ava!

—

You can’t really remember your life without Sidney in it. Not in a nostalgic, over-romanticized way, but in the simplest, truest sense of memory. It has always been him. Every version of you, from the kid who didn’t quite know what she wanted to the woman standing under hot lights in front of tens of thousands, has had Sidney woven somewhere into the frame. He is the constant, the heartbeat under the noise.

Even before either of you became something recognizable to the world, there was always this quiet, certain pull between you. He was steady, careful, endlessly patient. You were the one who lived with the volume turned up. He understood that, never tried to change it, and simply stood beside you with that quiet loyalty of his that always managed to say more than words ever could.

When the world first met you, the frontwoman with a voice that cracked and soared in the same breath, you were a little wild, a little unfiltered. Your songs were half confessions and half love letters disguised as heartbreak. People made their guesses about who they were about. Maybe they were right; maybe they weren’t. You never confirmed or denied, because that wasn’t the point. The point was that every line, every verse, was yours, and somewhere in between all of them was him.

Sidney has always been your guy, the one who shows up, the one you look for in the crowd just past the sea of camera flashes and screaming fans. His expression is soft but proud, like he is memorizing the way you light up a room that is already lit. Sometimes you catch him mouthing the lyrics, and you have to bite back a smile before the next verse. It is stupidly grounding, the way his eyes always find yours even from miles away.

That is why you have fought to keep him close, to keep this part of your life untouched by the chaos that fame brings. For years, the two of you have existed in that quiet space between public and private. You don’t hide him, not really, but you protect him. You protect you. When people ask, you shrug and laugh, offering vague answers like, “Some stories aren’t meant for headlines.” And he never minds. He has always been the same about it: steady, private, unwilling to turn something so real into a spectacle.

There is a kind of peace in it. You have your shows, your interviews, your soundchecks, your adrenaline. He has his games, his seasons, his routines, his quiet discipline. But when the world goes dim and you both finally end up in the same place, it feels like coming up for air. It’s coffee in worn mugs at his kitchen counter, or your legs tucked under his while you hum absentmindedly through a new melody. It is his head tilted slightly while you talk, listening like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

You have built your lives side by side, parallel but deeply entwined, without ever feeling the need to parade it around. There is so much of your world that gets handed over to strangers, so much that is consumed, analyzed, and broken apart. But this, him and you, is sacred.

And yet, it is impossible to hide what bleeds through. He is in your songs, in the half-smile you wear when you’re asked about love, in the tone that softens when someone brings up hockey. He is in the way your lyrics shifted from heartbreak to devotion over the years, like you stopped writing about loss and started writing about home. Fans notice. They connect dots. They speculate. Some of them are right, some of them are hilariously off-base, but you don’t correct them. You let them wonder.

Because that is the beauty of it: they will never really know. They will never know about the mornings in Pittsburgh when you would wake up to the sound of him flipping through game footage while you tried to piece together a bridge for a song. They won’t know about the superstition you two have, that he never listens to an unreleased track before you play it live for the first time. Or the way you always text him before his games, even if it is just a simple “you’ve got this.”

All the world knows are fragments: mentions slipped into interviews, maybe a song title that hints at something more, maybe a lyric that says too much for anyone who is really paying attention. You have both done such a good job of keeping the rest of it tucked away, the real, breathing part of it that belongs only to the two of you.

Tonight, you are at one of his games. The air in the arena hums with that familiar pregame electricity, the kind that always gives you goosebumps. Cameras flash, reporters swarm, voices blur together under the bright white light of the rink. You are used to being on the other side of the spotlight, but tonight it feels different. Tonight it is his world, and you are just there to watch him in it.

You have perfected the art of invisibility in his world. You show up, sit quietly in a seat with a view of the bench, clap, cheer, maybe laugh with the wives and girlfriends in the suite. Cameras catch you sometimes, sure. You will see the clips later, floating around online or replayed on the local broadcast: a quick shot of you smiling, clapping, talking to someone, a lower-third graphic flashing your name as if people don’t already know it. You never watch it live; it is always after the fact, when someone tags you or sends you a link like “you made the broadcast again.”

It is harmless. It is funny. And that is the extent of it. You have never once, in all these years, done a hockey interview. Not once.

Until today.

You are not even sure how it happened. It started as something simple, almost sweet: a favor, really. An intern from a small, local sports outlet had reached out through your team’s PR contact. She was a college student, writing a feature on “women in the hockey world” or something equally charming and low-stakes. She had been covering Pittsburgh sports since she was in high school, and apparently she was the kind of kid who still carried around a little digital recorder and a notebook like it was 2005.

That was what hooked you, honestly: the physical media thing. You have always believed in keeping it alive, actual pages, physical tapes, things you can hold. So when you heard that she still transcribed by hand and used a stack of old hockey magazines as research material, you said yes. Against your better judgment, sure, but yes.

“Just a short little bit,” you had told your manager, waving your hand as you zipped your jacket  “She’s local. I’ll give her twenty minutes tops. What’s the worst that can happen?”

You should have known.

Now, standing just outside the media hallway at the arena, you are starting to think maybe you have cursed yourself.

The girl, Mia, sweet as hell, nerves buzzing under her skin like she had had too much coffee, was harmless. You had actually been enjoying her questions. She had asked about the atmosphere, how it felt seeing the team competitive again, how much the city changes when hockey season hits its stride. You had smiled, answered, even made her laugh once or twice. The camera was small, the setup minimal, and it all felt easy.

Then she had done it, the little sidestep question.

“So, um… I have to ask. You and Sid, sorry, Sidney Crosby, you’ve known each other forever, right?”

You had grinned, already seeing where this was going. “Mm, forever’s one way to put it.”

“And you’ve been seen at a lot of games lately,” she said, eyes wide with this mix of curiosity and terror, like she couldn’t believe she was actually asking. “Fans love it. Do you still get nervous watching him?”

You had laughed then, soft and honest. “Oh god, every damn time. He makes it impossible not to.”

That should have been it: a cute clip for a college feature.

But somehow, somewhere in the middle of your easy answers and Mia’s wide-eyed enthusiasm, other reporters had started to gather. First one, then two, then a small cluster. You didn’t even notice at first. Then you heard the unmistakable click of multiple cameras, the shuffle of press credentials brushing against lanyards, and the low hum of voices starting to form a semi-circle around you.

“Oh, what the hell,” you murmured under your breath, eyes darting up.

Mia froze, blinking at the growing crowd. “Oh my god, I–I don’t know what’s happening.”

You gave her a small, amused look. “Yeah, me neither. But I think you just started a full-blown media scrum.”

And sure enough, within seconds, it was chaos.

The little hallway that had been empty minutes ago was now packed. You recognized more than a few faces: some from team coverage, others from national outlets. It was surreal, seeing people you had only ever watched on TV or read bylines from suddenly holding recorders and microphones out toward you.

One of them called your name, that eager, slightly pushy tone reporters use when they smell a story. “Y/n, can we jump in for a minute?”

You blinked, looked at the crowd, then back at Mia, who looked like she might cry.

“Jump in?” you repeated, incredulous. “You guys already are in.”

A few nervous laughs scattered through the group. You sighed, crossed your arms, “Alright, fine. Welcome, I guess. Let’s make it quick, yeah? I’ve got, like, ten minutes before puck drop.”

They actually laughed at that. And honestly, so did you.

It was ridiculous, so ridiculous. You had spent years dodging this kind of thing, only to get roped in because you said yes to one sweet college kid and her old-school recorder.

Someone tried to step closer, and you half-joked, half-warned, “Careful, guys. You’re about two inches from getting hit with my coffee. It’s not pretty when that happens.”

That got another ripple of laughter, but you could tell they were all just buzzing to get to him. You could feel it coming, the storm of Sidney questions.

You ran a hand over your jeans, exhaling a quiet laugh. “Alright. Fire away, I guess. Let’s see how bad this gets.”

Mia looked up at you from the middle of the crowd, eyes wide and apologetic. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean.”

You waved her off, softening instantly. “Hey, don’t worry about it. You’re good. Honestly, this is kind of hilarious. I’ve avoided this circus for, what, 20 years? Figures it’s you that drags me in.”

Her shoulders relaxed a little, and you grinned. “Just promise me when this goes viral you’ll tag me in the clip, yeah?”

She laughed, finally. “Deal.”

“Alright,” you said with a teasing grin. “Since you’re all here, let’s make this fun. Welcome to my unplanned press conference. Try to be gentle with me, yeah?”

The questions started harmless enough.

Someone from one of the local stations took the lead, a familiar face you had seen floating around postgame clips. “Alright, Y/n, since you’re here, what do you make of the Penguins’ season so far? The team’s had a bit of a resurgence lately.”

You leaned your elbow against the wall, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Oh, I think they’re electric right now. There’s this energy again, you know? It’s that mix of grit and rhythm they had back in the early 2010s. It’s nice seeing the guys hungry again.”

The reporter nodded like you had just given him gold, scribbling down notes you were sure would end up under a headline later. Another one jumped in right away, recorder extended. “You’ve been around the team for a long time. Do you feel like the atmosphere’s changed over the years?”

You laughed softly, eyes flicking around at the sea of recorders. “Changed? God, yeah. You’d hope so. They were all babies when I first started coming around. I mean, you can only eat so many chicken parms at team dinners before someone realizes we’re adults now.”

A few chuckles rippled through the group. Someone chimed in, “So you still go to team dinners?”

“Not often,” you said with a grin, “but when I do, I bring wine. It’s a peace offering.”

Someone from the back, a familiar voice from the local beat, calls out, “So you’ve been at a few games this season, right? What’s your take on the new lines?”

You blink, then laugh. “Oh my god, you think I know the lines? I can barely keep up with setlists, and you want me to break down line combinations?”

You can feel the tension melt a little. This is easy. This, you can do.

“I mean,” you continue with a small shrug, “I think what they’re doing is working. And, you know, if it ain’t broke…” You gesture vaguely, leaving the sentence hanging. “Besides, I’m not about to criticize. I’ve seen what that fan base does when someone breathes wrong about a power play.”

Laughter again. Someone jokes, “So you’re not secretly coaching from the box, then?”

“Oh, totally. I’m forming ideas right now,” you deadpan, pretending to mime typing on your phone. “We’ve got a whole thing. I’m responsible for the offensive zone entries.”

That gets an even louder laugh, and for a second it almost feels like a backstage hangout instead of a press gaggle. Even you can’t help but grin at the ridiculousness of it all.

But then, inevitably, someone decides to go there. You can see it coming, the tiny pause before a reporter raises her hand just a little higher, voice bright but too eager.

“Okay, so I have to ask, and I swear it’s innocent,” she says, already smiling, which you know means it’s absolutely not innocent. “You’ve been around the team a lot over the years. Would you say you’re close with any of the players?”

You tilt your head, mock-offended. “You mean other than the obvious one?”

That earns a ripple of laughter, cameras still clicking.

“I think it’s fair to say I’ve known them long enough to consider them friends,” you say, keeping it even, practiced. “They’re a good group of guys. They’ve always treated me like family, which, you know, goes both ways. I love this team.”

It’s a perfect PR answer. You know it, they know it, but it’s wrapped in just enough warmth that they let it slide.

For about fifteen seconds.

“Right, but specifically about Sid—”

“Oh boy,” you mutter under your breath, eyes narrowing with a teasing glint. “Here we go.”

“—you’ve known each other for a long time, right? What’s it like watching him now, all these years later, still doing what he does?”

You shift your weight, glance at the ceiling like you’re asking for patience from some higher power, then smile. “It’s… it’s amazing, obviously. He’s worked for every inch of his career, and it’s inspiring, honestly. I don’t think people realize how hard it is to stay that consistent, that driven, for that long. So yeah, I’m proud of him. Always have been.”

It’s genuine, you can hear it in your own voice, but you still keep it neat, controlled. You’re good at that.

Except now they smell blood in the water.

“So when you write songs about love and support and all that, do you—”

“Oh my god!” you cut in, laughing. “You guys are horrible!”

The reporters laugh too, and one of them, grinning, says, “We had to try!”

“Try harder!” you shoot back, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You think I’m gonna start quoting lyrics and naming names? Nice try, babe.”

You answered more questions about the atmosphere, about the city, about how wild the fans are when the team is on a hot streak. Someone even asked if you had ever considered doing the national anthem, and you choked out a laugh.

“Oh god, no. That’s way too much pressure. If I mess up one of my songs, I can just grin and play it off. You screw up the anthem and suddenly half the country’s after you.”

They ate that up. They were laughing, you were laughing, and it all felt surprisingly good. You could tell they were having fun too, because you were giving them something other than the typical hockey-player answers. It was a different tone, a little looser, a little messier, and they loved it.

Then, straight to the point, “You’ve been with Sid for, well, a long time, right?”

You blinked, trying not to smirk. There it was. “Depends who you ask,” you teased. “If you ask him, he’ll probably say forever. If you ask me, I’ll say, yeah, forever sounds about right.”

You could tell they were happy you had even acknowledged it. Usually, you sidestepped anything that had to do with him outside of the rink.

Another reporter jumped in, quick to catch the momentum. “How do you handle being in two such different industries? Music and hockey, pretty opposite worlds.”

You nodded slowly, smiling in that PR-polished way that was second nature to you by now. “Honestly? We’re just two people who love what we do. I think that’s why it works. He’s got his way of preparing, his routines, his focus. I’ve got mine. We understand that about each other.”

That was your usual line. You had said it before, in the rare magazine piece where his name came up. It was true, just polished.

Someone else piped in right away. “Do you ever write songs about him?”

You gave them a look, biting back a grin. “I mean, you tell me. You guys have been speculating for a decade now.”

More laughter. Cameras clicked. Someone murmured, “That’s a yes,” and you shook your head, laughing as you held up a hand. “That’s a maybe, if we’re being specific.”

Then someone decided to push it a little further. “What’s he like before games? Is he superstitious around you too?”

You groaned, half laughing, half exasperated. “You guys are horrible. You’re really trying to get me in trouble here.”

“You can tell us,” one of them said playfully, “we won’t print it.”

You pointed your coffee cup toward them, giving them a flat look. “You’re literally recording this.”

The group burst out laughing again, and you just shook your head, cheeks warm from the attention and the absurdity of it all. You had come here to watch a game, maybe chat with a student reporter, not get ambushed into a full-on press conference about your love life.

You gave them your practiced smile again, the one that was charming enough to end a line of questioning without seeming cold. “He’s great. That’s my answer. He’s great. Happy?”

“No,” one of them teased, grinning. “We need more than that.”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, laughing into your hand. “You’re relentless! Okay guys, thank you, this has been so much fun, but if I say anything else, he’s gonna text me from the locker room asking what the hell I said.”

A few of them started to protest. “Aww, come on! Just one more!”

You laughed, taking a careful step back. “Nope. That’s it. I know how you guys work. You twist one sentence, and suddenly I’ve announced our engagement or something.”

“Is that what you’re announcing?”

You gave them a look that was pure amusement. “You’re not getting me that easy.”

They were laughing, still trying to squeeze one last quote out of you, but you were already inching away, holding your hand up like you were surrendering. “Okay, okay, this was fun. You guys are adorable, honestly, but I’m gonna go find my seat before you make me say something I shouldn’t. Good luck transcribing that chaos.”

“Y/n, just one last thing.”

“Love you guys, mean it!” you called over your shoulder, waving dramatically as you started walking toward the seating area.

You could still hear their laughter echoing down the hall behind you. It was chaotic and warm and weirdly flattering. You couldn’t even be annoyed about it, because honestly? It was kind of hilarious.

As you wove through the narrow hallway, passing by familiar faces from team staff, you shook your head to yourself, smiling. “Jesus Christ,” you muttered, half laughing. “I just gave the hockey world an actual interview. What the hell.”

You glanced at your phone as you made your way toward the suite. There was already a text notification lighting up your screen. You didn’t have to open it to know who it was from.

Sid: What did you do?

You grinned to yourself, slipping the phone back into your pocket as you moved to your seat, the low hum of the arena swelling around you.

“Nothing, baby,” you murmured under your breath, still smiling. “Absolutely nothing at all.”

The game itself is a blur, the way it always is when your mind’s halfway somewhere else. You cheer when the crowd does, clap when they score, stand when the anthem plays. But mostly, you’re sitting there half-focused, your phone lighting up in your lap every thirty seconds with another ping or buzz or tag.

You already know what it is. You don’t even have to look. You can feel it.

You ignored it for the most part, because there was a game going on, and that was where your focus stayed. You still cheered, still clapped, still groaned when they missed a power-play chance. But in the back of your mind, you could practically hear your PR team losing their minds, trying to get a handle on it.

During the second intermission, you checked your phone just once.

Sure enough, there was a text from your manager.

Lina: You did WHAT? 

Lina: This is hilarious. Don’t say another word until I call you.  

Lina: Actually, nevermind. It’s kind of iconic. Carry on.

You grinned, tucking the phone away. Of course she was laughing. Everyone was probably laughing. You couldn’t even be mad.

When the game ended, you took your time leaving the suite. You waved to a few people, chatted with a couple fans, tried to play it cool even though the buzz hadn’t died down. Your phone was practically overheating in your pocket, and you knew by the time you got to your car, there would be entire compilation videos already edited to music.

You made your way down to the hallway near the locker room, the one spot you always waited for him. It smelled like cold concrete and sweat and that distinct mix of detergent and hockey gear that clung to him even after he had showered. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, trying to look casual.

And then there he was.

He spotted you almost instantly, that familiar postgame calm in his eyes. But the moment he saw your face, your barely contained smirk, his expression shifted into something wary.

“What,” he said immediately, pointing at you like he already knew.

You blinked innocently. “What what?”

He squinted, walking closer, still dripping faintly from the shower, hair damp and curling at the ends. “Don’t give me that look. What did you do?”

“Nothing,” you said too quickly.

He tilted his head. “Y/n.”

“It’s nothing!”

He narrowed his eyes, towel slung around his neck. “You’re literally smiling. That’s your I did something but I’m pretending I didn’t face.”

“Is not,” you argued, grinning harder.

“It definitely is.”

You shrugged, stepping close enough to fix the collar of his jacket. “You worry too much, baby. Go do your press thing. I’ll meet you at home.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, unconvinced.

You rose on your toes and kissed him quick, just a soft, playful press that made him sigh in that way he always did when he was trying not to smile. “Don’t overthink it,” you murmured against his lips. “It’s nothing bad.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“Bye, captain.”

He stared at you for another second, clearly torn between pressing further and just letting you go. You could tell he was trying to read your expression, but you gave him nothing but that maddening smile he both loved and hated. Finally, he just exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “You’re trouble.”

“You love me,” you sing-songed, backing away down the hall.

He couldn’t even argue with that one. You heard his low laugh follow you as you turned the corner.

By the time you were in the car, the laughter finally broke loose. You had been holding it in since the hallway. You couldn’t help it: the absurdity of it all, the way that tiny, harmless interview had turned into a full-blown media circus. You had your phone open on the passenger seat, scrolling through mentions at every stoplight.

There were clips already. Edited. Captioned. Memed.

Someone had even overlaid one of your own songs over a clip of you saying “He’s great. That’s my answer.”

“Oh my god,” you muttered, snorting as you scrolled. “This is ridiculous.”

You screenshotted a few to send to Lina later, then tossed the phone aside before you started cackling all over again.

When you finally got home, the house was quiet, warm, the faint scent of his cologne still hanging in the air. You kicked off your boots, tossed your jacket over the back of the couch, and collapsed onto the sofa with a long sigh. It felt good to sink into it, to finally let your brain rest.

You pulled the blanket over yourself, phone back in hand, and scrolled lazily. More tags, more reposts. Someone had made a montage titled “Y/n finally talking about her man like a proud girlfriend.” You laughed so hard you had to cover your mouth.

Your team’s group chat was a disaster.

Lina: You’ve officially gone viral on SportsNet. Congratulations.  

Paige: You look hot though. So it’s fine.  

Lina: Sid’s gonna murder you, btw.

You typed back, still giggling.

You: He’ll live.

And then you tucked yourself under the blanket, phone balanced on your stomach, scrolling aimlessly while the laughter still bubbled up every few seconds. You weren’t even trying to hide your amusement anymore.

By the time you heard the garage door open, it was late. You clicked your phone off immediately and sank lower into the couch, pulling the blanket all the way up to your chin. You were smiling so hard your cheeks hurt, but you did your best to look asleep.

You heard him come in: keys on the counter, the faint rustle of his jacket, the soft creak of his footsteps on the hardwood. He moved quietly, like he was trying not to wake you. For a moment, it was silent.

Then, without warning, his full weight dropped onto the couch.

You yelped, a muffled sound from under the blanket as he collapsed right on top of you, solid and warm and heavy. “Jesus, Sid!”

He was laughing into your shoulder, that deep, breathy laugh that vibrated through you. “You think I didn’t see it?” he murmured, voice low against your ear.

You groaned, still half laughing yourself. “Nooo, you weren’t supposed to!”

“Oh, I saw it,” he said, dragging the blanket down until your face was visible. His grin was wide and smug and unfairly cute. “‘He’s great. That’s my answer.’ Really?”

You burst out laughing. “Oh my god, shut up.”

He leaned closer, pressing his forehead against yours. “You had the entire Pittsburgh media wrapped around your finger, babe. I was in the locker room and half the guys were showing me clips.”

You laughed harder, hiding your face in his chest. “It wasn’t supposed to happen! It was one intern, Sid! One sweet little kid with a recorder! And then, boom, like, five other outlets showed up out of nowhere!”

He was laughing now too, shaking his head. “You said yes to one interview and caused a riot. You know how insane that is?”

“Honestly? Kind of impressive.”

“Yeah, you’re more famous than me.”

You looked up at him through a grin, hair a mess, still half under the blanket. “You still love me though.”

He hummed, kissing your forehead. “Unfortunately for me, yeah.”

You gasped dramatically. “Unfortunately?!”

He grinned. “You’re a PR nightmare, honey.”

“Oh my god, you love it.”

“Do I?” he teased, brushing his nose against yours. “Because my phone’s been blowing up all night with clips of you flirting with reporters.”

“I was not flirting,” you protested through a laugh. “I was being charming. There’s a difference.”

He kissed you again, lingering this time. “You were being trouble. My trouble.”

You sank against him, laughing softly. “I can’t believe you saw it already.”

He chuckled. “I can’t believe you thought I wouldn’t.”

You groaned, covering your face. “I need to move to another country.”

He just wrapped his arms around you tighter, pulling you closer under the blanket. “You’re not going anywhere.”

You smiled, curling into him, the sound of his heartbeat steady against your ear. “Fine. But next time, you’re doing the interview.”

“Not a chance.”

“Why not?”

“Because one of us needs to stay out of trouble,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice.

You grinned into his chest. “Good luck with that, babe.”

He laughed quietly, tucking his chin on top of your head, and the two of you fell into that easy, familiar quiet, the kind that comes after laughter, the kind that feels like home.