forbidden lair

Quinn Hughes is a man of few words.

You are a woman of seventeen side quests before breakfast.

It works. Mostly because he lets you be unhinged and you let him have quiet moments to recharge.

---

You first met at a charity event. He was standing by the snack table, quietly debating whether eating a third granola bar would be frowned upon.

You, meanwhile, were in the middle of passionately explaining to a Canucks media intern why every NHL team should have a mascot fight night.

You talked for ten straight minutes. Quinn said maybe six words.

You didn’t notice. You were too busy acting out a hypothetical scenario where Gritty suplexes Carlton the Bear.

He asked for your number anyway.

You told your friends: *“He’s mysterious. I like it.”*

He told his friends: *“She’s kind of terrifying. I also like it.”*

---

Now, six months in, you’re somehow still functioning as a couple — despite the fact that you treat life like an improv show and he treats it like a silent meditation retreat.

---

Example A: The Morning Routine.

You:

Wake up at 6:37AM. Play music. Do a 3-minute dance workout. Text Quinn TikToks while he's still in the bathroom. Sing the *Succession* theme song into a hairbrush. Tell the cat your plans for the day. Forget what you were saying mid-sentence. Start again with something new.

Quinn:

Wakes up. Blinks. Sits on the edge of the bed while you narrate the weather, your dream from last night, and the fact that “we should get a trampoline, babe. For cardio.”

“Trampoline?” he repeats.

“Mini one,” you say, doing jumping jacks. “Very urban. Very compact. Very me.”

He just nods. “Okay.”

You kiss him on the forehead and sprint into the kitchen like you’re being chased. He hears a crash and a “don’t worry!!” from the other room.

He worries. But only a little.

---

Example B: Game Nights.

You’re not a chill WAG.

You scream when Quinn scores. You do the “W” arms. You bring homemade signs that say “HUGHESY OR BUST.” You once got gently scolded by Rogers Arena staff for throwing confetti. It was biodegradable.

After the game, Quinn finds you bouncing on your toes outside the locker room.

“I MADE A FRIEND,” you announce. “Her name is Bethany and she said I have ‘excited golden retriever energy,’ so obviously we’re going to start a book club.”

Quinn, towel around his neck, just smiles and tucks your hair behind your ear.

“You’re sweating,” he says.

“I WAS YELLING.”

“I could tell.”

---

Example C: Living Together.

You narrate everything. Every thought. Every passing idea. Every weird Twitter thread you read that day. Sometimes in accents. Sometimes mid-pilates.

You also:

* Jump-scare him with songs from musicals

* Collect mugs you’ll never use

* Give the cat a new middle name every week

Quinn just… lets you.

He grounds you.

---

“You’re so calm,” you say one night, flopping dramatically across his lap as he scrolls on his phone.

“You’re so loud,” he replies, grinning as you poke his ribs.

“Admit it,” you say. “You like that I keep things interesting.”

“You climbed the fridge yesterday.”

“I was getting the peanut butter. That’s just resourceful.”

“You also told a delivery guy he had ‘good aura’ and then gave him a banana.”

“THE VIBE WAS RIGHT,” you say defensively.

He laughs. “I know. I love it.”

You pause. “Wait, really?”

He kisses your forehead. “You’re fun. Like, once-in-a-lifetime fun. You make life loud — in a good way.”

You blink.

Then: “You’re getting laid tonight.”

---

Quinn’s POV, Later That Week:

You’ve dragged him to a candle-making class. He’s not entirely sure how. You’re wearing a headband that says “FIRE STARTER 🔥” and explaining wick placement like it’s rocket science.

He looks at you across the table flour on your cheek, eyes lit up with caffeine and ambition and thinks, *I’d follow her anywhere. Even into a Michaels craft store.*

You glance at him mid-rant. “Wait, are you paying attention?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah. You said… pour the wax with love?”

You gasp. “YOU WERE LISTENING.”

Of course he was. He always is.

You bring the noise. He brings the peace.

Cale smiles, and heads in the direction of the nursery. The door’s open, soft light spilling into the hallway from the lamp next to the rocking chair. He stands in the doorway for a few seconds, just looking at you, and your baby girl. Your hair is thrown up into a bun on the top of your head, you’re wearing an old shirt of his, and he doesn’t think you’ve ever looked more beautiful.

You look up when he arrives, your squirmy one month old cradled safely in your arms. Sophie’s wearing a navy blue sleeper, looking so comfortable and snuggly. Cale’s heart melts at the sight, immediately feeling all the tension and stress from the game melt from his body, replaced by a warm fuzziness starting in his heart, slowly spreading to the rest of his body.

“Hi my love,” you stand up and cross the room, leaning up on your tiptoes to kiss him. Cale’s hands find your hips, holding you close to him, chasing your lips as you fall back to your heels. “We missed you, and we’re really happy you’re home. Someone didn’t want to fall asleep.”

Cale sighs again, but this time it’s content, dropping his forehead to rest against yours. He gazes down at his baby girl, suspended lovingly and safely between her parents. She’s smiling softly up at the both of you, eyelids drooping as she fights sleep.

He moves his arms to be under Sophie, and you carefully transfer your little girl into her daddy’s arms. Cale’s entire demeanor softens the second he’s holding her, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her little forehead. You melt as you watch Sophie yawn and snuggle into Cale’s chest, her big eyes fluttering closed. She lets out a tiny huff, and then she’s fast asleep.

You look up to meet Cale’s eyes, but his gaze lingers on your daughter for another second. When he finally does make eye contact with you, his eyes are shining with unshed tears, holding Sophie as close to himself as possible.

“Wanna go lay down?” you ask. Cale nods, and you place your hand on his back, leading him to your bedroom.

The Avalanche won tonight, but it was hard-fought. A close call. Cale doesn’t like close calls, especially if he feels like he could’ve done something about it. You know that he’s struggling right now, and not just mentally. You saw him take a hit from a Minnesota player and wince, wince hard. Harder than he should’ve for a hit of that size. He skated off to the locker room, effectively putting your heart in your throat, but then he was back for OT.

Even now, holding Sophie. He’s got her in both arms, of course, but he’s supporting the majority of her weight with his right arm instead of his left.

He settles down on his side of the bed, adjusting Sophie so that her perfect chubby cheek is smushed into his shoulder, one of her little hands clutching the fabric of his shirt. You climb into bed next to him, pulling the duvet over your laps, snuggling close to him.

You look at him for a long moment, study the set of his brow, the stiffness in his jaw. His eyes are on yours, but there’s a distance to them, like he’s not fully here. His mind is still back in Ball Arena, analyzing every movement he and his teammates made on the ice. Yes, the Avalanche won, but the game wasn’t easy. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t luck that won them the game, not at all, but it took the team a while to pick things up and get their act together tonight. 

Usually, you tell Cale to leave it in the car. Especially since Sophie was born, you want him to be focused on Sophie, and on you. Not on hockey and the way a certain game went. “The past is in the past” is what you always tell him, and so far he’s been pretty good at it.

But tonight, you do something different.

“What’re you thinking?” your voice is quiet, careful not to disturb the peace and calm of your home. “Talk to me, baby.”

He doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, just stares ahead at the TV above your dresser, turned off. He rests his cheek on Sophie’s head gently, rubbing her tiny back with his thumb. You can see the tears pooling in Cale’s eyes, the ones you know he won’t let fall. In all the years you’ve known him, all the years you’ve loved him and told him that it’s okay, you’ve only seen him cry two times.

Once at your wedding, when you were walking down the aisle in the most perfect dress.

Once the day Sophie was born. Her first little cry rang out in the hospital room, and tears were already streaming down his face. When the nurse laid Sophie in his arms, he was a blubbering mess.

Being a hockey player has changed Cale, in more ways than one. And that’s one of those ways.

“My brain is tired,” he says, voice quiet. His eyes are on the TV, locked onto the reflection of the three of you.

“Your brain is tired?” you repeat. His bottom lip wobbles, and your heart cracks a little bit at the sight of it. You reach a hand up to scratch the short hairs at the nape of his neck, hating anything and anyone who caused the look of distress on his face. “I’m here for you, Cale. Tell me what you feel.”

It takes him another few seconds to gather his words, and his courage. He shifts so he’s cradling Sophie in his arms, looking down at her sweet little face. Cale sniffs and hitches her a little bit higher on his chest.

“I’m hurt. It’s my shoulder, maybe my collarbone, I’m not sure. I lied and told everyone that I was fine and that I’m doing great but I’m not,” his voice is shaky, shoulders bunched up by his ears. There’s anxiety written over his entire demeanor, but he’s still talking. “I’m not the best player on the team, and I know that. But I also know that everyone relies on me. The team, the fans. I just… I don’t want to let anyone down.”

“Oh honey….” Tears have sprung to your eyes as well, heart aching for your husband. You kind of knew he felt this way, at least a little bit, but you didn’t think it was this bad. Cale’s usually so calm, collected. And the fact that he’s been playing injured? “Why haven’t you said anything? To me, or to your coach? Or any of the guys?”

Cale finally looks at you, eyes rimmed in red. “I don’t want anyone worrying about me.”

That’s it. You sit up, swinging your leg over his lap and sitting down. Once again, Sophie is nestled between you both, safe and warm and comfortable. Cale’s holding her close to his heart, as if giving himself strength, seeking comfort in your beautiful bundle of joy.

You cradle his face in your hands, looking at him for a long second, trying your hardest not to cry. “Cale Makar, you are my husband,” you tell him, voice steady, bordering on stern. “You are my husband and I love you, with all my heart. You are the father of my daughter, a wonderful man, and the only person I could ever imagine spending my life with. There is nothing in this world that is more important to me than you and Sophie. Your happiness is important to me, your health is important to me. I know… I know I tell you to leave hockey at the rink, but if you need to talk to me you can. If you need advice, we can talk things through. I don’t want you hurting yourself, physically or mentally, because you feel like you have to do it all yourself. You don’t. I’m here for you, my love. Always.”

Cale nods slowly, looking down at Sophie again, blinking rapidly to dispel the tears. All he says is, “I’m sorry.”

“No, no!” You use your thumb to tilt his head back up, and kiss the tip of his nose. Then both his cheeks, his forehead, and finally his lips. It’s a soft kiss, one full of love and care and as much support as you could possibly show him. You taste saltiness in the kiss, and realize that Cale’s crying. You pull away to find him keeping his eyes closed, shame evident on his face. “Don’t ever apologize. Not for this. I want you to get your head out of that mindset, stop thinking about other people. Think about yourself, honey, and how you feel.”

“I can’t help it,” he says, voice small. “I just want everyone to be happy. I want Bednar to be happy, I want the fans to be happy, I want the guys to be happy. Most of all, I want you and Sophie to be happy. I don’t want to burden you with things that aren’t your problem.”

You sigh, softly stroking his cheeks with your thumbs. “Your problems are my problems, in the same way mine are yours. We’re married, Cale. We do life together, right? When I tell you not to bring work home, I mean things like a petty argument with Devon, or one particular shot that didn’t go in the net. Not things like this, things that matter. You’re hurt, and you kept playing.”

Cale huffs. “Lots of guys do it.”

“I don’t care,” you tell him, leaning in to kiss him again. When you pull back, you shuffle a bit closer, sandwiching Sophie tighter between you, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Cale Makar, you are important. Not just as a good defenseman, as a hockey player, but as yourself. Not just as Sophie’s dad, or my husband, but as Cale. You need to prioritize yourself, and how you feel.”

He’s quiet for a few minutes, and you can tell by the look on his face that he’s taking in what you’re saying. Digesting it, unpacking it, thinking it through. He glances down at Sophie a few times, how peaceful she looks, sleeping in her daddy’s arms. Cale told you last week that being a father is the most fulfilling thing he’s ever experienced. He’s won a Stanley Cup, the most coveted award in Sports, and he’s never felt more joy or love than when looking at his daughter.

When you were pregnant, a few of the guys told him that he would feel like this. That there’s nothing quite like being a father. And even though he knew it would be true, that just placing a hand on your belly made his heart swell with love and pride, nothing compares to Sophie being here, in his arms.

“I’m gonna call Bednar… in the morning,” he still sounds unsure, but he said it, put it out into the world. “Tell him I need to get checked out by the team doctor. Officially. And I’m going to be honest.”

You smile. “Thank you.”

“And then… and then I’m going to come home. I’m going to hold Sophie, and help you take care of her. I’m going to tell you how I’m feeling, everything.”

Sophie starts squirming, and you lean back to give her some space. Her little face is scrunched, her lips moving like she’s trying to get milk out of your boob, and you both laugh a little bit at the sight. Cale sighs, but it’s not heavy with the weight of the pressure placed on his shoulders. It’s happy.

“Are you hungry?” Cale asks rhetorically, his entire being lighting up when her eyes crack open. “Oh yes my love, let’s go get you a bottle.”

“Cale, I can take her,” you get off his lap and reach for Sophie. “You just got back from a game, go watch a movie or read or something, relax.”

He doesn’t hand Sophie over, just keeps her tight to his chest. “No, um… I’d… I want to feed her. I missed her tonight and I wanna spend time with her. You can go to sleep, you waited up for me. I’ll get her to bed, too.”

You’re hesitant, but you can see the need to be with his daughter plain as day on his face, so you press a kiss to Sophie’s cheek, and to your husband’s, and nod. “Okay honey. Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will,” he says, getting off the bed, careful not to jostle Sophie too much.

“Promise?” you ask.

“I promise.”

You smile, and start getting under the covers as he leaves the bedroom, heading downstairs to the kitchen to start making Sophie a bottle.

Even from all the way upstairs, you can hear him talking to her, and hear her cooing in response. Cale had a rough night, has had a rough couple of nights, and even though it’s a work in progress, you can already tell that things are going to be better. that he’s going to be able to talk to you, tell you how he’s feeling and what he’s thinking.

If you got your way, the two of you would be settling down on the couch, Sophie in bed, both of you with a mug of tea in your hand. But you know that’s not what he needs right now. You’ll get that talk later, maybe tomorrow, or the day after that.

But right now, Cale needs to be with his baby girl. And that’s okay.

Sometimes with Cale, he just needs to hear the words. Needs to be told that it’s okay to do certain things, like feeling his feelings and talking them out. It’s going to be hard, and there’s going to be a lot of trial and error, but it’s a start. Tonight, you gave him the permission. He doesn’t actually need it, of course, but in his mind he does.

You know that your husband is a prized player on the Colorado Avalanche, and you’re so incredibly proud of him. He’s worked hard his entire life for this, and to be on such a successful team is wonderful. However, sometimes you wish he cared a little bit less. Just to ease his own conscience.

You know that’ll never happen, though. He tries to act like it’s not true, but Cale Makar has big feelings, he loves a lot and he loves hard. His first love was hockey, and then you, and now Sophie. But just because he loves you and Sophie doesn’t mean he loves hockey any less. In fact, you think he might love it more. He wants to make you proud. Wants you to be proud of his achievements, of how good he does.

That’s just another reason you love him, though. As you get out of bed and tiptoe to the top of the stairs, you think about how lucky you are to have him. You sit on the first step and listen to him talk to Sophie, tell her how much he loves her, how perfect she is.

Cale doesn’t do anything halfway. And even though sometimes you think it’s okay if he takes a few steps back, you’ll always respect his love and dedication for everything he does, especially hockey.

He’ll get there, you know he will. Eventually he’ll be able to tell you what’s wrong right away, and won’t hesitate to confide in you. Things have gotten a bit more complicated since Sophie was born, and you’re both still adjusting to life as new parents. You’re making progress, and that’s what matters.

“We’re so lucky we have Mommy, huh Soph?” Cale asks, voice quiet in the tranquil kitchen. “She’s the best. I don’t think anyone’s loved me quite like Mommy loves me. I don’t know what I would do without her.”

Tears come to your eyes for the second time tonight, but this time they’re tears of happiness.

Cale thinks he’s the lucky one? He clearly has no idea just how lucky you are.

The apartment was too quiet after playoff losses, that was the first thing you’d learned about loving Sidney; Not angry quiet, not tense quiet. Just hollow. Like all the noise he carried around during the season suddenly disappeared at once, leaving behind nothing but exhaustion.

The Penguins had been knocked out three nights ago, since then, Sidney had mostly existed in fragments; interviews, phone calls, long silences, staring at nothing from the kitchen counter. You didn’t push, you knew better.

Hockey ended hard for him every year, no matter how it happened. But this one felt different somehow; older, heavier. Tonight, rain tapped softly against the apartment windows while a muted SportsCenter recap played ignored in the background.

Sidney sat at the kitchen island in sweatpants and a black hoodie, turning a water bottle slowly between his hand, you watched him from the couch for a long moment before speaking carefully, "You should come to bed, Sid."

Normally he’d give some automatic answer of, "Yeah, in a minute." Tonight, he stayed quiet, in the silence, you felt your chest tighten a little.

And something in his expression made your stomach drop immediately.

Not sadness exactly; just tired, deep-down tired, the kind that sleep doesn’t fix. You slid onto the stool beside him quietly, your knee brushing his.

“You okay?” You whisper, Sidney let out a breath through his nose, eyes dropping back to the bottle in his hands. “Yeah.” He nods vaguely, you gave him a look, and after all these years, he knew that look meant; don’t bother lying if you’re going to do it badly. A tiny smile flickered briefly at the corner of his mouth before disappearing again.

Then silence.

Long enough that you started wondering if he was even going to answer. Finally, “I don’t know how many more times I can do this." He admits.

Your heartbeat slowed strangely, “What do you mean?" Sidney swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw shifted.

“This part.” His voice stayed calm, but quieter now. “Starting over every year. Getting ready all summer. Eighty-two games. Playoffs. Everybody asking what’s next before you’ve even processed losing.”

He rubbed a hand tiredly across his face, “I’m tired.” The honesty in it hurt more than if he’d sounded emotional, because Sidney didn’t say things unless he meant them completely.

You stayed very still beside him, outside, rain continued softly against the windows. “You’re thinking about retiring,” you said gently, not really a question.

Sidney stared at the counter for a few seconds, then nodded once, small, almost reluctant, like saying it out loud made it too real. Your chest aches instantly, not because it was shocking, you’d known this day was coming eventually. But because of who he was underneath hockey.

Sid had spent his entire life being Sidney Crosby the player. The captain, the face of the franchise, the routine, the pressure, the expectations.

And suddenly you could see him standing at the edge of whatever came after that, looking exhausted enough to finally admit he might want peace more than he wanted another season.

“You don’t have to decide tonight,” you said softly, shifting your stool closer to his. “I know.” He mumbles. “But you’ve been thinking about it for a while.” You say, asking, maybe.

This time he nodded immediately. “Since around Christmas, maybe.” Your eyebrows lifted slightly, “That long?”

Sidney gave a humorless little laugh, “Longer if I’m honest.” That hurt too, not because he hadn’t told you, but because you realized how long he’d been carrying it alone first. “You should’ve said something.” You tell him.

“I think I needed to hear it myself before I could say it to anybody else.” Anybody else, not media, not teammates, not management. You first.

Because of course you were first. Emotion tightened unexpectedly in your throat, Sidney finally looked at you fully then, eyes tired but steady. “I didn’t want you hearing it somewhere else someday.” Your heart nearly broke right there.

You reached for his hand automatically, cold from the water bottle he’d been holding too long, his fingers closed around yours instantly. “I don’t care if you play another year or five more,” you said quietly. “I just care about you.”

Sidney looked down at your joined hands for a second, and for the first time in days, his shoulders seemed to loosen slightly, like maybe this was the first moment he’d allowed himself to imagine a future outside hockey without feeling guilty for it.

“I don’t even know who I am without it,” he admitted finally, the vulnerability in that confession nearly crushed you.

You slid closer immediately, your free hand resting against the side of his face, “Yes, you do.” His eyes lifted back to yours slowly. “You’re still you when the game ends, Sid.”

For a second he just looked at you, reeally looked at you, like he was trying to believe it, then, quietly, “You’re the first person I wanted to tell.” And somehow, that felt bigger than the retirement conversation itself.

The next week felt strangely suspended, like the entire world was waiting for Sidney to make a decision he still wasn’t fully sure how to survive himself. Nothing had been announced publicly, no statements, no meetings, no headlines screaming retirement speculation.

But now that he’d finally said the words out loud to you, you could see the weight of them everywhere.

In the way he lingered after workouts, how long he stood staring at his gear bag before unpacking it, the silences that kept stretching wider between conversations. Sidney wasn’t dramatic when he struggled, that almost made it worse.

Because instead of falling apart loudly, he just carried everything quietly until it hollowed him out from the inside. And lately, he looked exhausted.

You found him sitting alone in the living room one afternoon, elbows on his knees, phone in his hands, not using it, just holding it. The TV played muted hockey highlights he clearly wasn’t watching.

“You’ve been staring at that screen for like ten minutes,” you said gently from the doorway, Sidney blinked slightly like you’d startled him. “Oh.”

You walked over slowly, settling beside him on the couch,“Who are you avoiding?” A tired huff of laughter escaped him, “Everybody.” He sighs.

You leaned into his shoulder, his arm wrapped around you automatically, muscle memory after all these years, “You don’t have to tell people yet.” You mumble, turning to kiss the skin of his shoulder through his shirt.

“I know.” He nods, but he sounded miserable anyway; because that wasn’t really the problem. The problem was Sidney Crosby had spent nearly twenty years becoming something larger than himself, and now he had to figure out how to tell people he might want to stop being that person.

“I keep thinking about calling Sully,” he admitted quietly. Coach first, of course. Not because it was official ye, not because paperwork existed. Just because Sidney respected people enough to tell them himself before the media circus could get there first.

“What's stopping you?” You ask, he was quiet for a second before he sighs, "What if I say it out loud and suddenly it’s real?” Your chest tightened painfully at his words, there it was. The actual fear underneath everything else, not retirement itself; finality.

You reached over carefully, taking the phone from his hands and setting it on the coffee table, Sidney let you. “I think,” you start softly, “you’ve spent your whole life believing you have to be completely sure before you’re allowed to feel something.” He looked down slightly, but you continue, “You don’t.”

Rain tapped softly against the windows again — Pittsburgh apparently determined to match his mood all week, finally, Sidney rubbed both hands over his face roughly. “I don’t even know how to explain this to people.

“You don’t owe everyone some perfect explanation.” You reassure, but he shakes his head, “I kind of do.”

“No, you don’t.” You repeat, firmly this time. His eyes lifted toward you then, tired and conflicted, "You know what everybody’s gonna ask?”

You did; Why now? Why not one more year? Do you still love the game? Could the team have changed your mind? As if retirement had to be justified enough to become acceptable. “They’re gonna ask if I still have more left.”

“You do,” you answered honestly; because he did, maybe that was the hard part. Sidney wasn’t being forced out, he wasn’t washed up, certainly wasn’t incapable, he could keep playing longer if he really wanted to, which made choosing to stop feel emotionally impossible.

“But maybe,” you continued carefully, “having more left isn’t the same thing as wanting to keep giving it away.” The room went very quiet, Sidney stared at you, and you watched the exact moment that sentence landed somewhere deep.

His expression cracked slightly around the edges, not crying, Sidney almost never cried, but vulnerable enough that it hurt to witness. “I’m tired,” he admitted again, voice rougher now. “And I feel guilty for being tired.”

You moved closer instantly, “Oh, Sid.” His head dropped back against the couch, “I don’t know who I am if I’m not doing this anymore.” He says, his words shaking slightly.

“You’re still the same person.” You shake your head, frowning at his words. “It doesn’t feel like it.” He insists. Your hand slid into his hair automatically, fingertips brushing the back of his neck.

For a second, his eyes closed, you felt the tension in him immediately; constant, heavy. Like he hadn’t relaxed fully in months. “Do you know what I think?” you asked quietly.

He opens his eyes to look at you again,“What?”

“I think you’ve spent so long carrying everyone else’s expectations that you forgot you’re allowed to have your own life too.” Sidney swallowed hard.

The apartment stayed quiet except for the rain and the distant hum of the television. Then,“I don’t know how to let hockey go.” The honesty in it nearly broke your heart. Because this wasn’t just a career ending, this was identity, routine, purpose, structure. The thing he’d built himself around since he was a kid.

You cupped his face gently, forcing him to look at you,“You don’t have to let it go all at once.” His eyes searched yours carefully.

“You really think I’ll be okay?” The question came out so quietly you almost missed it; and suddenly he didn’t look like Sidney Crosby the captain anymore. Just a man terrified of stepping into a future he couldn’t control.

You smiled softly, “I think you’re gonna wake up one day without your body hurting all the time." A tiny breath of laughter left him, so you keep going, “I think you’re gonna sleep past 6 AM eventually.” Another faint smile.

“And I think,” you whispered, brushing your thumb against his jaw, “you deserve to find out who you are when nobody’s asking you for anything.” Sidney stared at you for a long moment after that, then slowly, carefully, he leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours; small, quiet, fragile in a way almost nobody ever got to see from him. “

"I’m really scared,” he admitted. You wrapped your arms around him immediately, “I know.” And for the first time since playoffs ended, he finally let himself fall apart a little in your hands.

The announcement happened on a Thursday morning. Quietly, that was important to Sidney. No dramatic farewell special, no cryptic social media video, no arena event.

Just a press conference at the practice facility with the Penguins logo behind him and exhaustion hidden carefully beneath a navy suit and practiced composure.

You watched from home, Sidney had asked you to stay there; not because he didn’t want you beside him, but because he knew if he looked at you too long while trying to say the words out loud, he might not get through it. So instead you sat curled into the corner of the couch with your laptop open and your heart lodged somewhere painfully high in your chest.

The cameras flashed endlessly while reporters crowded forward, Sidney looked calm, of course he did. That was the worst part about loving him sometimes, nobody ever saw how hard he worked to keep himself steady.

“I’ve been incredibly lucky,” he said carefully into the microphones. “To play this game. To wear this jersey. To be part of this organization.”

You recognized the tiny pause before the next sentence immediately, the one he did when he was trying to keep emotion from climbing too high into his voice, “But I think it’s time.”

Your eyes burned instantly, god, even now, hearing it publicly hurt differently. The room exploded into questions immediately after the formal statement ended. Did you go back and forth on this decision? Do you think you could still play at a high level? Why now? Was this difficult?

Sidney answered every question politely, calmly, professionally. Like always. But you could tell how tightly he was holding himself together by the way his fingers curled against the podium between answers.

And then came the question you knew would haunt him. “Do you feel like you’re leaving too early?” The room went quiet. Sidney blinked once, barely letting out a sigh,“I don’t think there’s ever a perfect time to let go of something you love.” The honesty in it nearly shattered you.

For about three hours afterward, things were okay. Emotional, overwhelming, sad; but okay. (Now) former teammates posted tributes, fans shared memories, sports networks ran career highlights nonstop. Then the other side started, you saw it first online.

Selfish. He still had years left. Why quit now? The Penguins needed him. He owed the fans another season.

You immediately closed your phone, too late. Because when Sidney walked through the apartment door an hour later, you could already see it in his face.

He knew; of course he knew. He looked exhausted in a way you hadn’t seen before, not physically, but emotionally stripped raw.

You crossed the apartment instantly, wrapping your arms around him before he could even set down his keys, Sidney held you tightly right back. Too tightly.

His face disappeared briefly against your shoulder, neither of you spoke for a minute, silence filling the room before he breaks it, “I shouldn’t have looked.”

Your stomach twisted, “The comments?” A humorless little laugh left him. “Big mistake apparently.” You pulled back enough to look at him properly; his eyes were red-rimmed now, not crying exactly, but close enough that it hurt to see.

“People are angry,” he admitted quietly. “I knew some people would be upset, but…” He trailed off, because this was Sidney. He took things personally, always had. Especially disappointing people. “You gave that organization almost twenty years of your life,” you said firmly.

“I know.” He mumbled, like he'd already heard this today. "No, Sid. I mean it.” You insist. He looked away, “That doesn’t stop it from feeling like I’m letting people down.”

Your chest physically ached, because underneath all the accomplishments and leadership and legacy, there was still a part of him that genuinely believed his job was to carry everyone else first, even now. Even after choosing himself for once.

You took his face gently in both hands, “Listen to me.” His eyes lifted reluctantly back to yours, “You are not selfish for being tired, for wanting your life back.” His jaw tightened slightly, “And you are not responsible for people who only loved you as long as you were useful to them.” That one landed hard.

You saw it immediately in his expression, he swallowed once, throat moving sharply. The apartment stayed quiet except for the distant buzz of notifications neither of you wanted to look at anymore. Finally he spoke again, “I think part of me thought if I did everything the right way…” he said slowly, “people would understand.”

Your heart broke a little more, because of course he thought that. Sidney Crosby had spent his whole life trying to deserve love properly. Through consistency and sacrifice. Like if he just gave enough of himself away, nobody could resent him for eventually needing something back.

You brushed your thumb carefully beneath his eye, “Most people do understand.” He laughs, but there isn't any humor in it, it comes out as more of a huff, “But not everybody.”

“No,” you admitted softly. “Not everybody.” His shoulders sagged slightly,“I hated hearing people say I quit.” The crack in his voice nearly destroyed you, because there it was; the real wound. Not criticism, not headlines, but the implication that after everything he’d survived, everything he’d played through, everything he’d given, people still thought walking away peacefully meant weakness.

You pulled him into you again immediately, Sidney folded into your arms this time without resistance.