unsteady back and forth on the uncomfortable bed. While the paramedics moved around you but that was it.
âI remember being in the ambulance,â you whispered. The nurse nodded before facing the tablet again.
While she was doing that your eyes went back to Sidney. The hospital chair was too small for his large frame. He was fidgeting with his hands; a look of worry firm on his face.
âItÂŽs good that you seem to be feeling better. The doctor will be with you in a few to explain to you what the next steps are but IÂŽm sure your boyfriend can take you home in a few hours.â She nodded towards Sidney, who stiffened when she mentioned the word boyfriend.
That was the first time you questioned why he was here. You werenât together anymore, there was no reason for anyone to call him or for anyone connected to you to have his number in the first place.
âIÂŽll be back in a bit,â the nurse waived goodbye before stepping out of the room, closing the door behind her quietly.
Carefully you tried to sit up, but exhaustion was still lingering all over your body. âStop trying to move so much, you need rest,â his firm voice came out of nowhere. He had been a silent observer of everything ever since you woke up, so you were taken aback a little.
A few beats of silence followed. You tried to gather the courage to ask why he was here. He was thinking about something too, you knew by the expression on his face.
You swallowed. Your throat dry from hours without water.
âHere,â Sidney said, getting up, handing you a cup that was placed on a table next to the bed. âThanks,â you coughed out before taking a greedy sip from the cup. âGo slow,â the man in front of you uttered.
After a few gulps your throat started to feel better, and you felt like you were able to speak normal again. Sidney had returned to his chair, back to kneading his hands and thinking.
âWhy are you here, Sid?â you quietly questioned.
The hockey player ran his hand over his face, letting out a sigh before answering. âThey called me. Apparently, IÂŽm still your emergency contact.â You closed your eyes, swallowing hard. Removing him from the list of contacts was on your list of things you needed to do, but since the last weeks were so busy you simply forgot. ItÂŽs not like anyone expected you to land in the hospital any time soon.
âIÂŽm sorry.â You eyed him up and down. âDid they call you away from practice?â
You had stopped following the Penguins soon after the two of you broke up. You werenât a hockey fan before you met him, only watching games for him during your relationship, stopping soon after it ended.
âYeah, not off the ice but from the weight room.â You swallowed hard again. You knew how serious he took his training and discipline. Him leaving the facility to get to you at the hospital not something you had even expected from him during the relationship, much less now.
âIÂŽm sorry they called you away. You didnât have to come.â His brows furrowed. âWhat am I supposed to do when a hospital calls me, telling me my girlfriend passed out at work and is admitted into it because of severe exhaustion? What would they think of me if I didnât show up?â
His image was one of the most important things to him. No scandals, ever. He was just here to protect that, you thought.
âSorry, I didnât mean it like that,â he added before you could say another word. âI didnât mean it in a way of being who I am but what kind of boyfriend I would be.â You turned your head to look directly into his eyes again.
âBut youÂŽre not,â his features tightened. âThey donât know that.â
Turning back to stare at the celling you let out a deep breath. Your head was starting to hurt and the quiet grumble in your stomach slowly began to be more prominent. It made you a little uncomfortable that he was just staring at you without saying anything. Like he could see right through you and your thoughts.
âYou can leave if you want to, IÂŽm sure you have more important things to do than watch your ex-girlfriend at the hospital. I call my sister to pick me up later.â Sidney let out an incoherent grumble before looking at you like you had just offended him.
âIÂŽm good,â he said before grabbing his phone, that was lying face down next to him and began typing. Probably to coaches or teammates, letting them know that he would not come back to the facility today.
Based on the fact that he was still here you figured that he didnât have a game today. If he did, he wouldnât have disrupted his routine. He was so superstitious in that department. If he didnât go through his usual routines before a game, he was convinced he would have a bad game.
When you were still together it took you a while to come to terms with it. But there was never a day where you didnât respect his wishes. You knew he was who he was because of what he did.
Heavy silence cast over the room. Neither of you knowing what to say. Was small talk something appropriate for this? Should you ask him about hockey? Tell him about why you were so exhausted?
In the end you decided against it. He wasnât your boyfriend anymore, there was no reason for you to share all that with him.
âYou should let your co-workers know that youÂŽll be alright,â Sidney suggested, when he stopped typing into his phone a few minutes later. âOne of them kept calling earlier but I didnât know if they knew about us, so I didnât pick up.â
You looked over at the small table next to you bed again. Your phone laid there abandoned. âThere is no us, Sidney,â was the first thing you argued. His features got hard. âI didnât want to assume.â
âAssume what? We broke up weeks ago, yes, I told them about it. Itâs not like it was supposed to be kept a secret right? Hardly anyone knew we were together anyways.â It wasnât supposed to be an accusation, but you realized that it came out like one.
He valued his privacy. Only people close to him knew about your relationship. Family, friends, his team and a few selected others. You werenât complaining. A life in the public eye like his was, wasnât something you ever intended on having.
âSorry, I didnât want that to sound so accusing,â you backtracked immediately, just like he did earlier. Your head had started to pound, feeling like it was about to explode. Rubbing your temples you closed your eyes again, hoping it would go away when you shut out the bright overhead lights.
When you opened them again a few minutes later the room was cast in darkness. The only light coming from SidneyÂŽs phone screen. He was typing again, not noticing that you had opened your eyes.
You observed him for a bit. While you couldnât see much you could see that the grey streak in his hair got more prominent since you last saw him in person. His expression was stern, but the familiar softness of his features wasnât lost in it. He was still as beautiful as you remembered him. Looking effortlessly put together even in his team issued sweats and with tussled hair.
âI can feel you staring,â he chuckled. âHard not to look when you look like that,â you laughed back, grimacing immediately when a sting pinched through your head. You didnât mean to flirt but something in the air made it impossible to react normal to his presence.
âThe nurse should be here with some painkillers any minute,â he added before putting his phone away, giving you his full attention again.
Speaking of the devil the nurse from earlier softly opened the door and stepped in, followed by an older woman in a white coat.
The nurse handed you a pill and another cup of water, while the woman, who you assumed was the doctor, checked the monitor you were hooked up on.
âWonderful to see that you are awake. Mr. Crosby told us that youÂŽre experiencing a strong headache. Thatâs normal after fainting. It should go away with the ibuprofen and rest. YouÂŽll be as good as new in a few hours.â She turns to face Sidney.
âWhen you take her home, she needs to rest.â She turned back around to face you this time, speaking again before you could tell her that Sidney would in fact not take you home. âNo work for a few days, you need rest and after that you need to take it slow,â she added with a stern expression.
You opened your mouth to say something, but Sidney was faster. âIÂŽll take care of it.â His deep voice sent a shiver down your spine. âGood, weÂŽll get the results from the lab in about forty-five minutes, IÂŽll come back then and you should be able to leave after that. But again, no work, nothing that could induce too much stress.â You nodded, fear overtaking your thoughts.
You still had the project due next week and since you were one of the leading designers, taking days off before it was set to launch. The team was capable, you knew that, but there was no way you wouldnât be there to oversee the last steps.
âIÂŽll be back in a bit,â the doctor said, before rushing out of the room.
Sidney shuffled in his chair. He seemed nervous all of a sudden and from experience you knew that it took a lot to make in nervous. âYou can leave if you have to, IÂŽll get out on my own.â Your voice was quiet, you werenât even sure he heard you but when he sucked in a deep breath before standing you assumed he had.
What you hadnât assumed was that instead of leaving like you just offered him he walked over to your side. Suddenly being close to him sent a shiver down your spine. His familiar scent took over your nose and let goosebumps rise on your arms.
A few seconds passed without anyone saying anything. You looking anywhere but in his general direction but at the same time feeling his glace on you. âDo you want to talk about it?â he asked.
For a beat you werenât sure what he meant but then it clicked in your head. He wanted to know what was going on, why you passed out at work. The look of worry on his face still as prominent as when you first woke up.
Taking a deep breath, you brushed a stand of your hair out of your face before answering. âThey promoted me to lead designer for the project, like you know and ever since then responsibilities were piled on my head. Not like small things, more like I had to redesign one entire page of the website because one of the new hires messed something up by accident. Then I had constant meetings with the board. TheyÂŽre insisting that everything about this is perfect. One wrong move and the entirety of the team will face consequences.â
You took a short break, taking another deep breath, considering your next words carefully. âAnd then in the middle of all that my boyfriend and I broke up. Which might have seemed inevitable and predictable but still nagged on me for weeks.â
For a second you had hesitated before speaking. Debated with yourself if you should bring it up as one of the reasons why you were so stressed right now. But you felt like he deserved to know.
âIÂŽm sorry,â you blinked. Starring at him in silence, not understanding what exactly he was sorry for. âI did a lot of thinking since and breaking up the way we did was wrong. We⊠I should have worked harder to make it work.â He ran his hand over his face once again, turning away, but you grabbed his hand before he could fully walk away.
âSid, this is not your fault. ItÂŽs a lot of stressors coming together at an unfortunate time. You and I ending was unavoidable. Work getting busy right at the same time is just a coincidence.â
âYou and I ending was avoidable.â
His statement lingered in the room like a heavy cloud. You didnât understand what he meant.
Looking at him for answers he seemed to calculate his next words very carefully.
âI thought I was holding you back. YouÂŽre only 26, thatÂŽs young. I thought you should rather be out with your friends on a Saturday night than on the couch with me or at the arena watching me play a sport you donÂŽt even like. ThatÂŽs on me. I shouldâve listened to you when you told me itâs what you want.â
His confession surprised you and while he was right, and you were glad that he could see that he was projecting something onto your relationship that was entirely untrue you werenât sure why he was coming out with it right now. At the hospital. Where he only showed up because you forgot to remove him as your emergency contact.
âWhy are you telling me this now? And why here?â you questioned.
âGetting the call and seeing you in here made me realize I never want to not be there when you need someone to be by your side. Doesnât matter if itÂŽs in the hospital or at your big work presentation.â He tightened the grip you still had on his hand. âI want to be there, if youÂŽll still have me.â
You swallowed hard. This confession hitting you even harder than the first one. You didnât assume he was still feeling for you like before.
Weeks had passed since the two of you broke up. Life moved on and so did he, or so you tought.
Him standing here, in your hospital room, asking you if he could still be the guy that stands by your side through life, something you never imagined happening. But your heart immediately fluttered when he spoke the words. Lingering feelings of something you still had just a few short weeks ago bubbling back up before you could even try to swallow them down.
Being with Sidney was good. Being with Sidney was something you wished you had never given up for weeks after the initial conversation happened and now you had it right in front of you again.
âSidâŠâ you started. His hopeful eyes dimming immediately at your tone. But you spoke again before he had a chance to intercept. â⊠if we want to try again, we really need to set some rules, okay?â He nodded slowly.
âWe can discuss them later, I mean I am still in the hospital, and I should rest before my boyfriend takes me home.â His hear perked up at the word boyfriend his face totally different than earlier when the nurse called him the same thing.
âSo, youÂŽre giving us another chance?â A smile spread across his face. âYeah, Sid. IÂŽm giving us another chance.â
He grabbed your hand, the one that still had a hold on his and placed a subtle kiss to the back of it.
âI will work harder to make this work, I promise,â he mumbled against it. âLetÂŽs not talk about this now,â you reminded him. âJust kiss me.â
And who was he do deny you.
#sidney crosby#pittsburgh penguins#sidney crosby imagine#pittsburgh penguins imagine#sidney crosby x reader#nhl imagine
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ICE QUEEN & HER HOCKEY PLAYERââCROSBYâžâ·
for this request!
â 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
â pairing | sidney crosby x fem!reader
â word count | 19k
â warnings | slooooow burn, angsty but gets very fluffy toward the end, lmk if yall want a part 2!!
â 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!!!!!!
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You first saw him across the rink, his focus sharp as he moved effortlessly through drills, like he was born on ice. It wasnât admiration that struck you, thoughâmore like irritation. Sidney Crosby. The ânext one,â 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 couldnât 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 yoursâcool, unreadableâtold you that this wasnât the last time youâd 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. Itâs all muscle memory at this point, but somehow, your mind keeps drifting back to him. The way he didnât 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 youâve grown used to it. Every day, same routine. Youâve always found a strange comfort in thatâthe familiar rhythm of blade on ice, the tension before takeoff, the brief moment when youâre airborne, weightless, before gravity pulls you back. Itâs 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 heâs already a legend and not just some kid skating circles with his team. Youâre not immune to the whispers that float around the rink whenever heâs nearbyâthe 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 thatâs not you.
Youâve worked too hard to be impressed by anyone anymore. Youâve scraped your way to this point, each pirouette and double axel carved out of relentless practice, not natural-born talent. Sure, youâve got skill, but it was earnedâhoned 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 heâs going through drills with the same cool precision youâd expect from someone nicknamed âThe Next One.â Itâs not that you donât respect his abilityâno, thatâs not it at all. The guy moves like he was built for this. But thereâs something infuriating about the way he carries himself, as if being goodâno, greatâcomes so effortlessly to him, like itâs 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 thatâs what you do. Thatâs who you are. Everything has to be perfect, controlled. Sidney Crosby, meanwhile, looks like he doesnât 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 movementâthe stretch of your arms, the swing of your leg as you enter a jump. For a moment, itâs 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 againâover to where Crosbyâs skating, his sharp turns cutting into the ice with a sound that digs under your skin. He doesnât even look like heâs trying. Itâs infuriating.
Youâre coming down from a series of spins when you hear a voiceâyour teammate. âYouâre really in the zone today,â she says, breathless and smiling as she skates up beside you.
âYeah, trying to be,â you reply, breathing heavily, trying to focus on anything but him.
Your teammate leans in a little, lowering her voice like sheâs about to share some big secret. âDid you hear the news? Crosbyâs making waves already. Some scouts are saying heâs the real dealâlike, generational talent.â
You roll your eyes before you can stop yourself. âArenât they all?â
She grins, nudging you playfully. âCome on, donât pretend like youâre not a little curious. Everyoneâs talking about him.â
âThatâs the problem,â 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. Itâs like the universe just wants to shove him in your face.
Fine, you think. Let him have his spotlight. Let him be the guy everyoneâs fawning over. But you? Youâre not here for that. Youâve got your own goals, your own pressures, and the last thing you need is to get wrapped up in some star athleteâs 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 itâs 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 youâre done with him. Done with thinking about the golden boy whoâs probably coasting on talent alone.
Yet, as you untie your skates, his image still clings to the edges of your mindâthe 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 relentlessâ"Did you see how fast Crosby is? The way he handles the puck?"âand 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 doesnât look at you. Not even a flicker of recognition as he passes by. Itâs almost laughable, how oblivious he is. You half expect him to at least give you a nod or a half-smile, somethingâanythingâto show he knows you exist.
But no. Nothing.
You let out a huff, brushing past him as you walk out. Thereâs no reason for this to bother you, really. You donât need his approval, and you definitely donât need him to notice you.
Still, as the door swings shut behind you, you canât shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, this wonât be the last time you cross paths with Sidney Crosby.
Not by a long shot.
âââ
âAgain!â Your coachâs voice cuts through the air like a whip, sharp and biting, echoing across the empty rink. Youâve been at this for hours, it feels likeâyour 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 youâve been doing this. Itâs not good enough, though. Not for him. And, if youâre honest with yourself, not for you either.
Youâre trying to perfect your triple Lutz, but every time you attempt the jump, something feels offâyour rotation, your timing, maybe even your mindset. Your blade scrapes the ice as you reset, steadying your breath, forcing yourself to focus.
âGo again!â 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 youâve been drilled to do since you were a kid. You hit the jumpâlift offâbut 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. âWhat was that? Youâre rushing! Slow down, get your rotation tighterâagain!â
You donât say anything. You just grit your teeth and skate back into position. Itâs not like youâre unfamiliar with this kind of pressureâno, this is your life. Perfection or nothing. Youâve heard the speeches, felt the disappointment every time you come up short. You know itâs about pushing yourself past your limits.
But right now, with every muscle in your body screaming at you to stop, youâre beginning to wonder if thereâs anything left to push through.
âLetâs go, again!â
You roll your eyes but quickly hide it. Heâs watching, waiting for you to slip, and heâll 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 youâll 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 clickâyour body feels lighter, your rotation sharper, and you think, for a second, that youâve 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.
âAre you kidding me?â Your coachâs voice booms across the ice, frustration crackling in every word. âYouâre better than this! Do it again, and this time, stop messing around!â
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.
Heâs 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. Itâs 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. Youâve 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.
âAre you going to stand there all day or are you going to land this?â he snaps.
You nod, swallowing down the irritation thatâs rising in your chest. Heâs right. You canât let this beat you. You wonât.
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 everythingâyour 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, youâre weightless, and it feels rightâuntil, once again, you come down a hair too early, your blade skidding out from under you. You stumble but donât fall this time, catching yourself just in time.
âBetter,â your coach mutters. âBut not good enough.â
You barely hear him, though, because when you glance up, you catch Crosby watching you out of the corner of his eye. Itâs subtle, just a flicker of attention, but itâs there. His face is unreadable, but you donât need to see his expression to know what heâs thinking.
Sheâs struggling.
And for some reason, that thought sets your nerves on fire.
Iâm not gonna let Crosby win.
The thought flares in your mind, sudden and irrational, but you grab onto it like a lifeline. Itâs ridiculousâyou know that. Heâs not even competing with you. Hell, he probably doesnât even care about you right now, but itâs too late. The ideaâs already wormed its way in, digging deep into that part of your brain that refuses to back down from a challenge. Even if itâs 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 thatâs been weighing you down all practice disappears, replaced by a sharp, laser-focused determination.
This time, when you skate, itâs different. Every movement is smoother, sharper. The ice feels like itâs bending to your will instead of working against you. As you approach the jump, you donât hesitate. Thereâs 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 rotationâitâs 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 heâs 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 canât believe what just happened.
âThatâŠâ he starts, still catching up to what heâs seen. âThat was perfect.â
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 iceâright 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. Itâs infuriating. The heat of your anger that had just started to cool flares up again, boiling over. You know itâs ridiculous. You know you shouldnât care. But thereâs something about the way heâs looking at youâlike he knew exactly what just happened, like heâs somehow responsible for flipping that switch in you.
Itâs 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. Itâs 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. âTake a breakâyou earned it. That was the best Iâve seen all season.â
You nod, skating off toward the edge of the rink, but your eyes never leave Crosbyâs. Heâs back to his drills now, that infuriating little smirk gone, replaced by that same focused intensity he always has. Like you donât even exist. Like heâs already moved on.
But you havenât.
Iâm not gonna let Crosby win. You repeat the mantra to yourself, feeling that fire spark inside you once more.
This is only the beginning.
âââ
âIâm telling you, heâs got it out for me,â you say, waving your glass in the air as you slump back in your seat. âIt's like, every time I look up, there he is, judging me with those stupid, intense eyes. Like heâs some kind of skating god who knows better than the rest of us.â
Your teammates snicker around the table, but you can tell theyâre more amused by your dramatics than actually concerned. Abby, sitting across from you, rolls her eyes, sipping her drink with an amused smirk.
âUh-huh, sure,â she says. âBecause Sidney Crosby is totally obsessed with you, out of all people. Thatâs what he does with his free time.â
âIâm serious!â You huff, propping your elbows on the table. âEvery time I mess up, heâs there. Just... lurking in the background. Like some smug, perfectly-groomed shadow, judging me. I swear he enjoys it.â
Tasha, whoâs been quietly sipping her beer next to you, finally chimes in. âAre you sure heâs not just, you know, existing and youâre projecting all your frustrations onto him?â
You glare at her, but she only grins, nudging your arm. âIâm just saying, maybe heâs just trying to live his life and itâs not all about you.â
âI donât project,â you grumble. âIâm very rational. This is just... observation.â
Abby nearly spits out her drink, laughing. âYouâre so full of it. Admit it, you just donât like that heâs good at literally everything. It messes with your perfectionist brain.â
âYouâd hate him less if you stopped watching him all the time,â Tasha adds, teasing.
You groan, dropping your head onto the table with a thud. âI donât watch him. Heâs just always there. Like a bad omen with a hockey stick.â
âYeah, well,â Abby shrugs, âIâd be there too if I were as good as him. Honestly, if you werenât so busy hating him, youâd probably respect him a little. Maybe you two would even beââ
âDonât.â You cut her off, lifting your head with a glare. âDonât even suggest we could be friends. Or worseâsomething else. Thatâs the last thing I need right now.â
Tasha grins mischievously. âWell, considering how much youâre talking about him, it sounds like he might be the only thing you need right now.â
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 donât even have to turn around to know who it is. You can feel itâthe sudden frat-boy energy that seems to follow them wherever they go.
âSpeak of the devil,â 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. Theyâre 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 theyâve been best friends for years.
Sidney, of course, is in the center of it allâlooking as effortlessly cool as ever in a black jacket and backward baseball cap. His laugh booms across the bar, and you canât help but roll your eyes.
âUnbelievable,â you mutter. âWhy are they always like this? Who gave them permission to act like frat boys in public?â
âRelax,â Abby says, still laughing at your expense. âItâs not like theyâre doing anything wrong.â
âTheyâre just breathing, and itâs bothering you,â Tasha adds with a smirk.
âI canât help it!â You say, throwing your hands up in exasperation. âThey walk in here like they own the place. No oneâs even looking at them, and somehow they just... demand attention.â
As if on cue, Sidneyâs 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 heâs not trying, and you hate how aware of him you are.
âIâm telling you,â you say, turning back to your friends. âThis is a sign. The universe is trying to ruin my peace.â
âYouâre such a drama queen,â Abby teases. âThe universe doesnât revolve around you and Sidney Crosby. Just let it go.â
âI donât want to talk about him anymore,â you declare, crossing your arms stubbornly. âHeâs not worth my energy.â
But as soon as the words leave your mouth, you feel a pair of eyes land on you. You glance upâand of course, itâs him. Sidney freaking Crosby. Heâs 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 hadnât been caught mid-rant about him for the umpteenth time.
Abby leans in, her voice low and teasing. âSo... whatâs that about not caring?â
âShut up,â you mutter, grabbing your drink and downing the rest in one go.
Tasha bursts out laughing. âYouâre so done for.â
âAm not,â you grumble, avoiding Sidneyâs gaze. But you can still feel his eyes on you, that stupid smirk lingering in your mind, and you canât shake the thought that, maybe, just maybe, he does enjoy messing with you.
Or worseâmaybe 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 youâlaughter, 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, youâve managed to relax a little. Maybe itâs the alcohol kicking in or maybe itâs because youâve 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 werenât going to let him ruin your night, and youâre 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 itâthat presence. Itâs like your body knows heâs there before you even see him, a tingle that runs up your spine, making your muscles tense involuntarily.
You donât even have to turn around to know who it is.
âFancy seeing you here,â Sidneyâs voice is smooth, low, and far too casual, like heâs not already driving you insane.
You grit your teeth, rolling your eyes before you even face him. Great. Of course, heâd pick now to show up. When youâre 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 heâs crowding you. Heâs got this irritatingly effortless way of taking up space without trying. Itâs like the universe bends around him, making sure everyone notices when heâs around.
âWhat do you want?â you ask, not bothering to hide the irritation in your voice as you finally turn to face him. You donât have the patience for his smug attitude tonight.
Heâs 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.
âWhat makes you think I want something?â he asks, his voice almost teasing.
You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. âBecause you donât come over here for no reason.â
Sidney chuckles softly, and the sound grates on your nerves. âMaybe I just wanted to say hi. You know, be friendly.â
âSince when are we friendly?â you shoot back, crossing your arms over your chest. âPretty sure weâve never been that.â
He shrugs, still smiling, as if your hostility only makes this more fun for him. âThereâs a first time for everything.â
You narrow your eyes at him, trying to gauge his angle. Itâs impossible to tell if heâs genuinely trying to make conversation or if heâs just here to mess with you. Either way, youâre not having it.
âLook, Crosby,â you say, your voice sharp, âif youâre here to annoy me, youâre wasting your time. Iâm not in the mood.â
His smirk widens, and for some reason, it makes your stomach flip in a way you donât like. âWho said anything about annoying you?â
You let out a huff of frustration, leaning back against the bar and glaring at him. âYou always do. Every time you show up, itâs like you canât help but get under my skin.â
Sidney tilts his head slightly, like heâs considering your words, but the smirk never leaves his face. âMaybe thatâs because you make it so easy.â
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.
âWhy do you even care?â you ask, taking a sip of your drink. âYou donât know me. Weâre in completely different worlds.â
Sidney doesnât respond right away, just watches you with those annoyingly intense eyes, like heâs trying to figure something out about you. Itâs unsettling, but you refuse to let him see that heâs getting to you. Youâve already let him mess with your head enough tonight.
âMaybe I donât know you,â he says after a moment, his voice lower now, more thoughtful. âBut youâre interesting. More interesting than half the people Iâve met in this sport.â
You blink at him, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. âInteresting?â
He nods, that playful glint still in his eyes. âYeah. Youâre not like everyone else. Most people just... try to stay out of the way, keep their heads down, play nice. But you? You donât take shit from anyone. I like that.â
You snort, unable to help yourself. âSo what, youâre saying you like me because I donât like you?â
Sidney laughs, and the sound is so warm, so genuine, that it throws you off for a second. Itâs not the cocky laugh youâre used to hearing from him on the ice. This one feels... real.
âIâm saying I like a challenge,â he says, his eyes gleaming with something that makes your heart race even though you really donât want it to. âAnd youâre definitely a challenge.â
A challenge. That word lingers in the air between you, heavy and charged, and youâre not sure if itâs because of the way he said it or because of how it makes you feel. Because on some level, you know heâs right. You are a challenge. Youâve always been a challenge. And maybe thatâs part of why he gets under your skin so easilyâbecause heâs not backing down.
But youâre not backing down either.
âWell, if you think you can just waltz in here and... what? Win me over?â you scoff, taking another sip of your drink. âGood luck with that, Crosby. I donât go down that easy.â
Sidney leans in just a fraction, his voice dropping to a low murmur. âI never said I wanted you to go down easy.â
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 heâs seeing through every layer of defense youâve built up.
It takes everything in you not to let him see how much heâs affecting you. You keep your expression neutral, lips pressed into a tight line as you lean back, forcing some distance between you.
âYou really think you can get to me with a few smooth lines?â you ask, your voice sharper than you intended.
Sidney shrugs again, but this time thereâs a hint of something more serious behind his smile. âI donât know. Guess Iâll find out.â
You glare at him, feeling that familiar frustration bubbling up again, but thereâs something else there now tooâsomething you donât want to acknowledge. Something that feels dangerous and thrilling all at once.
âWell, donât get too comfortable,â you say, standing up from the bar and giving him one last, pointed look. âIâm not as easy to figure out as you think.â
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.
âGood,â he calls after you. âI like a good mystery.â
You donât look back, but damn it, his voice follows you all the way out of the bar, and itâs all you can think about for the rest of the night.
âââ
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 thisâthe 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 moodâdramatic, sweeping classical music, the kind that builds and builds until it feels like itâs going to break something wide open. Itâs 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 Sidneyâit all simmers beneath the surface, but here, on the ice, you know how to channel it. Youâve 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. Thereâs 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 itâs not enough. Not tonight. You need more.
Iâm not going to let Crosby win. The thought flashes in your mind, unbidden, but once itâs there, you canât shake it. Itâs ridiculousâSidneyâs not even here, not even part of thisâbut somehow, heâs 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 youâre stunned for a moment.
Your coach isnât here to shout or correct you, but if he were, you know heâd 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, youâre hereâexecuting moves with a sharpness you didnât think you had tonight.
Itâs almost likeâ
âNice landing.â
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 youâd recognize that voice anywhere. Youâd thought you were alone, but apparently, Sidney had other plans.
âJesusâwhat the hell are you doing here?â you snap, pulse still racing from both the exertion and the shock of seeing him.
Sidney shrugs, as if he hasnât just interrupted your entire night. âCould ask you the same thing.â
You narrow your eyes at him, pushing down the urge to scream. âIâm here because Iâm training. Whatâs your excuse?â
He lifts an eyebrow, pushing off the boards and stepping onto the ice with ease, his skates gliding smoothly over the surface. âDidnât realize you had the rink reserved.â
You cross your arms, glaring as he skates a slow circle around you, as if heâs sizing you up. The way he moves is so infuriatingly confident, like he knows exactly how to get under your skin.
âSidney, I swear, if youâre here just to mess with meââ
He stops right in front of you, cutting you off with a grin that makes your stomach twist. âIâm not here to mess with you.â His voice drops a little, that playful edge still there but softer now. âNot unless you want me to.â
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 thatâs building between you two.
âWhy are you really here?â you ask, trying to sound more composed than you feel. Youâre not sure if itâs the adrenaline from skating or the fact that Sidneyâs 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. âI could ask you the same thing,â he says, echoing your earlier words. âYouâve been skating for hours. Whatâs got you so wound up?â
Your mouth opens to snap back, but you stop yourself, unsure how to answer. Itâs not like you can tell him heâs part of the problem, that every time he shows up, he stirs something inside you thatâs equal parts frustration and... something else you refuse to acknowledge.
âIâm fine,â you finally say, your voice tight. âJust working on a few things.â
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.
âYou donât look fine,â he says quietly, the teasing edge fading from his voice. âYou look like youâre trying to prove something.â
âI donât have anything to prove to you,â you snap, more harshly than you intended.
Sidney doesnât flinch, doesnât even react to your tone. Instead, he just watches you, like heâs waiting for you to let your guard down.
âYou donât have anything to prove to me,â he agrees, his voice low, almost gentle now. âBut it seems like youâre trying to prove something to yourself.â
The words hit you harder than you want to admit, and for a second, you feel the weight of the pressure youâve been carryingâthe 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 itâs not aimed at Sidneyâitâs aimed at yourself.
âWhat do you know about it?â you mutter, looking away from him, focusing on the ice instead of the way his presence is making you feel.
Sidney doesnât respond right away, and when he does, his voice is softer than youâve ever heard it. âMore than you think.â
Something in his tone makes you glance up, and for the first time, you see something different in his eyesânot the usual cocky smirk, not the playful teasing. Itâs 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 youâre not sure if itâs because of the music still playing softly in the background or because of the way Sidney is looking at you. Thereâs something unspoken hanging in the space between you, something fragile and real.
âI get it,â he says, his voice quiet. âThe pressure. The feeling like you have to be perfect every time you step on the ice. I know what thatâs like.â
You swallow hard, the walls youâve built around yourself trembling slightly. Youâre not used to Sidney Crosby being... this. Open. Vulnerable. It throws you off balance, makes you feel like youâre 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.
âAnyway,â he says, his usual smirk slipping back into place, âjust wanted to check in. See if you needed anything.â
You narrow your eyes at him, trying to regain your composure. âYeah, Iâm good.â
Sidney grins, his playful edge back in full force. âGood. I like seeing you fired up.â
And just like that, the tension is back, simmering under the surface, and youâre left standing there, wondering how Sidney Crosby has managed to flip your world upside down in a matter of minutes.
As he skates away, youâre left with the echo of his words in your mindâand the realization that maybe, just maybe, heâs not the only one who likes a challenge.
âââ
A few weeks later, the cold of early winter is biting harder, a constant reminder of whatâs 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.
Youâre 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 worldâs 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.
âTheyâve posted the roster,â he says, barely containing his pride. âYouâre on the team.â
The words hang in the air for a moment, and then the weight of them crashes down on you. Youâre on the team. Youâre going to the Olympics.
You let out a breath you didnât 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 battlesâitâs all been worth it. Youâre 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. Heâs been picked tooâyou 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, wonât they? Two stars, both at the top of their games, both chasing Olympic glory, bothâ
You shake your head, pushing the thought away. Youâre not going to let Sidney Crosby get into your head. Not when youâve 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 canât shake the feeling that this is just the beginning of something biggerâand that Sidney is somehow going to be a part of it, whether you like it or not.
âââ
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. Itâs just you and the ice, and for a little while, thatâs enough.
Until the door creaks open again.
You stop mid-spin, your breath catching in your throat. You donât need to turn around to know who it isâsomehow, you can always tell when Sidneyâs around. Itâs like your body is wired to notice him, even when you donât want to.
âWhat are you doing here?â you call out, not bothering to mask the annoyance in your voice.
Sidney doesnât answer right away, but you hear the sound of his skates as he steps onto the ice, gliding easily toward you.
âI could ask you the same thing,â he says, his voice calm, almost too calm, like he knows exactly how to get under your skin. âTraining late again?â
You grit your teeth, refusing to let him get to you. âYeah, well, some of us still have work to do.â
Sidney chuckles softly, skating closer until heâs just a few feet away. âYou really think youâve got that much left to prove?â
You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. âDonât you?â
For a second, he doesnât answer, his eyes searching yours. Thereâs something unreadable in his expression, something almost⊠curious. Then he shrugs, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
âMaybe,â he says, his voice low. âBut Iâm not the one staying up all night to try and be perfect.â
His words hit a little too close to home, and you feel the flare of anger rise again. But before you can respond, Sidneyâs already moving, skating around you with that effortless grace that somehow makes everything seem easy for him.
âYou know,â he says, his tone light, âthe mediaâs 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.â
You roll your eyes, spinning around to face him. âYeah, I noticed.â
Sidneyâs grin widens, and for a moment, you wonder if heâs enjoying this more than he should. âYou think theyâll keep us apart, or you think theyâll try to milk this for everything itâs worth?â
You cross your arms, refusing to play into whatever game heâs trying to start. âI donât really care what the media does.â
Sidney stops in front of you, his eyes locking onto yours with that same intensity youâve come to know all too well. âYou sure about that?â
The question hangs in the air between you, and for a second, youâre not sure if heâs 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 hereâa 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? Heâs winning. Again.
"I'm sure," you finally manage to say, but your voice doesnât 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 reasonâto win."
You scoff, rolling your eyes, but there's a part of you that knows he's right. You didnât get this far by letting other peopleâs opinions get in your head. You worked for this. Hard. Late nights, endless drills, pushing yourself past your limits just to prove to everyoneâand maybe to yourselfâthat 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 doesnât bristle or fire back. Instead, he just smiles, a slow, knowing grin that almostâalmostâlooks genuine. "Maybe. But theyâre not the ones Iâm 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 donât 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 donât 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 heâs just as human as you. Maybe even just as scared.
Your throat tightens, and for a moment, the walls youâve built around yourself start to crack. But before you can respondâbefore you can even process whatâs happeningâSidneyâs 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 heâs gone, the rink feeling empty without him. Your mind is racing, filled with thoughts you donât want to acknowledge. You tell yourself it doesnât matterâthat he doesnât matter. Youâll go to the Olympics, skate your heart out, and thatâs 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. Itâs exhausting, and yet, part of you thrives on it. The stakes, the attention, the challenge. It's what youâve always worked for.
But itâs 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 Sidneyâs name comes upâwhether itâs in an interview or in passingâitâs like a spark of irritation flares up inside you, reminding you that heâs 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. Youâve 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 isnât about your routine or your preparation. Itâs about Sidney.
âSo, Y/N, you and Sidney Crosby have both been named as Canadaâs biggest medal hopes this year. How do you feel about that?â
You force a smile, even though you want to roll your eyes. âI feel great about it. Sidneyâs an incredible athlete, and itâs an honor to be mentioned alongside him.â
The reporter doesnât stop there. âDo you think the rivalry between the two of you has helped push you both to new heights?â
You want to laugh. Rivalry? Is that what theyâre calling it now?
âI think weâre both just focused on doing our best for our country,â you say diplomatically, but the answer feels hollow even to you. Because if youâre being honest with yourself, the rivalry is there. Itâs always been there, even before the media latched onto it.
Itâs not just about skating or hockey or who wins the most medals. Itâs about something deeperâsomething 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. Youâve seen him a few times in passing since that night at the rink, but neither of you has said much. Thereâs 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 donât know whatâs going to happen in Vancouver, but one thingâs for sure: Sidney Crosby isnât going to be easy to forget.
âââ
The sun barely peeks over the Vancouver skyline as you step into the bustling arena, the energy already electric despite the early hour. Itâs 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. Youâre scheduled for the womenâs short program later this afternoon, but you arrive early to settle your nerves and observe the competition. Itâs been a long time comingâyears of training, countless sacrifices, and now, itâs finally here.
As you watch the menâs short program unfold, you catch glimpses of familiar facesâskaters youâve 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. Heâs wearing the official red and white tracksuit, his posture relaxed, and his expression serious. You know heâs here to support his teammates, but it doesnât stop your heart from fluttering. You havenât 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. Heâs 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 thatâs grown between you. But thereâs no time for that now. Not when everything youâve 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. Itâs a fleeting connectionâone that sends a jolt through youâbefore you quickly look away, your pulse quickening.
You remind yourself why youâre here. Itâs not for Sidney. Itâs for the chance to compete on the worldâs biggest stage, to prove to yourselfâand to everyone elseâthat you belong.
Hours later, as the womenâs short program draws near, youâre in the locker room, lacing up your skates and taking deep breaths. You can hear the muffled sounds of the arena through the wallsâcheers, 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 elseâSidney, the pressure, the noiseâfocusing solely on the routine youâve 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 rinkâa mix of ice, metal, and adrenalineâfilling your lungs.
The bright lights of the arena are almost blinding, but youâve grown used to the glare. Itâs everything else thatâs harder to ignore: the noise of the crowd, the anticipation hanging in the air, and the weight of every expectation youâve 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. Itâs just you and the ice. Youâve done this routine a thousand timesâmaybe moreâin 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 hopeâthis part, at least, feels right. But as you transition into the next sequence, the familiar pattern youâve 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 sloppyâyour skate scrapes the ice, and you wobble, arms flailing to steady yourself.
Panic surges through you, hot and electric. Itâs only the beginning of the program, and already youâve 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 didnât you get it right?
The next element is a step sequence, a chance to regain your composure, but the nagging voice in your head wonât 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 thatâs slipping through your fingers.
You approach the triple Lutzâone 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 itâs too fast, too uncontrolled. When you come down, you feel your left skate catch, and before you know it, youâre 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 canât believe I just did that. This is a disaster.
Youâre 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 youâve already ruined.
The spins that follow are supposed to be your strength, your signatureâa moment when you can let go and show your artistry. But youâre too distracted, your mind racing with self-doubt. You rush into the first spin, and it feels offâyour center of gravity isnât 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. Youâve never felt this out of control in a competition before.
Youâve blown it. Everyoneâs 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 fineâuntil you under-rotate. The landing feels heavy, and you stumble. This time, you canât 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. Itâs 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 wasnât the performance youâd 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 donât need to see them to know what theyâll beâlow, lower than youâve 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 youâve 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. âGod fucking damn it,â 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 loopâthe missed jumps, the stumble, the fall. Each one feels like a punch, and you canât help but berate yourself for every single one.
Why couldnât 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. Youâve worked for yearsâyearsâfor 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 itâs ruined everything youâve 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. Itâs a messâeverything feels like a mess. You dig your fingers into your hair, pulling slightly as if the pain might drown out the thoughts that wonât 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 whatâs 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 heâs seen you fail, seen you fall apart, and you canât 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 youâve made, all the strength youâve 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 crowdâs disappointed murmur, see the faces of the judges as they wrote down your scores.
Youâre 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.
Thereâs 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.
âHey,â a voice says quietly, and your heart sinks. Youâd recognize that voice anywhereâSidney.
You bite your lip, trying to steady your breath, but itâs no use. You know you canât face him like this, not when you feel so raw and exposed. âGo away, Sid,â you manage to choke out, but it comes out weaker than you intended.
âPlease, just⊠let me in.â His voice is gentle, and that makes it worse. You donât want his pity, donât want to be reminded of how badly youâve messed up in front of him.
You wipe at your face again, even though you know you look like a mess. âI donât want to talk right now,â you say, your voice breaking on the last word. You feel pathetic, and all you want to do is disappear.
Thereâs a long pause, and for a moment, you think he might leave. But then he speaks again, softer this time. âItâs okay to be upset. You donât have to hide.â
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 canât. You canât let him see how much youâre falling apart.
âIâm fine,â you lie, voice cracking again. âJust⊠go.â
But he doesnât move. âLook, I know youâre upset. I saw what happened out there, but it doesnât change anything. Youâre still one of the best skaters Iâve ever seen.â
You press your lips together, shaking your head even though he canât see. âI donât need a pep talk, Sid.â
Thereâs another silence, and then, softer still, âI just want to be here for you.â
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 strongâthe fear of being seen, of being judged, of letting someone close enough to hurt you.
âI canât do this right now,â you whisper, tears streaming down your face again.
âOkay,â he says quietly, and you can hear the hurt in his voice. âBut if you need me, Iâm here.â
You donât 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.
âââ
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 canât help but watch, even though every fiber of your being screams to turn it off. Theyâre showing highlights of the dayâs performances, and you know itâs only a matter of time before they replay yours.
The phone is pressed to your ear, and your coachâs voice crackles through the line, rough and familiar. Heâs the one whoâs seen you at your best and your worst, the one whoâs pushed you to reach your full potential. But tonight, his words sting more than they usually do.
âYou know, that wasnât the skater Iâve been training for the past ten years,â he says, his voice firm, the edge of disappointment unmistakable. âWhat happened out there? You choked, plain and simple.â
You swallow hard, clutching the phone tighter. You know heâs trying to push you, trying to get a reactionâhe 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. âI know, okay? I messed up,â 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. âMessing up is one thing, but letting it get to you out there? Thatâs not you. You looked like a deer in headlights after that first fall. Whereâs your fight? Whereâs the girl who pushes through, no matter what?â
The criticism feels like salt in an open wound, and you bite your lip, willing yourself not to cry again. Youâve already spent most of the evening crying in the bathroom, and you refuse to do it now, not when heâs on the other end of the line. âI tried, butââ you start, but he cuts you off.
âBut nothing,â he snaps. âTrying isnât good enough at this level. You either do it, or you donât. And today, you didnât.â
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 heâs rightâof course, heâs right. This isnât the first time heâs 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 youâre capable of more. But tonight, all it does is make you feel small.
âI get it,â you say quietly, struggling to keep your voice even. âI let everyone down.â
Heâs silent for a moment, and then his tone softens, just a little. âItâs not about letting anyone down. Itâs about you. You know what youâre capable of, and today, that wasnât it. Youâre better than this.â
You glance up at the TV, and your stomach drops. Theyâre 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, âA disappointing performance from someone whoâs been touted as a medal contender. You can see the hesitation after that initial fallâshe never fully recovered.â
It feels like someoneâs twisting a knife in your gut, and you have to look away, turning your attention to the wall instead. âTheyâre showing it on the news,â you mutter, voice barely above a whisper. âTheyâre saying I looked scared.â
âWell, theyâre not wrong,â your coach says, and the bluntness hits you like a slap. âYou did look scared. You were scared.â
You clench your jaw, fighting back the tears threatening to spill over again. âI know that,â you snap, more harshly than you intended. âI know I messed up, and I donât need you or the whole world reminding me.â
Thereâs a long silence on the other end, and for a moment, you worry heâs going to hang up. But then he sighs, and you hear the weariness in his voice. âLook, Iâm not saying this to make you feel worse. Iâm saying it because youâve got two options now: you let this break you, or you use it. Youâve got another routine, and if you want any shot at the podium, youâve got to be perfect.â
The words hang in the air between you, and you stare down at your lap, the weight of everything crushing you. âI donât know if I can,â you admit, the vulnerability slipping out before you can stop it. âI feel like⊠I donât know, like Iâve lost it.â
âYou havenât lost anything,â he says, his voice sharp again, like heâs trying to pull you back from the edge. âOne bad routine doesnât erase everything youâve worked for. Youâve been down before, and youâve come back stronger every time. This is no different.â
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.
âI justâ I donât know how to fix it,â you say, your voice cracking. âI felt like everything was slipping away out there, like no matter what I did, I couldnât get it right.â
âThatâs your head talking,â he replies. âYou need to get out of your own way. Itâs not about being perfect; itâs about finding that zone where you stop thinking and just skate. You know how to do that. Youâve done it a thousand times.â
You want to believe him, but the doubt clings to you like a shadow. âWhat if I canât? What if I mess up again?â
âThen you get up again,â he says simply. âThatâs the only way forward.â
You lean back against the pillows, closing your eyes and trying to steady your breath. You know heâs right, deep down. But right now, it feels impossible to shake the disappointment and the fear. âOkay,â you say, even though it doesnât feel okay. âIâll try.â
âThatâs all Iâm asking,â he says, and for a moment, his tone is almost gentle. âGet some rest tonight, clear your head. Tomorrowâs another day.â
You nod, even though he canât see it. âYeah. Thanks, coach.â
âHang in there, kid,â 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 themâthe way they make it look so easy, so natural.
But you know it isnât. You know the hours, the pain, the sacrifices that go into making it look that way. Youâve lived it, day in and day out. And as much as you want to curl up and shut the world out, thereâs 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. Thereâs 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. âAnd thereâs Crosby with yet another goalâwhat an incredible start for Team Canada. Their chemistry on the ice is flawless, and theyâre looking unstoppable.â
The camera zooms in on Sidneyâs face, beaming as heâs mobbed by his teammates. Thereâs that calm, confident look youâve seen so many times before, the look of someone whoâs 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, heâs perfect. Of course, everything falls into place for him. While youâre stuck in this hotel room, replaying every mistake you made, Sidneyâs out there doing what he always doesâwinning. 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 announcersâ voices swell again. âCrosbyâs vision is unmatchedâhe makes it look effortless. The chemistry and connection he has with his teammates are just on another level.â
You feel the knot in your stomach twist tighter. Itâs not that you begrudge him his success; heâs worked hard for it, and you know how much pressure heâs under. But right now, itâs like every moment of his triumph is rubbing salt in your wounds. It feels personal, like the universe is reminding you of how far youâve fallen, how badly youâve failed.
And the worst part is, you canât get his face out of your head. The way he looked at you after your routineâhis expression soft, the same reassuring look heâs 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 youâre drowning in your own defeat, it only makes the ache worse.
The camera zooms in again, catching Sidney in a post-game interview. Heâs all smiles, his helmet still perched on his head, hair damp with sweat but eyes bright and full of that competitive fire youâve always admired. âItâs great to start the tournament off strong,â he says, his voice full of confidence. âThe guys have been working hard, and itâs awesome to see it pay off on the ice. Weâre just taking it one game at a time, but weâre feeling good.â
The reporters laugh, clearly enamored with him, and you canât help but scowl. Itâs so easy for him to stand there and say that, to talk about feeling good when everything is going right. When he hasnât been the one to crash and burn on the worldâs biggest stage.
Your fingers dig into the comforter as the segment continues, showing highlights from the locker roomâSidney laughing with his teammates, high-fiving, all smiles and celebration. They look relaxed, like theyâre already sure of their place in the finals. And why wouldnât they be? Theyâve 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. Itâs not fair. Youâve 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 youâre being unfair. Sidney was nothing but kind to you earlier. But you canât help itâthe 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. âWhy canât I just be better?â you whisper to the empty room, the words cracking in your throat. âWhy canât I be like him?â
You know thereâs no answer, and thatâs the hardest part. You know that no amount of hard work or preparation can guarantee perfection. Youâve been told your whole life that you have to fight for what you want, that success doesnât come without failure. But in this moment, it all feels so hopeless, like youâre swimming against an unstoppable current and no matter how hard you kick, youâre 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 homeâmaybe your mom or your sister, someone whoâll tell you that itâs okay, that one bad skate doesnât define you.
But when you check, itâs 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. Itâs 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 Sidneyâs perfect smile and the sound of the crowd chanting his name. But it doesnât help.
No matter what you do, it feels like youâre stuck in a loop, replaying your mistakes and wondering why, for once, you couldnât have been the one with the perfect routine, the one who had everything fall into place.
Then, that familiar mantra repeats in your mind. Iâm not gonna let Crosby win.
âDamn right,â you whisper to yourself as you lay back in the hotel bed.
âââ
The alarm blares, pulling you out of a restless sleep. You groggily reach over and shut it off, squinting at the clockâ4:00 a.m. The room is dark, and the cold air bites at your skin as you push yourself out of bed. Youâve always been an early riser, but today is different. Itâs not just about getting ahead of the competition; itâs 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 hasnât woken up yet. And maybe thatâs a good thing. Maybe thatâs what you needâa 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 routineâedges, spins, quick footwork. The movements feel stiff at first, but you push through, repeating them until your body remembers how itâs 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 itâs getting worse.
Your frustration builds, and before you know it, youâre skating full speed into your program. You launch into the combination sequence that tripped you up yesterday, determination burning in your veins. Itâs messyâyour timingâs off, your landings shakyâbut you keep going, pretending that if you just push hard enough, you can force it to be perfect.
You donât even realize how hard youâre 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. âWhatâs wrong with me?â you whisper to yourself, your voice echoing in the silence.
Just as youâre about to push off for another round, you hear a voice that makes you freeze. âUp early, huh?â
You whip around, and there he isâSidney Crosby, leaning against the boards, still in his sweats. His hair is messy, and thereâs a slight grin on his face like he knows heâs interrupting something private. You feel your stomach drop, the annoyance already bubbling up. Of all the people to show up at this hour.
âYeah, well, some of us need the extra practice,â 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. âI figured as much,â he says, his voice annoyingly relaxed. âSaw the lights on and thought Iâd come check it out.â
You glare at him, your grip tightening on the edge of the rink. âWell, youâve checked it out. Congratulations. You can leave now.â
But he doesnât move. Instead, he pushes off the boards and steps closer, resting his arms casually. âYou know, beating yourself up like this isnât going to help.â
âOh, thanks for the tip, Coach.â You canât help the sarcasm that drips from your words, your fists clenching at your sides. âIâm sure youâve had so many moments where you just sucked and needed to figure out how to get it back together.â
He tilts his head, and you see a flicker of something in his eyes, but it only makes your annoyance grow. âActually, yeah,â he says, his tone softer now. âIâve had plenty of bad games. Plenty of times where I felt like I was completely off. It happens to everyone.â
You roll your eyes, looking away. âNot like this. You donât know what itâs like to feel like everything youâve worked for is slipping through your fingers.â
âMaybe not exactly like this,â he admits, and for a moment, you hear genuine understanding in his voice. âBut I get it. The pressure, the expectationsâeveryone watching, waiting for you to mess up or be perfect. Itâs not easy.â
You want to tell him to stop, that his sympathy isnât what you need right now. But the more he talks, the more it feels like heâs seeing right through you, and that makes you feel exposed, vulnerable. âI donât need a pep talk, Sidney. I just need to work.â
âYeah? And howâs that going?â he challenges, gesturing to the rink. âYou think pushing yourself like this is going to fix everything?â
âI donât know,â you snap. âBut what else am I supposed to do? Sit around and watch the highlights of you and your perfect team?â
His face darkens, and he sighs, running a hand through his hair. âLook, Iâm not here to rub anything in. I justâI saw you, and I wanted to make sure you were okay.â
âWell, Iâm not,â you admit, the words coming out harsher than you intend. âIâm not okay, and I donât need you pretending to care. I justââ 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 elseâmaybe concern, maybe understanding. âYou donât have to do this alone, you know,â he says quietly. âYouâre not the only one who struggles.â
But you donât want to hear it. Not from him. Not right now. âJust leave me alone, Sidney. Please.â
For a moment, it looks like he might argue, but then he nods, the disappointment clear on his face. âFine,â he says, stepping back. âBut if you ever need someone to talk to, you know where to find me.â
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 Sidneyâs eyes and the feeling that, for once, maybe youâve pushed the wrong person away.
âââ
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 todayâeveryone 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 youâve been working on still feels rough around the edges, and the more you practice it, the more you feel the lingering frustration. You canât afford to fall apart again, not this close to competition.
As you glide toward the boards, planning to get some advice from your teamâs 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.
âCoach?â 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. âHeard you were having some trouble,â he says, not wasting a second. âFigured Iâd come see it for myself.â
You feel a mix of relief and irritation. Relief because thereâs no one who knows your skating as well as he does. Irritation because, of all times, why now? âI didnât ask you to come,â you say, trying to sound tough, but it comes out weaker than you want.
âI know you didnât.â He steps onto the ice, his skates making that satisfying scratch against the surface. âBut you clearly need it.â He gestures for you to come over, and despite everything, you find yourself obeying, gliding toward him like youâre fifteen again and still trying to impress him.
âYouâre skating like youâve got bricks tied to your feet,â he says bluntly, and you bristle. âI watched the tape, and honestly, itâs like youâre holding back. Why?â
âIâm not holding back,â you argue, feeling the defensive flare rise in your chest. âI justââ You pause, swallowing hard. âItâs the pressure. Everything feels off.â
He gives you a knowing look, one that makes you feel seen and called out all at once. âPressure isnât new for you, kid. Youâve handled it before. The only difference now is youâre letting it get in your head.â
You want to argue, to tell him that itâs 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. âOkay, fine. Maybe I am in my head,â you admit.
He nods, satisfied with your honesty. âGood. Now letâs get you out of it.â He claps his hands together. âStart from the top. Show me the routine.â
You go through the motions, running through your routine as he watches with that critical eye heâs always had. He doesnât 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 wasnât your best. You land off balance, your arms not quite in the right position, and the frustration hits you like a wave. âI canâtââ you start, but Ramirez cuts you off.
âStop,â he says, holding up a hand. âYouâre hesitating. Every time you go for a jump, youâre thinking too hard about sticking the landing. You canât think. You just have to trust your training.â
He skates up to you, his eyes meeting yours. âWeâre going to break it down. One section at a time. And when you hit that jump, you commit to it like itâs the last thing youâre ever going to do.â
You nod, taking a deep breath. Itâs been so long since youâve had someone push you like this, and even though itâs tough love, thereâs 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 youâre sweating and your legs are burning from the repetition.
âNow, the jump,â he instructs, standing back a few feet. âNo hesitation.â
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 donât think about the landingâyou 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.
âThatâs it!â Coach shouts, and you feel a surge of triumph. âThatâs the skater I know.â
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, youâre panting but smiling for the first time in days.
Coach skates over, nodding in approval. âThere you go. Youâve still got it. Just had to get out of your own way.â
You nod, feeling the weight lift off your shoulders. âThanks, Coach,â you say, and you mean it.
He grins, clapping you on the shoulder. âDonât mention it. Just go out there and show them what youâre made of. You know youâre better than what you showed the other day.â
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 youâre finally skating the way you know you can. The nerves are still there, but theyâre manageable, and you feel like youâre reclaiming your rhythm.
Maybe youâre not back completely, but for the first time in days, you feel like youâre heading in the right direction. And that, more than anything, gives you hope.
âââ
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. Youâve 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 changesâexcept 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, youâre 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 todayâyour eyes are sharp, focused, determined. Youâve 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. Youâve been in big competitions before; this is no different. Itâs just another routine. Youâll hit it like you always do.
As youâre stretching in the corner, lacing up your skates, a familiar voice calls out from behind you.
âLooking sharp.â
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.
âOf course,â you reply, your voice low and even. âIâm ready for this.â
Sidney steps closer, leaning down slightly to meet your gaze. âYouâve got this. Donât let anyone get into your head today, okay?â
You nod, feeling the confidence surge in your veins. âI wonât.â
But as you finish tying your laces and stand up, somethingâsomeoneâcatches 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.
âAw, look whoâs here,â she says, her accent heavy as she steps off the ice, making her way toward you. âI thought youâd be smarter than to show up here. You must love embarrassing yourself on the world stage.â
Your heart skips a beat as you register her words, your jaw clenching. For a second, itâs like a hot flame flickers in your chest, spreading through your veins. You know better than to engageâthis is a mental game, and sheâs 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.
âExcuse me?â you snap, your voice low and dangerous, but before you can take another step, a firm hand grips your arm.
Itâs Sidney. He pulls you back, his expression calm but stern, as if heâs reading every thought running through your mind. âLet it go,â 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. Sidneyâs grip on your arm doesnât loosen until you take a slow breath.
âSheâs not worth it,â 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. Heâs right. Sheâs baiting you. And as much as you want to prove a point, this isnât the time. Not now.
You let out a sharp breath, forcing yourself to relax. âFine,â you say, your voice cold as ice, but you turn away from the smirking skater, following Sidneyâs 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 youâre far from the other skaterâs gaze, and only then does he finally let go.
âYou alright?â he asks, his voice softer now, his eyes searching yours for any sign of lingering anger.
You nod, but the fire in your chest hasnât fully burned out. âI almost lost it back there.â
âI know.â Sidney sighs, running a hand through his hair. âSheâs just trying to get in your head. Donât give her that power.â
You nod again, taking in a deep breath and forcing your mind to focus. Sidneyâs right, and you know it. You canât let anyone throw you off your game today, especially not someone whoâs already threatened by you. Sheâs scaredâthatâs why she said what she did. You can sense it now.
âIâll be fine,â you say, finally feeling the confidence return. âThanks for stopping me.â
Sidney smiles softly, his eyes filled with a quiet understanding. âAnytime. Now go out there and show them why you belong here.â
You feel the weight lift slightly from your shoulders, and as you head back toward the rink, you feel that calm determination return. The fireâs still there, but this time, itâs focused. Youâre 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 nowâthe 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. Itâs as if the weight of months of preparation, of early mornings and late nights, presses down on your shoulders. But youâre not buckling under it. Youâre 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 driftsâjust for a secondâacross 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. Sheâs one of the bestâhell, you know that. But itâs the way sheâs staring at you, like sheâs already counted you out, that makes something snap inside you.
You meet her eyes, and for a heartbeat, neither of you look away. Thereâs a flicker of judgment there, a cruel glint in her eyes that says she doesnât believe in you. But instead of breaking you, it ignites something fierce in your chest. The fire from earlier flares up, but this time, itâs controlled, burning with a steady, focused heat. If she thinks you're going to falter under her scrutiny, sheâs dead wrong.
You shift your focus back to the ice, feeling your breathing steady. You let her condescending expression fuel you. Today, youâll give her a performance so perfect, sheâll 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. Itâs not just muscle memoryâitâs 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 quicklyâa 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 donât feel like a burdenâthey feel like power, like fuel thatâs pushing you faster, sharper.
As you glide into your next combination jump, a triple toe loop-double axel, you catch a glimpse of her againâthe Russian skater, still watching you, her expression unreadable now. You wonder if sheâs realizing that youâre 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. Thereâs 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 donât 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, thereâs 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 thereâs something else tooâa spark of mischief. You pass by herâthe Russian skaterâstanding 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 donât 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. Itâs not subtle, and you make sure itâs clear who itâs for. The boldness of the gesture sends a jolt of thrill through you. Itâs petty, itâs catty, but damn, it feels good. You donât 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. âThat was incredible,â he says, his voice low with admiration as you slip off your skates.
âI know,â you reply, your breath still catching up to the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You canât help but throw another glance toward the Russian skater, whoâs still staring after you, no longer smirking.
Sidney chuckles when he catches your look. âDid you really blow her a kiss?â
âOf course,â you say with a laugh, unbothered. âI mean, someone had to put her in her place.â
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 thatâs 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 thatâs 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. âYou were incredible out there,â he repeats, his eyes bright with pride. His grin, that cocky confidence thatâs so quintessentially him, makes you feel a surge of warmth. Thereâs 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.
âThanks,â you manage, your voice breathless but light, and you meet his gaze, feeling a smile tug at your lips. âI felt it. Everything just⊠clicked.â
Sidney nods, his hand gently squeezing your shoulder. âIt showed. That last jump? Nailed it. And that spin? Pure magic.â His grin widens. âAnd the kiss at the end? Bold move. But hey, if anyone deserves to be a little petty, itâs you after that performance.â
You laugh, the tension from the performance finally starting to melt away. âYou know, it wasnât planned, but she justâŠâ You glance back toward the other skater, whoâs now talking to her coach with a tight expression on her face. The same smugness she wore earlier has evaporated. ââŠshe pissed me off,â you finish, shaking your head. âI wasnât gonna let her get in my head.â
Sidney gives you a knowing look, his eyes sparkling with amusement. âThatâs the spirit. You didnât just show her upâyou owned the ice. Sheâll be thinking about that kiss for a long time.â
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 youâre 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.
âHere we go,â he murmurs.
The scores start rolling inâtechnical, artistic, executionâand theyâre good. Really good. The kind of scores that make your heart skip a beat, that tell you everything you need to know.
Youâve done it. Youâve not only secured a personal best, but youâve 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 canât help the laugh that escapes you, a mix of relief and joy. Itâs overwhelming in the best way possible, the weight of all your hard work crashing down on you. You feel Sidneyâs hand slip into yours, a squeeze of congratulations, and you turn to him with a beaming smile.
âSee?â he says, his voice thick with pride. âTold you.â
You shake your head in disbelief, glancing back at the ice, as if you need to see it again to believe it. âI knew I could do it, but⊠seeing it up there, hearing them cheer like thatâŠâ You trail off, emotions swirling in your chest.
Sidney doesnât let you stay in that awe-struck moment for too long, though. He smirks and nudges your shoulder playfully. âSo, whatâs next? Gonna blow more kisses at the competition?â
You roll your eyes, but the grin stays plastered on your face. âMaybe Iâll save that for when I win gold.â
He chuckles, shaking his head. âYouâll have to up your game for that.â
âYou think?â you tease, arching a brow.
He leans in, his voice low and teasing, âMaybe save a kiss for me when you do.â
His words send a warm flush up your neck, but you manage to keep your composure, glancing sideways at him. âOh, you think you deserve one, huh?â
Sidney flashes you a grin, leaning back with that easy confidence. âIf anyoneâs getting a victory kiss, it should be me. I did keep you from tearing someoneâs head off this morning.â
You laugh, unable to argue with him on that one. âYouâve got a point.â
Before you can say more, your coach approaches, eyes gleaming with pride, and youâre pulled into a round of congratulations. The victory, the adrenaline, the applauseâitâs all so surreal. Youâve done it, and as you sit there, surrounded by your team, Sidneyâs presence grounding you amidst the whirlwind of excitement, you realize just how far youâve come.
But thereâs something else. Something that lingers in your chest, stronger now than itâs ever been. This wasnât 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 Sidneyâs gaze once more. Thereâs a look in his eyesâsomething deeper, something that tells you heâs proud of more than just your performance. Heâs proud of you.
And in that moment, with the weight of your accomplishment settling in, you know that this is only the beginning. Thereâs more to comeâmore competitions, more challengesâbut right now, youâre 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.
Sidneyâs eyes widen in surprise, but his smile is immediate, warm. âTold you Iâd get one,â he teases, though thereâs a touch of tenderness in his tone.
You laugh, shaking your head. âDonât get used to it.â
But as the two of you walk away from the rink, the roar of the crowd still echoing in the background, you know deep downâthis is only the beginning of something even bigger.
âââ
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. Youâre still riding the high from your performance, your mind replaying every step, every leap, and that perfect kiss at the endâboth 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 everyoneâs heads swivel toward it. You donât 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 announcerâs voice booms, and your head snaps up.
âWait, is that aboutââ
âYup,â your teammate grins, elbowing you in the ribs. "Theyâre 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 commentatorsâ voices narrate over the footage, practically salivating over the drama of it all.
âIt wasnât just her skill that had the crowd roaring,â one of them says with a chuckle. âThat was a statement, folks. The kiss at the end was dripping with attitude. Itâs all anyoneâs talking about. People are calling it the âkiss seen âround the worldâ already!â
âNot to mention, did you see who she was aiming that at?â the other commentator adds with a laugh. âThat wasnât just a kiss for the audienceâthat was personal. Our sources are buzzing with rumors about the tension between her and the Russian favorite, and this just confirmed it.â
âDefinitely adding some heat to the competition. This is shaping up to be a rivalry for the ages.â
The camera cuts to the Russian skater, her expression still cool and composed, though thereâs an undeniable tightness to her posture, a simmering frustration just below the surface. Itâs clear to anyone watching that your little display got to her.
âWhooo! Sheâs probably seething,â one of your teammates laughs, tossing her head back. âYou really got under her skin with that one.â
The room fills with laughter and playful jabs, your teammates leaning into the cattiness of the moment. Youâre not one to shy away from a little drama when itâs warranted, but you canât help but roll your eyes, pretending to be above it allâeven though a small part of you secretly loves it.
"Yeah, yeah, it was a moment,â you say, waving them off with a smirk. âItâs not that serious.â
âOh, come on,â another teammate pipes up, sitting across from you. âYou know that was the most iconic thing to happen all day. The commentators are practically obsessed with you now.â
You grin, unable to help yourself, but then you hear itâthe kiss. The real kiss.
"And speaking of kissesâŠ" the commentatorâs voice lowers conspiratorially, as if heâs about to deliver some juicy gossip. âWeâve got some footage from after the routine thatâs definitely got people talking."
Your heart skips a beat. They couldnât 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 filmâthe 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. âOhhh, no way!â someone shouts. âThey caught that!â
The commentatorâs voice returns, sly and teasing. âLooks like our gold-medal hopeful isnât just a fierce competitor on the iceâthereâs clearly something going on off it as well. A little victory kiss for someone special?â
âIs that Sidney Crosby?â the other commentator jumps in, clearly trying to contain his excitement. âIt is! Iâm calling it now: the hottest couple of the Olympics.â
Your face flushes red, and your teammates lose it. The locker room turns into a frenzy of laughter, teasing, and playful shouts.
âOh my God, youâre in the tabloids now!â one of them cackles, clutching her sides. âTheyâre going to eat this up!â
"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 canât help the smile creeping across your lips. You knew this was comingâSidney is a massive deal, and your relationship was bound to catch the mediaâs eye at some pointâbut having it aired like this, right after one of the most important performances of your life? It feels like a lot.
âThat was a cheek kiss, people,â you say, voice muffled as you shake your head. âItâs not a big deal.â
"Sure, not a big deal at all," your teammate mimics in a high-pitched voice. âJust a cheek kiss with Sidney Crosby, no biggie.â 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 canât help but wander back to Sidney. The way his cheek had felt warm against your lips, the way heâd smiled at you like you were the only person in the room. The commentators could speculate all they wantedâonly you and Sidney knew what was really going on.
âWell,â one of your teammates says, pointing at the screen, âwhether you like it or not, the worldâs got its new favorite Olympic couple. Youâre officially a thing.â
You raise an eyebrow, your lips quirking into a smirk. "Guess that means Iâll have to win gold now, doesnât it?"
The room bursts into cheers and whoops, and even though youâre 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 kissâboth kissesâwere 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 canât help but wonder what heâs thinking, whether heâs amused by all the media buzz or quietly rooting for you to rise above the chaos, like he always does.
âââ
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 youâre thriving in it. Youâve hit your strideâthe moment where everything just clicks. The routines youâve practiced for years feel effortless, like second nature, and every time you step on the ice, the crowd roars just a little louder.
Youâve gone from being an underdog to the one everyoneâs talking aboutâthe name on every commentator's lips. Theyâre calling you a "generational talent" now, comparing you to the legends of the sport. Itâs surreal.
At every competition, you push yourself further. Your performances are more than just technical masteryâtheyâre 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 youâve taken control of the narrative. Itâs not just about your skating anymore; itâs 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. Theyâve dubbed you "The Queen of Ice"âa title that feels daunting but fitting. Youâre skating with a newfound confidence, and your momentum is undeniable. Itâs almost like youâre 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 thatâs impossible to ignore. The headlines are full of glowing reports about how the team is clicking, playing like a well-oiled machine, and Sidneyâs name is front and center. Every game, heâs putting on a clinic, and just like you, people are starting to use the word legendary.
Itâs 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 courseâevery 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 youâve learned to tune it out.
Still, itâs hard not to feel proud when you see your name in another headline. Itâs not just about the gossip or the hypeâitâs about what youâre doing. Youâre succeeding at the highest levels of your sport and youâve worked your whole lives for this moment, and now, youâre in it. Living it.
Youâre 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 Sidneyâs been playing.
"Another incredible game from Crosby," one announcer says, his voice full of admiration. "The guy is playing out of his mind. Heâs always been good, but this? This is something else."
âYeah,â another commentator adds, shaking his head in disbelief. âIf he keeps this up, thereâs no doubt theyâll be in the finals. And honestly? I donât see anyone beating them.â
One of your teammates nudges you, grinning. âYou hear that? Your boy is killing it out there.â
You laugh, shaking your head as you felt a flush rise in your cheeks. âHe's not my boy, shut up.â
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.
âLook at that,â the commentator gushes. âSheâs redefining whatâs possible on the ice. Itâs not just about her technical skillâitâs the way she connects with the audience. Sheâs performing at a level we havenât seen in years. You can see it in the way she movesâthe confidence, the passion. She knows sheâs the best right now, and sheâs skating like it.â
Your teammates break out into cheers, some of them even clapping. You hide your face in your hands, half-embarrassed, half-proud.
âOkay, okay, calm down,â you say, laughing. âItâs just one performance.â
One of your teammates smirks. âNah, sweetheart, youâve had like ten of those just one performances. Own it.â
You lean back, still smiling, but your mind wanders for a second. All the attention, all the pressureâitâs a lot. But then you think about Sidney, how he handles everything with such grace and focus. Youâve watched him lead his team to victory after victory, never letting the noise get to him. Itâs 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 Sidneyâs name.
Sidney: Saw the kiss thing on TV again. Apparently weâre the new "it couple."
You canât help but smile. You ignore the weird butterflies that begin forming in your stomachâit's just Sidney.
You: Oh, so now youâre famous because of me, huh?
Sidney: Obviously. Also, everyoneâs calling you the GOAT now. When are you going to start teaching me how to skate?
You: Iâm already teaching you how to win.
Thereâs a pause before his next text, and you can practically hear him laughing through the screen.
Sidney: TouchĂ©. But seriouslyâyouâre killing it. Proud of you.
You stare at the screen, his words sinking in. Itâs 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 expectantlyâyou immediately regret it.
âOh, shut up!â
#sidney crosby#sidney crosby smut#sidney crosby x reader#sidney crosby imagine#sidney crosby fic#sidney crobsy#nhl imagine#nhl#nhl fic#hockey#nhl fanfiction#nhl oneshot#hockey fic#nhl imagines#nhl angst#nhl players#pittsburgh penguins#hockey imagine
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Yâall need to understand what gender neutral actually means. Saying âThis fic is gender neutral and there are no pronouns or descriptors usedâ then using âpretty girlâ or âthatâs my girlâ immediately after is NOT gender neutral! Stay out of our spaces if you canât respect us.
#gender neutral x reader#daryl dixon x gn!reader#simon riley x gn reader#daryl dixon x reader#simon riley x reader#ace x reader#joel miller x reader#joel miller x gn!reader#spy x reader#sniper x reader#eustass kid x reader#kid x reader#killer x reader#thomas hewitt x reader#crocodile x reader#mihawk x reader#cod x gn!reader#star wars x reader#crosshair x reader#jacob seed x reader#Jacob seed x gn!reader#arthur morgan x gn!reader#arthur morgan x reader#leon kennedy x reader#leon kennedy x gn!reader#michael myers x reader#the penguin x reader#levi ackerman x reader#levi ackerman x gn!reader#vikhor kuzmin x reader
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pov: your swag fun moves (doing crazy things on missions) cannot be handled by this man
#trafalgar d water law#bepo one piece#hakugan one piece#one piece#trafalgar law#ikkaku one piece#heart pirates#penguin one piece#shachi one piece#law x you#law x reader#trafalgar d law x reader#although he's mad at you but oh well lol#it's supposed to be a fake screenshot but I got tired of copying the style lmao#doodlesart
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iceberg lounge proprietor jason who keeps your favorite snacks in his office for the nights when you come to work with him and get tired of the club's chaos and just wanna hang out in the back. if you're in the mood for something else and he's too busy to take you home, he sends one of his assistants to pick it up or doordashes it to the club for you. he gets a minifridge for your favorite drinks/ice cream (i hc he's a moosetracks kinda man). one night he drinks one of your strawberry lemonades or whatever and it stains his tongue and lips pink but he doesn't notice and no one knows how to tell him because he's scary so everyone's just giving him weird looks and he doesn't know why. then he goes back to his office where you're hanging out and you look at him and burst out laughing. then he starts keeping a toothbrush in his office too.
other things he keeps in his office for you for when you visit:
blanket
makeup wipes (if you wear makeup) /face wipes
slippers for if you wear heels and your feet get tired
noice cancelling headphones - he also uses these when he's working and feels anxious/overwhelmed
your preferred lip balm - another thing he helps himself to, partially because he needs it, partially because it tastes like you
spare sweatshirt
books you like in case u get bored
first-aid kit, but that's for you to use on him when the club's side hustle gives him trouble
and he has at least one framed picture of you on his desk duhhhhhh!!!!!!!
condomsWHO SAID THAT
jason is a GIVER and a PROVIDER and he shows his love through ACTIONS he loves SPOILING you
#iceberg jason#now i'm craving moosetracks damn#jason todd#jason todd x reader#red hood#dc comics#dc robin#dcu#robin#prince of gotham#iceberg lounge#the penguin#red hood x reader#arkham knight#jason todd my <3
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being a slut and mentally ill means iâd do really well as a patient in arkham asylum
#iâm shy so give me a week to get comfortable and itâs all hands on deck for me babe#i could be insane in peace đ„°#i mean i also know arkham asylum is like not that great but in my head iâd thrive there#therapy sessions just me hooking up with jonathan crane#harley quinn being my wife#jonathan crane x reader#scarecrow x reader#harley quinn x reader#jerome valeska x reader#victor zsasz x reader#riddler x reader#ed nygma x reader#oswald cobblepot x reader#penguin x reader#joker x reader#poison ivy x reader#arkham asylum#gotham#dc comics#dc characters
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Penguin Y/N being a gremlin and scaring everyone cause apparently Penguins have these, flesh tendrils in their mouths that look like teeth?
HOW H.H. CAST REACT TO PEGUINâS READER MOUTH:
Penguin y/n has definitely flashed them on someone trying to harass the castđ. Itâs like that crawfish video on where they would have their arms out in a t-pose ass stance and literally âhissâ at them. You do cause slight fear to new sinners who never seen inside of a penguinâs mouth. But hey, at least you get scary pointsđđ
Possibly so Lucifer would be trying to brush the cute penguin reader..but when they opened their mouth he almost passed out. Yes he may be the king of hell, but he as never seen âteethâ like those dear friend.
Alastor âŠhe honestly might not care but make comments on it. Hell he may even stare closely at it as if he had a degree in being a dentist đ. This old timey fucker laughs at the fear you put on peoples faces when they see your teeth
Nifty, âwhat are those?â Sheâs poking your mouth as you quack at her to stop. Sheâs a curious sinner, so she doesnât understand what you are showing her with those fleshyâŠtendrils.
Charlie..ehhh I feel like she would be like âWOAH what the fu-â then quickly, and nervously asks about those fleshy ass teeth. She might also look it up to make sure you can âchewâ. Sheâs just a considerate person đ„č
Vaggie, eh I feel like she would scream âWTF?!â But then calm down when you close your mouth because hey. You donât use them to harm others. Sheâs just shocked.
Angel, the same as vaggie. He probably makes a slight dirty joke but not a lot towards it.
Husk, heâs too drunk to even care. And heâs not sober to even care moređ
Sera, doesnât care. I mean why would she when sheâs busy being a seraphim. No hard feelings but itâs realistic.
Adam, âWHAT IN GODâS NAME IS THAT-" he makes freakish ass comments and jokes about it. He probably asked if your so called teeth broke all because of a lollipop. He may be an asshat and even pull one out of his pocketđ
Pentious, poor boy got scared. I mean shit, yeah he was in hell and died again, and went to heaven. But boy did he not know your fleshy tendrils looks disgusting and disturbing. He may say that he suggested you brush your teeth đđ
Emily, thinks theyâre cute! Of course this cinnamon roll isnât scared of the fleshy tendrils. She always sees you as cute little thingâŠ.even if you chomped on her arm she would thank you!
Lastly Lute, doesnât care. Do I have to say it? Sheâs a killer to sinners so of course she ainât scared of some damn fleshy ass teethâŠ
A/N: thatâs all I got for today lol. I might come back to writing for hazbin hotel, not much for helluva boss since I kinda dropped off of that YouTube series. But yeah!
#deadghosy speaksđŠ#hazbin hotel#gn reader#fluff#hazbin hotel x reader#hazbin hotel headcanons#hazbin husk#hazbin alastor#hazbin charlie#hazbin hotel alastor#hazbin headcanons#hazbin hotel adam x reader#hazbin hotel headcanon#penguin reader#hazbin hotel x male reader#hazbin hotel x female reader#hazbin hotle x nonbinary reader#hazbin hotel x penguin reader#hazbin hotel sera#hazbin hotel lucifer x reader#hazbin hotel imagine#hazbin hotel fluff#hazbin hotel x you#hazbin vaggie#hazbin lucifer#hazbin angel dust#hazbin hotel x platonic!reader#hazbin x you#hazbin hotel Emily#hazbin hotel adam
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Relaxed reader.. Heâs already practicing hygge!:) đŻâŁïž
#studyblr#hygge#hygge aesthetic#hyggelife#hyggehome#hyggevibes#pug mom#pugblr#pugsnotdrugs#penguin reader#penguin x reader#reading books#bookblr#book hunting#merry christmas#christmas mood
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Miscellaneous Series Masterlist
Fluff- Penguin Crushes and Smooches- GN!Reader (Surfs Up)
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perfect places | s. crosby

warnings: none? maybe some language
summary: Sidney ends up helping you through the overwhelming world that is hockey gear what was once a shopping trip for your daughter leaves you with something more.
request: Would you be able to write a Sidney Crosby x mom!reader story? Like how she has a kid that maybe is on a little league hockey team and the Penguins go to like a practice or something to help out. Or maybe she out shopping for hockey gear for her kid because they want to do hockey and need the gear? She could maybe looking at equipment and looks a little lost and her comes over and helps.
word count: 9.3k
a/n: back with another for you guys! i hope you enjoy it and once again original requester please don't hesitate to reach out if you hate it or anything! requests remain open and i'm hoping to get a few more out this week!
â
You woke up to tiny feet climbing onto your bed. Not just climbingâlaunching, full-body flopping, elbow-first into your ribs like it was a wrestling match and she had a score to settle. Youâd meant to wake up before her today, but apparently five-year-olds donât care about alarms, or bones, or sleep-deprived parents.
âMom,â she whispered, even though she was nose-to-nose with you. âMommy. You awake?â
âI am now,â you groaned, half-laughing as you peeled one eye open. Her little curls were wild and pointing in five directions, cheeks flushed from sleep, a faint pillow line creasing one of them. She looked like a cartoon character and an angel at the same time.
âI had a dream I scored five goals.â
You blinked at her. âOh yeah?â
âYup. And they gave me a trophy and thenâthen everyone chanted my name. And guess what?â
âWhat?â
âThey were chanting âthe pink rocket.ââ
You blinked again, slower this time. âThe pink rocket?â
She nodded, dead serious. âThatâs my hockey name.â
âWell,â you said, shifting to sit up and gather her into your lap, âI donât know how many pink things they make for hockey but I guess weâre about to find out, huh?â
She gasped. âYouâre going today? To get my stuff?â
You kissed her cheek, already halfway dragging both of you out from under the covers. âYup. After I drop you off. Iâll go right after.â
She cheered and clapped, and then ran full-speed out of the bedroom with a yell of, âI gotta find my pink water bottle! I need it if Iâm gonna be a rocket!â
Your apartment was small but cozy, lived-in. Art made of crayon and washable markers adorned the fridge, and a pair of tiny sneakers were tucked sideways by the door no matter how many times you straightened them. You got her dressed while she told you all about what a good hockey player doesââthey skate fast and they donât fall unless they do it on purposeââand you helped tame her curls into two pigtails.
The morning ended up a mess of cereal crumbs, mismatched socks, and one very determined five-year-old girl who had insisted on packing her own backpack. You didnât have the heart to repack it after she proudly zipped it up and hugged it to her chest like a treasure chest full of secretsâthough youâd caught a glimpse of a doll leg, a half-used glue stick, and what looked suspiciously like the lid to your coffee thermos.
The car ride to school was full of questions you only half-knew how to answer.
âDo you think Iâll need a helmet? What if it has a visor like the cool ones? Can I pick pink tape for the stick? Do you know how to tie skates? Do you think Iâll be able to do the spinny move like the girl in the video?â
You answered what you could.Â
Once you parked outside her school, she kicked her feet impatiently in the backseat while you unbuckled her. The air still had that early fall bite to itâsunny but not warm, brisk enough that you zipped your jacket up halfway as you lifted her from her booster seat. She was a little ball of energy this morning, bouncing as her sneakers hit the sidewalk, her little hand grabbing yours like always, sticky from syrup and too-warm from excitement.
âOkay, letâs go, letâs go,â she said, hopping down. You held her hand all the way up the sidewalk, her backpack bouncing behind her.
At the doors, she turned to you suddenly, eyes wide and hopeful.
âDonât forget my hockey stuff!â
You cupped her cheeks. âI wonât, baby. Iâm going straight to the store after this, I promise.â
Her whole face lit up like you'd just told her she could have candy for dinner. âYouâre gonna go right now?â
âMm-hmm. As soon as you go inside.â
âLook for pink things!â she reminded you. âPink helmet. Pink gloves. And if they donât have pink, purple is okay. So you can see me when I skate. âS importantâ
âPink. Purple. Got it. Anything else?â
She thought hard. âSomething that makes me go zoom.â
You smiled. âIâll see what I can do.â
You bent down and kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then her nose, and she giggled so hard she snorted. Then she hugged you like she always didâtight and with her whole tiny body, fists balled in your jacket.
âBye, Mommy. Love you big like the whole sky.â
Your chest ached in that soft, warm way. âI love you even bigger lovebug.â
She let go and ran into her classroom, waving once over her shoulder before disappearing into the crowd of other small kids with big dreams.
You were about to turn when a familiar voice called, âMorning!â
You looked up to see Miss Lillian, the teacherâs aide, walking toward you. She was in her usual bright-colored sweater and skirt combo, clipboard in hand, warm eyes squinting in the sunlight.
âHey, good morning,â you said, smiling.
âI just had to catch you,â she said, pausing at your side. âYour daughter has not stopped talking about hockey since yesterday. I think weâve heard every version of her âpink rocketâ speech. Twice.â
You groaned playfully. âOh no. Sheâs gotten to you too.â
âOh, itâs adorable,â Lillian laughed. âShe told Mr. Peters that sheâs gonna be the best skaterâeven though sheâs never been on the ice. She said it with her chest. Like a tiny little boss.â
You couldnât help but laugh. âYeah, sheâs got that confidence thing down.â
âI wish I had half of it. But reallyâsheâs just so excited. Itâs really sweet to see. And you know,â Lillian nudged your arm gently, ânot every parent supports that kind of dream. Itâs amazing that youâre doing this with her.â
That made you pause.
âI mean⊠I donât know what Iâm doing,â you admitted. âIâve never even watched a full game of hockey. But she lit up when she saw those kids playing on the street. Then she tried it herself and came home covered in bruises but still smiling. And then she said ice hockey would be safer,â you added, rolling your eyes, âwhich Iâm pretty sure is a lie.â
Lillian laughed. âThatâs some logic, huh?â
âI guess I figured, if it makes her this happyâŠâ You trailed off. âWell, weâll try it. If itâs not for her, weâll sell the gear or donate it.â
âI think youâre doing great,â Lillian said. âShe talks about you all the time, by the way. Always telling the class how her mom can do anything. That youâre like a superhero.â
That gave you pause in a way nothing else had.
You cleared your throat and smiled. âWell. Donât tell her I canât tie skates.â
âYour secretâs safe with me.â
The two of you said goodbye, and you headed back to your car, heart fuller than it had been twenty minutes ago. The day was just starting, and already you felt like youâd run an emotional marathon. Now, you just had to survive your trip to the hockey store without looking like a complete idiot.
You climbed into the car and started the engine, your mental list already formingâhelmet, stick, gloves... was there padding? Skates, obviously. Was there a difference between practice gear and game gear? Did five-year-olds even have games?
After drop-off and a fresh wave of mom-guilt turned motivation, you sat in the driverâs seat of your SUV and Googled: hockey gear for five-year-old Pittsburgh. You stared at the results, rubbed your forehead, and tapped the one that had the most stars and looked the least intimidating.
It was barely 9 a.m. when you pulled into the outdoor shopping complex, the kind of place with cobblestone walkways, faux streetlamps, and fountains that tried to make you forget you were in a strip mall. It was a little too early for it to be crowded yet, and the parking lot was mostly empty except for a few other weekday wanderersâretirees, moms with strollers, maybe someone ducking out of work. When you pulled in, wedging yourself between a massive black pickup truck and what looked like a teenage boyâs first carâdented, bumper stickered, windows covered in sports decals.ïżœïżœ
You killed the engine and sat back for a second, staring out the windshield like maybe someone was going to pop out and tell you exactly what kind of skates you needed to buy for a five-year-old who claimed her destiny was to be the pink rocket.
But no one came. Just the pigeons. One strutted past the front of your car like he owned the place.
You stepped out into the cool morning air, shouldered your bag, and told yourself: Youâve done scarier things. Like kindergarten registration. And that one ER visit when she swallowed a Barbie shoe.
Pretzel first.
The pretzel stand was exactly where you remembered it, sandwiched between the upscale candle store and a clothing store that made too-expensive clothes. You ordered a hot soft pretzel with extra salt and a small lemonade, then stood off to the side of the kiosk while you ate, people-watching like it was a competitive sport.
Then you wandered for a bit, peeking into a few small shops near the entrance. A kidsâ boutique caught your eyeâwall-to-wall sports-themed onesies and toddler sweatpants. You picked up a pair of fuzzy black-and-gold leggings with tiny hockey sticks on them and held them up to your chest with a grin.
âSheâd love these,â you murmured aloud, imagining her in them with her pink boots and that crooked little smile she gave when she felt cute.
You took your time. That was part of the luxury of the day: no schedule, no appointments, no other human being asking you to wipe something sticky. Just this.
âOkay,â you said out loud as you stepped back onto the walkway and stared down the main stretch of stores. âLetâs do this.â
The gear shop was tucked at the end of the row, right before a smoothie place. It didnât look intimidating from the outsideâjust a wide front with a logo in clean, white lettering. But the second you stepped inside, it was clear: this place meant business.
You gave yourself a pep talk as you zipped your jacket higher. Youâre a mom. You birthed a whole child. Youâve survived teething. You can survive shopping for hockey gear.
It was big. Bigger than you expected. Ceiling fans turned slowly above rows of merchandise. Hockey sticks were stacked upright like rows of bamboo, lining one side of the shop. Helmets, skates, and pads were displayed like military gear. You let your eyes drift over the walls, which were covered in team memorabilia. Penguins jerseys in every variation, from current players to legends. You recognized Crosbyâs #87 and Malkinâs #71 without even needing to check the names. Your kid had already pointed them out on YouTube clips. There was a whole display in the corner dedicated to Mario Lemieux, complete with a signed photo and a stick in a glass case.
You made a noise in your throat. âOkay⊠wow.â
There were two adults behind the front counter, both looking mid-thirtiesâone was chatting with the other, who was scrolling something on a tablet. Nearby, two teenagers stood kind of awkwardly by a wall of gloves and elbow pads, looking like they didnât quite know what to do with themselves.
First, you took a lap around the store. Not straight to the gear. That felt too overwhelming. Instead, you let yourself drift through the aisles, fingers brushing along soft sweatshirts and team scarves, scanning everything slowly. A few shoppers milled around, mostly adultsâprobably parents or weekend league players. A couple of them wore Penguins jackets like they were uniforms, heads down, hyper-focused.
You wandered through the adult section, noting sizes and prices, grateful you werenât here for full pads or whatever gear adult men needed. Some of the gloves looked like medieval armor.
You passed the stick wallâintimidating and enormousâand casually avoided the skates. Not yet. Not today. You werenât emotionally stable enough for that.
Okay. Helmet, skates, pads... stick. Gloves? Socks? What the hell do kids wear under this stuff? Pink. Sparkly. Maybe a bag? Definitely a water bottle? Did kids her age even wear mouthguards?
Eventually, you made your way to the kidsâ section, tucked just beyond the display of goalie masks. You stopped short when you saw it.
Little jerseys. So many of them.
Little shirts, toddler-sized jerseys, beanies so small they could fit a doll. You stopped and ran your fingers over one of the sweatshirts on a low rackâit was gray with a soft fleece lining and a Penguins logo in a bubbly font across the front. You thumbed through them slowly, smiling to yourself as you passed Crosby, Malkin, Rust. And thenâ
âOh my god,â you whispered, pulling out a Letang #58.
Your daughter had randomly pointed to Letangâs photo once and declared him her favorite because âhis hair is like a princess.â The jersey was youth small. A little big, maybe, but she could grow into it.
You added it to your arm. Then picked up a black Penguins t-shirt with a glittery logo. Then a matching beanie, soft and warm and clearly made for kids whoâd lose it within a week. Sheâd probably lose it too. Youâd buy another. That was the cycle.
You stood there, your arm full of black and gold and fleece and tiny dreams, and just⊠took a breath.
You could picture her wearing this stuff. Picture her squealing when she saw it. Picture her running around the apartment pretending to be âthe pink rocket,â yelling âGOAL!â at full volume and slapping invisible high-fives.
With the clothes over your arm you wandered deeper into the section, avoiding the gear wall for now. You weren't ready for shin guards and blade sizes. Not yet. First, let your brain ease into it. Maybe find something pink. Maybe a miracle.
A teenager behind you coughed into his elbow and saidâloud enough to clearly be meant for your earsââUh, the youth sticks are along that back wall⊠if you need help with sizes or anything.â
You turned slightly, caught off guard, and smiled. âThanks.â
He nodded like heâd done his part and resumed awkwardly re-aligning a row of mouthguards.
You wandered back toward the front counter. The older man looked up and offered a quick nod as you approached. âYou find everything okay?â
You gave him a sheepish little smile. âSort of. I was wondering if someone could help me with... the actual gear part?â You adjusted your grip on the sweatshirt and jersey. âMy daughterâs attempting to start playing hockey. Sheâs five. I have no idea what Iâm doing.â
That got a chuckle out of the person beside him. âWe get that a lot,â she said, friendly enough. âYouâre gonna want to check out the back left cornerâyouth gear section. Weâve got starter kits, different levels, and some sizing charts posted on the wall. One of the kids can help you if you need it.â
You glanced over your shoulder toward the two teenagers. One of them now had a helmet on sideways and was quoting something that sounded like a bad sports movie. You turned back. âCool. Iâll... go take a look first.â
âYell if you need us,â the man added, already turning back to the computer in front of him.
So you headed toward the corner of the store theyâd mentioned.
And when you got there...
You stared.
Oh god.
It was just... a wall of black and white. Rows of identical looking gearâtiny shoulder pads that looked like robot armor, pants with layers of foam and plastic, shelves stacked with helmets that all looked vaguely like something youâd see in a futuristic prison. Not a speck of pink or sparkle in sight. Not even a pop of color.
Where were the pink things?
You hovered by the start of the wall for a moment, scanning everything. It felt a bit like wandering into an IKEA when you only needed batteries. You were overwhelmed already, and you hadnât even touched a stick yet.
You picked up one of the smallest helmets, turning it over in your hands. Inside it was lined with foam, and there were sizing stickers all around the rim. You read one out loud under your breath. âYouth small. Fits 19 to 20.25 inches... okay.â
You had no idea what your daughterâs head circumference was.
You set it back down. Picked up a different one. Looked almost identical. Set it back down.
There were starter kits in bags, sureâsome marked. You couldnât remember what brand your friend had told you to look for when your daughter first brought up the idea of playing hockey. Something with an animal name? Maybe a bird?Â
You spent the next twenty minutes slowly picking up items, flipping them over, putting them down, walking in small circles around the same display. At some point you realized youâd been holding a single elbow pad for five full minutes, just sort of rubbing your thumb over the seam like it would give you answers.
You picked things up, tried to guess sizes based on your daughterâs height and width (which wasnât much of either), and gently put things back down when you realized you had no clue what the difference was between âyouth smallâ and âtoddler medium.â Every few minutes, youâd pull out your phone to look something upâHow tight should youth hockey skates fit? Whatâs a cage versus a shield?âbut the answers just made you more confused.
You found a pair of pink laces and held them like a victory trophy. One point for Mom.
You were squatting awkwardly by the gloves, holding one up to your own hand and trying to eyeball it, when someone walked past you and reached for a goalie mask off the rack above.
It took you a second to register how silly that was.
Because he was, like... a full-grown man. And that was a tiny-ass goalie mask.
You blinked, looked down at the mask in his hands, then back at him.
You turned your head slightly, curiosity piqued, and said without much thought, âI donât know that thatâll fit you... but Iâm definitely not an expert.â
The man turned, just a little, a soft smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. His voice was low, a little gravelly but warm. âNot for me. One of my teammateâs kids. Iâm just the delivery guy today.â
âAh,â you nodded, feeling your cheeks go warm. âI figured. Unless you were shrinking, and no one told us.â
He chuckled, glancing down at the tiny mask again. âNot yet, but never say never.â
He glanced at the gloves in your hand. âYou doing gear shopping too?â
You nodded, eyes scanning the mask in his hand before flicking back to him. âYeah. Trying. Iâve been here almost an hour and all Iâve really figured out is that everything is black and white and confusing as hell.â
He huffed a quiet laugh. âYeah. Itâs a lot when youâre just starting.â
You smiled, shifting the items in your arms, the jersey slipping and nearly falling. You caught it against your side.
He nodded toward it. âGood choice. Thatâs a popular one.â
You looked at the name again. âYeah? Honestly, I heard her mention him once and it was because she liked his hair, so.â
He smiled againâthis time with something a little more amused behind it. âWell, youâre in Pittsburgh, so yeah. Letangâs kind of a big deal. And heâs got great hair,â then offered his hand. âSid, by the way.â
You reached out to shake his hand, your brain stuttering for half a second. Sid. Sid. Unassuming dark blue tee with faded black jeans. Penguins cap. Goalie mask for a teammateâs kid.
Wait a second.
âIâm... Y/N,â you said, still shaking his hand.
His smile lingered, and there was a subtle, almost imperceptible flicker of recognition in your eyes as the dots started connecting.
You didnât say anything though. You didnât blurt it out or ask for a picture or grill him with questions.
You just smiled.
âWell,â you said softly, âIf you have any rookie shopping tips, Iâm all ears. Because right now, I think Iâm buying two left gloves and possibly an elbow pad meant for a squirrel.â
Sid chuckled, stepping a little closer, a comfortable distance, easy and unpressured. âAlright. Letâs see what youâve got so far,â eyeing the pile in your arms like it was an unsolvable riddle, âwhy donât we start from the topâliterally. Helmet, shoulder pads, gloves, all that. Then work our way down.â
You shifted your items to one arm, then gave him a helpless glance. âLead the way, Captain.â
That earned you another one of his quiet laughs. You followed him a few steps to the wall lined with youth helmets, most of them black, though a couple had red or blue detailing. The sizes were printed along the shelf edgeâYouth Small, Youth Mediumâand behind each, a row of boxed helmets waiting for homes.
âSheâs how old?â he asked, already crouching to one of the lower shelves.
âJust turned five in March. Sheâs about... say, three-foot-eight? Thirty-eight pounds. Sheâs got this mess of curly hair, so the helmet canât be too tight. But alsoâsafety.â
He chuckled, glancing up at you. âRight, no decapitations. Got it.â
You snorted. âIâd like to keep her head attached, yeah.â
Sid picked up a small helmet and turned it over in his hands, fingers checking the inside padding. He handed it to you. âThis oneâs a good brand. Solid protection. Comes with the cage too, which is what sheâll need. Some of them donât, so make sure itâs included if you go with a different one.â
You nodded slowly, already overwhelmed again. âOkay, yeah, that looks... safe?â
He grinned. âVery safe. Want to write it down?â
You blinked. âWhat?â
âYou know,â he said, standing up and dusting his palms off like this was an outdoor project. âIn your notes app. Like an old person. âOne helmet, small, comes with cage.ââ
You rolled your eyes. âWow. Are you always this charming, or is it just for flustered moms trying to buy sports gear?â
âFlustered moms are my specialty,â he said dryly, but his smile gave him away.
Still, you pulled out your phone and opened the notes app, muttering under your breath. âHelmet, small, with a cage, donât let Sid pick on you.â
He leaned over, trying to peek at your screen. âDid you really just write that?â
You snapped the phone shut. âWouldnât you like to know.â
You moved on together, stopping at the shoulder pads next. He pulled a small pair off the rack and held it up in front of you.
âTheseâll probably fit,â he said. âSheâs little, but these are adjustable. You want the shoulder cups to line up obviously, but the important part is the chest plateâit should sit flat, not hanging off her.â
You nodded slowly, inspecting the pads like they were alien technology.
âAnd this isâwhat? For... falling?â
âContact,â he said, grinning. âAnd yeah, falling too. Shoulder bumps, accidental checks. It keeps her chest protected if she takes a puck or a stick. Not that five-year-olds are slinging clappers yet.â
You blinked. âSlinging what now?â
He clarified. âSlapshots.â
You stared.
âHard shots,â he clarified.
âOh. See, you should just say that,â you said, squinting at the pads. âWhy does everything in this sport sound like a 1950s insult?â
He laughedâthis one louder than the others, deep and honestâand you found yourself smiling just from the sound of it.
âOkay, whatâs next, smartass?â you asked.
He guided you through gloves next, letting you try a pair on so you could get a feel for the stiffness. âNew ones are tough to move in,â he explained, âbut theyâll break in after a few practices. You want her fingers to reach the tips, not swimming in there. And if youâre stuck between two sizes, go up. You canât grow into small gear.â
You made another note in your phone and then paused. âIs this the part where I have to pick a stick?â
Sid turned to the bin of youth sticks and rubbed the back of his neck. âYeah, thatâs the fun one.â
âOh god.â
âNo pressure,â he said. âItâs only the most important part.â
You gave him a look. âReally?â
He grinned. âNo. Kind of. Sort of. But not at five.â
You sighed dramatically. âOkay. Here goes nothing.â
He stepped up beside you as you both peered down into the barrel of sticks, most of them barely reaching your waist.
âDoes she shoot left or right?â
You frowned. âShe writes with her right hand, brushes her teeth with it. But she kicks soccer balls with her left foot sometimes. Does that help?â
He winced. âOnly a little.â
You watched him pick up one, then two different sticks, holding them out and comparing them against each other like a bartender choosing between bottles of wine.
âThis oneâs left,â he said, handing it to you. âMore kids start left, even if theyâre right-handed. Itâs weird.â
You turned the stick over, testing the grip.
âLet her try both when you get home,â he added. âDonât cut it until you know which one she prefers.â
âCut it?â
He nodded. âYouâll probably need to trim a few inches. It should hit between her chin and nose when sheâs in skates. Too long and she wonât be able to handle it.â
Your head was spinning again. âIâm writing that down.â
âGood call, Old Lady Notes.â
You flipped him off lightly without looking up from your phone.
You followed Sid over to the youth skates, where he walked you through sizingâtight but not painful, with room to wiggle toesâand pointed out which brands had better ankle support.
âThis is a lot,â you said eventually, âLike... a lot.â
He smiled softly. âIt is. But it gets easier.â
You nodded, watching him now more than the skates. âDid your parents do this for you?â
He leaned against the shelf beside you. âYeah. My dad mostly. But my mom did her fair share of sitting in freezing rinks with coffee and a blanket.â
You smiled. âI should probably start investing in hand warmers now.â
âOh, definitely.â
You let the silence sit for a moment before he glanced at the stuff in your arms again and pointed at the Letang jersey.
âGood pick,â he said. âBut if you want your daughter to win gamesâŠâ
You looked up at him, catching the little smirk on his face.
âOh no.â
He shrugged, not even pretending to be modest. âI dunno. She might have better luck with a Crosby jersey. Not like Iâm a professional or anything.â
You stared at him. âCocky much?â
He chuckled. âWhat? Iâm just saying.â
âYouâre just saying youâre better than Letang?â
He tilted his head. âTangerâs great.â
You raised an eyebrow.
âIâm just better.â
You laughed, full and loud, startling one of the teenagers walking past. âOkay, alright. I guess if I had to pick a role model, the guy personally helping me fit elbow pads isnât the worst choice.â
âI do what I can,â he said with a wink.
You gave him a half-playful sigh and picked up the Letang jersey again. Then slowly, without looking at him, added a Crosby one to the pile. Two jerseys, sheâll be excited regardless.Â
He didnât say anything, just smiled a little to himself and helped you find the right size.
âYouâre either really prepared,â he said, lips twitching, âor sheâs about to be the best-dressed five-year-old in the entire league.â
You grinned. âLook, if sheâs gonna throw elbows, she may as well look cute doing it.â
âBulked up in pink elbow pads,â he said thoughtfully. âTerrifying.â
âExactly.â
You made your way toward the checkout counter, arms full, the jerseys, sweatshirt, t-shirt, a beanieâand the mini stick Sidney insisted every hockey kid needed, sat on top like a cherry on a very expensive sundae, mentally ticking off the grocery list you still had to tackle after this. Apples, chicken, string cheese, enough pasta to keep your tiny enforcer fueled or pre-fueled.Â
Sid followed a few steps behind, still holding the youth goalie mask youâd caught him with earlier. You glanced at it again now, curiosity tugging.
You smiled and nodded toward the youth goalie mask he was still holding, white and pristine and blank. âSo, mystery solved yet? Whatâs that for?â
He held it up a little, letting it catch the light. âItâs for my godson. His birthdayâs next month. Heâs obsessed with goalies. Gonna get it customizedâmask, pads, the whole nine yards.â
You raised an eyebrow, impressed. âThatâs a pretty cool gift.â
Sid shrugged like it was nothing. âHeâs a good kid. Deserves something cool.â
âYou getting his name painted on it or something?â you asked, genuinely curious now.
âThinking about it. His favorite goalie was Lundqvist, but he keeps pretending to be Fleury when he plays in the driveway. So maybe something between the two. Weâll see.â
You grinned at that, setting your items down gently on the counter as the clerk started scanning. âThatâs sweet.â
He gave a small, sheepish shrug. âTrying. Heâs already better in net than I am, so I gotta keep my rep somehow.â
You laughed. The older man behind the counter gave you a friendly nod as he started ringing up the items.
He hesitated for a second like he might say more, then cleared his throat. âHeyâhave you ever heard of the Little Penguins program?â
You paused. âThe what?â
âLittle Penguins,â he repeated. âItâs this thing we run through the team. We usually do Winters but we added Fall on there too. Kids can sign up and get a full set of gear for freeâwell, technically a deposit, but you get it backâand they do learn-to-skate stuff, drills, scrimmages. They get to practice on the ice, even skate with a couple of us players.â
Your mouth parted slightly. âWaitâlike with the Penguins Penguins?â
He nodded. âYeah, the big guys. Usually a few of us show up. Just for fun, nothing formal. But itâs a good way for the kids to dip their toes in without it being overwhelming. Especially for parents who are still learning the ropes.â
You blinked. âThat⊠actually sounds amazing. Why is this the first time Iâm hearing about it?â
âMarketingâs not our strong suit,â he said with a crooked smile. âI think the sign-ups start late summer. July-ish.â
You imagined your daughter, pink helmet and jersey, oversized gloves bouncing at her sides, skating across the ice next to Penguins players like it was a totally normal Tuesday. âOkay, yeah. Thatâs... wow. Iâll definitely think about that.â
He smiled again, and it hit you that he was genuinely pleased you seemed interested. âYou should. Itâs fun. And your daughter sounds like the kind of kid whoâd love it.â
You hummed thoughtfully. âIt actually does sound like something sheâd love. I mean, if thereâs juice boxes involved, Iâm sold.â
He grinned. âIâll make sure they have the pink ones.â
âYou better,â you said. âBut yeah. She would lose her mind.â
âYou say that like itâs a bad thing,â he said, lightly bumping your elbow with his.
âJust the apparel today?â The cashier asked.
âYeah,â you said, glancing at Sid. âApparently I need to go home and take measurements. Like an adult.â
Sid turned to the cashier with a grin. âSheâs doing her homework. Proud of her.â
You swatted his arm lightly, but he just laughed and leaned casually against the edge of the counter.
As the man scanned the Crosby jerseyâSid gave a soft, smug hmm at the soundâas if he hadnât practically forced you to grab it.
The cashier handed you a long receipt and bagged up your stuff, folding the jerseys carefully. You thanked them, then turned back to Sid one last time, tucking your phone back into your coat pocket.
âWell. I should let you get back to your godfatherly duties. And Iâve got to go buy protein-rich snacks for a child who thinks hockey is a personality trait now.â
He laughed. âYouâve got a good one on your hands.â
âI do,â you said, feeling your chest warm a little. âThanks again, by the way. For the help. Seriously. You saved me from panic-buying a full adult-size goalie kit.â
âGlad to be of service,â he said, then added, âHeyâif you end up signing her up for Little Penguins, Iâll probably be there. Come say hi.â
Your hand tightened slightly on the bag handles. âYeah. I just might.â
He gave you a little nod, âKeep me posted. If she joins the Little Pens, I wanna know.â
âI will,â you said, turning toward the door. âIf she scores her first goal, Iâll even make her point to the sky and say itâs for you.â
Sid smiled, shifting the goalie mask to his other hand. âHey, if she ends up falling in love with the game, Iâd say this was a good use of a Friday.â
You nodded.
You watched him for a secondâjust a secondâthen shook your head to yourself with a soft laugh and headed out into the parking lot, the automatic doors sliding shut behind you with a whoosh.
You had groceries to buy. You had gear to organize. You had a daughter to tell about âthis thing called Little Penguins.â
A Few Months LaterâŠ
The rink was loud with the echo of blades scraping over ice, muffled thumps from little bodies falling down, and the hum of excited chatter from proud parents in the stands. The bleachers were fuller than you expected them to be this early on a Saturday morningâcoffee cups cradled like precious gems, toddlers bundled in puffer coats and fleece hats, a chorus of âthatâs my baby!â and âget up, you got it!â rippling through the space like music.
You sat midway up the stands, leaned forward with your elbows on your knees and your hands clasped under your chin, barely blinking as you tracked your little girl zooming across the ice in her baby pink skatesâthe ones youâd debated splurging on, only to be guilted into by her lip-quivering pout and an impassioned speech about how âpink skates make you faster.â
Apparently, she wasnât wrong.
She was a blur of movement and energy, her tiny helmet bouncing slightly with every stride. Her white jersey was too big on her, practically swallowing her whole, with âCrosbyâ emblazoned across the backâhis number 87 stitched proudly under it. Pink tape spiraled down the length of her stick, the edges fraying just a little from the constant use. It was a vision, the kind that made your chest squeeze so tightly it felt like your heart might burst from sheer joy.
You were smiling like an idiot as she collided softly with another kid, both of them toppling over like penguin-shaped dominoes.
A dad sitting nearby chuckled, following your line of sight. âYours in the pink skates?â
You nodded, still smiling. âYep. Thatâs my maniac.â
âSheâs got good instincts. Keeps her head up, even when sheâs down,â he said with a grin, nudging his own daughter, who was munching Goldfish crackers next to him.
âSheâs obsessed,â you said with a little laugh, eyes never leaving the ice. âThis morning she woke me up at 6:10âon the dotâin full gear. Elbow pads over her pajamas. Helmet on backwards.â
The dad laughed. âThey donât just fall in love. They jump in head first.â
âTell me about it. I think I have about twelve hours of footage just from driveway practices,â you said, tapping your phone like proof.
Down on the ice, your daughter had popped back up, brushing the snow off of herself with those padded gloves that made her hands look like marshmallows. She took a wobbly step forward, then another. A coachâtall, in full gear himselfâskated past and gave her an encouraging tap on the helmet. She giggled and tried to chase him, only to crash into the boards.
You winced a little, but she scrambled back up, laughing. Unfazed. Just like always.
âDid you grow up around hockey?â the dad asked, sipping from his thermos.
You shook your head. âNo, not even a little. This whole world is new to me. First time I walked into a gear shop, I almost cried. It was like IKEA, but colder and meaner.â
âAh. One of those,â he said knowingly. âSo howâd she get into it?â
You smiled a little to yourself, watching her now attempt to scoop a puck with the toe of her stick like she was playing field hockey.
âIt started with street hockey,â you said softly. âSome neighborhood kids were playing, and she just... joined in. She didnât even ask. Just ran over and jumped into the game like she was born for it.â
âI know the type,â he said with a grin. âFuture captain.â
You smiled at thatâbecause part of you believed it. Knew it, even.
âYeah,â you said. âFuture something.â
A cheer erupted from the crowd as one of the kidsâsomehowâmanaged to score on one of the adult coaches in net. The coach fell dramatically backward, arms spread wide like heâd been defeated in battle.Â
It was cold and it smelled like coffee and the unmistakable sweetness of childhood. The coaches were endlessly patient, calling out encouragement and clapping for every kid, no matter how awkward or uncoordinated they were. One coachâSid, you realizedâwas crouched low near the boards now, tying the laces of a tiny skater who looked like she was upset or tired.
You watched him a moment, that same calm energy radiating off him that heâd had in the shop months ago. No helmet, just a cap pulled low over his hair. Still recognizable, thoughâespecially to the row of moms sitting a little too upright on the lower bleachers, their giggles loud enough to rise above the noise of the rink.
Youâd never said anything to your daughter about who he was. You liked keeping it simple. To her, he was just Coach. Of course, she knows him. But here he's just a nice guy who high-fived her when she got her skates on the right feet and always knew when she needed an extra push on the back.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and you checked it quickly. A message from your best friend:
âHowâs my niece doing?? Any goals?? Any falls??â
You snapped a quick pictureâher mid-laugh, head thrown backâand sent it back with a caption:
âLiving her best life.â
You tucked your phone away and leaned forward again, watching as your daughter bent her knees the way theyâd shown her, arms stiff out in front, tongue sticking out in concentration. She was taking it all inâevery second of it. From the cool air on her cheeks to the slap of the puck to the roar of imaginary crowds in her head.
There was something sacred in watching your kid find the thing they loved. Like watching a door open inside them you didnât even know was there. Every spill, every grin, every wild, uncoordinated movement across the iceâeach one carved that love deeper into her bones.
You clapped and cheered when she completed a clumsy turn, just barely staying upright. She turned toward your seat in the stands and grinned, giving you two very exaggerated thumbs up. Then she fell on her ass again.
You laughed, hand to your heart.
The mom next to you leaned over. âFirst season?â
âYeah,â you said. âFirst everything.â
âWell, youâre in for it now,â she said, sipping from her thermos with a knowing smile. âThereâs no going back once they get a taste of the ice.â
You looked down at your daughterâscraping her way back to her feet, cheeks flushed, still smilingâand you knew it was true.
There was no going back.
And you didnât want to.
After nearly three hours of watching your daughter, it was over. The hallway just outside the locker room was chaos in a very specific, beautiful wayâkids peeling off helmets and elbow pads, trailing behind coaches or sprinting toward waiting parents, little voices bouncing off the walls, squealing about scoring, or falling, or âthat time Coach tripped on his own skate.â Everyone was coach apparently.
Youâd waited in the designated spot outside until one of the assistantsâsome fresh-faced guy in a Penguins jacketâgave the okay for parents to head in.
âYâall can head in now,â he said, stepping aside and trying not to get knocked over by a tornado of five-year-olds dragging their gear bags behind them.
Inside, the locker room was warm and bright, lined with benches and low cubbies that were already stuffed with half-shed gloves, little skates, jackets, and about seven different water bottles. The buzz of post-practice chatter filled the air instantly, like someone had turned the volume knob all the way up.
You barely had time to take it in before a flash of pink barreled toward you.
âMOMMMYYYYY!â
There she was. Wild curls matted from the helmet, cheeks flushed with effort, teeth bared in a wide grin as she ran, half-hopping in her skates, arms wide.
You bent down just in time to catch her.
âThere you are, Speed Racer,â you grinned, crouching down and opening your arms as she barrelled into you. Her gear clunked against your chestâchest protector and allâbut you didnât care. You hugged her like you hadnât just been watching her be wild on the ice.
âI FELL SIX TIMES!â she squealed, voice muffled against your shirt.
You ran a hand over her head, feeling the heat radiating from her scalp. âYou fell six times and you still have that big olâ smile on your face? Mustâve been a good time.â
âIt was the funnest ever,â she said seriously, stepping back and immediately beginning to unfasten her chest protector with a kind of frenzied determination. âAnd guess what! Owen and me were on the same team, and I touched the puck with my stick! Like for real this time! I didnât miss!â
You helped peel the Velcro from her shoulders, gently tugging the damp, slightly stinky gear off while she babbled on.
âToootally touched it. Owen saw. Right, Owen?!â
A little boy with dark hair and dark eyes, Owen, turned toward you, a toothy grin spread across his face. His front teeth were at warâone was missing, the other wobbly and hanging on for dear life.
âHi,â he said confidently.
âHi, Owen,â you greeted, giving him a warm smile. âI hear you two had fun today.â
âWeâre on the same team,â he said proudly, pointing to his white practice jersey. âWhite teamâs faster than the black one.â
Your daughter nodded vigorously. âWeâre the fastest. Way faster.â
âI believe it,â you nodded solemnly, ruffling her sweat-damp curls as you zipped the top layer of her jacket. âYou guys looked awesome out there.â
âThey were, werenât they?â a voice chimed in to your right. Owenâs mom, dressed in a puffer vest over a Penguins hoodie, smiled as she peeled her sonâs gloves off one by one. âOwen hasnât stopped talking about it since he got off the ice.â
You smiled back, instantly comforted by the friendliness in her tone. âMine either. Iâm pretty sure sheâs still skating in her head.â
âSheâs adorable,â the mom said. âPink skates and pink tape? Thatâs iconic.â
âShe had to be pink,â you said, laughing softly. âApparently, pink makes you faster.â
Owen's mom grinned. âHey, she might be onto something.â
You all shared a laugh as the room buzzed louderâparents helping their kids wriggle out of gear, skate guards being snapped on, water bottles getting passed around. Owen sat down next to your daughter on the bench, pulling a juice box out of his small backpack. âWe made up a game,â he told you while trying to stab the straw through the plastic film.
Your girl nodded. âYou pretend the puck is a bumblebee and you gotta squash it with your stick before it stings someone.â
âThat sounds very advanced,â you said seriously.
âWeâre gonna play it next time too,â she added. âOwen said heâs really good at squashing bees.â
Owen nodded matter-of-factly, still struggling with the straw.
Owenâs mom bent down to help him, chuckling as she did. âHeâs been trying to squash bees with sticks since he was three. Iâm just glad heâs finally doing it on the ice and not in our backyard.â
You grinned and reached into your own bag to grab your daughterâs snack. She immediately tore into the applesauce pouch like sheâd been starved for days, then leaned against your side, still warm from all her movement.
âThey looked so cute skating next to each other,â Owenâs mom added with a soft smile. âI was telling my husbandâit almost looked like a little date out there.â
You laughed at that. âI think theyâve bonded over their mutual chaos.â
She leaned in a little and lowered her voice. âHe told me in the tunnel that he thinks your daughterâs hair is âlike gold spaghetti.ââ
You choked on your sip of coffee, covering your mouth. âGold spaghetti?â
She nodded, snickering. âCrush territory. Iâm calling it.â
You smiled, heart melting a little, and pulled your phone out from your coat pocket. âAlright, if theyâre officially best friends-slash-future-spouses, we need a picture.â
Both kids were now on their snacks, Owen with his juice box and your girl halfway through a granola bar, crumbs smeared around her mouth. You lined them up on the benchâgear still half-on, cheeks still flushedâand snapped a picture.
It was absurdly cute.
âAlright, say cheese,â you said. âOr⊠say Penguins!â
âPENGUINS!â they both shouted.
Click.
You took a few more, some with funny faces, some with your daughter attempting to put her arm around Owenâs shoulders and nearly knocking his juice out of his hand. You were pretty sure your camera roll had hit triple digits by now, but you didnât care.
Eventually, your daughter leaned into you again, resting her sticky hand on your leg. âMama,â she said quietly. âIâm thirsty.â
You glanced down. âDidnât you bring your water bottle?â
She blinked up at you sheepishly. âI left it on the bench. Where I sit. I think.â
âOh no,â you said, sighing gently. âYou silly goose.â
âI forgot!â she insisted, holding her hands up like thatâd fix it. âThirst to death mama.â
You reached up and tucked a curl behind her ear. âAlright, okay. Iâll go grab it. Can you hang here for a sec?â
She nodded. âIâll stay with Owen.â
You turned toward his mom. âMind keeping an eye on her real quick? Iâll be back in like a minute.â
âOf course,â she said warmly. âTake your time. These two are thick as thieves already.â
You smiled and stood, patting your daughterâs helmet-less head. âBe good,â you said.
âAlways,â she grinned, already halfway through a whispered joke with Owen that involved a fart noise and something about the Zamboni.
You made your way out of the locker room, weaving around kids and parents and piles of equipment. The hallway was quieter. You passed by a few of the coaching staff and volunteers still lingering around, one of them wheeling a cart of extra equipment back toward storage.
You shifted your weight awkwardly near the tunnel toward the bench, one arm wrapped around yourself for warmth. You werenât totally sure if you were allowed to just stroll out there in regular shoes. Likeâwas that frowned upon? A total rookie parent move?
Your eyes scanned the hallway for someone official-looking. After a few seconds, a man in a staff jacket with a clipboard walked past. You stepped forward quickly.
âHi! Sorryâexcuse me?â
He stopped and turned. âYeah?â
âUm, I was wonderingâmy daughter left her water bottle out there on the bench,â you explained, nodding toward the rink. âItâs pink and glitteryâshocking, I knowâand it has a little flower keychain on the handle. Would it be possible for someone to grab it for me? I donât wanna like... destroy the sanctity of the bench in my street shoes.â
The guy smiled, already turning to wave someone down. âYeah, no problem. Hang tight. Iâll send one of the volunteers out.â
âThank you, seriously.â
You leaned back against the wall, tugging your sweater sleeves down over your hands as you watched the lingering players on the ice, most of them part of the older age group now, finishing their drills. Some were still skating slow laps while a couple of the younger assistant coaches stood near the blue line laughing about something. You werenât really paying attentionâyour mind was still back in the locker room with your daughterâs flushed cheeks and dramatics about âthirsting to death.â
Then you heard it.
âCalled it. I thought that was your daughter out there.â
The voice, familiar in a way that shouldnât have made your stomach do what it just did, made your head turn to the right.
Sidney.
You blinked once. Then again.
He was walking toward you casually, jersey still on but his skates had been swapped out for black Adidas slides and socks. His hair was damp, curls starting to appear at the ends, and he looked warmâflushed in the cheeks, a little sweaty, and way too comfortable for how good he looked.
You exhaled in something that bordered on a scoff. âWhat gave it away?â
He leaned a shoulder against the wall next to you, arms crossed as his eyes swept over the rink like he was still mentally coaching. âLetâs see... pink skates, pink laces, pink tape on the stick⊠Donât think I forgot, Y/N.â
You grinned. âWow, real detective work there.â
He smirked, slow and knowing, and turned to look at you instead. âAlso? Sheâs got your eyes. It was game over after that.â
You looked away briefly, caught off guard by the way he said itânot teasing, not in passing. Just simple. Honest. The words made your chest tighten a little, in that soft, fluttery kind of way.
âShe had the best time,â you said, your voice softening. âSheâs been buzzing since we walked in this morning. Like... shaking with excitement.â
He smiled again, this time a little wider. âThatâs what we want. Fun first.â
âShe even made a friend,â you added. âOwen. Theyâre practically a duo now. Heâs five. Missing a front tooth. Very committed to calling the puck âzoomy.ââ
He chuckled under his breath, glancing down like he was picturing it. âOwenâs a good kid. Heâs one of my favorites.â
âWow. Already playing favorites?â
Sid shrugged. âPerks of being Coach Sidney. I can pretend I donât, but come onâkid called me âSir Puckâ once. Iâm only human.â
You snorted.
There was a small lull between you, just a beat or two where you stood side-by-side, both facing the ice as the zamboni started circling again. His arm brushed yours once when he shifted his stance, just barely. The warmth of him so close made your skin feel hyper-aware, like it was begging for more contact.
âShe, uh...â you started, glancing at him. âShe left her water bottle on the bench. Swears sheâs going to âthirst to deathâ if I donât bring it back.â
Sid raised an eyebrow. âThirst to death? That serious, huh?â
You nodded solemnly. âSheâs dramatic. I donât know where she gets it from.â
âIâm shocked,â he deadpanned.
You shot him a side-eye, lips twitching. âAnyway, I asked one of the staff to grab it, but I think they forgot about me. Been standing here like a total newbie.â
âYou want me to grab it?â
You blinked. âWaitâseriously?â
He was already pushing off the wall, waving a hand dismissively. âYeah. Iâll be back in a sec. Pink glitter, right? With a flower keychain?â
âYeah,â you said, still a little surprised. âThatâs the one. Canât miss it.â
He gave you a quick smirk. âGot it. Iâm trained in the art of spotting glitter.â
You laughed, watching as he jogged down the short corridor, and stepped onto the bench in his slides like it was nothing. You bit your lip, just a little, arms crossed again as you watched him scan the bench, crouch, and retrieve the bottle from where it had rolled a few inches under one of the seats.
He came jogging back a minute later, bottle in hand, holding it up like a trophy.
âCoach of the Year,â he said with a grin, handing it over.
You took it gratefully. âSeriously. If there was a trophy, youâd be winning it.â
âYouâre gonna make her think Iâm her favorite now,â he said, mock-conspiratorial.
âShe already called you âthe guy with the funny whistle,ââ you said, twisting the cap to check the water level. âSo youâre basically a celebrity.â
âSheâs not wrong,â he said, leaning back against the wall again. âItâs a very specific whistle. Iâve trained myself.â
You looked at himâreally lookedâand shook your head, smiling despite yourself. âYouâre such a dork.â
âYou keep saying that,â he said, tone low, amused. âBut youâre smiling.â
There was a small pause after thatâcomfortable, but charged. A beat where neither of you spoke, but you could feel the static in the air, the unspoken familiarity that had somehow built over a single strange meeting. The gear shop.
âIâm guessing those notes I made you take all those months ago at the gear shop came in handy, huh?â
You groaned dramatically, rolling your eyes but smiling anyway. âDonât remind me. I think I have PTSD from that trip. But yeahâGod, they helped so much. I never wouldâve figured out which stick flex to get her without your help. Or those elbow pads that didnât slide down every two seconds.â
âYou were so overwhelmed,â he teased. âLike I was speaking another language.â
âBecause you were,â you fired back. âHalf of it was just acronyms. I still donât know what CCM stands for.â
âHonestly?â he leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially, âI donât think anyone does. We just pretend.â
You laughed again, head tipping back. His eyes lingered on your face for a second longer than necessary, like he was cataloguing every shift in your expression, every laugh line he could coax out of you.
âHowâd the goalie mask go?â you asked, shifting gears, âfor your godson?â
âGreat,â he said, and you noticed how his whole face softened when he talked about the kid. âHe loved it. Said it made him look like a Transformer. His words, not mine.â
âThatâs basically the highest praise possible.â
âExactly,â he agreed. âHe even slept with it beside his bed the first night. His mom texted me a picture.â
âThatâs adorable.â
He glanced toward the rink doors, then back at you. âSo⊠did you have fun?â
You lifted a shoulder, smiling again. âOh yeah. Nothing more fun than watching my kid wipe out every five minutes while I try to pretend Iâm not dying inside.â
His head tilted, a laugh bubbling up from him. âYou looked like you were holding it together okay.â
âI was faking it,â you said. âBut thanks.â
âPretty well, Iâd say.â
You rolled your eyes and turned back toward the hallway leading to the locker room. âOnly âcause you saved me from a water bottle emergency.â
âIâll see you around?â he asked, but there was something tentative in the way he said it, like he wasnât sure if it was okay to hope.
You slowly turned to face him once again. âYeah. You will.â
He smiled, something softer than beforeâless teasing, more sincere.
And then his voice came again. A little more certain. A little bolder.
âActuallyâhold on.â
You stopped.
He was standing straighter now, hands in his pockets, one foot shifting over the other like even he wasnât sure he was really doing this until the words were already coming out of his mouth.
âWould you wanna get a coffee sometime?â he asked. âOr... whatever. Something not surrounded by five-year-olds and hockey tape.â
You stared at him for a second, surprisedâthough you werenât sure why. Maybe because he said it so... sincerely. Not flirty. Not presumptuous. Just... hopeful.
You found yourself smiling again.
âYeah,â you said, your voice low. âIâd like that.â
â
#angelsuecultwrites#angelsuecult#perfect places | s. crosby#sidney crosby#sidney crosby fic#sidney crosby imagine#nhl#nhl imagine#nhl players#pittsburgh penguins#sidney crosby x reader#reqs open#angst
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Accidentally Exposed
One Piece boys accidentally walking in on you getting changed
With Ace | Law | Penguin | Luffy
Female reader
Ace
The door to your cabin swung open with an audible creak, revealing a sight that instantly ignited a blush that rivalled the inferno he so effortlessly commanded. His footsteps faltered mid-stride, dark eyes widening in both surprise and embarrassment as he took in the sight of his crewmate in a state of half-dress. You were facing away from him, your back exposed save for a dangerously small towel wrapped loosely around your chest. Sunlight streamed through the porthole window, casting a halo around your damp hair and highlighting the freckles scattered like constellations across your back. Ace felt his heart pounding in his chest, a mix of surprise and unbidden desire coursing through his veins. He swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure as he shamelessly took in every tantalizing inch of your form.
At the sound of your door opening you pivot swiftly on your heels to face the intruder. âAce!â You squealed in alarm. Unfortunately, your hasty reaction had the opposite effect of preserving modesty. The momentum sent the flimsy towel slipping precariously, coming open slightly and exposing even more of your sun-kissed skin. Granting Ace a fleeting glimpse of the enticing expanse of your body below.
Ace's eyes widened comically, his heartbeat hammering wildly in his chest, both from the shock of intrusion and the tantalizing image seared into his brain. "Shit! Y/n! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to barge in!" He stuttered, hastily turning around and slapping a large palm over his burning gaze.
The silence stretched tensely for several seconds before your muffled giggle drifted across the room. Ace peeked over his shoulder, relief flooding through him like a cool ocean breeze seeing you readjusting your towel. "It's fine, really, could have been worse," you assured him sheepishly, your cheeks tinted pink.
"Yeah... Yeah, of course." He cleared his throat awkwardly, turning fully around now that modesty was mostly restored. His devilish grin returned tenfold, however, at the prospect of teasing you about this later. "Just didn't expect our serious doctor to be hiding such lovely⊠assets, underneath those boring old lab coats," Ace finished smoothly, trying his best to diffuse the lingering awkwardness with his signature charm. His eyes danced teasingly, but there was no malice behind his words; only genuine appreciation for beauty caught unexpectedly.
You blushed deeper at his comment, rolling your eyes fondly nonetheless. "You're incorrigible," you muttered, but your lips curved upwards into a smile that betrayed your amusement.
Law
The door to your cabin slid open without warning, admitting a tall silhouette that paused mid-step as its occupant took in the unexpected sight before him. Law's gaze flickered across your half-dressed form of an open shirt and black underwear, taking in the delicate curves of your thighs and the smooth expanse of skin exposed by your loosened clothing. He quickly schooled his features into indifference, though a faint blush still stained his cheeks. The corners of his mouth twitched as he fought back the urge to smile at your flustered state - it wasn't every day one caught the crew's resident nurse off guard like this.
âC-captain! Sorry, I thought I locked my door,â you stammered as you scrambled to find your trousers and button up your shirt.
"My apologies," he rasped out, voice uncharacteristically low as he turned away, giving you the privacy you deserved. Despite his outward calmness, however, Law couldn't help but feel his heart rate pick up slightly at the unexpected intimacy of the moment. Your relationship had always been one of mutual respect and professionalism, yet seeing you vulnerable like this stirred something deep within him. As he stood there, listening to your hurried movements while you dressed, Law found himself struggling to maintain his customary cool demeanour. Once he heard the soft rustle of fabric cease, signalling that you were decent again, he finally allowed himself to turn back towards you - though he carefully avoided meeting your gaze directly. "Is there something you require assistance with?" You asked as Law attempted casualness, leaning against the doorframe with his hands tucked into his pockets.
You stood before him now, fully clothed in your usual white medical attire, yet Law couldn't help the heat pooling low in his abdomen at the memory of your exposed skin. He cleared his throat again, trying to dispel the unwanted arousal threatening to betray his composure further. "Ah yes, I merely wanted to discuss..." Law paused, mentally scolding himself for forgetting why he had entered in the first place. "...the shipment of medical supplies. It seems some items might be missing," he lied smoothly, inventing an excuse on the spot. Your eyes narrowed suspiciously, clearly aware of his flustered state, but didn't comment on it further. Instead, you sighed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Alright, let me check my inventory." Law nodded curtly, watching your retreating figure as you walked towards your desk. He mentally reprimanded himself for his lack of self-control; you were his crewmate and friend, not some tavern wench for his lewd fantasies. Yet even as he berated himself internally, Law couldn't help but steal furtive glances at the sway of your hips beneath the fabric of your uniform, reminding himself to keep it professional while he discreetly adjusted his trousers that betrayed his growing desires.
Penguin
A series of clumsy thuds preceded the abrupt entrance of Penguin. The door to your cabin swung wide open, revealing your flustered crewmate mid-stumble, his hat nearly toppling off his head. You yelped, hands instinctively covering your breasts as you spun around to face the intruder. Penguin froze in place, his bugged eyes taking in the sight before him - your half-clad form framed perfectly against the dim cabin lighting. Your discarded shirt lay forgotten on the floor, exposing a generous amount of skin.
"P-Penguin!" You squealed, cheeks burning redder than Ace's devil fruit abilities could ever manage. âWh-what do you want?" You demanded, trying to sound stern despite your obvious embarrassment.
"I-I'm sorry! I-I thought, uh...L-law- I mean the Captain sent me!" He stammered out, his cheeks darkening in embarrassment. Quickly averting his gaze and pulling down his hat, Penguin's vision fixated on the ground below him, determined not to peek despite his body begging otherwise. He could feel his cheeks warming up with mortification as he fumbled for words to diffuse the awkward silence that followed.
Penguin continued to ramble nervously, clearly regretting his lack of thinking that led him to burst in on you during such an intimate moment. "I-I swear, I didn't mean to intrude, y/n! It's just, I uh, I didn't think!" You stifled a chuckle appreciating his attempt at a flustered apology despite your own embarrassment. "It's fine, Penguin. Just give me a minute to finish changing." You muttered, your voice strained as you scrambled to cover yourself properly. The cabin filled with a tense silence broken only by the rustling of fabric and Penguin's shallow breaths. âO-of course,â he stammered as he stumbled out of the door. His mind whirred with thoughts he shouldn't entertain about his fellow crewmate, but it was difficult when presented with such a sight. Y/n, usually so composed and professional, looked incredibly endearing in your current state of undress. Shaking his head to dispel the improper thoughts, Penguin mentally scolded himself. *Focus on your job, idiot!* His inner voice chastised him. *You're supposed to protect her dignity, not ogle at her!* Feeling slightly guilty but still unable to completely banish the enticing mental image, he waited patiently outside your door until you called out for him to enter again. He was undoubtedly going to find it challenging to look at you in the same way from now on.
Luffy
As the Straw Hat Pirate captain barged into your cabin without a second thought you barely managed to cover yourself before Luffy's curious gaze landed on your half-exposed form of you standing in your underwear. His expression morphed from surprise to pure childlike interest, his eyes sparkling with innocence as he blurted out, "Whoa y/n! Is this your new swimsuit?" Luffy's nonchalant question stood in sharp contrast to the mortification you felt, your cheeks burning crimson. Attempting to maintain some semblance of dignity, you quickly covered yourself up with a discarded robe, "Luffy! How many times have I told you to knock?" He simply grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head - a gesture that never failed to make your heart flutter despite the circumstances. Unfazed by your embarrassment, Luffy continued to ogle you openly, his simple curiosity untouched by the societal norms that dictated modesty. You found herself torn between laughter and frustration at your captain's antics - typical Luffy you thought internally rolling your eyes.
Still grinning brightly despite your attempts at maintaining decorum, Luffy stepped closer, his curiosity getting the better of him. He reached out tentatively towards your partially covered shoulder, wanting to touch the intriguing material of your ''swimsuit'. Before you could protest further, Luffyâs fingers trailed your bra strap, his touch warm against your exposed skin. His voice was filled with genuine wonder when he asked again, "This must be so much cooler than regular clothes though right?"
You bit back a smile despite yourself, unable to stay mad at him for his earnest fascination. You shook your head softly, trying to hide the blush creeping up your neck. "Uh, yeah Luffy, it keeps me cooler," you mumbled, averting your gaze shyly. Luffy tilted his head, looking thoughtful for a moment before nodding enthusiastically. "Then it must be super comfortable! And it looks super cute" He beamed, giving you a genuine compliment that made your heart skip a beat.
Your captain's enthusiasm was infectious, causing you to find yourself smiling despite your earlier embarrassment. "Thanks, Luffy," you said warmly, feeling a wave of affection wash over you at his kind albeit naive words. Luffy bounced on the balls of his feet excitedly, seemingly thrilled by this newfound discovery. "Hey, maybe we should go swimming together! We could show everyone your new swimsuit!"
Your face ignited once again in a brighter shade of scarlet at Luffy's suggestion, your hand instinctively pulling the robe more securely. "Luffy! These aren't swimming clothes!" You spluttered. Luffy paused, tilting his head to the side as he processed your words. His eyes narrowed slightly before realization dawned on him. "Ohhh," he muttered comprehendingly, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as the situation clicked.
You watched as Luffyâs cheeks flushed slightly, mirroring your embarrassment as he realised. However, quickly Luffy's grin returned full force, lightening the atmosphere in the cabin instantly. âSorry y/n, but it looked comfy enough for swimming!â He laughed lightly, causing a smile to tug at your lips. âWell, whatever itâs for,â Luffy continued, âYou look great!â He added, his compliment genuine and heartwarming. You couldnât help but laugh at his oblivion, âThank you LuffyâŠnow can you please get out of my room and let me finish changing?â You struggled to hold back your smile while gesturing toward your door.
#one piece#anime#one piece x reader#portgas d ace#portgas ace x reader#trafalgar law#trafalgar law x reader#penguin#penguin x reader#heart pirates#luffy#luffy x reader
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DANCING WITH OUR HANDS TIED SIDNEY CROSBY




pairing: younger!gf x sidney crosby
summary: after a night of celebrating, one photo changes everything. a private moment goes public, sparking rumors, opinions, and a whole lot of judgment. suddenly, it feels like the world is closing in, and you and sidney have to figure out how to deal with the chaos.
warnings: age gap (12 years, reader is 25), appearances from natemac + charlotte, steph marner and lauren kyle, people online sucking and being rude, angst
wc: 6.32k
notes: based on dancing with our hands tied by taylor swift. obsessed how everyone's collectively agreed that sidcros canonically has a younger gf lmao

Sidney wasnât the type to bring people along â no charity events, no team functions, nothing that risked exposing too much. Privacy was his shield, one heâd spent years perfecting, carefully keeping his private and professional lives independent of each other. And, in the several months youâd been together, that instinct had only sharpened. No one knew about you, not really. Not the media, not the fans, not even some of his teammates.
But when he asked, voice soft and edged with something unspoken, you couldnât say no.
He would never admit it. He would never outright say that he wanted you there, that he needed you there.Â
But you could hear it anyway â in the way his voice hesitated just a fraction too long before he asked, in the way he didnât meet your eyes at first, like giving you the choice to say no made it easier for him to ask at all. Sidney wasnât one to lean on others, not openly, not in ways that could be perceived as weakness. But this? Inviting you to Four Nations, to a tournament where every move was scrutinized, where the weight of expectation that comes with representing your country pressed down like a vice?
It wasnât just about wanting you there. It was about needing something steady, something certain, in the chaos of it all. You werenât just a spectator to him. You were an anchor. And even if heâd never say it, this was the closest heâd come to asking you to stay.Â
So here you were, in Montreal, tucked into the quiet luxury of Sidneyâs hotel room, the hum of the city just beyond the window. His duffel bag sat half-zipped on the floor, his team-issued gear folded neatly beside it. Across the room, Sidney leaned against the dresser, still in his sweats, still fresh from practice, watching you as you stood in the middle of the room with your coat draped over your arm.
âYou didnât have to do that,â you told Sidney who was watching you with that quiet patience, waiting for you to tell him how your afternoon went.
The invitation had caught you off guard. Sidney wasnât the kind of guy who asked for favours, who made a fuss over things most people took for granted. But somehow, between morning skate and team meetings, he and Nate had quietly set this up.
No one here really knew about you. Sidney had made sure of that â not out of shame or secrecy, but because privacy was the only way he knew how to protect something that mattered. And because of that, you didnât have the built-in connections the other WAGs had. You werenât part of the tight-knit circle that formed around a team, the kind of bond that came from years of shared seasons and shared memories from teams such as these.
But then Nateâs fiancĂ©e, Charlotte, had texted â a casual, no-pressure invitation to lunch with her, along with Mitch and Connorâs wives, Steph and Lauren. It had been arranged so seamlessly that you knew it had come from someone other than them â Sidney or Nate, most likely, making sure you werenât alone in a city full of people who knew each other.
He shrugged his shoulders, nonchalant. âI didnât do anything.â
You gave him a look, dropping your coat and pulling off your heeled boots before sitting on the foot of the bed. âNate, then.â
Sidney huffed out a laugh, gaze flickering away for a moment before settling back on you. âMaybe.â
It was so like him â so like them â to do something thoughtful and then pretend like it hadnât taken effort at all. You shouldâve expected it.
Still, it had felt strange walking into that restaurant, into a lunch with women who had a history with each other, a rhythm you hadnât yet learned. The gap between you and them was obvious in some ways â you were newer, younger, and the age difference between you and Sidney wasnât exactly subtle.
But they hadnât pried. They hadnât judged.
Theyâd just⊠welcomed you.
âYou were right about them,â you said finally, drawing your legs up beneath you on the bed. âThey were really nice. They didnât ask a bunch of questions or make it weird.â
Sidneyâs shoulders relaxed slightly, but he stayed quiet, letting you fill in the silence at your own pace.
âI mean, I know the age difference is⊠noticeable,â you continued, watching his expression carefully. âI figured thereâd be some curiosity, maybe even skepticism. But they didnât make me feel out of place. It was just⊠easy.â
Sidney let out a slow breath, his fingers tapping absently against the dresser. âGood,â he said simply, but there was something heavier beneath it.
You tilted your head. âYou were worried?â
His lips pressed together in a way that meant he was choosing his words carefully. âNot worried,â he admitted. âJust⊠I didnât want you to feel like an outsider.â
Something in your chest tightened, warmth spreading through you at the quiet sincerity in his voice. He hadnât asked you to come here lightly. He hadnât arranged this lunch on a whim.
âI didnât,â you reassured him. âIt was nice to feel included.â
Sidney nodded, a small, almost imperceptible shift in his posture that told you he was relieved. He glanced down at the floor, then back up at you, his mouth quirking into something almost shy.
âIâm glad youâre here,â he said softly.
Your breath caught for half a second, but you smiled. âMe too.â
The days began to blur together as the tournament came into full swing. Youâd only just begun to experience the ebb and flow of regular hockey seasons, but with the Penguins missing playoffs last year, you hadnât experienced the business of meaningful hockey. One moment, you were in Montreal, adjusting to the rhythm of Sidneyâs world, and the next, you were on a plane to Boston, the city humming with anticipation for the final game.
It was in those moments, where Sidney was being whisked away to the arena for practice and media, that you were glad to know the other girls now. Mornings you likely wouldâve spent alone were now spent getting brunch with the girls or checking out local boutiques together.Â
The final game felt different. The energy in the arena, the weight of expectation in the air â it was tangible, pressing down on everyone in attendance. You could feel it in the way the fans leaned forward in their seats, in the nervous tension woven between every play. The stakes were everything. Canada versus the U.S. A rivalry as old as the game itself, culminating in one night, one moment.
You sat beside Lauren in the stands, your fingers curled around the armrests of your seat as the game unfolded at a breakneck pace. Every shift was a battle, every second a test of endurance and will. Sidney was relentless, his presence a steady force on the ice, his every move calculated and precise. And yet, it wasnât just him â it was the whole team, a collection of the best, playing as one.
The game stretched into overtime, the tension nearly unbearable. You barely breathed as Canada took a faceoff and gained possession in the offensive zone. The entire arena seemed to hold its breath as Mitch passed the puck to a wide-open Connor right in front of the net before he wired a wrister past the goaltender. The building erupted, the horn blared, and suddenly, everything was chaos.
You screamed before you even realized it, jumping to your feet, arms wrapping around Lauren as you both nearly lost your balance in your excitement. The ice was a blur of movement â sticks and gloves flying, players leaping over the boards, crashing into each other with unrestrained joy. The Canadian bench emptied in an instant, the celebration spilling across the ice in waves.
You finally see the 87 on a red jersey joining the throng of players. He wasnât the first into the pile, likely wasnât the loudest in his celebration, but the second he reached his teammates, the weight he carried seemed to lift. His grin was wide, eyes crinkling at the corners, his arms tight around Nate as they half-collapsed into the growing huddle. It was rare to see Sidney lose himself in a moment, to let his guard down completely. But here, now, you could see it. The pure, unfiltered joy of winning, of achieving something monumental on the international stage once again.
Your throat tightened, emotion catching you off guard. It was one thing to know how much this meant to him, but another to see it written across his face so clearly. Sidney wasnât one to need validation, but this â this was different. Winning for his country, leading on the biggest stage â it was everything.
Tears burned behind your eyes, but you blinked them away, unwilling to miss a second. Lauren squeezed your arm, her own excitement mirrored in her bright smile. âThey did it!â
You nodded, laughing breathlessly. âI canât believe it.â
The medal ceremony was a blur of red and gold, of cheers and anthems and beaming faces. When Sidney stepped forward to receive his medal, you swore your heart clenched in your chest. He looked up into the crowd, and for a fleeting second, his gaze found yours. He didnât wave, didnât do anything that might draw attention to the connection, but the warmth in his expression was unmistakable. And that was enough.
The bar was packed by the time you arrived, a haze of celebration thick in the air. Team Canada had all but taken over, their roped-off section teeming with players, coaches, and close friends, the space a sea of red and white. Laughter and clinking glasses filled the room, voices raised over the pulse of music and the distant roar of fans still celebrating in the streets.
You had barely stepped inside when you felt a presence at your side, warm and familiar.
âYou made it.â
Sidneyâs voice was quieter than the surrounding noise, but youâd have heard him anywhere.
You turned, and there he was â still in the team-issued hoodie he must have thrown on post-shower, hair damp at the edges, eyes alight with something soft and tired and incredibly alive. The gold medal was slung around his neck, a casual afterthought despite the magnitude of what it meant.
You exhaled a breath you hadnât realized you were holding. âOf course I did.â
His hand found yours instinctively, fingers warm against your wrist, brushing against your pulse. He didnât pull you in right away, but there was something unmistakable in the way he looked at you. A silent acknowledgment. A quiet gratitude.
And then, just like that, the space between you was gone. His arm wrapped around your waist, tugging you close, the solid warmth of him pressing into you. He smelled purely of champagne and beer that had been poured on him post-win. His lips found your temple first, then your cheek, slow and deliberate. He hadnât had a second to himself since the final horn, but here, now, with you, he let himself pause.
âThank you,â he murmured, his voice barely audible over the noise.
You leaned back just enough to meet his gaze. âFor what?â
âFor being here.â
It was a simple thing, and yet it held so much. For seeing him at his most intense and still choosing to stay. For understanding the gravity of nights like these and letting him exist within them without expectation. For knowing when to stay in the background and when to step into his orbit.
You smiled, fingers grazing the medal at his chest before gripping the front of his hoodie, tugging him down just enough for your lips to brush his. âWouldnât have missed it for anything.â
His breath hitched slightly, just for a second, before he kissed you properly, with the kind of certainty that came with knowing, without a doubt, that this was right.
The moment was brief, fleeting â Sidney wasnât one for public displays â but when he pulled away, his fingers still rested against your hip, grounding you to him.
âCâmon,â he said, voice lighter now, that rare post-win ease still settling into his frame. âLetâs get a drink.â
You let him lead you deeper into the celebration, past teammates who clapped him on the back and playfully nudged him at the sight of you together. He took it all in stride, offering nothing more than a smirk before ordering two drinks, his hand never once leaving yours.
The morning after the celebration felt slow, almost suspended in the quiet hum of a city still revelling in victory. Sunlight streamed through the hotel curtains, casting long, golden streaks across the unmade bed where Sidney lay beside you, his breathing steady, the weight of exhaustion still heavy in his limbs.
His back rose and fell with each slow breath, the muscles shifting beneath skin mapped with faint freckles and the ghost of old bruises. The warm glow of morning light traced the sharp angles of his shoulder blades, pooling in the dip of his spine, highlighting the way his skin gleamed with the remnants of last nightâs sweat. A few stray curls clung to the nape of his neck, dark against the pale sheets.Â
You shifted slightly, careful not to wake him just yet, reaching for your phone on the nightstand. The moment the screen lit up, your stomach twisted. Missed calls. Unread messages. Group chats that had been dormant now lit up with notifications.
Your pulse quickened. Something had happened.
You shot upright, legs swinging over the side of the bed as you scrolled through the never-ending stream of notifications. Sidney stirred beside you, a low hum escaping his throat as he blinked against the light. âMorning, hon.â
You didnât reply, rather scrolling through messages and posts to find the root of the uproar. âBabe?â he asked. When met with more silence, he sat up, placing a calloused hand softly on your shoulder. âY/n? You okay?â
You hesitated for half a second before exhaling sharply, tilting the screen toward him. It didnât take long for Sidney to make out what he was seeing on your screen. A single image had spread like wildfire across social media overnight â a photo taken at the bar, capturing the two of you in the kind of intimacy that left nothing to interpretation.
The photo on your screen was bathed in the warm, low-lit ambiance of the bar, a moment frozen in time. Sidney stood before you, his smile soft yet intense as he gazed down at you. Your arms were wrapped around each other, bodies pressed close, foreheads nearly touching, lost in a private world amid the dimly lit crowd. The golden glow of the room kissed your skin, the soft waves of your hair cascading down your back as your fingers rested lightly on his bicep.
The comments were filled with vitriol.
Since when is Crosby into arm candy?
She looks way younger than himâŠ
Is this a mid-life crisis thing or�
Damn, never thought Iâd see Sid with a gold digger.
The words made your chest tighten. It wasnât just gossip; it was venom. Assumptions turned into insults, speculation sharpened into accusations. People who didnât know you â who had never even seen you before this moment â had already decided exactly who you were.
Sidney pulled back, retreating to his side of the bed. He swung his legs off the side of the bed, grabbed his phone and scrolled through his equally endless notifications. They all contained the same things; questions about who this mystery girl was, asking since when was he into younger girls. The queries about who you were rivalled the amount of congratulatory text he had received about winning gold.Â
You glanced over your shoulder, seeing the way his shoulders were tensed up as he hunched over his phone. âSid,â you started, voice careful, but he shook his head.
âI shouldâve been more careful,â he muttered, mostly to himself. âI shouldâve known someone would take a picture.â
You swallowed hard. âItâs not your fault.â
He let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. âI know, but that doesnât make it easier.â
Sidney had spent his entire career guarding his privacy, crafting an existence where the only thing the world saw was the player, never the man. And now, in a single night, that careful boundary had been breached.
You crawled across the expanse of the king bed, the sheets rustling softly beneath you as you moved closer. Your fingers found his shoulder first, hesitant yet deliberate, the warmth of his skin grounding you as your palm flattened over the tense muscle. He exhaled at the touch, a barely-there sigh, but he didnât lean into you.Â
âWhat do we do?â
He exhaled sharply. âWe donât do anything.â
You blinked. âSidââ
He stood up, your hand falling from his unclothed shoulder as he turned to face you. âPeople are going to say what they want, no matter what we do. If we respond, it adds fuel to the fire. If we stay quiet, it dies down eventually.â
You knew he was right, but it didnât make it easier. Your fingers curled against the sheets, frustration simmering beneath your skin. âItâs just⊠ugly. Theyâre making it seem like youâre some predator and Iâm some money-hungry girl taking advantage of you. And they donât even know us.â
Sidneyâs expression softened. âI know.â His hand found your chin, tilting your head up to look into his eyes. âBut I do. And thatâs what matters.â
You studied him for a moment, searching for any trace of doubt, but there was none. Just the unwavering steadiness that defined him, the quiet certainty that had always drawn you to him in the first place.
He let his hand fall, exhaling slowly before running his fingers through his still-damp hair. The weight of the moment settled between you, thick and heavy, but Sidney didnât flinch under it. He just stood there, watching you, waiting.
Then, his phone buzzed again. A call. He glanced at the screen, lips pressing into a thin line before silencing it.
âWho is it?â you asked quietly.
âGeno,â he muttered. After a beat, his phone buzzed again. âTanger too. Probably checking in.â
Of course. The photo was everywhere. His teammates werenât oblivious. They knew what this meant â what it meant for him.
Sidney sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. âWe should pack. Our flightâs in a few hours.â
You nodded, though the tension still sat heavy in your chest. This wasnât something you could outrun, not even by getting on a plane and heading back to Pittsburgh. But if Sidney wasnât going to let it dictate his next move, you wouldnât either.
The hotel lobby was eerily quiet compared to the chaos of the night before. A few lingering fans still loitered outside, hoping to catch a last glimpse of the players before they departed for their respective cities. The gold medal around Sidneyâs neck had been tucked away into his carry-on, but there was no mistaking who he was â who both of you were, now, in the wake of the photo.
You spotted them before they spotted you.
The girls stood near the hotel entrance, their voices hushed but animated. You could tell they had been talking about it â about you. The moment they noticed you approaching, their expressions shifted, morphing into something softer. Understanding.
âHey hon,â Charlotte murmured, stepping forward first, her heels clicking against the marble floor as she pulled you into a quick hug. âI saw everything online. Are you okay?â
You hesitated. There wasnât an easy answer to that.
âIâŠâ you exhaled, forcing a small smile. âItâs a lot.â
Lauren scoffed, arms crossing. âPeople are awful. Like, seriously, do they not have anything better to do than rip apart someone they donât even know?â
Steph nodded, her brows furrowed in frustration. âI donât get it. As if Sidney would ever be the type to entertain a âgold diggerâ â like, come on.â
Their voices overlapped, indignation building on your behalf, and the warmth in your chest surprised you. You hadnât expected this. Not really. Youâd half expected them to finally let their fronts up and admit that they thought the age gap was weird, that they agreed with the strangers online who called you an opportunist, who speculated about your intentions, who dissected every interaction like it was proof of some ulterior motive. Youâd half expected them to nod along with the cruellest comments, to tell you, gently but firmly, that they understood why people were saying those things.
But they didnât.
Instead, their outrage was genuine, layered with protectiveness you hadnât dared to hope for. Their voices rose over one another, dismissing the gossip with a ferocity that made your throat tighten. Something was reassuring about their presence, about the way they made it clear you werenât alone in this. You hadnât been part of this world long, but in the span of a few days, they had made space for you in it.
Sidney stepped up next to you, his hand brushing against yours. âWe should get going, the cars waiting out front.â
They nodded in understanding, exchanging quick hugs before stepping aside, letting you both pass. As you exited the hotel, the cool Boston air hit your skin, crisp and awakening. Sidneyâs hand found the small of your back, guiding you toward the car waiting to take you to the airport.
The chartered flight back to Pittsburgh was quiet. Sidney had never been a man of many words, but this silence was different â it was thicker and heavier. The silence threatened to suffocate the two of you.
You sat beside him, your fingers twisting idly in your lap, the occasional hum of the airplane engines the only sound between you. Every now and then, your phone would vibrate with another notification, but you had stopped checking them hours ago. You knew what they would say.
Sidney, on the other hand, hadnât stopped scrolling. His jaw was set, shoulders tight, his focus glued to the screen as he combed through the online storm that had erupted overnight. The same cycle of cruel comments, the same intrusive headlines. Sidney didnât even use social media, at least not publicly. He only had it to keep up with his closest friends and family.Â
But that didnât stop him from looking. From searching his own name. From refreshing the threads and articles that dissected the photo. It was a compulsion, a need to know â even if knowing only made it worse. His grip on his phone tightened with every cruel joke, every twisted narrative about the two of you. You could see the tension in his jaw, the flicker of something raw in his expression, but he wouldnât tear his eyes away.Â
Eventually, you reached over, your fingertips grazing the back of his hand, urging him to stop. He didnât pull away, but he didnât look at you either.
âSid,â you murmured.
A long exhale. He finally locked his phone and set it face-down on the table in front of him. He rubbed his hands over his face before turning his gaze toward the window, watching the clouds roll by.
âI didnât want this for you,â he said finally, voice barely above a whisper.
You swallowed hard. âI know.â
He turned then, looking at you for the first time in what felt like hours. âItâs not fair,â he said, the words sharp with frustration. âYou shouldnât have to deal with this. I shouldâveââ
âSid.â You cut him off before he could start blaming himself again. âThis isnât just about you. We knew this could happen. We just didnât know when.â
His lips pressed together, unhappy but unwilling to argue. He reached for your hand then, lacing his fingers with yours, grounding himself in the simple connection.
But even as he held you close, you could feel the shift between you.
The weight of it all didnât lessen when you returned to Pittsburgh. If anything, it only grew heavier.
Sidney was different. Not distant, exactly, but careful in a way he hadnât been before. The easy rhythm you had fallen into over the months â the stolen moments, the quiet evenings spent in the comfort of each other â had been disrupted.
Now, everything felt⊠tense.
You noticed it in the way he checked over his shoulder for any signs of intruding cameras before reaching for you, in the way he kept a careful distance between you in crowded spaces, his hand hovering near yours but never quite closing the gap. He still looked at you the same way in private, still touched you with the same quiet reverence. But beyond closed doors, it was as if he had retreated behind an invisible wall.
It wasnât intentional. You knew that. This was how he had survived in the public eye for so long â by being careful, by maintaining control.
But this time, it wasnât just him anymore. It was you, too.
And you werenât sure how much longer you could pretend it didnât hurt.
The first fight â the first big fight â came late one evening, when the weight of everything became too much to ignore.
The living room was quiet except for the low hum of the television, its blue light flickering against the walls. Sidney sat beside you on the couch, one arm draped along the backrest, his other hand absently tapping against his thigh. He looked tired â more tired than he had in a long time. The kind of tiredness that went deeper than physical exhaustion.
TNT was on, background noise to the silence neither of you seemed eager to break. Then, Paul Bissonnetteâs voice cut through the quiet, casual but laced with something more. Something biting.
âLook at our boy Sid, huh? Maybe all he needed was a new young toy to bring some life back into him.â
The words landed like a slap.
Sidney stiffened, every muscle in his body coiling tight. Without hesitation, he grabbed the remote and shut the TV off in an instant, the screen snapping to black.
You sat in the newfound silence and the air between you suddenly charged.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, Sidney exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw. âI donât know how we can keep doing this,â he muttered, voice strained. âNot if this is what people think.â
Your brows knitted together, confusion laced with hurt. You uncurled yourself from Sidneyâs side, turning to look at him. âSince when do you care what people think?â
âI donât,â he snapped, then sighed, shaking his head as if trying to correct himself. âItâs not about me.â He turned to you, his expression raw in a way that made your stomach twist. âItâs about you. The way they talk about you. The things theyâre saying.â
You stared at him, heart pounding. âSid, they donât know me. They donât know us.â
âThey donât have to,â he said, voice edged with frustration. âTheyâve already decided. And now every time someone looks at you, thatâs what theyâll think.â
Anger flickered in your chest, an ember catching fire. âSo what? Thatâs their problem, not ours.â
Sidney pushed a hand through his hair, exhaling hard as he stood up and paced a couple of steps in front of the still-warm television. âYou donât get it. Itâs not just a few comments. Itâs not just gossip. Itâs relentless. It follows you. No matter what you do, no matter how much time passes, theyâll keep talking. Theyâll keep judging.â
You scoffed, the weight of his words sinking in, settling like a stone in your stomach. âSo what, then? What are you saying, Sid?â
He hesitated.
That hesitation â more than anything else â made your chest tighten.
âI love you,â he said, voice barely above a whisper. âAnd thatâs why I canât subject you to the kind of judgment that us being together will bring you.â
Your breath hitched. The room suddenly felt too small, the walls too close. âAre youââ Your voice broke slightly. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. âAre you ending this?â
Sidney didnât answer right away. He didnât need to. The answer was written all over his face.
He wasnât looking at you anymore. His gaze was cast downward, jaw tight, hands shoved deep into his sweatshirt pocket like he was holding himself back from reaching for you. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, reluctant. âI just⊠I donât want this life to hurt you.â
You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. âThatâs bullshit, Sidney.â
His head snapped up, eyes darkening. âItâs not.â
âYes, it is,â you shot back, anger rising in your throat. âYouâre not doing this for me. Youâre doing it for you. Because itâs easier to let go than to fight for something that actually matters.â
Sidneyâs jaw clenched. âThatâs not fair.â
âNo?â You let out a humourless laugh, standing up and getting in his space, forcing him to look at you. âWhatâs not fair is you making this decision for me. You think I donât know what I signed up for? You think I donât know what comes with being with you?â
He stepped back, needing to put a few feet of distance between the two of you to remove the temptation of reaching for you. Frustration was etched into every line of his face. âYou shouldnât have to deal with this.â
âBut I chose to!â you said, your voice coming out slightly more raised than you intended. Your voice cracked, hands trembling at your sides. âYou donât get to decide what I can handle, Sid. Iâm not a fucking child, Sidney! God. You of all people should know that.â
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Sidneyâs chest rose and fell with a slow, measured breath, his jaw locked so tight you swore you could hear his teeth grind. His hands curled into fists at his sides before he forced them open again.
âI know that,â he said finally, voice rough. âI know youâre not a child.â
âThen why are you treating me like one?â Your words came sharp, slicing through the tension between you.
He faltered. His lips parted as if he had an answer ready, but nothing came. He swallowed, shook his head slightly, gaze flickering toward the ground. When he didnât speak, you felt something crack inside you, something that had already been splintering under the weight of this conversation.
Your laugh was bitter, humourless. âYou donât even know, do you?â
Sidneyâs head snapped up, a flash of something â guilt, maybe, or shame â crossing his features. âThatâs notââ
âNo,â you cut him off, stepping closer, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. âYouâre scared.â
His brows knit together, but he didnât deny it. Couldnât.
âYouâre scared of what they say. Scared of what it means to have something real and complicated and worth fighting for,â you pressed, voice shaking with something between heartbreak and fury. âYouâre a coward, Sidney.â
He flinched. The word hit its mark, a direct shot to his pride. For a second, you thought he might lash out, might argue, might fight for himself â for you â for this. But instead, his face softened, the anger slipping away like a tide receding. He exhaled a slow, unsteady breath, and dragged a hand down his face.
âIâm sorry.â
It wasnât a defence. It wasnât an argument. Just those two words, heavy with meaning, with regret, with something that almost sounded like surrender.
But you werenât sure you could accept them.
Your arms wrapped around yourself instinctively, like you were trying to hold yourself together, keep your heart from shattering entirely. âSorry doesnât change the fact that youâre willing to let them dictate this.â
Sidney stepped forward, just slightly, like he wanted to close the space between you. âI donât want to let them dictate anything. I justâ I donât want this to hurt you.â
You squeezed your eyes shut, the fight draining out of you all at once. Because that was the part that made this hurt the most. He wasnât lying. He truly believed he was doing the right thing. That protecting you meant walking away from you.
But that wasnât protection. That was fear.
You exhaled sharply, opening your eyes to meet his. âYou already hurt me, Sid.â
He looked like he wanted to say something, anything to fix it. But there was nothing he could say. Not now.
The air between you was thick with everything unsaid, the silence pressing in on all sides. Sidneyâs face was tense, his shoulders rigid, but his eyes â God, his eyes â were the only part of him that betrayed how much this was killing him.
Your heart clenched, an ache settling deep in your chest. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the moment you walked away. You took a step back.
But thenâ
âI donât want this to end.â
The words came out hoarse, almost broken, and the moment they did, it was like something inside of him finally cracked wide open.
Sidney exhaled shakily, hands raking through his hair like he was trying to keep himself from falling apart. âI donât want to lose you,â he admitted, voice thick. âBut Iâm scared, okay?â His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. âIâm scared of what it means to bring you into this. Scared of how theyâll tear you apart. Scared that one day, youâll wake up and realize you donât want this life anymore, and Iâll lose you anyway.â
His words hit you like a tidal wave, knocking the wind from your lungs.
That was it. That was the truth of it â not just fear of what people said, but fear of losing you.
You stepped forward, closing the distance between you. âSid,â you whispered, heart hammering. âYou donât get to push me away because youâre scared.â
His gaze flickered to yours, conflicted and vulnerable in a way youâd never seen before.
âYou think youâre protecting me, but youâre not. Youâre just making the decision for me,â you said, voice steady despite the way your emotions threatened to break free. âIf you want this to work, you need to be more like the Sidney that doesnât give a damn what the media says. The one who only cares about what happens on the ice and in his own life. Youâve spent your whole career tuning out the noise â why canât you do that for this?â
He let out a breath, shaking his head. âBecause this is different.â
âItâs not.â You reached for his hand, gripping it tight. âIt only feels different because youâre letting them make it different. If you want this â if you want me â you need to stop letting them dictate what you do. What we are.â
Sidney stared at you, his fingers tightening around yours like he was anchoring himself to you. And for the first time since this fight started, you saw it. The fight in him.
He wasnât letting go. He couldnât.
A muscle ticked in his jaw before he exhaled, like he was finally letting himself breathe again. âI want you,â he said, the words low and certain. âI want this.â His voice dropped even lower, almost like a confession. âI love you too much to let you walk away.â
âThen stop being scared,â you murmured.
You squeezed his hand one last time before pulling your hand gently from his. As much as you believed Sidney when he said he wanted this to work â wanted you to work â the fear was still rooted in him. It lingered in the way his fingers twitched as you let go, in the way his breath caught like he wanted to say something but couldnât.
You had spent so much time trying to prove to him that love didnât have to be terrifying, that not every open door led to something painful. But fear like his wasnât something you could love away. It had to be faced. By him.
So you stepped back.
His eyes flickered with something â panic, maybe, or understanding. Maybe both.
âIââ he started, but the words never fully formed.
You gave him a small, sad smile. âYou have to figure this out, Sid. I canât do it for you.â
The night air wrapped around you as you left his home and for the first time in a long time, Sidney let you go.
The door shut softly behind you, the quiet sound somehow louder than all the shouting, all the arguing, all the things left unsaid between you.
Sidney stood there, staring at the empty space where you had just been, his chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths. His hands clenched at his sides, then loosened, like he wasnât sure what to do with them. Like he wasnât sure what to do with himself now that you were gone.
The house felt impossibly empty.
He turned toward the window, catching a glimpse of your silhouette as you walked down the driveway, your shoulders squared, your pace steady. But then, just before you reached your car, you hesitated.
Sidney held his breath.
For a second â just a second â he thought you might turn back. That you might give him another chance to fix this before it was truly broken.
But then you inhaled sharply, set your jaw, and climbed into the driverâs seat. The engine roared to life, headlights cutting through the darkness.
And then you were gone.
Sidney exhaled shakily, dragging a hand over his face as he turned away from the window. His heart pounded, a dull, aching rhythm that matched the pulsing regret settling deep in his chest.
He had been so afraid of losing you.
And now, because of that fear â because of his own cowardice â he might have lost you anyway.
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