She’s just taken a position as a player development consultant for the US Women’s National Team, and you’re on the roster for an upcoming tournament. You’ve heard the stories — legendary player, hockey royalty, mother of three NHL players. You expect her to be intimidating, but she’s warm and sharp and funny in a way that immediately puts you at ease.

“You remind me of someone,” she says after practice one day, watching you work through shooting drills with a precision that borders on obsessive.

You glance over, breathing hard. “Yeah? Who?”

“My son Quinn.” She grins. “Same work ethic. Same intensity about getting things right.”

You laugh, wiping sweat from your forehead. “Is that a compliment?”

“From me? Always.” She pauses, and there’s something calculating in her expression that you can’t quite read. “He’s in Vancouver right now. Plays for the Canucks. Captain, actually.”

“I know who he is.” Everyone in hockey knows who the Hughes brothers are.

“He’s coming home for a few days next month,” Ellen says, casual but deliberate. “You should meet him.”

You’re about to deflect — you don’t really date, don’t have time for it — but something in her expression stops you. She’s not just making conversation. She’s matchmaking.

“Mrs. Hughes-”

“Ellen,” she corrects.

“Ellen. I don’t really … I mean, I’m pretty focused on hockey right now.”

“So is he.” She shrugs. “Maybe that’s exactly why it would work.”

***

You meet Quinn Hughes on a random Tuesday in March 2023, at a coffee shop in Ann Arbor. Ellen has somehow convinced both of you that this is a casual, no-pressure thing. It is not casual. It is terrifying.

He’s already there when you arrive, sitting in the corner with a baseball cap pulled low, scrolling through his phone. When you approach, he looks up and smiles, and it’s shy and genuine in a way that immediately disarms you.

“Hey,” he says, standing up. “You must be-”

“Yeah.” You shake his hand, feeling awkward. “Your mom is not subtle.”

He laughs, and it’s a good laugh, easy and self-deprecating. “No, she’s really not. I’m sorry if this is weird.”

“It’s definitely weird,” you admit, sitting down across from him. “But I’ve done weirder things.”

“Like what?”

“Like agree to this?”

He grins. “Fair point.”

The thing is, it’s not weird for long. Quinn is quiet at first, but once he starts talking, really talking, you realize why Ellen thought you’d click. He gets it — the pressure, the scrutiny, the weight of being exceptional at something before you’re old enough to know what that means. He asks about your game, and not in the patronizing way some guys do, but like he genuinely wants to understand how you see the ice, how you think through plays.

“My mom won’t shut up about you,” he says at one point, and there’s pride in his voice. “She says you’re going to change the game.”

You feel your cheeks heat. “She’s biased.”

“She’s not wrong though.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “I watched some of your highlights. That goal against Minnesota last month? The one where you went backhand, top shelf, with like two defensemen draped all over you?”

“You watched my highlights?”

“My mom made me,” he says quickly, then grins. “But also, yeah. I wanted to.”

You talk for three hours. About hockey, about pressure, about what it’s like to have your every move dissected. He tells you about captaining the Canucks at twenty-four, about the weight of expectations in Vancouver. You tell him about being the future of women’s hockey before you’ve even been drafted professionally, about the constant comparisons to players who came before you.

“It’s lonely sometimes,” you admit. “Being the person everyone expects everything from.”

Quinn nods, and something passes between you — recognition, understanding. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It really is.”

When you leave, he asks if he can text you. You say yes.

***

The draft comes in June 2024. New York selects you first overall, and you cry on national television because you’ve worked your entire life for this moment. Your phone explodes with messages, and buried in there, between congratulations from teammates and coaches and family, is one from Quinn.

Knew it. Congratulations. You’re going to be incredible.

You start dating officially that summer. It’s long distance and complicated — he’s in Vancouver, you’re in New York — but somehow it works. He flies in when he can, you visit during breaks. You FaceTime at weird hours, falling asleep with your phone propped on the pillow so you can see each other.

In November 2024, you score your first professional goal, and Quinn is there. He flew in without telling you, and when you see him in the stands after the game, you almost cry again.

“You came,” you say, still in your gear, sweaty and exhausted and so stupidly happy.

“Of course I came.” He pulls you into a hug, not caring that you’re disgusting. “I wouldn’t have missed this.”

Ellen is there too, beaming, and you realize that this — this strange, unexpected thing — is becoming real.

***

Your rookie season is everything you hoped for and more. The Sirens are building something special, and you’re at the center of it. The media attention is intense, but you handle it the way you handle everything: head down, work hard, let your game speak for itself.

Quinn’s season is harder. The Canucks are struggling, and the pressure in Vancouver is suffocating. You talk him through bad games, through media scrums that feel like interrogations, through the weight of wearing the C on a team that can’t quite find its footing.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m good enough for this,” he admits one night, voice small through the phone.

“You are,” you say firmly. “Quinn, you are. This isn’t on you.”

“Feels like it is.”

“I know.” You wish you were there, wish you could hold him. “But it’s not.”

In December 2025, the Canucks trade him to Minnesota. He calls you first, before it’s announced, and you can hear the devastation in his voice.

“I don’t know what I did wrong,” he says.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. Sometimes teams are just stupid.”

“I was supposed to—I wanted to-” He breaks off, and you think he might be crying. “I wanted to win there.”

“You’ll win somewhere else,” you tell him. “Minnesota’s lucky to have you.”

The trade is brutal for him, but there’s a silver lining: he’s closer now. Minnesota to New York is a much easier trip than Vancouver to New York. You let yourself imagine weekends together, lazy mornings, a life that feels less like a constant negotiation of flights and time zones.

***

Then January comes, and everything shifts.

You’re scrolling through Twitter when you first see the videos. ICE raids in Minneapolis and St. Paul. Families torn apart. People dragged from their homes, their workplaces, their schools. The videos are horrifying — agents in tactical gear, people screaming, children crying.

You can’t look away.

Quinn is living in Minneapolis now. Playing there. This is his community, even if he’s only been there a month.

You start posting immediately. Resources for people who need help. Donation links. Threads explaining what’s happening, why it matters, why people should care. Your agent calls, nervous, warning you that this is controversial, that you might lose sponsors.

“I don’t care,” you tell her. “This is people’s lives.”

Your teammates support you. The Sirens organization releases a statement. You donate a significant portion of your salary to immigrant advocacy organizations.

And Quinn … doesn’t say anything.

You notice it slowly, then all at once. He doesn’t like your posts. Doesn’t comment. Doesn’t share any resources. When you bring it up on FaceTime, he’s vague.

“I just think I need to be careful,” he says, not quite meeting your eyes even through the screen. “You know how it is in hockey. I can’t … I don’t want to alienate anyone.”

“Alienate anyone?” You stare at him. “Quinn, people are being deported. Families are being destroyed. This is happening in your city.”

“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking uncomfortable. “I know it’s bad. But I also have to think about the team, about-”

“About what? Your image?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

The conversation ends badly, tension thick between you. You tell yourself it’s fine, that he’s just being cautious, that hockey culture is different for men, more conservative, less forgiving of players who speak out. You’ve seen it your whole career — how men’s hockey stays silent on everything that matters.

You tell yourself Quinn is a good person. That he cares. That he’s just scared.

But then you’re scrolling Instagram one day and you see it: Quinn liked a post from Matthew Tkachuk from last summer. A pro-Trump post. Something about making America great again, with an American flag and a caption about strong leadership.

Your stomach drops.

You stare at the like, at the timestamp. July 2025. You’d been dating for nearly a year when he liked that.

“The Tkachuks are childhood friends,” you say out loud, to your empty apartment. “He probably just liked it without thinking. He probably-”

But the excuses feel hollow now.

You don’t bring it up. You don’t know how to. Every time you start to type out a message, you delete it. Every time you’re on FaceTime and the words are on the tip of your tongue, you swallow them down.

You tell yourself you’re being understanding. That relationships require compromise. That you can’t expect him to be as outspoken as you are.

You tell yourself he’s still a good person.

You almost believe it.

***

February arrives with the Olympics.

You’ve been preparing for this your entire life. Team USA. The gold medal game. Everything you’ve worked for culminating in Milan.

Quinn is there too, on the men’s team. It should feel romantic, both of you chasing gold together, but there’s a distance between you now that wasn’t there before. You feel it in the way he kisses you goodbye before games, in the way conversations feel more careful, more curated.

Ellen is part of the women’s team staff, and she watches you with knowing eyes. You wonder what she sees, if she can sense the hairline fractures spreading through something she helped build.

The women’s tournament is everything you dreamed. You dominate, racking up points, playing with a fire that borders on reckless. In the semifinals against Sweden, you score twice and add three assists. People start talking about you the way they talk about legends.

The gold medal game is against Canada. Of course it is. It’s always Canada.

You’re tied 1-1 with two minutes left in regulation. The game is brutal, physical, everything a gold medal game should be. You can feel history pressing down on you, can feel the weight of every woman who played before you, who fought for this moment to exist.

Overtime.

The puck finds your stick at center ice. You’re moving before you can think, before you can doubt. Two Canadian defenders converge on you, and time slows down. You see the angle, see the microscopic window between the goalie’s glove and the post.

You deke left, then right, so fast it looks like the puck is on a string. The goalie bites, her glove drops, and you go backhand, top shelf, bar down.

Goal.

Gold.

The arena explodes. Your teammates mob you, everyone screaming, crying, disbelieving. You can’t breathe. Can’t process. Can’t-

When you finally surface from the celebration, when the medals are around your necks and the anthem is playing, you’re crying so hard you can barely see.

Quinn finds you after. He’s in the stands with Ellen, and when you see them, still in your gear, gold medal heavy against your chest, he’s smiling so wide it almost hurts to look at.

“That was incredible,” he says, pulling you into a hug. “Oh my god, that goal. Everyone’s calling it the goal of the decade. You’re unbelievable.”

Ellen hugs you next, and she’s crying too. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispers. “So, so proud.”

You’re surrounded by people — teammates, media, coaches — but in this moment, with Quinn’s arms around you and Ellen beaming, you let yourself feel it. The joy. The accomplishment. The sheer impossible reality that you’re an Olympic gold medalist.

“I love you,” Quinn says into your hair. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I love you too,” you say automatically.

And you do. You think you do.

But standing there, gold medal around your neck, cameras flashing, the weight of everything you’ve achieved settling into your bones, you feel something else too. Something uncomfortable and undeniable.

You feel the distance. The unspoken. The things he won’t say and the posts he won’t like and the silence that speaks louder than any words.

You feel the fracture widening.

But not tonight. Tonight, you’re golden. Tonight, you’re everything you’ve worked your entire life to become.

Tonight, you let yourself have this.

Tomorrow can wait.

***

Three days after your gold medal game, you’re back in the arena. This time, you’re in the stands with your teammates, wearing your Team USA gear, faces still flushed with the glow of victory that hasn’t quite faded.

“Think they can pull it off?” Kendall asks, leaning over. She’s got her gold medal tucked under her jacket — all of you do, wearing them like talismans.

“Against Canada?” You grin. “God, I hope so. Would be poetic, wouldn’t it?”

“Your boyfriend’s on the ice,” Hannah says, nudging you. “No pressure or anything.”

You watch Quinn during warmups, the way he moves with that effortless precision you’ve always loved. Jack is out there too, talking to someone, gesturing wildly the way he always does. The Hughes brothers, both chasing gold on the same team.

“Luke must be losing his mind back in Jersey,” you say.

“Are you kidding? He’s probably throwing a watch party.” Kendall grins. “Did you talk to Quinn this morning?”

“Briefly.” You met up for breakfast at 6 AM, both of you too nervous to sleep. “He was trying to pretend he wasn’t freaking out.”

“And you?”

“I told him to go win me another gold medal to match mine.”

The game is everything a gold medal game should be. Physical, intense, back and forth. Canada scores first, and your stomach drops. Then Matt Boldy ties it up, and the arena shakes with the noise.

In the second period, you watch Sam Bennett’s stick come up high, catching Jack directly in the mouth. There’s blood on the ice immediately.

“Oh shit,” Hannah breathes.

Jack goes to the bench, comes back minutes later with gauze stuffed in his mouth. You can see from here that he’s missing teeth.

“That’s going to be a great story,” Kendall says, wincing.

“That’s going to be an expensive dental bill,” you correct.

The game stays tied through regulation. 1-1. Everything coming down to overtime, just like your game did.

You’re gripping Kendall’s hand so hard your knuckles are white. Every time Quinn touches the puck, your heart stops. Every time Jack skates, you think about those missing teeth and the fact that he’s still out there, still playing through it.

Three minutes into overtime, Jack Hughes gets the puck just outside the crease.

“Come on,” you whisper. “Come on, come on-”

He dekes past one defender, then another. The whole arena is on its feet. He’s got a shooting lane, and he takes it — a wrist shot that beats Binnington blocker side, top corner.

Goal.

Gold.

The arena erupts. You’re screaming, jumping, hugging everyone around you. Your teammates are crying, and you realize you are too. Team USA men’s hockey hasn’t won gold since the Miracle on Ice in 1980. Forty-six years.

And Quinn is part of it.

You watch him on the ice, watch the team mob Jack, watch them pile on top of each other in pure, unfiltered joy. When they finally separate, Quinn finds Jack first, grabbing his face, saying something you can’t hear but can read in his expression. You did it. You actually did it.

“Your boyfriend’s an Olympic gold medalist,” Hannah says, grinning through tears.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “Yeah, he is.”

The medal ceremony is beautiful. You watch Quinn stand on that podium, gold medal around his neck, American flag draped over his shoulders, and something swells in your chest that’s almost painful. Pride, yes, but something more. Something like hope that maybe, maybe, everything is going to be okay.

He’s glowing. They all are. Jack keeps touching his mouth, probably checking if more teeth fell out, but he’s smiling so wide it doesn’t matter. Quinn catches your eye in the stands and points at you, mouthing something that looks like we did it.

You blow him a kiss.

“God, you two are disgustingly cute,” Kendall says, but she’s smiling.

***

The celebration is immediate and chaotic. The men’s team takes forever in the locker room — press obligations, drug testing, the usual post-gold-medal circus. You wait with the WAGs and family members in a designated area, energy fizzing through all of you.

“I can’t believe they pulled it off,” you say to Ellen, who’s practically vibrating with joy.

“Both my boys with gold medals,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this.”

“You created them,” you point out. “That’s a pretty good start.”

When the men finally emerge, they’re already drunk. Someone had champagne in the locker room, and they’re passing bottles back and forth, cheering every time someone takes a swig.

Quinn finds you immediately, pulling you into a kiss that tastes like champagne and victory.

“Olympic champion,” you murmur against his mouth.

“You too.” He’s grinning so wide his face must hurt. “We’re both Olympic champions. How insane is that?”

“Pretty insane.” You run your fingers through his hair. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I scored the game winner!” Jack appears, shoving himself between you two, medal swinging. “Did you see that? Did you see it?”

“We saw it, Jack.” You laugh, hugging him. “That was incredible. Also, your mouth-”

“I know!” He opens wide, showing the gaps where teeth used to be. “How badass is this?”

“So badass,” you assure him. “Your dentist is going to love you.”

The team has arranged a celebration at a venue near the Olympic Village. As you all make your way through the Milan streets, the energy is electric. People are cheering, taking photos, chanting “U-S-A!” The men are at the center of it all, arms linked, singing off-key, completely wasted.

You walk with the other women, with Ellen and the other mothers and girlfriends and wives, on the periphery of it all. It’s fine. It’s their moment. They deserve this.

But something feels off.

“They’re going hard,” Kendall observes, watching as Matthews nearly trips over his own feet.

“Can you blame them?” Hannah shrugs. “They just won Olympic gold.”

“No, I know.” You’re watching Quinn, the way he’s laughing at something one of the guys said, the way he’s completely in his element. “It’s just …”

“Just what?”

You don’t know how to explain it. That you feel outside of this, somehow. That when you won gold, Quinn was there, but the celebration felt different. Smaller, maybe. Less explosive.

“Nothing,” you say. “Just tired.”

The venue is packed with Team USA staff, coaches, families. Someone sets up a speaker, and music blasts through the space. The men are dancing — if you can call it that — spraying champagne like they’re in a nightclub.

You find a quieter corner with your teammates. Ellen joins you, and you’re swapping stories about your respective gold medal games when Quinn appears, clearly several drinks past coherent.

“There she is!” He drapes himself over you. “My gold medalist girlfriend.”

“Hey, champion.” You steady him. “How’re you feeling?”

“Amazing.” He kisses your neck. “Best day of my life. And all it took was Jack sacrificing some teeth.”

“Hey!” Jack appears again, because apparently he’s omnipresent tonight. “My teeth got us a double minor.”

“That we didn’t score on,” Quinn counters.

“Who’s fault is that?”

You laugh, letting them bicker, letting yourself enjoy this moment. Quinn with gold around his neck, happy and loose and proud. This is good. This is what you wanted.

Isn’t it?

The night wears on. It’s past two AM when you check your phone, scrolling through the hundreds of notifications. Congratulations messages for both you and Quinn, articles about both gold medal games, photos of you both with your medals.

You’re about to put your phone away when Kendall appears at your elbow, her face pale.

“Have you seen this?”

“Seen what?”

She shows you her phone. It’s a video, clearly taken from inside a locker room. The quality is shaky, like someone filmed it on their phone trying to be discreet.

“What is this?”

“Just watch.”

You press play.

The men’s locker room. You can see Jack in the frame, still bleeding from the mouth, medal around his neck. Other players are celebrating, champagne everywhere.

Then you hear the voice. Unmistakable, even through a phone speaker.

Trump.

Your stomach turns to ice.

“Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?” Trump’s voice crackles through someone’s speakerphone. “Congratulations, gentlemen! What a game! What a victory!”

Someone is holding the phone up. “Mr. President, the team is here. They’re excited to talk to you.”

“Fantastic, fantastic. This is incredible. The first gold since 1980! You’ve made history, gentlemen. Made America proud.”

The players are cheering, raising their bottles. You can see Quinn in the background, smiling.

“Now, I want to invite you all to the White House,” Trump continues. “We’re going to have a proper celebration. The State of the Union is in two days — perfect timing! You’ll be there, won’t you?”

“Absolutely, sir!” Someone shouts. You think it’s Matthews.

Then Trump’s voice shifts, that particular tone he gets when he thinks he’s being funny. “I must tell you, we’re going to have to bring the women’s team, you do know that.”

Your breath catches.

“If I didn’t invite the women’s team,” Trump continues, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, “I do believe I probably would be impeached.”

The locker room erupts in laughter.

The men — all of them, every single one — laugh.

Quinn laughs.

You watch his face in the video, watch him throw his head back, watch him think this is funny.

“What do you say, gentlemen?” Trump asks. “White House? State of the Union? Make America proud?”

“Hell yeah!” Multiple voices, overlapping, enthusiastic.

The video cuts off.

You’re frozen, phone still in your hand, Kendall’s face swimming in your peripheral vision.

“I’m going to be sick,” you whisper.

“There’s a bathroom-”

You’re moving before she finishes, shoving through the crowd, past celebrating players and oblivious family members. You make it to the bathroom just in time, barely getting the stall door closed before you’re throwing up everything in your stomach.

You won’t cry. You won’t.

(You do.)

There’s a knock on the stall door. “Hey, you okay in there?” It’s Hannah’s voice.

“Yeah,” you manage. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. Can I come in?”

You unlock the door. Hannah squeezes into the stall with you, which would be funny in any other circumstance.

“I saw the video,” she says quietly.

“Everyone saw the video.” You laugh, and it sounds hysterical even to your own ears. “It’s probably everywhere by now.”

“It’s trending on Twitter.”

Of course it is.

“They laughed, Hannah. They all laughed.” You press your palms against your eyes. “He said we’re only being invited so he won’t be impeached, and they thought that was hilarious.”

“I know.”

“We won gold three days ago. Three days. We dominated that entire tournament. I scored a golden goal too, and we’re an afterthought. A political obligation. A punchline.”

“I know,” Hannah says again, and she sounds as angry as you feel.

“And Quinn-” Your voice breaks. “Quinn laughed. He laughed and then he accepted. He’s going to go to the White House for Trump.”

“Maybe he didn’t understand what Trump was saying. Maybe-”

“Don’t.” You look at her. “Don’t make excuses for him. I’ve been making excuses for weeks. The Minneapolis thing, the Tkachuk post, all of it. I kept telling myself he was just being careful, that hockey culture was different, that he was still a good person underneath.” You laugh again, bitter. “But good people don’t laugh at that joke. Good people don’t accept invitations from someone who’s literally in the Epstein files and probably a pedophile himself.”

Hannah is quiet for a moment. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

But you do know. You’ve known since you saw Quinn’s face in that video, since you heard him laugh at your expense, at your team’s expense.

You just don’t want to admit it yet.

There’s another knock on the bathroom door, then Kendall’s voice. “Quinn is looking for you.”

Your stomach lurches again. “Tell him I’m sick.”

“I don’t think he’s going to accept that.”

“Then tell him I went back to my room.”

“Did you?”

“I will.” You stand up, legs shaky, and move to the sink to rinse your mouth. Your reflection in the mirror looks wrong — gold medal still around your neck, mascara smudged, face pale.

You look like someone whose world just shattered.

When you emerge from the bathroom, Quinn is right there, concern cutting through his drunken haze.

“Hey, are you okay? Kendall said you were sick.”

You can’t look at him. Can’t look at his face without seeing him in that video, laughing.

“I’m fine. Just tired. I’m going back to my room.”

“I’ll come with you-”

“No.” It comes out sharper than you intended. “No, you should stay. Celebrate. This is your night.”

“But-”

“Quinn, I’m fine. Really.” You force yourself to meet his eyes. “Congratulations again. You were amazing out there.”

You kiss his cheek — muscle memory, automatic — and leave before he can argue.

Your teammates follow you out. No one says anything as you walk through the Milan streets back to the Olympic Village. The celebration continues behind you, music and laughter fading with distance.

In your room, you pull out your phone. The video has been shared thousands of times already. The comments are exactly what you’d expect — some defending the men, some outraged on the women’s behalf, some making jokes about how “woke” women’s sports are.

You think about Quinn, probably still celebrating, probably still drunk, probably with no idea that this video exists or what it means.

You think about Minneapolis, about the posts you made that he wouldn’t engage with, about the Tkachuk like you pretended didn’t matter.

You think about all the times you told yourself he was good underneath, that he just needed to be careful, that you couldn’t expect him to be as outspoken as you.

You think about his laugh in that video.

You’re tired of making excuses.

Your phone buzzes. A text from Quinn.

Are you sure you’re ok? I can leave if you need me

You stare at the message for a long time. Part of you wants to tell him to come over, wants to hear his explanation, wants him to somehow make this okay.

But the larger part — the part that scored the game-winning goal, that won Olympic gold, that refuses to be anyone’s afterthought — knows that there’s no explanation that will be good enough.

I’m fine. Go celebrate with your team. We’ll talk tomorrow.

Then you turn off your phone, take off your gold medal, and finally let yourself fall apart.

***

You can’t sleep.

The tears stopped around four AM, leaving you hollow and headachy, but sleep won’t come. You’ve tried everything — lying on your back, your side, your stomach. Counting backwards from a thousand. Deep breathing exercises your sports psychologist taught you. Nothing works.

Every time you close your eyes, you see that video. Quinn’s face. His laugh.

Your roommate is snoring softly in the other bed. At least one of you should get some rest.

At 4:53 AM, you give up. You pull on sweatpants and a hoodie, slide your feet into sneakers, and slip out of the room as quietly as possible.

The Olympic Village is eerily quiet. The closing ceremony was earlier tonight — last night, technically — and most athletes have already cleared out. The ones remaining are probably passed out from celebrating or commiserating, depending on how their events went. You wander past the USA buildings, not looking where you’re going, not really caring.

Your feet carry you on autopilot. Left, then right, then straight. You’re not trying to go anywhere. You just need to move, need to be somewhere that isn’t that room with its walls pressing in.

You end up against the side of another building — you don’t even look to see which country’s — and let your body weight fall against it. The concrete is cold through your hoodie, but you don’t move. You tip your head back, staring up at the dark sky.

You wish you were a smoker. That’s stupid, you know it’s stupid, but at least then you’d have something to do with your hands, some excuse for standing out here in the cold at nearly five in the morning looking like your life just fell apart.

Which it did.

The cold is starting to seep through your clothes now, making you shiver. It’s winter in Milan, and in your turmoil, you completely forgot to grab a coat. Just a hoodie against February air.

Perfect. You can’t even fall apart properly.

“Excuse me, are you okay?”

The voice makes you jump. It’s male, concerned, and unmistakably Canadian to your hockey-trained ears. That particular accent you’ve heard a thousand times across the ice, in media scrums, in arenas across North America.

You look up.

Sidney Crosby is standing about ten feet away, looking at you with the kind of concern usually reserved for injured players or lost children.

For a moment, you can’t process it. Sidney fucking Crosby. Three Stanley Cups. Two Olympic golds. Multiple scoring titles. The face of hockey for the last two decades. The Sidney Crosby is standing in front of you at five in the morning in the Olympic Village.

And you look like absolute shit.

You try to wipe at your face, knowing full well your eyes are red and swollen, that your hair is a disaster, that you probably have dried tear tracks on your cheeks.

“Yeah,” you say, voice rough from crying. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just couldn’t sleep.”

He doesn’t look convinced. He’s wearing a Team Canada jacket and walking with a noticeable limp — the knee injury from the quarterfinals against Czechia. It kept him out of the semifinals and the gold medal game. These were probably his last Olympics, Canada lost, and he didn’t even get to play in the deciding games.

And yet he’s here, at five AM, checking on you.

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t-” You gesture vaguely. “I was just walking. I’ll go.”

“No, it’s-” He takes a step closer, then stops, like he’s not sure if he’s intruding. “I couldn’t sleep either. Knee’s bothering me.” He pauses. “But I don’t think that’s why you’re out here.”

The pity in his eyes makes it clear. He knows. He knows what happened with the US men’s team.

If Sidney Crosby, who’s notoriously offline, who barely uses social media, who once admitted he didn’t know what TikTok was — if he knows, then everyone knows.

“I’m really fine,” you try again, but your voice cracks on the last word.

Sidney is quiet for a moment. Then he moves closer, still limping, and leans against the wall next to you. Not too close, respecting your space, but close enough that you’re not alone anymore.

“I saw the video,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

You laugh, and it sounds bitter even to your own ears. “Why are you sorry? You didn’t do anything. Your team didn’t do anything. It was my-” You stop. “It was our men.”

“Still.” He’s looking straight ahead, not at you, and somehow that makes it easier. “It’s not right. What they did. What he said.”

“Trump, you mean.”

“Yeah. And-” Sidney pauses. “The laughing. That part was worse, I think.”

You close your eyes. “Everyone’s talking about it.”

“Everyone’s angry about it,” he corrects. “A lot of us, anyway. You guys-” He shakes his head. “That was some of the best hockey I’ve seen. Not just at these Olympics. Ever.”

You look at him sharply. “You watched?”

“Of course I watched.” He sounds almost offended. “The gold medal game especially. That goal you scored-” He lets out a low whistle. “That was incredible. The hands, the patience, the finish. That was world-class.”

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“Don’t tell Marie-Philip I said that, though.” There’s the ghost of a smile on his face. “She’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

Despite everything, you almost laugh. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Sidney is quiet for a moment. “You deserved better than that. Your whole team did. The disrespect-” He stops, and you can hear the anger in his voice, carefully controlled. “You’re Olympic champions. You won gold. And they made you into a punchline.”

“We’re used to it,” you say, and god, how sad is that? “Women’s hockey, we’re always an afterthought. We’re always fighting for ice time, for funding, for people to take us seriously. This is just-” You gesture helplessly. “This is just more of the same.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

“No,” you agree. “It shouldn’t be.”

You’re shivering now, really shivering, your teeth starting to chatter. Sidney notices.

“Jesus, you’re freezing. Where’s your coat?”

“I forgot it.”

“You forgot-” He’s already shrugging out of his jacket, a clearly Team Canada-branded Lululemon Sherpa thing that probably costs more than your monthly grocery budget. “Here.”

“I can’t—that’s yours-”

“Take it.” He holds it out. “Please. You’re shaking.”

You take the jacket, wrapping it around yourself. It’s warm from his body heat and smells like expensive detergent and faintly of the medicated cream athletes use for sore muscles. The Canadian flag and logo are prominent on the chest and sleeves.

“Won’t you be cold?” You ask.

“I’m from Nova Scotia. This is shorts weather.” He’s definitely lying — you can see the goosebumps on his arms — but you’re too cold to argue.

“Thank you,” you say. “For the jacket. And for-” You gesture vaguely. “This. Talking to me. You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

There’s something in his voice that makes you look at him properly. He’s older than you expected up close — thirty-eight now, you think — with lines around his eyes and that particular weariness that comes from carrying a sport on your shoulders for two decades. His knee is clearly bothering him, he keeps shifting his weight off it.

“I’m sorry about your injury,” you say. “And the gold medal game. That you couldn’t play.”

He shrugs. “It happens. Part of the game.”

“Still sucks though.”

“Yeah.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah, it really does.”

You stand there in silence, two Olympic athletes who just had very different but equally shitty experiences, watching the sky start to lighten at the edges.

“Can I ask you something?” Sidney says eventually.

“Sure.”

“Why are you out here alone? Where’s-” He stops, seeming to think better of it.

“My boyfriend?” You laugh humorlessly. “Probably still celebrating. Or passed out drunk somewhere. I don’t know. I turned off my phone.”

Sidney nods slowly, like this confirms something he was thinking.

“The thing is,” you continue, not sure why you’re telling him this but unable to stop, “I knew. Not about the video, obviously, but other things. Red flags. Things I made excuses for because I wanted to believe he was better than that.”

“What kind of things?”

You tell him about Minneapolis. About the ICE raids and the deportations and how Quinn wouldn’t engage with any of it. About the Tkachuk post from last summer that you convinced yourself meant nothing. About how you kept telling yourself that hockey culture was different for men, more conservative, that you couldn’t expect him to be as outspoken as you.

“I told myself I was being understanding,” you say. “That relationships require compromise. But I think I was just scared. Of being alone. Of losing him. Of admitting that maybe he wasn’t who I thought he was.”

Sidney listens without interrupting. When you finish, he’s quiet for a long moment.

“My parents have been married for forty years,” he says finally. “You know what my dad told me once? He said a real partner lifts you up. They’re proud of you. They defend you. They’d never let anyone — especially themselves — make you feel small.”

You feel tears prickling at your eyes again.

“That video,” Sidney continues, voice gentle but firm. “That wasn’t just Trump being Trump. That was your boyfriend and his teammates laughing at the expense of your accomplishment. Your gold medal. Your team. And then accepting an invitation from someone-” He stops, jaw tight. “From someone who represents everything wrong with how women are treated.”

“I know,” you whisper.

“You deserved better than that.” He’s looking at you now, direct and serious. “Not just from Trump or the media or hockey culture. From him. From your boyfriend.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, because he’s right. God, he’s so right, and you’ve known it for hours but hearing someone else say it makes it real in a way it wasn’t before.

“You deserve someone who would never do that to you,” Sidney says. “Someone who would fight any man who tried to put you down like that, not join in on the laughter. Someone who’s proud to be with you, not just when it’s convenient or when you’re winning, but always. Especially when it’s hard.”

You’re crying again, silently, tears running down your face. Sidney notices and looks away, giving you privacy in the way you process this.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment. “That was probably overstepping. It’s none of my business.”

“No.” You wipe at your face with the sleeve of his jacket. “No, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. I just-” Your voice breaks. “I didn’t want to see it. I wanted to believe that he was good underneath all the silence and the excuses. That he loved me enough to be better.”

“Love isn’t enough if there’s no respect,” Sidney says quietly. “And respect means standing up for your partner. Defending them. Being proud of them publicly, not just privately. If he can’t do that — if he won’t do that — then it doesn’t matter how much he says he loves you.”

You nod, unable to speak past the lump in your throat.

Sidney pushes off the wall, wincing slightly as his knee protests. “I should let you go. Get some sleep. Or try to, anyway.”

“Wait, your jacket-”

“Keep it. Return it later if you want, but-” He shrugs. “You need it more than I do right now.”

“Sidney-”

“Congratulations,” he says, and his smile is genuine and warm. “On the gold medal. On that goal. On everything. You earned it. Don’t let anyone take that away from you.”

He starts to limp away, back toward what you assume is the Canadian building. Then he stops and turns around.

“One more thing,” he says. “I know it probably doesn’t feel like it right now, but you’re going to be okay. You’re tough. You scored the goal of the decade with two defenders draped all over you. You can handle this too.”

“How do you know?” Your voice is small.

“Because you’re out here at five in the morning, in the freezing cold, processing it instead of pretending it didn’t happen. That takes courage. And courage like that?” He smiles. “That doesn’t go away just because your heart’s broken.”

Then he’s limping away into the early morning darkness, leaving you wrapped in his Team Canada jacket with tears on your face and something that feels almost like hope flickering in your chest.

You stand there for a long time after he’s gone, watching the sky lighten, feeling the cold seep through even with the jacket. Your phone is still off. Quinn is probably awake by now, probably looking for you, probably worried.

Or maybe not. Maybe he’s still celebrating. Maybe he hasn’t even seen the video yet. Maybe he doesn’t understand what he did, what it meant, how it broke something fundamental between you.

You pull Sidney’s jacket tighter around yourself. The Canadian flag on the sleeve catches the early morning light.

You think about what he said. About deserving better. About real partners lifting you up, defending you, being proud of you publicly. About how love isn’t enough without respect.

You think about Quinn laughing in that locker room. About Trump’s joke and the invitation to the White House. About Minneapolis and the Tkachuk post and all the times you made excuses.

You think about your gold medal, sitting in your room, and how for one perfect moment you were the best in the world at what you do, and that should have been enough. That should have been everything.

It still is everything.

Quinn’s laughter doesn’t diminish your gold medal. Trump’s joke doesn’t make your goal less spectacular. The men’s team accepting that invitation doesn’t erase the fact that you won.

You’re an Olympic champion. You scored the golden goal. You’re one of the best hockey players in the world, male or female.

And you deserve someone who sees that. Who celebrates it. Who would never, ever laugh at your expense.

Sidney Crosby, of all people, saw that. A rival player from a rival country who had every reason to be drowning in his own disappointment tonight saw that and took the time to tell you.

Quinn should have seen it first.

The sky is fully light now, pink and gold at the edges. You’re exhausted but awake, heartbroken but somehow clearer than you’ve been in weeks.

You turn your phone back on.

Seventeen missed calls from Quinn. Twenty-three texts. The most recent one from six minutes ago. 

Where are you? I’m really worried. Please just let me know you’re okay.

You stare at the message for a long time.

We need to talk.

And finally, finally, you head back inside.

***

You get maybe two hours of sleep before your alarm goes off at eight. The dining hall opens at eight-thirty, and you need to eat before the long travel day ahead. Commercial flights back to the States for the women’s team. The NHL players get a charter, naturally.

You shower, trying to wash away the exhaustion and the residue of last night. Sidney’s Team Canada jacket is folded carefully in your suitcase — you’ll figure out how to return it later. Right now, you need to get through breakfast, get through seeing Quinn, get through whatever conversation is waiting for you.

Your reflection in the mirror looks almost normal. The redness is gone from your eyes. Your gold medal hangs around your neck — you haven’t taken it off except to shower since the ceremony. Armor, maybe. A reminder.

The dining hall is already packed when you arrive. Athletes loading up on carbs before travel, coaches reviewing schedules, families saying goodbye. You spot your teammates at a table in the corner and make your way over with a tray of eggs, toast, and fruit you’re not sure you can actually eat.

“Hey,” Kendall says softly as you sit down. “How are you?”

“Tired.”

“Did you sleep at all?”

“A little.” You pick at your eggs. “Have you guys seen-”

“The video’s everywhere,” Hannah interrupts quietly. “People are pissed. Like, really pissed. There’s a whole movement on Twitter about the women’s team refusing the White House invitation.”

“Good,” you say.

“Have you talked to Quinn?” Kendall asks.

“Not yet. He texted like twenty times last night, but I-” You shrug. “I wasn’t ready.”

“Are you ready now?”

You’re about to answer when you feel someone sit down in the empty chair next to you. You don’t need to look to know who it is. You can smell his cologne, feel the familiar presence.

Quinn.

He’s clearly hungover — hair messy, eyes slightly bloodshot, moving carefully like his head hurts. But he sits down like it’s any other day. Like nothing happened. Like the world didn’t shift on its axis last night.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough. “Where’d you disappear to last night?”

You keep eating. Don’t look at him. Fork to mouth, chew, swallow. Mechanical.

“Babe?” He touches your arm. “You okay?”

You move your arm away, still not looking at him.

Across the table, you see Kendall and Hannah exchange glances. Other teammates are watching now too.

“Why are you being weird?” Quinn asks, and there’s confusion in his voice. Genuine confusion, like he has no idea why you might be upset.

You set down your fork very carefully. Take a breath. Then another.

“Why am I being weird,” you repeat, still not looking at him.

“Yeah. You left last night without saying goodbye, you’ve been ignoring my texts, and now you won’t even look at me-”

You turn to face him then, and something in your expression makes him stop talking.

“Have you checked your phone this morning?” Your voice is level, controlled.

“I mean, yeah, but-”

“So you’ve seen the video.”

Quinn’s face does something complicated. “What video?”

“Don’t.” You shake your head. “Don’t play dumb. The video from your locker room. Trump on speakerphone. The invitation to the White House. Any of this ringing a bell?”

“Oh.” He has the grace to look uncomfortable. “That. Yeah, I saw something about that this morning. People are kind of overreacting-”

“Overreacting,” you repeat flatly.

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not that big of a deal. He was just congratulating us-”

“Stop.” You hold up a hand. “Stop talking.”

Quinn blinks. “What?”

“I need you to stop talking for a second because if you keep going, I’m going to lose it.” You take another breath. Your teammates are fully watching now. You can feel other people at nearby tables starting to pay attention too. “Do you know what Trump said in that video?”

“He congratulated us on winning gold-”

“He said-” Your voice is rising now, you can’t help it. “He said that he’d have to invite the women’s team or he’d probably be impeached. And then he laughed. And you know what you did, Quinn? What you and every single one of your teammates did?”

Quinn is starting to look defensive. “It was just-”

“You laughed.” Your voice cracks. “You laughed at the idea that the my team is such an afterthought, such a political obligation, that not inviting us would be an impeachable offense. You thought that was funny.”

“It was just a joke-”

“It wasn’t a joke!” You’re standing now, you don’t remember standing. “We won gold three days before you did. Three days. We dominated that entire tournament. I scored what people are calling the goal of the decade. We made history. And to him we’re nothing. We’re a punchline. An obligation. And you laughed.”

“I wasn’t laughing at you-”

“Yes, you were!” Tears are threatening now but you push them back. “Maybe not consciously, maybe you didn’t think about it that way, but that’s exactly what you were doing. You were laughing at the idea that women’s hockey matters so little that inviting us is just a political move. That we’re not worth celebrating on our own merit.”

Quinn’s face is flushing. “You’re twisting this-”

“Am I?” You laugh, and it’s not a kind sound. “Then explain to me, Quinn, why you accepted that invitation.”

“What?”

“You heard Trump invite you to the White House. To the State of the Union. And what did you say? What did you and your teammates say?”

“We said yes, but-”

“You said yes.” You shake your head. “You said yes to an invitation from a man who just disrespected your girlfriend and her entire team. From a man who’s forcing the DOJ to cover up his connections to Jeffrey Epstein. From a man who’s probably a pedophile. From a man whose administration is terrorizing Minneapolis — your city now — deporting people, separating families, killing innocents. And you said yes.”

“It’s not-” Quinn stands too now, defensive. “You’re making this political-”

“It IS political!” Your voice echoes through the dining hall. You’re dimly aware that everyone is staring now, that conversations have stopped, but you can’t stop. “You think you can just stay neutral, just focus on hockey, just not rock the boat? That’s a luxury, Quinn. That’s privilege. But silence is a choice. Inaction is a choice. And you’ve made your choice.”

“I just don’t think hockey should be political-”

“Everything is political!” You’re almost shouting now. “The fact that you get to fly charter back to the States while we fly commercial is political. The fact that your minimum salary is higher than our maximum is political. The fact that you get national TV coverage and we have to fight for streaming is political. The fact that Trump felt comfortable making that joke in the first place is political. You don’t get to opt out just because it’s convenient.”

“I just think-”

“And Minneapolis!” You cut him off. “You’re living in Minneapolis now. You’re playing there. And ICE is terrorizing that city. People are being dragged from their homes. Families are being destroyed. And I posted about it. I shared resources. I donated. I used my platform to try to help. And you know what you did?”

Quinn is quiet.

“Nothing,” you answer for him. “You did nothing. You didn’t like a single post. Didn’t share a single resource. Didn’t say a single word. But you did like Matthew Tkachuk’s pro-Trump post last summer. You liked that just fine.”

“The Tkachuks are family friends-”

“I don’t care!” The tears are coming now and you don’t try to stop them. “I don’t care if they’re your family friends. I don’t care if it’s awkward. I don’t care if hockey culture tells you to stay quiet. I care that you’re willing to laugh at my team’s expense. I care that you’re willing to accept invitations from fascists. I care that you stayed silent while people in your city were being terrorized. I care that you claimed to love me but you couldn’t be bothered to support the things I care about.”

“That’s not fair-”

“What’s not fair is that I made excuses for you!” Your voice breaks. “For weeks, Quinn. Weeks. I told myself you were just being careful. That hockey culture was different for men. That you were still a good person underneath. I told myself that the Tkachuk like didn’t mean anything. That your silence on Minneapolis was just you being cautious. I made excuse after excuse because I wanted to believe you were better than this.”

“I am better than this-”

“No.” You shake your head. “No, you’re not. Because someone who was better than this wouldn’t have laughed at that joke. Wouldn’t have accepted that invitation. Wouldn’t have stayed silent while people suffered. Someone who was better than this would have defended me. Would have defended my team. Would have been proud of us publicly, not just privately when it was convenient.”

“I am proud of you-”

“Then where was that pride when Trump made us into a punchline?” You’re crying fully now, but your voice is steady. “Where was that pride when he said inviting us was just political? Where was it, Quinn?”

He doesn’t have an answer.

“You know what the worst part is?” You wipe at your face. “I really believed you loved me. I really thought that underneath all the silence and the caution and the fear of rocking the boat, you were someone who respected me. Who saw me as an equal. Who thought what I did mattered.”

“I do think-”

“But you don’t.” You’re shaking your head. “Because if you did, you never would have laughed. You never would have accepted. You would have been furious on my behalf. You would have defended me. Instead, you joined in.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“I don’t care what you meant!” Your voice rises again. “I care what you did. And what you did was show me exactly who you are. Someone who values fitting in with hockey culture more than standing up for what’s right. Someone who’ll laugh at women’s hockey to be one of the boys. Someone who’ll cozy up to fascists if it means avoiding controversy.”

Quinn’s face is red now, whether from anger or shame you can’t tell. “You don’t understand the pressure-”

“The pressure?” You laugh incredulously. “The pressure? Quinn, I’m a woman in professional hockey. I’ve dealt with pressure my entire life. I’ve dealt with being paid less, respected less, covered less. I’ve dealt with people questioning whether women’s hockey should even exist. I’ve dealt with sponsors dropping me for being too outspoken, with fans telling me to shut up and play, with teammates worrying that speaking out will hurt their careers. Don’t talk to me about pressure.”

“That’s different-”

“It’s not different!” You’re almost screaming now. “It’s the exact same thing! The only difference is that I decided that doing the right thing was more important than being comfortable. And you decided the opposite.”

The dining hall is completely silent. You can see your teammates, your coaches, athletes from other countries all watching. Some of them look shocked. Some look angry. Some look like they want to applaud.

Quinn seems to realize for the first time that this is happening publicly. He lowers his voice. “Can we talk about this in private?”

“No.” You shake your head. “No, because you made this public when you laughed at my team in that locker room. When you accepted that invitation. When you stayed silent about Minneapolis. You made this public, Quinn. I’m just finishing what you started.”

“I don’t-” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal out of this.”

And that’s it. That’s the moment you know it’s really over.

“Because it is a big deal,” you say quietly, tiredly. “That’s the point, Quinn. This is a big deal. The fact that you don’t see that — that you think I’m overreacting, that you think this is all just political correctness gone too far — that tells me everything I need to know.”

“So what are you saying?”

You look at him, really look at him. The boy you met in a coffee shop two years ago. The boy who seemed to understand the pressure, the loneliness, the weight of expectations. The boy you fell in love with.

The boy who laughed when Trump made you and your team into a joke.

“I’m saying we’re done,” you say simply. “I’m breaking up with you.”

Quinn’s face goes pale. “What? No. You can’t—we can work through this-”

“There’s nothing to work through.” You’re already gathering your tray, your phone, your gold medal. “You made your choices. You laughed, you accepted, you stayed silent. And I’m making mine. I choose to be with someone who would never do any of those things. Someone who respects me enough to stand up for me. Someone who thinks women’s hockey matters.”

“I do think-”

“Goodbye, Quinn.” You start to walk away, then turn back. “Oh, and I’m not going to the White House either. None of us are. We’re making a statement declining the invitation. So when you’re there with Trump, taking photos, pretending this is all normal, remember that. Remember that the women’s team — the team he had to invite so he wouldn’t get impeached — has more integrity than you and your entire team combined.”

You walk away before he can respond. Your teammates stand as you approach, and Kendall pulls you into a hug immediately.

“Holy shit,” Hannah breathes.

Behind you, you hear it start. A slow clap. Then another. Then another.

You turn. Athletes from other tables are applauding. Your teammates join in. Then more people. Within seconds, half the dining hall is clapping.

You see some of the women’s hockey teams from other countries standing and clapping. You see athletes from other sports. You even see some of the US figure skating team, who apparently witnessed the whole thing, nodding in approval.

Quinn is still standing at your table, looking shell-shocked and humiliated, as the applause continues.

You catch Sidney’s eye across the dining hall. He’s sitting with some of the Canadian men’s team, and he gives you a small nod. 

The applause finally dies down. You turn back to your teammates.

“Can we get out of here?” Your voice is shaking now that the adrenaline is fading.

“Absolutely,” Kendall says, already moving. “Let’s go pack.”

You leave the dining hall, your teammates surrounding you like a protective barrier. The February air hits your face, cold and clean.

Your phone is already exploding with notifications. The video of your confrontation is probably already online. By tonight, it’ll be everywhere.

You should care. You should worry about sponsors, about your image, about backlash.

But you don’t.

Because for the first time in weeks — maybe months — you feel light. Unburdened. Free.

You’re an Olympic gold medalist. You scored the goal of the decade. You just stood up to your boyfriend and hockey culture and the pressure to stay silent in front of an entire dining hall full of Olympic athletes.

And you’d do it again.

“You okay?” Kendall asks as you walk back to your room.

You think about it. Think about Quinn’s face. Think about the applause. Think about Sidney’s nod and your teammates’ support and the weight of your gold medal against your chest.

“Yeah,” you say, and you’re surprised to realize you mean it. “Yeah, I think I am.”

***

Economy class on a transatlantic flight is miserable under the best circumstances. After breaking up with your boyfriend in front of half the Olympic Village, it’s torture.

You’re squeezed into a middle seat between Hannah and a Minnesotan curler who’s taking up more than her fair share of the armrest. Your knees are jammed against the seat in front of you. The WiFi is spotty at best. And you’ve been awake for twenty-two hours.

The NHL players are flying charter, naturally. Probably in reclining seats with actual legroom, drinking champagne, celebrating their gold medals in comfort.

You try not to think about it.

Your phone keeps buzzing despite the terrible WiFi. Notifications you’re afraid to look at. The video from breakfast has definitely made the rounds by now. You’re either a hero or a villain depending on which corner of the internet you’re in.

“You should eat something,” Hannah says, gesturing to the sad airplane sandwich on your tray table.

“Not hungry.”

“You need to eat.”

“I need people to stop telling me what I need.”

Hannah holds up her hands in surrender. “Fair enough.”

You manage to connect to the WiFi long enough to check your messages. Your agent has called four times. Your mom has sent a dozen texts of support. Your college coach wants to talk. And there are approximately eight hundred DMs from people you don’t know.

You ignore all of it and open Twitter, which is probably a mistake.

The video is everywhere. Olympic Gold Medalist Ends Relationship Over Trump Call reads one headline. Women’s Hockey Star Confronts Boyfriend in Viral Breakup says another. The comments are exactly what you’d expect — half supporting you, half calling you dramatic.

Then you see it. Posted two hours ago.

A clip from TODAY. Ellen being interviewed via satellite.

Your stomach drops.

You tap the video with shaking hands.

Ellen looks composed, professional. She’s wearing a Team USA jacket. Behind her, you can see what looks like a ski slope.

“Ellen, there’s been a lot of controversy surrounding the video that leaked from the men’s locker room after their gold medal win,” the interviewer says. “The president’s comments about the women’s team, the laughter that followed. As someone who works with both teams, what’s your response?”

Ellen smiles. It’s the smile you’ve seen a thousand times — warm, diplomatic, carefully constructed.

“Well, you know, at the end of the day, it’s just about the country,” she says.

You feel something cold settle in your chest.

“The moment that these players, both the men and women, can bring so much unity to a group and to a country,” Ellen continues. “People that cheered on that don’t watch hockey, people that have politics on one side or on the other side, and that’s all both the men’s team and the women’s team care about.”

“She did not just both-sides this,” Aerin hisses from the row behind you. She’s leaning over her seat, watching your screen.

“Shh,” you say, turning up the volume as much as you dare.

“If you could see what we see from the inside,” Ellen is saying, “and the men and women sharing, you know, dorm rooms and halls and flex floors and the camaraderie and the synergy and the way the women cheered on the men and the way the men cheered on the women — that’s what it’s all about.”

Your hands are shaking. You can feel Hannah watching you, concerned.

“And the other things they cannot control,” Ellen continues, and her voice is so earnest, so genuine. “They care about humanity. They care about unity and they care about the country.”

The video ends.

You stare at your phone screen, not breathing.

“Did she just-” Hannah starts.

“Dismiss everything,” you finish. “Yeah. Yeah, she did.”

“The other things they cannot control?” Aerin’s voice is rising. “They could have controlled not laughing. They could have controlled not accepting the invitation. What the fuck does she mean they can’t control it?”

“She means,” you say slowly, “that politics are messy and uncomfortable and it’s easier to pretend that unity and patriotism are more important than taking a stand.”

“But she works with women’s hockey!” Hannah looks genuinely baffled. “She was there when we won gold. She saw what that moment meant. How can she-”

“Because at the end of the day,” you interrupt, voice flat, “a boy mom is always going to be a boy mom. Her sons come first. Women’s hockey comes second. Actually standing up for something comes last.”

You feel sick. This is worse than Quinn’s silence. Worse than the video. Because Ellen knows better. She’s spent years in women’s hockey. She knows the struggles, the inequality, the constant fight for respect. And she just threw all of it aside to defend her sons.

“I can’t believe her,” Aerin says. “After everything-”

“I can.” You’re already scrolling, looking for reactions. The comments under the TODAY clip are brutal.

So disappointed in Ellen Hughes

Way to throw women’s hockey under the bus

“Both sides” really? One side laughed at women’s hockey and the other side won gold

This is peak white feminism

She really said “they care about humanity” while defending them going to meet Trump. I’m done.

Then another notification. A new video.

Jack Hughes. Outside a nightclub. Miami, based on the palm trees in the background.

“Oh no,” Hannah breathes, seeing your face. “What now?”

You click play.

Jack is clearly already drunk, stumbling slightly, that manic post-gold-medal energy radiating off him. Someone is asking him about the controversy.

“People are so negative out there,” Jack says, grinning that cocky grin you’ve seen a hundred times at family dinners. “And they are trying to find a reason to put people down and make something out of almost nothing.”

Almost nothing.

“I think everyone in that locker room knows how much we support them, how proud we are of them,” Jack continues.

“Then why didn’t you defend them when Trump made that joke?” Someone off-camera yells.

Jack’s grin falters for a second, then returns. “Everything is so political, we’re athletes, we’re so proud to represent the U.S. And when you get the chance to go to the White House and meet the president …” He spreads his arms wide. “That’s so patriotic.”

Someone else asks a question you can’t quite hear.

“It’s something you don’t get to do every Tuesday,” a different voice says, and your heart sinks as you realize it’s Quinn. He’s there too, just off-camera. “It’s going to be special for us.”

The video cuts off.

You’re shaking. Full-body shaking, rage and hurt and disbelief coursing through you.

“Almost nothing,” you repeat. “He said it’s almost nothing.”

“That fucking asshole,” Aerin says.

“They’re in Miami.” Your voice sounds distant to your own ears. “At a nightclub. E11EVEN. That’s a strip club, isn’t it?”

“Technically a nightclub,” Hannah says carefully. “But yeah, also kind of a strip club.”

“They’re celebrating their gold medal at a strip club in Miami.” You laugh, and it sounds unhinged. “While we’re flying economy back to New York in the middle of a snow storm. And Jack thinks this is almost nothing. And Quinn thinks going to the White House for Trump is special.”

“Hey.” Hannah grabs your hand. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

“I can’t.” You’re gasping now. “I can’t breathe. They—Ellen just—and Jack said—and Quinn-”

The Minnesotan curler is looking at you with concern. Behind you, more of your teammates are leaning over seats, watching.

“What happened?” Someone asks.

“Ellen did an interview,” Aerin explains, voice tight with anger. “Basically said both sides, unity and patriotism, the men couldn’t control it, blah blah blah. And then Jack and Quinn gave quotes outside a Miami strip club calling critics negative and saying this whole thing is almost nothing and that going to Trump’s White House is patriotic.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” That’s Megan. “Almost nothing?”

“Show me,” demands Hilary. She’s thirty-six and has been fighting for women’s hockey her entire career. You pass your phone back.

The plane fills with angry whispers as your teammates watch the videos, passing your phone from row to row.

“This is gaslighting,” Hilary says when she passes your phone back. “Classic DARVO. Deny, Attack, Reverse Victim and Offender. They did something wrong, but somehow we’re the negative ones for calling it out.”

“They’re doubling down,” you say numbly. “They’re not apologizing or trying to understand. They’re just doubling down.”

“Of course they are,” Hilary says. “Because apologizing would mean admitting they were wrong. And admitting they were wrong would mean acknowledging that women’s hockey matters as much as men’s. And they can’t do that because their entire worldview is built on the assumption that it doesn’t.”

You stare at your phone. At Ellen’s careful smile. At Jack’s drunk dismissiveness. At the knowledge that Quinn is right there with him, in Miami, at a strip club, thinking this is all just political drama he can ignore.

“I need to do something,” you say.

“What?” Hannah asks.

You open Instagram. Your profile still shows your relationship with Quinn. Photos of you two together. His comments on your posts. Your comments on his. Two years of a relationship that you thought meant something.

“I’m going to unfollow them,” you say.

“Who?”

“All of them.” Your fingers are moving before you can second-guess it. “Quinn. Jack. Luke-”

You unfollow Luke Hughes. Then Jack. Then Quinn.

Then, heart pounding, you unfollow Ellen.

“Damn,” someone whispers from behind you.

You’re not done. You go to your photos. Every picture of you and Quinn. Two years of memories. His arm around you after your first professional goal. You kissing after a win. That photo from Thanksgiving with his family where Ellen is beaming at both of you.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

“Are you sure?” Hannah asks gently. “Once you delete those-”

“I’m sure.” Delete. Delete. Delete. “I don’t want any reminders. I don’t want to look back in a year and see his face and remember that I let this slide. That I made excuses. That I stayed with someone who thinks my accomplishments are almost nothing.”

The photos disappear one by one. Two years erased in minutes.

Your last post with Quinn is from the Olympics. You’re both wearing your Team USA gear, smiling at the camera. The caption reads chasing gold with my favorite person 🥇❤️

You delete it.

The next post is just you with your gold medal. That one stays.

“Holy shit,” Aerin breathes. “You really did it.”

“Yeah.” You put your phone face-down on your tray table. “Yeah, I really did.”

Your agent is going to kill you. This is going to be a whole thing. Sponsors will probably have questions. The media will have a field day.

You don’t care.

“You know what the worst part is?” You say after a moment.

“What?” Hannah asks.

“I really thought Ellen understood. She spent all that time with women’s hockey. She saw what we go through. She knew about the inequality, the lack of respect, all of it. And I thought she was on our side.”

“She was on her sons’ side,” Hilary says bluntly. “And when it came down to it, that mattered more.”

“The other things they cannot control,” you quote bitterly. “Like they had no choice but to laugh. No choice but to accept. Like they’re just helpless victims of circumstance instead of grown men who made active choices.”

“It’s always the same,” Hilary says. “Women are expected to be understanding. To not make waves. To accept the scraps we’re given and be grateful. And when we demand more, when we call out disrespect, we’re negative. We’re political. We’re making something out of nothing.”

“Except it’s not nothing,” you say fiercely. “It’s everything. It’s the difference between being respected and being tolerated. Between being valued and being an afterthought. Between partners who lift you up and partners who laugh when someone tears you down.”

“What are you going to do when we land?” Aerin asks.

“I don’t know.” You lean your head back against the seat. “Face the music, I guess. Talk to my agent. Probably do some damage control.”

“Or,” Hilary suggests, “you double down. You make a statement. You explain why you unfollowed them, why you deleted the photos. You control the narrative instead of letting them control it.”

“They’ll say I’m being dramatic.”

“They already say that,” Hilary points out. “Might as well be dramatic on your own terms.”

Your phone buzzes again. Your agent. We need to talk ASAP when you land. Ellen’s interview is making waves. So are Jack’s comments. And people noticed you unfollowed the Hughes family.

Of course they did. Hockey Twitter misses nothing.

“This is going to be a whole thing,” you say.

“Good,” Hilary says. “Let it be a whole thing. Let the world see how women athletes are treated when we dare to expect respect. Let them see how we’re gaslit and dismissed and told we’re making mountains out of molehills. Let them see all of it.”

She’s right. You know she’s right.

But god, you’re tired.

You’re an Olympic gold medalist, and you’re flying economy while the men fly charter. You scored the goal of the decade, and Jack Hughes thinks the fallout is “almost nothing.” You won for your country, and Ellen Hughes thinks unity with people who disrespect you is more important than demanding better.

You think about Sidney’s words. About deserving someone who would defend you, who would be proud of you publicly, who would never let anyone tear you down.

You think about Quinn in Miami, at a strip club, calling the White House invitation “special.”

You think about Ellen’s smile on that TODAY segment, carefully crafted, diplomatically worded, ultimately hollow.

You think about how you felt on that podium with gold around your neck and how no one — not Quinn, not his family, not his teammates — can take that away from you.

“Okay,” you say finally. “Okay. I’ll make a statement. I’ll explain. I’ll be dramatic on my own terms.”

“Hell yes,” Hilary says.

The plane hits turbulence, jolting everyone. The seatbelt light dings on. Around you, your teammates are muttering, reading the reactions online, getting angrier by the minute.

“You know what I hope?” Aerin says suddenly.

“What?”

“I hope Ellen sees what you did. I hope Quinn sees it. I hope they realize that you’re not some quiet girlfriend who’ll stand by while they dismiss and gaslight and minimize. I hope they realize they lost someone incredible because they couldn’t be bothered to respect her.”

“They won’t,” you say quietly. “They’ll tell themselves I overreacted. That I was too sensitive. That politics ruined a good thing. They’ll make it my fault.”

“Probably,” Hilary agrees. “But that says everything about them and nothing about you.”

“We’re going to be okay,” Hannah says, squeezing your hand. “All of us. We’re going to get through this.”

“I know,” you say.

And you do know. Because you’ve been through worse. You’ve fought for respect your entire career. You’ve dealt with inequality and dismissiveness and being told to be grateful for scraps.

This is just one more fight.

The difference is, this time, you’re not making excuses. You’re not staying quiet. You’re not protecting people who won’t protect you.

This time, you’re choosing yourself.

The plane descends toward New York. You’re exhausted, heartbroken, angry, and somehow, underneath it all, relieved.

You’re free.

And soon, the world is going to know exactly why.

You groan and drag yourself to the door. When you open it, half your team is standing in the hallway, arms loaded with bags.

“Surprise!” Kayle announces, pushing past you. “We’re celebrating your gold medal properly.”

“Guys, I’m exhausted-”

“Exactly why we brought the party to you,” Kristýna interrupts, following Kayle inside. “We’ve got champagne, pizza, and-” She holds up a bag. “-those fancy cupcakes from that place you like.”

More teammates file in. Sarah, Maddi, Casey, and Taylor. Your apartment suddenly feels very small and very full.

“This is really sweet,” you try, “but I’m not sure I’m in a celebrating mood-”

“Too bad,” Casey says, already opening the champagne. “You scored the goal of the decade and won Olympic gold. We’re celebrating whether you like it or not.”

“Plus,” Sarah adds, settling onto your couch, “you just publicly dumped Quinn Hughes and unfollowed his entire family. That definitely deserves champagne.”

“I saw the break up video,” Taylor says, grinning. “That was the most badass thing I’ve ever seen. Half the dining hall was applauding!”

“The other half was probably NHL players having an existential crisis,” Kayle adds.

Despite yourself, you smile. “It was pretty satisfying.”

“Satisfying?” Kristýna pours champagne into plastic cups. “It was legendary. You’re all over Twitter. People are making memes. There’s a whole hashtag.”

“Oh god.” You accept the champagne she hands you. “I haven’t looked at Twitter since the plane.”

“Probably smart,” Maddi says. “It’s chaos. But like, good chaos mostly. A lot of people are on your side.”

“And the ones who aren’t are mostly crypto bros and men’s rights activists,” Sarah adds. “So, you know, their opinions don’t count.”

You take a long drink of champagne. “Ellen did an interview. And Jack gave quotes outside a strip club in Miami.”

“We saw,” Casey says darkly. “Hence the emergency celebration. We decided you needed friends and alcohol, in that order.”

“The ‘almost nothing’ comment,” Taylor says, shaking her head. “I wanted to reach through the screen and strangle him.”

“Get in line,” you mutter.

Kristýna raises her cup. “To our Olympic gold medalist, who is worth a thousand Quinn Hughes and won’t settle for men who can’t respect her.”

“Hear, hear!” Everyone choruses, clinking cups.

You drink, feeling some of the tension start to ease from your shoulders. This is what you needed. Not to be alone with your thoughts, but surrounded by people who get it. Who saw what happened and are furious on your behalf.

“Okay,” Kayle says, settling cross-legged on your floor with a slice of pizza. “I need the full story. From the beginning. All we saw was the video from breakfast.”

So you tell them. About the video from the locker room. About Trump’s joke and the laughter. About running to the bathroom to throw up. About not sleeping and wandering the Olympic Village at five AM.

“Wait,” Sarah interrupts. “Five AM? Alone? That’s not safe.”

“I wasn’t thinking clearly,” you admit. “I just needed to get out of my room. And then-”

“And then what?”

“I need to use your bathroom,” Maddi announces suddenly, standing up. “Which way?”

“Through my bedroom,” you say, pointing. “First door on the left.”

Maddi disappears. You’re in the middle of explaining the breakfast confrontation when she returns.

Holding Sidney Crosby’s Team Canada jacket.

“Uh,” Maddi says, dangling it from one finger. “Why do you have Team Canada apparel in your bedroom?”

The room goes silent. Every single one of your teammates is staring at the jacket, then at you, then back at the jacket.

“Is that-” Kristýna leans forward, squinting at the logo. “Is that a Team Canada jacket?”

“Yes,” you say slowly.

“From the Olympics,” Casey clarifies.

“Yes.”

“That you definitely did not bring with you because you’re Team USA,” Kayle adds.

“Correct.”

Taylor grins. “Did you steal it from a Canadian player?”

“No, I-”

“Oh my god,” Sarah interrupts, eyes wide. “Did you hook up with someone from Team Canada?”

“What? No!”

“The Olympic Village condoms!” Kristýna practically shouts. “You put them to good use while rebounding from Quinn!”

“I did not-”

“Was he hot?” Maddi demands. “Tell me he was hot.”

“I didn’t sleep with anyone!”

“Then why,” Casey says slowly, “do you have a Team Canada jacket in your bedroom?”

You cover your face with your hands. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” Kayle asks, and she’s trying not to smile.

You take a deep breath. “After I saw the video and threw up and couldn’t sleep, I went outside around five AM. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. I ended up leaning against some random building, freezing because I forgot my coat, basically having a breakdown.”

Your teammates are listening intently now.

“And then someone asked if I was okay. It was-” You pause. “It was Sidney Crosby.”

The room explodes.

“SIDNEY CROSBY?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“THE Sidney Crosby?”

“How many Sidney Crosbys do you think there are?” You ask dryly.

“What happened?” Sarah demands. “Tell us everything. Every single detail.”

So you do. You tell them about Sidney limping over with his injured knee. About how he knew about the video even though he’s notoriously offline. About how he apologized on behalf of the men’s team even though it had nothing to do with him. About how he said your team played some of the best hockey he’d ever seen.

“He said that?” Taylor breathes. “Sidney Crosby said that?”

“He made me promise not to tell Marie-Philip Poulin,” you add, and several of your teammates giggle.

You tell them about how cold you were, how he gave you his jacket without hesitation. About what he said — about deserving better, about real partners lifting you up, about love not being enough without respect.

“And then,” you finish, “he said I deserved to find someone who would never do what Quinn did. Someone who would fight anyone who put me down instead of joining in the laughter.”

The room is silent for a long moment.

Then Taylor squeals. Actually squeals, like a teenager at a concert.

“That’s so romantic!” She says.

“It’s not romantic,” you protest. “He was just being nice.”

“Nice?” Kristýna looks at you like you’re insane. “Babe. He was flirting.”

“He was not-”

“He absolutely was,” Casey agrees. “The whole you deserve better speech? The jacket? Telling you to find someone who would fight for you? That’s flirting.”

“It’s not flirting,” you insist. “It’s just—he was being a good person. Chivalrous.”

Sarah pretends to swoon, falling back against the couch. “A good person. Chivalrous. Be still my heart.”

“Stop it,” you say, but you’re smiling despite yourself.

“Let me get this straight,” Maddi says, counting on her fingers. “Sidney Crosby — captain of the Penguins, three Stanley Cups, two Olympic golds, the best player of his generation — saw you crying at five in the morning, came over to check on you even though his knee was fucked and Canada had just lost gold, gave you his jacket, told you that you’re incredible and deserve better, and specifically said you should find someone who would defend you.”

“When you put it like that-”

“That’s flirting,” Maddi says firmly. “That’s absolutely flirting.”

“Or,” Kayle adds, grinning, “it’s the setup for flirting. Like, hey, I’m single and have values and would never laugh at your accomplishments, just putting that out there.”

“You’re all reading too much into this,” you say. “Besides, he’s like fourteen years older than me.”

“So?” Kristýna shrugs. “You’re an adult. You’re, what, twenty-four?”

“Twenty-five in a few months.”

“And he’s thirty-eight,” Casey says. “That’s not that bad.”

“It’s a fourteen-year age gap!”

“Yeah, and?” Taylor leans forward. “You know what a fourteen-year age gap means? It means he’s mature. Experienced. Done with the stupid frat boy bullshit.”

“It means he has his shit together,” Sarah adds. “He’s not going to laugh at misogyny to fit in with the boys. He’s not going to prioritize hockey culture over basic human decency.”

“He’s literally one of the most respected players in the NHL,” Maddi points out. “Do you know how hard that is? To be at the top for twenty years and have everyone respect you? That takes character.”

“Plus,” Kristýna says, grinning wickedly, “older men are better in bed. Just saying.”

“Kristýna!” You protest, face heating.

“What? It’s true! They know what they’re doing. They’re patient. They care about your pleasure.”

“Can we not discuss Sidney Crosby’s hypothetical bedroom skills?” You beg.

“Why not?” Casey asks innocently. “You’re clearly thinking about it.”

“I am not-”

“You’re blushing,” Kayle observes.

“Because you’re all being ridiculous!”

“Are we though?” Taylor asks. “Because from where I’m sitting, an objectively attractive, accomplished, respectful man showed up when you needed someone, said all the right things, gave you his jacket, and specifically told you that you deserve better than Quinn. If that’s not interest, I don’t know what is.”

“He was being nice,” you insist. “That’s it. He saw someone upset and helped. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Sarah says, smirking.

“Look,” you say, trying to regain control of this conversation. “Even if he was interested — which he wasn’t — it doesn’t matter. I just got out of a two-year relationship. A really shitty breakup. The last thing I need is to jump into something else.”

“Who said anything about jumping into something?” Kristýna asks. “We’re just saying, maybe when the dust settles, when you’ve had time to heal, you should return his jacket. In person.”

“In Pittsburgh,” Casey adds.

“Maybe get dinner,” Taylor suggests.

“See where things go,” Maddi finishes.

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “You’re all insane.”

“We’re right,” Kayle corrects. “There’s a difference.”

“Besides,” Sarah says, “you clearly need a man with experience and values instead of someone who’s stuck being a frat boy with no backbone.”

“Quinn isn’t a frat boy,” you say automatically, then pause. “Okay, actually, you’re right. He kind of is.”

“He was partying at a strip club in Miami,” Kristýna points out. “While you’re here dealing with the fallout from his actions. That’s peak frat boy behavior.”

“And Ellen,” Taylor adds, making a face. “Boy moms are always going to prioritize their sons. Even when their sons are dead wrong.”

You think about Ellen’s interview. About “both sides” and “they care about humanity” and “things they cannot control.” About how she threw women’s hockey under the bus to protect Quinn and Jack.

“You know what the worst part is?” You say quietly. “I really thought she understood. She worked with us. She knew the struggles. And she still chose them.”

“Of course she did,” Sarah says. “She’s their mother. But that doesn’t make it right. And it doesn’t mean you have to accept it.”

“Which is why,” Casey says, raising her champagne cup again, “we’re celebrating. Because you didn’t accept it. You stood up for yourself and for all of us. You showed that women athletes don’t have to smile and nod when we’re disrespected.”

“Even when it costs us,” Maddi adds quietly.

You look at your teammates — these women who showed up at your apartment with pizza and champagne and support. Who are angry on your behalf. Who understand what this means.

“Thank you,” you say, voice thick. “For being here. For getting it.”

“Always,” Kristýna says. “We’re a team. On and off the ice.”

“Now,” Kayle says, standing up and grabbing Sidney’s jacket from where Maddi draped it over a chair. “We need to figure out the best way to return this.”

“I’ll mail it,” you say.

“Boring,” she declares. “You should hand-deliver it.”

“To Pittsburgh?”

“It’s like a six-hour drive,” Sarah points out. “Totally doable.”

“You’re all forgetting one thing,” you say. “I don’t even have his number. How would I coordinate returning the jacket?”

“Social media,” Kristýna says immediately. “DM him on Instagram.”

“I’m not sliding into Sidney Crosby’s DMs.”

“Why not? He slid into your emotional support at five in the morning.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. “That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s better,” Casey argues. “He literally sought you out. Made sure you were okay. Gave you life advice and outerwear. The man is interested.”

“Or,” you counter, “he saw someone having a breakdown and reacted like a decent human being.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive,” Maddi points out.

You pick up the jacket, running your fingers over the Team Canada logo. It still smells faintly like that medicated cream, like expensive detergent. Like the man who gave it to you at five in the morning when you were falling apart.

Your phone buzzes. You glance at it, then freeze.

“What?” Maddi asks. “What is it?”

You turn your phone around. A text from an unknown number.

Hey, it’s Sidney. Got your number from MPP. Hope you made it home safe. Let me know if you need anything.

“Oh my god,” Kristýna breathes. “He’s checking on you.”

“That’s adorable,” Kayle says.

“That’s interested,” Casey corrects.

“What are you going to say?” Sarah asks.

You stare at the message. At those simple words that somehow mean everything.

Made it home safe. My teammates are here celebrating. Thank you for everything. I still have your jacket.

His response comes quickly. Keep it as long as you need. Sounds like you have good people around you. That matters.

“What did he say?” Taylor demands, trying to read over your shoulder.

You show them. Taylor actually clutches her chest.

“Keep it as long as you need,” she quotes. “That’s-”

“A man who’s not in a hurry,” Sarah finishes. “A man who’s patient. Who’s letting you heal at your own pace.”

“Or,” you say desperately, “a man who doesn’t need his jacket back immediately because he has others.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Kristýna says, smirking. “But we all know the truth.”

“Which is?”

“Sidney Crosby is into you,” Maddi says. “And honestly? After Quinn? You could do a lot worse.”

You look down at the jacket in your hands. At your phone with Sidney’s message. At your teammates surrounding you with love and support and champagne.

You think about Quinn in Miami, at a strip club, probably not thinking about you at all.

You think about Sidney at five in the morning, limping over to check on you, giving you his jacket and his wisdom and his phone number.

You think about what your teammates said. About experience and values. About men who defend instead of diminish.

“I’m not ready,” you say finally. “For anything. With anyone.”

“We know,” Casey says gently. “And that’s okay. But maybe — when you are ready — you should consider that there are better options out there. Options that come with Team Canada jackets and emotional maturity.”

“And apparently,” Kristýna adds, grinning, “really good motivational speeches at five in the morning.”

You laugh, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all we ask,” Sarah says, raising her champagne. “Now, can we please eat these cupcakes and talk more shit about the Hugheses?”

“Absolutely,” you say.

And for the first time in days, you feel lighter.

You’re still heartbroken. Still angry. Still dealing with the fallout.

But you’re surrounded by people who love you. You have a gold medal. You have Sidney Crosby’s jacket and his phone number.

And maybe when you’re ready, that might mean something.

But for now, you have champagne and cupcakes and teammates who think you’re a badass.

For now, that’s enough.

***

You wake up to your phone vibrating across your nightstand.

For a moment, you consider ignoring it. Your head is pounding — too much champagne last night — and your body still hasn’t recovered from the Olympics. But the buzzing doesn’t stop. Text after text after text.

With a groan, you grab your phone.

Ninety-three notifications.

“What the hell?” You mutter, unlocking the screen.

The first thing you see is a photo from ESPN. The US men’s hockey team standing on the steps of the White House, beaming, with Trump in the center. Quinn is in the second row, smiling that charming smile that used to make your heart skip. Jack is front and center, teeth still missing, looking thrilled.

Your stomach turns.

You scroll. More photos. The team in the Oval Office. Sitting in what looks like the State Dining Room eating — you zoom in — McDonald’s. Actual Big Macs and fries on silver platters.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you say to your empty apartment.

Another scroll. Video from last night’s State of the Union. The team being introduced, standing to applause. Trump gesturing to them, saying something you can’t hear but can imagine. The crowd going wild.

And then more photos. Tage Thompson wearing a bright red MAGA hat, grinning. Half the team in various Trump merchandise, posing like they’re at a fan convention.

So much for not making it political.

The Sirens’ group chat is exploding.

Kristýna: ARE YOU SEEING THIS

Sarah: “hockey shouldn’t be political” my entire ass

Anne: Tage Thompson in a MAGA hat I’m going to SCREAM

Casey: McDonald’s??? They fed Olympic athletes McDonald’s???

Taylor: Quinn looks so happy in these photos I hate him

Maddi: Your press conference is in two hours. Prepare for questions.

Right. The press conference.

You drag yourself out of bed and into the shower, letting the hot water beat down on your shoulders. You’ve been dreading this since your agent mentioned it three days ago. A joint press conference for the Sirens’ medalists — you and Kristin O’Neill, who played for Canada. Who scored one of Canada’s goals against you in the final.

Under normal circumstances, it would be fun. Celebratory. Two teammates who faced off for gold, now back together.

But these aren’t normal circumstances.

Your phone buzzes again. You ignore it until you’re dressed, hair still damp, makeup minimal. Then you check.

A text from your mom: Saw the White House photos. I’m so proud of you for standing up for yourself. Call me later.

One from your dad: Those boys should be ashamed. You deserve better.

And one from Sidney: Saw the photos. I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, not everyone thinks that was appropriate. Hope you’re doing okay.

You stare at that last one for a long moment. Sidney Crosby, captain of the Penguins, three-time Stanley Cup champion, texting you to make sure you’re okay while players from his own league celebrate what happened.

You don’t know what to say, so you don’t respond yet. You just tuck your phone in your bag and head to the arena.

***

The press conference is set up in one of the conference rooms at the Sirens’ practice facility. When you arrive, Kristin is already there, talking to the team’s PR director.

“Hey,” she says when she sees you, pulling you into a hug. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” you lie.

“Liar.” But she squeezes your shoulder. “For what it’s worth, the girls on Team Canada think you’re a fucking hero.”

That makes you smile despite everything. “Even though I scored the game-winner against you?”

“Best goal I’ve ever seen, even if it was against us.” She grins. “Plus, you dumped that idiot in front of everyone. Poulin wants to buy you a drink.”

“Tell her I’ll take her up on that.”

The PR director approaches with a worried expression. “Okay, so. We’re going to start with general Olympic questions. Experiences, highlights, what it meant to represent your countries. But-” She hesitates. “We’ve had a lot of media requests specifically about the White House situation. We can decline to answer, but-”

“They’ll just ask anyway,” you finish.

“Yes.”

“It’s fine,” you say, even though it’s not. “I’ll handle it.”

“You don’t have to,” Kristin says quietly. “We can shut it down.”

“And let them control the narrative?” You shake your head. “No. I’m done being quiet.”

The PR director nods. “Okay. But if at any point you want to move on, just say so. We’ll redirect.”

Five minutes later, you’re sitting behind a table with Kristin, facing a room full of reporters. Cameras flash. Phones record. You paste on a smile and try to look like you slept more than four hours last night.

The first few questions are easy. What was it like winning gold? What was the atmosphere like in Milan? How does it feel to be back with the Sirens?

You and Kristin answer with practiced ease, occasionally teasing each other about the game. The room laughs when Kristin says, “I’m still mad about that goal, by the way. I was right there. Right there!”

“Should’ve skated faster,” you say sweetly, and she flips you off under the table where the cameras can’t see.

But you can feel it coming. The shift in energy. A reporter from ESPN raises his hand.

“This question is for Y/N,” he says. “Obviously there’s been a lot of attention on your breakup with Quinn Hughes and the subsequent White House visit. Can you comment on-”

“Let me stop you right there,” you interrupt. Your voice is calm, but there’s steel underneath. “I think this is a really good learning point, to really focus on how we talk about women, not only in sport but in the industry.”

The room goes quiet.

“Women aren’t less than,” you continue, “and their achievements shouldn’t be overshadowed by anything else other than how great they are. It’s a great teaching point to really shine light on how women should be championed for their amazing feats.”

You pause, making eye contact with the reporter.

“And now I have to sit in front of you and explain someone else’s behavior. It’s not my responsibility.”

Silence.

Then Kristin leans forward. “I’ll add to that,” she says. “Y/N scored one of the most incredible goals in Olympic history. She led Team USA to gold. She’s one of the best players in the world. And instead of talking about that, we’re talking about her ex-boyfriend’s poor decisions. That’s exactly the problem.”

“The US men’s team was at the White House yesterday,” another reporter says. “They were wearing political merchandise. Quinn Hughes was there. Does that feel-”

“I’m not going to speak for them,” you cut in. “They made their choices. They can explain those choices. What I will say is this: I find it interesting that when I spoke out against policies that harm vulnerable communities, I was told I was making hockey political. But apparently posing with the president, attending the State of the Union, and wearing campaign merchandise isn’t political. That’s a double standard, and it’s one we see constantly in women’s sports.”

A reporter from the New York Times raises her hand. “A source close to the women’s team claimed you wouldn’t be going to the White House if invited. The men’s team was there, seemingly having a great time. Do you regret your decision?”

“Absolutely not,” you say without hesitation. “I stand by everything I said. My values aren’t up for negotiation, regardless of who’s in office or what photo opportunities are available.”

“Even if it means losing your relationship?” Someone calls out.

You take a breath. “If my relationship was dependent on me being silent about injustice, then it wasn’t the right relationship. And I think that’s true for anyone, in any situation. Love isn’t enough if it requires you to compromise your fundamental beliefs.”

“Do you think the men’s team should have declined?” Another reporter asks.

“I think everyone has to make their own choices and live with the consequences. What I do think is that when you say hockey shouldn’t be political, and then you participate in an obviously political event, you lose credibility. You can’t have it both ways. Either hockey is political and we all acknowledge that, or it’s not and you don’t go to the White House. But you can’t tell women to shut up and stay in their lane, and then step out of yours.”

Kristin nods beside you. “And just to add, this isn’t about countries or nationalities. Canada has our own problems with how we treat women’s hockey. This is about a broader culture in the sport that needs to change.”

“What do you want that change to look like?” The Times reporter asks.

“Equal investment,” you say immediately. “Equal promotion. Equal respect. We want to be able to speak our minds without being told we’re being too political or too emotional. We want our achievements to be celebrated on their own merits, not constantly compared to or overshadowed by the men’s game. We want little girls to grow up seeing hockey as a viable career path, not just a hobby they’ll have to give up.”

“And we want,” Kristin adds, “to be able to break up with our boyfriends without it becoming international news that overshadows our Olympic gold medals.”

That gets a laugh, breaking some of the tension.

“Last question,” the PR director announces.

A young woman in the back raises her hand. “Y/N, what do you want people to take away from this situation?”

You consider that for a moment. “I want people to understand that speaking up has consequences. Sometimes those consequences are painful. Losing people you love, dealing with public scrutiny, having your achievements minimized. But silence has consequences too. And I’d rather live with the consequences of standing up for what’s right than the consequences of staying quiet. I hope young girls watching this see that their voices matter. That they don’t have to shrink themselves to make other people comfortable. That they can be excellent at their sport and still care about the world around them. And that they should never, ever settle for people who laugh when they’re belittled.”

More silence. Then several reporters start typing furiously.

“Thank you,” Amanda says. “That’s all the time we have.”

You and Kristin stand, waving to the cameras. As you walk off, she loops her arm through yours.

“That was incredible,” she murmurs. “Seriously. You’re my hero.”

“I’m just tired,” you admit. “Tired of having to justify basic respect.”

“I know. But you did it beautifully.”

***

By the time you get home, you’re exhausted. Not just physically, but emotionally. You’ve been running on adrenaline for days, and it’s finally catching up to you.

Your phone has been buzzing nonstop since the press conference ended. Your answers are already being quoted on every major sports network. Twitter is a mix of support and vitriol — you’ve learned to ignore the latter.

You kick off your shoes, change into sweatpants and Sidney’s Team Canada jacket (it’s become a comfort item at this point), and collapse onto your couch.

Your phone buzzes. You consider ignoring it, but something makes you check.

Sidney: Watched your press conference. You handled that perfectly. I’m impressed. Not surprised, but impressed.

You smile despite your exhaustion.

You: Thanks. I’m just tired of talking about it.

Sidney: I bet. You deserve to celebrate your gold, not explain other people’s choices.

You: Exactly what I said.

Sidney: I know. I watched :)

There’s a pause, then another message.

Sidney: I have something that might cheer you up. Can I send you a video?

You: Sure

A minute later, your phone buzzes with a video file. You open it.

The video is clearly shot by someone else — a phone camera, shaky but focused. It shows a hockey rink, and on the ice is Sidney Crosby, wearing practice gear and moving carefully on what’s obviously still an injured knee. Around him are a dozen or so little kids, maybe six or seven years old, in full hockey equipment.

“Alright, Little Penguins,” Sidney’s voice comes through the speakers. “Who wants to show me their best breakaway?”

The kids start shouting, hands shooting up.

“Okay, okay,” Sidney laughs. “Amber, you’re up.”

A little girl skates forward. You can see immediately that one of her front teeth is missing, and her helmet is slightly too big. She positions herself at center ice while Sidney moves to stand beside the goal, clearly supervising rather than playing goalie.

“Remember,” Sidney calls. “Head up, control the puck, and-”

But Amber is already flying down the ice, ponytail streaming behind her. She’s got surprising speed for someone so small, and she’s stickhandling with the intensity of someone in the Stanley Cup finals.

“I’m gonna be exactly like Y/N Y/L/N when I grow up!” she shouts, her lisp making it sound like “exthactly like Y/N Y/L/N.” “She’s the bestest hockey player in the whole world!”

Your hand flies to your mouth.

Amber approaches the goal, winds up for a shot, and — in her enthusiasm — completely loses control. She crashes directly into the goalie (another small child), and they both go down in a tangle of pads and sticks.

“Oof,” Sidney says, skating over as quickly as his knee allows. “Okay, we’re okay. Amber? Jayden? Everyone in one piece?”

Both kids are giggling, trying to untangle themselves. Sidney carefully helps Amber up first, making sure she’s steady on her skates, then reaches down for Jayden.

“That was awesome!” Amber says, still laughing. “Did you see how fast I was? Just like Y/N!”

“I saw,” Sidney says, and even through the video you can hear the smile in his voice. “That was incredible. Maybe next time we stick the landing though, yeah?”

“Yeah!” Amber agrees enthusiastically.

“Y/N Y/L/N is your hero?” Sidney asks, helping Jayden to his feet.

“Uh-huh! She scored the best goal ever in the Olympics! And she’s super brave! My mom says she stands up for what’s right even when it’s hard!”

“Your mom is right,” Sidney says. “Y/N is one of the best players I’ve ever seen. And being brave is just as important as being skilled.”

“Are you friends with her?” Amber asks.

There’s a pause. “Yeah,” Sidney says. “I think we’re friends.”

“That’s so cool! Can you tell her I want to be just like her?”

“I’ll make sure she knows,” Sidney promises.

The video ends.

You realize you’re crying. opposite. You’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt, tears streaming down your face, clutching your phone like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

Your phone buzzes again.

Sidney: Amber insisted I tell you you’re her hero. She’s been working on that breakaway for weeks, apparently. The crash landing is new.

You laugh out loud, wiping your eyes.

You: That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen

Sidney: She’s been talking about your goal nonstop since the Olympics. Watched it about fifty times. I may have mentioned that I know you.

You: You told her we’re friends

Sidney: Are we not?

You stare at that message. Are you friends with Sidney Crosby? You’ve had one predawn conversation and exchanged a handful of texts. But somehow, it feels like more than that.

You: I’m wearing your jacket right now

Sidney: Good. That means you’re warm.

You: And it means we’re friends

Sidney: Good :)

Sidney: How are you really? Today looked rough.

You consider lying. Saying you’re fine. But something about Sidney makes you want to be honest.

You: Exhausted. Frustrated. Sad. Angry. But also kind of relieved? Like at least I know where I stand now. No more making excuses or wondering if things will get better.

Sidney: That’s valid. All of it.

You: Amber really helped though. That video was exactly what I needed.

Sidney: She has that effect. The kids are why I still come to the rink even when I’m injured. Can’t skate full speed, but I can help with the Little Penguins program. They just want to play hockey.

You: Sounds perfect

Sidney: It is. You should come see them sometime. They’d lose their minds.

You: Really?

Sidney: Really. Half of them have been trying to copy your goal. We’ve had three collisions and one kid who tried to do it backwards. It’s chaos. They’d love to meet you.

You’re smiling again, that warm feeling spreading through your chest.

You: I’d like that

Sidney: Yeah?

You: Yeah. When things calm down a bit. When I’m not explaining my breakup at every press conference.

Sidney: Fair enough. The invitation stands whenever you’re ready. No pressure.

You: Thank you. For the video. For checking in. For everything.

Sidney: Of course. That’s what friends do.

There’s a pause, then one more message.

Sidney: Get some rest. You’ve earned it. And for what it’s worth, Amber’s right. You are the bestest hockey player in the whole world.

You laugh, fresh tears spilling over.

You: Go work on your knee, old man

Sidney: Old man? I’m wounded. First my knee, now my pride.

You: You’ll survive

Sidney: Barely. Good night, Y/N.

You: Good night, Sidney.

You set your phone down, pulling his jacket tighter around yourself. Somewhere in Pittsburgh, there’s a little girl who wants to be just like you. Who thinks you’re brave. Who’s practicing your goal over and over, crashes and all.

Somewhere in Pittsburgh, there’s a man who’s injured and should be resting but instead is helping kids learn to love hockey. Who texts you to make sure you’re okay. Who sends you videos of gap-toothed little girls calling you their hero.

Quinn was at the White House, wearing Trump merchandise, eating McDonald’s and smiling for cameras.

And you’re here, in Sidney’s jacket, crying over a video of a child who thinks you’re brave.

You know which one matters more.

You fall asleep on the couch, phone in hand, still smiling.

***

The locker room is chaos in the best possible way.

“Two goals!” Kristýna shouts, spraying water from her bottle in your direction. “Two fucking goals!”

“That jailbreak was insane,” Sarah adds, already half-changed out of her gear. “You went coast to coast. The Montreal defense didn’t know what hit them.”

You’re grinning, still riding the high of the win. 3-1 against the Victoire, both your goals in the third period. The second one was the kind of goal that makes highlight reels. You’d stolen the puck at your own blue line, split two defenders, deked the goalie, and went top shelf.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you skate that fast,” Kristin says, toweling off her hair. “Were you trying to break a land speed record?”

“I was trying not to get caught,” you laugh. “I could feel number seven breathing down my neck.”

“Well, you didn’t get caught. You buried it.” Kayle holds up her phone. “It’s already all over Twitter. ‘Y/N Y/L/N with the individual effort of the year.’”

You shower quickly, the hot water soothing muscles that are just starting to ache. A month ago, you were in Milan. A month ago, you were breaking up with Quinn in front of the entire Olympic dining hall. A month ago, your life was imploding.

Now? Now you’re back to what you do best. Playing hockey. Scoring goals. Being with your team.

The daily texts with Sidney help too. Nothing serious — just check-ins, funny stories from practice, photos of the Little Penguins. Amber sent you a drawing of you scoring the Olympic goal. Sidney mailed it to you with a note. She made me promise to get your autograph. I told her I’d try my best.

You’d signed it and mailed it back to the Penguins’ practice facility. Sidney sent you a video of Amber’s reaction — pure joy, jumping up and down, showing everyone.

It’s been … nice. Easy. No pressure, no expectations. Just friendship with someone who gets it.

You finish drying off and get dressed — black jeans, a cream-colored sweater, ankle boots. Your hair is still damp, wavy from the shower, but you don’t care. You grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder.

“Ladies,” you announce, “I’m heading out. Great game today.”

“You too,” Casey calls. “Same time tomorrow for practice?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

You walk toward the locker room door, already thinking about what you’re going to order for dinner. Maybe Thai food. Or that Italian place that delivers-

You push open the door and stop dead.

Sidney Crosby is leaning against the wall across from the locker room entrance.

He’s wearing dark jeans, a black henley, and a gray jacket. His hair is a little messy, like he’s been running his hands through it. When he sees you, he straightens up, and there’s something almost nervous in the movement.

“Hi,” he says.

Your brain short-circuits. “Hi.”

Behind you, you hear footsteps. Your teammates, heading out. But they’re not moving past you. You can feel them piling up at your back, confused about why you’ve stopped.

“Why are you-” Sarah starts, then she must see over your shoulder because she goes silent mid-sentence.

More footsteps. More stopping.

“What’s—oh my god,” Kristýna breathes.

“Is that-” Kayle begins.

“Sidney Crosby,” Kristin finishes, voice slightly strangled. “That’s Sidney Crosby. In our arena. Outside our locker room.”

Sidney’s lips twitch into a small smile. “Hi,” he says again, this time to the group. “Sorry to ambush you all.”

“No ambush!” Kristýna says too loudly. “Totally normal! Just Sidney Crosby hanging out in the Prudential Center!”

You finally remember how to move. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the area,” Sidney says, and even as he says it, you can tell he knows how thin that sounds. “The Penguins played the Islanders last night, and I thought—I wanted to catch the Sirens game while I was here.”

“The Islanders play in Long Island,” Sarah points out helpfully. “That’s like an hour and a half away.”

“On a good day,” Casey adds. “With no traffic.”

“Right,” Sidney says, scratching the back of his neck. “Well, I—yeah. I wanted to see the game.”

“Sure,” Taylor says, and the disbelief in that single word could cut glass.

You’re still staring at Sidney. He came to your game. He drove an hour and a half to watch you play.

“You could’ve texted,” you say softly.

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” he admits. “And I wasn’t sure if you’d—if it would be weird.”

“It’s not weird,” you say quickly. Then you pause. “Is it weird?”

“I don’t think so?”

“It’s not weird!” Kristýna announces. “It’s great! Totally normal! Sidney Crosby at a PWHL game! That’s great for the league!”

“For publicity,” Kayle agrees, nodding vigorously.

“Exactly,” Maddi says. “Publicity. That’s definitely why he’s here.”

Sidney’s ears are turning red. It’s possibly the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.

“I also wanted to-” He clears his throat. “I thought maybe you’d want to get dinner? Just to catch up. If you’re not busy.”

Silence.

Then, from somewhere behind you, someone coughs. It’s the most obvious, fake cough you’ve ever heard.

“Dinner,” you repeat, brain still trying to catch up.

“Yeah. There’s a place not far from here — Italian, I think? Unless you don’t like Italian. We could do something else.”

“She loves Italian,” Sarah volunteers.

“Sarah,” you hiss.

“What? You do!”

Sidney is still watching you, and there’s something vulnerable in his expression. Like he’s not sure if you’re going to say yes. Like Sidney Crosby, one of the greatest players in NHL history, is nervous about asking you to dinner.

You want to say yes. God, you want to say yes. But there’s this tiny voice in your head that whispers it’s too soon and what if it gets complicated and what if he’s just being nice.

“You should go,” Kristin says quietly behind you.

“I-”

“You should,” Casey agrees. “Go have dinner. Catch up.”

“As friends,” Kristýna adds, then pauses. “Or not. Whatever.”

You turn to glare at your teammates. They’re all grinning at you like absolute menaces.

“Fine,” you say. “Yes. Dinner sounds good.”

Sidney’s entire face lights up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. That’s great.”

You hitch your bag higher on your shoulder and start to walk toward him. Behind you, your teammates are whispering (not quietly enough).

“Oh my god, this is happening.”

“She’s been wearing his jacket, now she’s going to dinner with him-”

“I give it two weeks before they’re dating.”

“Two weeks? I give it tonight.”

You’re about to turn around and tell them all to shut up when Kristýna jogs forward.

“Wait!” She calls.

You stop. Sidney stops. You both turn.

Kristýna is digging in her bag. She pulls out a handful of … oh no.

“Just in case,” Kristýna says, pressing a strip of condoms into your hand.

Your face combusts. “Kristýna!”

“What? Better to have them and not need them than need them and not have them!”

“I’m going to kill you,” you say through gritted teeth.

“You’ll thank me later!” Kristýna calls, jogging back to the group.

Sidney is staring at the condoms in your hand. His face is the color of a stop sign.

“I am so sorry,” you say, shoving them into your coat pocket. “My teammates are-”

“Supportive?” Sidney offers, lips twitching.

“Menaces.”

“Those too.”

You think that’s the end of it. You’re ready to leave, to pretend the last thirty seconds didn’t happen. But then Casey steps forward.

“Sidney,” she says, her voice taking on a serious tone.

Oh no.

“Casey, don’t-” you start.

“She’s our teammate,” Casey continues, ignoring you. “And our friend. She’s been through a lot recently.”

Sidney nods. “I know.”

“So if you’re just—if this is just you being nice, or wanting to be friends, that’s fine. But if this is something else, you need to be sure. Because she deserves someone who’s all in. Someone who isn’t going to laugh when she’s disrespected. Someone who’s going to show up.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Sidney says, very seriously, “I agree with everything you just said.”

Casey blinks. “You do?”

“Yes. She deserves all of that.” He glances at you, something warm in his expression. “And I’m not just being nice. For the record.”

Your heart does a complicated flip in your chest.

Casey stares at him for another moment, then nods. “Okay then. Have fun at dinner.”

“Casey!” You hiss. “Did you just try to shovel talk Sidney Crosby?”

“Someone had to,” she says unapologetically.

“I appreciate it,” Sidney says, and he sounds genuine. “It’s good that she has people looking out for her.”

“We always will,” Sarah says. “Just so you know.”

“Noted.”

“And if you hurt her,” Taylor adds, “we know where you play.”

“Also noted.”

“And we’re hockey players,” Maddi points out. “We know how to throw hits.”

“I’m aware.”

“Good talk,” Kristýna says, clapping her hands together. “Now everyone leave them alone so they can go have dinner! Shoo!”

Your teammates start dispersing, but not before each one of them gives you a look that ranges from encouraging to gleeful to smug. Kristin winks at you. Casey gives you a thumbs up. Kristýna mouths use protection.

Finally, mercifully, they’re gone.

You and Sidney stand in the empty hallway. You can still feel the heat in your cheeks.

“So,” Sidney says after a moment. “That was-”

“Mortifying?” You suggest.

“I was going to say interesting,” he says, grinning. “But mortifying works too.”

“I’m so sorry. They’re—they’ve been—ever since the jacket-” You’re babbling. You force yourself to stop. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Sidney steps closer. “They clearly care about you a lot. That’s good.”

“They gave me condoms.”

“I saw that.”

“In front of you.”

“I was there, yes.”

“And Casey tried to threaten you.”

“She did a pretty good job, actually. I felt appropriately warned.”

You laugh despite yourself. “This is so embarrassing.”

“It’s really not.” Sidney’s voice is gentle. “It’s nice. You have a good team.”

“They’re insane.”

“But they love you.”

You meet his eyes. He’s watching you with that same soft expression from the video — the one where he was helping Amber up off the ice. Patient. Kind.

“You really drove an hour and a half to watch my game?” You ask.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to see you play in person,” he says simply. “I’ve watched clips online, but it’s not the same. And I wanted-” He pauses. “I wanted to see you. Is that okay?”

Your heart is doing that complicated flip thing again. “Yeah. That’s okay.”

“Good.” He smiles. “So. Dinner?”

“Dinner,” you agree.

You start walking toward the exit, side by side. After a moment, Sidney says, “For what it’s worth, I thought you were incredible tonight. That jailbreak goal was one of the best I’ve seen this season.”

“Really?”

“Really. The way you split those defenders? The hands on the deke? That’s elite.”

“Coming from you, that means a lot.”

“I mean it. You’re-” He shakes his head. “You’re exceptional. I know things have been complicated lately, but I hope you know how good you are.”

You’re definitely blushing now. “Thank you.”

“And for what it’s worth,” he continues, “I’m not just being nice. I’m not just trying to be friends.”

You stop walking. “Sidney-”

“I know the timing might not be great,” he says quickly. “And I know there’s an age gap and you’re fresh out of a relationship and there’s a lot of public attention on you right now. I’m not trying to pressure you or rush anything. But I wanted you to know — I wanted to be clear — that I’m interested. In you. Not just as a friend.”

You stare at him. Sidney Crosby is standing in the Prudential Center hallway telling you he’s interested in you.

“I don’t know what to say,” you admit.

“You don’t have to say anything right now,” Sidney says. “I just wanted to be honest. We can still just have dinner. Just catching up. Getting to know each other better. No pressure.”

“But you drove an hour and a half.”

“I’d drive further.”

“Sidney-”

“Sorry.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not—I don’t usually do this. Ask people to dinner. Be this forward. But with you, I-” He trails off, looking almost embarrassed. “You make me want to try.”

Something in your chest cracks open. Not painfully, but like a door you didn’t know was closed suddenly swinging wide.

“I’m wearing your jacket right now,” you say.

Sidney blinks. “What?”

“Under my coat. I’m wearing your Team Canada jacket. I wear it all the time. When I’m at home, when I’m feeling stressed, when I-” You take a breath. “When I want to feel safe.”

His expression softens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You step closer. “And I think about that morning in Milan a lot. About what you said. About deserving better. About finding someone who would fight for me instead of laughing when I’m put down.”

“You do deserve that.”

“I know.” You smile. “I’m starting to believe it.”

“Good.”

“And I think-” You pause, choosing your words carefully. “I think I’d like to have dinner with you. Not just as friends.”

Sidney’s face breaks into the biggest smile you’ve seen from him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. But-” You hold up a hand. “I need to take things slow. I’m still figuring out who I am outside of that relationship. And there’s a lot of attention on me right now, and I don’t want to jump into something new just because I’m lonely or hurt or-”

“I understand,” Sidney says immediately. “We go at whatever pace you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” He reaches out, then hesitates. “Can I-”

You take his hand. His palm is warm, calloused from years of gripping a hockey stick. He squeezes gently.

“Hi,” he says softly.

“Hi,” you say back.

“You ready for dinner?”

“Almost.” You glance back toward the locker room. “But if my teammates are watching this from the window-”

“They absolutely are,” Sidney says.

You look. Sure enough, there are at least five faces pressed against the glass of the small window in the hallway door, not even trying to hide.

You flip them off. They cheer, the sound muffled but audible.

“They’re never going to let me live this down,” you say.

“Probably not,” Sidney agrees. “But at least they approve.”

“They gave me condoms.”

“Very thoughtful of them.”

“Sidney!”

He laughs, tugging you gently toward the exit. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before they give you anything else.”

As you walk out together, hand in hand, you hear one final shout from behind you:

“USE PROTECTION!”

Sidney’s shoulders shake with laughter. “Your teammates are-”

“The worst,” you finish. “Absolutely the worst.”

Outside, the New York air is crisp and cold. Sidney leads you to a black SUV parked nearby.

“You drove yourself?” You ask.

“I didn’t want anyone knowing I was here,” he admits. “Wanted to keep it low-key.”

“You came to a professional hockey game. In New Jersey. To watch me play.”

“Okay, so maybe not that low-key.”

You laugh, letting him open the car door for you. As you slide into the passenger seat, you catch him looking at you with that soft expression again.

“What?” You  ask.

“Nothing.” He closes your door, walks around to the driver’s side. Once he’s in, he says, “I’m really glad you said yes.”

“Me too,” you admit.

He grins, starting the car. “For the record, your teammates are terrifying. I’ve played in the NHL for twenty years, and Casey’s shovel talk might be the most intimidated I’ve ever felt.”

“She means well.”

“Oh, I know. It was actually kind of great. You’re lucky to have people who care that much.”

“I am,” you agree.

As Sidney pulls out of the parking lot, you lean back in your seat, feeling something you haven’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

Not just for tonight, but for whatever comes next.

And when Sidney reaches over to take your hand again, you let him.

***

The restaurant is perfect.

It’s small, tucked away on a quiet street in Hoboken, with exposed brick walls and soft lighting from Edison bulbs strung across the ceiling. Not too fancy, not too casual. The kind of place where you can actually have a conversation without shouting over music or feeling like you need to be on your best behavior.

“How did you find this place?” You ask as the hostess leads you to a corner table — private, you notice, away from the main dining area.

“Yelp,” Sidney admits, pulling out your chair before sitting across from you. “I spent an embarrassing amount of time reading reviews.”

“Really?”

“Really. I wanted somewhere nice but not pretentious. Good food, but not-” He gestures vaguely. “You know. Somewhere we could just talk.”

Your heart does that flip thing again. He researched. He put thought into this.

“Well, you did good,” you say, looking around. “This is great.”

The waiter appears with menus and water. Sidney orders a bottle of wine and you both settle in to look at the food options.

“The gnocchi sounds amazing,” you say.

“So does the carbonara.” Sidney glances up. “Want to share? Get a few things and split them?”

“I like the way you think.”

You end up ordering way too much food — gnocchi, carbonara, a caprese salad, some kind of braised short rib that the waiter promises will change your life. When it arrives, you both laugh at the sheer amount covering the table.

“I think we over-ordered,” Sidney says.

“Definitely.” You spear a piece of gnocchi. “But I’m not complaining.”

The food is incredible — rich and flavorful and exactly what you needed after a game. But what surprises you more is how easy the conversation flows.

You don’t talk about hockey.

Not even a little bit.

Instead, Sidney asks about your family. You tell him about growing up, about your parents who drove you to practices at five AM and never missed a game. About your younger brother who plays baseball and gives you endless shit for choosing “the cold sport.”

“Baseball?” Sidney laughs. “That’s his argument?”

“He says at least he gets to play in the summer. I tried to explain that indoor ice exists, but he wasn’t having it.”

“Is he any good?”

“He’s pretty good, actually. Got recruited to play at Vanderbilt. My parents are thrilled — finally a kid who plays a sport they can watch without freezing.”

Sidney smiles. “Do they come to your games?”

“When they can. It’s harder now with the PWHL schedule, but they made it to the Olympics.” You pause, taking a sip of wine. “They’ve always been my biggest fans, no matter what. My mom called me after my breakup and said she was proud of me.”

“She should be.”

“She also said she never really liked Quinn, which was news to me.”

Sidney laughs. “Parents always know.”

“Did yours like-” You stop. “Sorry. We don’t have to talk about relationships.”

“It’s okay,” Sidney says easily. “I’ve dated, but nothing serious in a while. Hockey makes it complicated. The schedule, the travel, the attention. It’s hard to find someone who understands that life.”

“Is that why you’re still single? No one understands?”

“Partly.” He spins pasta around his fork. “But also because I didn’t want to settle. I’ve seen too many guys get married young because that’s what you’re supposed to do, and then they’re miserable. I figured I’d rather be alone than be with the wrong person.”

“That’s mature.”

“That’s therapy,” he corrects, grinning. “I’ve been in therapy for years. Highly recommend it.”

“Really?”

“Really. Started when I was in my late twenties. Best decision I ever made.” He takes a drink of wine. “The pressure of being Sidney Crosby was — it was a lot. Still is, sometimes. Therapy helps me separate the person from the player.”

You lean forward, intrigued. “How do you do that? Separate them?”

“It’s hard,” he admits. “Because they’re connected, you know? But I try to remember that hockey is what I do, not who I am. I’m also someone who likes reading, and cooking, and bad action movies. Someone who volunteers with kids because it reminds me why I fell in love with the game in the first place. Someone who-” He pauses. “Someone who can be just Sidney sometimes, not Captain Sidney Crosby.”

“I like just Sidney,” you say softly.

His eyes meet yours. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a moment — charged, warm — and then Sidney clears his throat. “What about you? What do you do when you’re not playing hockey?”

So you tell him. About your obsession with audio books. About how you stress-bake and your teammates have to physically stop you from making a fourth batch of cookies. About your guilty pleasure reality TV shows that you would never admit to watching in public.

“Wait,” Sidney says, laughing. “You watch Love Island?”

“It’s trashy and terrible and I love every second of it,” you defend. “Don’t judge me.”

“I’m not judging! I’m just surprised.”

“What, Olympic athletes can’t enjoy trash TV?”

“No, it’s-” He’s grinning. “It’s humanizing. You score goals that make highlight reels and then go home and watch people fight over flings that won’t last three weeks after the show ends.”

“We contain multitudes,” you say dramatically.

“Clearly.”

You talk about music — his terrible taste in 80s rock, your equally terrible taste in early 2000s pop punk. About books you’ve read, places you want to travel, what you wanted to be when you were kids before hockey took over.

“A veterinarian,” Sidney says when you ask. “I wanted to work with animals.”

“That’s adorable.”

“I was five and convinced I could save every injured animal in Nova Scotia.”

“What changed?”

“Hockey got serious. And I realized I was better at skating than science.” He smiles. “What about you?”

“A teacher,” you admit. “Elementary school. I liked the idea of making a difference, you know? Helping kids learn and grow.”

“You still are,” Sidney points out. “Just in a different way. Every time a kid sees you play, sees you stand up for yourself, sees you score that Olympic goal — you’re teaching them something important.”

Your chest tightens. “I never thought about it like that.”

“You should. Because it’s true.” He reaches across the table, fingers brushing yours. “You have no idea how many young girls you’ve inspired. Amber’s not the only one.”

“Amber’s pretty great.”

“She is. She reminds me why all of this matters. Not the wins or the stats, but the impact. The next generation falling in love with hockey because they see someone like you and think I could do that.”

You flip your hand over, letting your fingers intertwine with his. “You’re pretty great too, you know.”

“I have my moments.”

The waiter appears to clear your plates. “Can I interest you in dessert? We have a wonderful tiramisu, or a chocolate torte-”

“Tiramisu,” you both say simultaneously, then laugh.

“Two spoons,” Sidney tells the waiter.

When the tiramisu arrives — a perfect square dusted with cocoa powder — you both dig in. It’s rich and creamy and possibly the best thing you’ve ever tasted.

“Oh my god,” you moan around a bite.

Sidney’s eyes darken slightly. “Good?”

“Incredible. Try this.” You scoop up a bite and hold it across the table.

He leans forward, letting you feed him. His lips close around the spoon, and you try very hard not to think about the condoms currently in your coat pocket courtesy of Kristýna.

“That’s really good,” Sidney agrees.

You’re about to respond when you notice two small figures approaching your table hesitantly. A little boy, maybe eight, wearing a Devils jersey. A little girl, younger, in a matching sweatshirt.

They stop a few feet away, whispering to each other. The boy is holding a phone. The girl is clutching what looks like napkins.

“Hi,” you say gently.

The girl’s eyes go wide. “You’re Y/N Y/L/N,” she breathes.

“I am.”

“And you’re Sidney Crosby!” The boy adds, voice slightly awed.

“Guilty,” Sidney says, smiling.

“Can we-” The boy looks at his sister, then back at you. “Can we have your autographs?”

Before you can answer, a woman comes rushing over. “Dylan! Gracie! I am so sorry — they saw you from across the restaurant and just-” She looks mortified. “I told them not to interrupt your dinner-”

“It’s no problem,” you say immediately, already reaching for the napkins the little girl is holding.

“Really,” Sidney adds. “We don’t mind at all.”

“Are you sure?” The mom asks. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding,” you assure her. “We’re happy to.”

The woman’s shoulders sag with relief. “They’ve been obsessed with hockey since the Olympics. We watched every game. They’ve been practicing in our driveway with mini sticks.”

“That’s awesome,” Sidney says. “Which of you is the better player?”

“Me!” Both kids say simultaneously.

You and Sidney exchange amused glances.

“Do you have something we can sign?” You ask, looking at the napkins. They’re the cloth ones from the restaurant.

“Oh-” The mom looks flustered. “I didn’t think—we don’t want to ruin-”

“Here,” Sidney says, reaching for the coasters under your water glasses. “These will work better anyway.”

“Perfect.” You accept the Sharpie the mom produces from her purse (she came prepared, apparently) and take the first coaster. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Grace,” the girl whispers.

You write: To Grace, keep playing! The world needs more girls in hockey! Y/N Y/L/N #13 and add a little hockey stick doodle.

Sidney takes the other coaster. “And you’re Dylan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t have to call me sir,” Sidney says, grinning. He writes his message, then holds up the coaster. “You play forward or defense?”

“Forward! I want to score goals like you.”

“Good man.” Sidney hands him the coaster. “Keep practicing. Work on your edges and your shot. Those are the fundamentals.”

“I will!”

Grace is staring at her coaster like it’s made of gold. “Can I-” She looks up at you shyly. “Can I give you a hug?”

Your heart melts. “Of course.”

She launches herself at you, tiny arms wrapping around your waist. You hug her back, catching Sidney’s eye over her head. He’s watching with this soft expression that makes your stomach flip.

“You were so cool in the Olympics,” Grace says into your sweater. “You scored the best goal ever.”

“Thank you, sweetie.”

“And you yelled at that boy who was mean.”

You blink. “You saw that?”

“Mom showed us on her phone. She said you were standing up for yourself. She said that’s important.”

You look at the mom, who’s watching with tears in her eyes.

“It is important,” you say to Grace. “You should always stand up for yourself. And for other people who need help.”

“I will.” Grace pulls back. “I want to be just like you when I grow up.”

There it is again — that thing Amber said in Sidney’s video. You try to swallow past the lump in your throat.

“You can be even better,” you tell her.

Dylan is looking shyly at Sidney. “Can I have a picture?”

“Absolutely.” Sidney stands, moving to crouch next to Mason’s height. “You want your sister in it too?”

“Yeah!”

The mom is already holding up her phone. “Gracie, go stand with them.”

Grace positions herself next to you, and you put your arm around her shoulders. Sidney has his arm around Dylan. The mom takes several photos, then says, “Wait, can I get one of all four of you?”

“Of course,” you say.

She asks the waiter to take the photo. You and Sidney stand behind the kids, your hands resting on their shoulders. You’re very aware of Sidney’s proximity — the warmth of his arm nearly touching yours.

“Everyone say hockey!” The waiter suggests.

“Hockey!” The kids shout.

The flash goes off several times. When it’s done, Grace hugs you again. Dylan shakes Sidney’s hand very seriously, and Sidney shakes back with equal gravity.

“Thank you so much,” the mom says. “This made their entire year. Maybe their entire lives.”

“Our pleasure,” Sidney says.

“Really,” you add. “They’re great kids.”

“Can I just say-” The mom hesitates. “What you said at that press conference, about women deserving respect, about not having to explain other people’s behavior. My daughter heard that. She understood it. Thank you for being that example.”

You’re definitely going to cry. “Thank you for telling me that.”

As they walk away, Grace turns back one more time to wave. You wave back, watching until they’re seated at their table across the restaurant.

“That was sweet,” Sidney says softly.

“Yeah.”

“You’re good with kids.”

“So are you.” You turn to look at him. “The way you talked to them about fundamentals, how you got down to their level for the photo — that was really thoughtful.”

“I remember what it was like being that age,” Sidney says. “Meeting players I admired. How much it meant when they treated me like I mattered. I try to pay that forward.”

You’re looking at him. At the way his hair falls across his forehead. At the laugh lines around his eyes. At the genuine kindness in his expression.

Your heart isn’t just flipping anymore. It’s doing full acrobatic routines.

“What?” Sidney asks, catching you staring.

“Nothing. Just-” You smile. “You’re really something, Sidney Crosby.”

His ears turn pink. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

The waiter brings the check, placing it directly between you. You both reach for it simultaneously.

“I’ve got it,” Sidney says.

“We can split it.”

“I asked you to dinner. I’m paying.”

“That’s archaic.”

“That’s polite.”

You make a grab for the check. Sidney pulls it out of reach, holding it above his head like you’re going to climb over the table to get it.

“Sidney.”

“Y/N.”

“I can pay for my own dinner.”

“I know you can. But I want to pay for our dinner.” He’s grinning. “Let me do this. Please?”

You narrow your eyes. “Fine. But I’m getting the next one.”

“Sure.” He pauses. “Does that mean there’s going to be a next one?”

“I think there might be.”

His smile could light up the entire restaurant. “Good.”

He pays — probably too much, based on how generously he tips — and then you’re both standing, pulling on coats. Sidney helps you with yours, his hands lingering on your shoulders for just a moment.

The drive back to your apartment is comfortable. You talk about the kids, about how sweet they were. About how the mom said Grace understood your press conference.

“That matters,” Sidney says. “What you said. It matters to more people than you probably realize.”

“I hope so.”

“It does. Trust me.”

When he pulls up in front of your building, he puts the car in park but doesn’t immediately move to get out. There’s a hesitation in his posture — like he’s not sure what’s appropriate, what you want.

“Thank you for dinner,” you say. “I had a really great time.”

“Me too.” He turns to face you. “I know we said we’d take things slow, and I meant that. I don’t want to rush you or push or-”

You lean across the console and kiss his cheek.

It’s brief, just a press of your lips against the slight stubble along his jaw. But you feel him inhale sharply, feel the way he goes very still.

When you pull back, his eyes are wide.

“Was that okay?” You ask.

“That was-” He swallows. “Yes. That was very okay.”

“Good.” You reach for the door handle. “Text me when you get back to your hotel?”

“I will.”

“And Sidney?”

“Yeah?”

“I meant what I said. About there being a next time.”

His smile is devastating. “I’ll hold you to that.”

You climb out of the car, but before you close the door, you lean back in. “And just so you know? I’m really glad you drove an hour and a half to watch my game.”

“I’d do it again,” he says immediately. “I’d drive further.”

“I believe you.”

You close the door and walk toward your building, feeling his eyes on you the whole way. At the entrance, you turn back. He’s still there, watching to make sure you get in safely.

You wave. He waves back.

Inside, you lean against the wall and let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Your phone buzzes almost two hours later.

Sidney: Made it back to the hotel. Thank you for giving me a chance.

You: Thank you for taking it

Sidney: Your teammates are going to interrogate you tomorrow, aren’t they?

You: Oh absolutely. They probably have a whole list of questions prepared.

Sidney: Tell them I said hi. And that I was a perfect gentleman.

You: Were you though?

Sidney: Was I not?

You: You were. Almost too much of a gentleman 😉

There’s a longer pause before his response comes through.

Sidney: I’m trying to respect your boundaries. But for the record, I wanted to kiss you goodnight.

Your heart stops.

You: For the record, I would have let you

Sidney: Good to know for next time.

You: Is there going to be a next time?

Sidney: Definitely. Pittsburgh has some great restaurants. You should come visit. Stop by the Little Penguins if you want. Amber would lose her mind.

You: I might take you up on that

Sidney: Please do. Good night, Y/N.

You: Good night, Sidney.

You head to bed, already smiling at the thought of telling your teammates about tonight. About the dinner, the kids, the way Sidney looked at you across the table.

About the fact that you kissed his cheek and he wanted to kiss you back.

About the possibility of next time.

For the first time in a long time, you’re not just surviving.

You’re living.

And it feels incredible.

You abandon your phone and curl into his side. It’s become natural over the past month — this easy physical affection. His arm around your shoulders, your head against his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat under your ear.

“What are you thinking about?” Hw asks, fingers tracing absent patterns on your arm.

“How different this is.”

“Different how?”

You hesitate. You’ve been trying not to compare, not to bring Quinn into this new relationship. But Sidney’s voice is patient, curious, not jealous.

“Quinn used to hate when I was on my phone,” you admit. “Said I was always distracted, always checking social media. But half the time he was on his phone too, scrolling Twitter or playing some game.”

“And now you’re wondering if I’m going to get annoyed?”

“Maybe?”

Sidney’s chest rumbles with laughter. “I literally spent ten minutes this morning watching videos my mom sent me on Facebook. I’m not exactly in a position to judge.”

“Really? You use Facebook?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“Your age is showing.”

“I’m thirty-eight,” he objects. “It’s not that old!”

“Is it really though?”

He pinches your side gently, making you yelp. “Yes. And for the record, I don’t care if you’re on your phone. We don’t need to be entertaining each other every second.”

It’s such a small thing, but it settles something in your chest. Quinn always made you feel like you weren’t paying enough attention to him, like you were failing somehow. Sidney just lets you exist.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“For what?”

“For being patient with me. While I figure out how to do this without-” You gesture vaguely. “Without all the baggage.”

“Everyone has baggage,” Sidney says. “That’s just being human. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing great.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Now, are you going to watch this movie with me, or are you going to keep pretending to read Instagram captions?”

You laugh, tossing your phone aside. “Movie. Definitely movie.”

It’s an action movie — something with explosions and car chases and a plot that makes no sense. Sidney provides commentary throughout, pointing out impossible physics and ridiculous stunts. You’re laughing so hard by the end that your stomach hurts.

Quinn never wanted to watch movies with you. Said they were boring, that he’d rather be doing something active.

You push the thought away. You’re done comparing.

***

“Okay, so here’s the deal,” Sidney says as he pulls into the parking lot of the Penguins’ practice facility. “The kids are going to be excited. Very excited. Like, vibrating-out-of-their-skin excited.”

You laugh nervously. “No pressure or anything.”

“You’ve met kids before.”

“A few at a time. You’re telling me there are going to be … how many?”

“Fifteen? Twenty? It’s a Learn to Play session, so we’ve got a full group.”

Sidney founded the Little Penguins Learn to Play program eighteen years ago, providing free equipment and coaching to kids who otherwise couldn’t afford to play hockey. He talks about it constantly — the kids’ progress, their joy, their determination. It’s clearly his pride and joy outside of actual hockey.

“What if they don’t like me?” You ask.

Sidney turns off the car and looks at you. “Are you kidding? You’re Y/N Y/L/N. You scored the goal of the decade. You’re a gold medalist. They’re going to lose their minds.”

“You’re Sidney Crosby. You have three Stanley Cups.”

“Yeah, but you’re cooler.”

“That’s not true.”

“It absolutely is.” He leans over to kiss you quickly. “Come on. They’re waiting.”

Inside, you can hear the kids before you see them — high-pitched voices echoing off the ice. Sidney leads you to the rink, and the moment you step through the doors, a roar goes up.

“IT’S Y/N Y/L/N!”

“SHE’S HERE!”

“I TOLD YOU SHE WAS COMING!”

Twenty kids in full gear are skating toward you at top speed. Well, top speed for six and seven-year-olds, which means a lot of wobbling and at least three kids going down before they reach the boards.

“Okay, okay!” Sidney calls out, laughing. “Remember what we said about personal space?”

The kids slow down, forming a semi-circle near the boards. Amber is in front, grinning with her gap-toothed smile.

“You came!” She shouts.

“I promised I would, didn’t I?” You say.

“Are you going to teach us your goal?” A boy asks. “The Olympic one?”

“The one where you went-” Another kid makes an elaborate weaving motion with his whole body, nearly falling over. “-like that?”

“I can try,” you say, already smiling.

For the next two hours, you and Sidney work with the kids. You demonstrate skating techniques, stickhandling drills, shooting form. Sidney is incredible with them — patient, encouraging, getting down on the ice to show them exactly how to position their hands or bend their knees.

He’s so different from Quinn, who rarely did charity work and seemed uncomfortable around kids when he did. Sidney lights up around them. He knows all their names, asks about school and siblings, celebrates every small victory like it’s a game-winning goal.

“Look!” Amber shouts, executing a somewhat wobbly crossover. “Did you see?”

“That was amazing!” You call back. “Keep practicing that!”

At the end of the session, the kids gather around for a photo. You and Sidney crouch in the center, surrounded by tiny hockey players. Someone’s parent counts down, and everyone shouts “HOCKEY!” at the same time.

As the kids file off the ice with their parents, Amber lingers behind.

“Can I tell you something?” She asks shyly.

“Of course.”

“My mom says you’re Sidney’s girlfriend.”

You glance at Sidney, who’s suddenly very interested in picking up stray pucks. “Um-”

“Are you?” Amber presses.

“Would that be okay with you?” You ask carefully.

Amber considers this seriously. “Will you still come visit us?”

“Definitely.”

“And will you teach me more moves?”

“As many as you want.”

“Okay then.” Amber nods decisively. “Then it’s okay. Because Sidney smiles a lot more now. My mom noticed too.”

Your heart melts. “Does he?”

“Uh-huh. He used to look sad sometimes. But not anymore.”

You look over at Sidney, who’s now helping a parent pack up equipment. As if sensing your gaze, he looks up and smiles — warm and genuine and just for you.

“Yeah,” you say to Amber. “I think you’re right.”

***

You’re in Pittsburgh for the weekend, and Sidney is cooking dinner.

This alone is wild. Quinn couldn’t cook beyond boxed mac and cheese. Sidney is making homemade pasta from scratch, sauce simmering on the stove, garlic bread in the oven.

“Where did you learn to do this?” You ask from your perch on the counter.

“YouTube, mostly,” Sidney admits, rolling out dough. “And a lot of trial and error. There was a period where I ate a truly terrible amount of mediocre pasta.”

“Why bother learning? You could just order in.”

“Because it’s satisfying.” He cuts the dough into strips. “Making something with your hands. Plus, it impresses pretty girls.”

“Oh, is that what this is?”

“Is it working?”

“Maybe.”

He grins, moving to check the sauce. You watch him move around the kitchen with easy confidence. He knows where everything is, moves with purpose and surety.

Quinn was always uncertain, always looking to others for validation. Sidney knows who he is and is comfortable with it. He doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone.

“What?” Sidney asks, catching you staring.

“Nothing. Just … you’re really good at this.”

“At cooking?”

“At everything.” You hop down from the counter, moving to stand beside him. “The cooking, the charity work, the kids. Being present. Being sure of yourself.”

Sidney turns off the stove, giving you his full attention. “Is this about Quinn again?”

“No.” You realize it’s true. “Actually, it’s not. I’m not comparing. I’m just noticing. Who you are. And I really like who you are.”

His expression softens. “I really like who you are too.”

“Even though I can’t cook?”

“It just means you need me to do it for you.”

“I don’t need you,” you correct. “I want you. There’s a difference.”

“I know.” He cups your face in his hands. “That’s what makes this so good.”

When he kisses you, it’s slow and deep and perfect. The pasta can wait.

***

Your apartment. Late night. Sidney’s visiting for the weekend after his playoffs ended — the Penguins made it to the second round before bowing out.

You’re in bed, sheets tangled around your legs, Sidney’s arm heavy across your waist. Your skin is still flushed, breath still coming in short gasps.

“Holy shit,” you manage.

Sidney laughs against your shoulder. “Good?”

“Good? That was-” You don’t have words. “Yeah. Good.”

He presses a kiss to your collarbone, then your jaw, then your lips. It’s gentle, tender, so different from the urgency of twenty minutes ago.

This is different too. Not just different from Quinn, different from anything you’ve experienced before.

Quinn was … fine. Adequate. It got the job done, but it always felt a little rushed, a little focused on the finish line. Like he was checking off a box.

Sidney is attentive. Patient. He pays attention to what you like, what makes you gasp or arch into his touch. He asks questions — “Is this okay?” “Do you like this?” “More or less?” — and actually listens to the answers.

And he’s generous. God, he’s generous. He seems to take genuine pleasure in your pleasure, like making you fall apart is the entire point.

“What are you thinking about?” Sidney murmurs against your hair.

“How good you are at that.”

“At what?”

“You know what.”

He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with amusement. “Say it.”

“No.”

“Come on.”

“Sidney.”

“Y/N.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine. Sex. You’re really good at sex. Happy?”

“Very.” He’s grinning like he just won a playoff game. “Though I’d argue we’re really good at it. It’s a team sport.”

You laugh, shoving at his shoulder. “That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said.”

“You’re laughing though.”

“Because it’s terrible!”

He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. “For the record, you’re pretty incredible yourself.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His voice gets serious. “I know we joked about it, but I mean it. This is good. You’re good. We’re good together.”

Your chest tightens in the best way. “We are.”

“And I-” He hesitates. “I want you to know that I see you. Not just as this amazing hockey player or Olympic gold medalist or all those things you are. But you. The person who stress-bakes and watches trashy TV and makes terrible puns and cares so deeply about everything.”

You feel tears prick at your eyes. “Sidney-”

“Let me finish.” He brushes a strand of hair from your face. “I see you, and I like what I see. All of it. The strong parts and the vulnerable parts and the parts you’re still figuring out. And I’m not going anywhere.”

A tear escapes, tracking down your temple. “You promise?”

“I promise.” He kisses it away. “You’re stuck with me now.”

“Good,” you whisper. “Because I’m not going anywhere either.”

You fall asleep wrapped around each other, safe and warm and more content than you’ve been in years.

***

June in New York is brutal, but you and Sidney find ways to make it work. He’s in Pittsburgh tying up loose ends before the off-season officially begins, you’re in New York doing the same. But you video chat every night, and he drives up on weekends.

You’re at lunch with your teammates when Kristýna brings it up.

“So,” she says, stealing a fry from your plate. “You and Crosby.”

You smile despite yourself. “Me and Crosby.”

“It’s been what? Three months?”

“About that.”

“And you’re happy?” Sarah asks.

“Really happy,” you admit.

“Good.” Casey raises her glass. “You deserve it.”

“It’s so weird though,” Kayle says. “Like, four months ago you were with Quinn and now you’re dating Sidney Crosby. That’s a hell of an upgrade.”

“It’s not about upgrading,” you say automatically. Then you pause. “Okay, it kind of is. But not in a shallow way. Sidney is just … he’s everything Quinn couldn’t be.”

“Like what?” Taylor asks, leaning forward with interest.

You think about it. “He’s confident without being arrogant. He cares about things beyond hockey — charity work, kids, making a difference. He’s emotionally mature. He communicates. He doesn’t make me feel small or like I’m asking for too much.”

“And he’s Canadian,” Kristýna adds with a grin. “Which means he probably apologizes for everything and knows how to dress for winter.”

You laugh. “He does apologize a lot. And he gave me his Team Canada jacket.”

“Which you still wear,” Sarah points out.

“It’s comfortable!”

“It smells like him,” Kristin says knowingly.

“That too.”

“What’s the age difference again?” Maddi asks.

“Fourteen years.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“Not even a little.” You steal one of Kristýna’s fries in retaliation. “He’s lived more, experienced more. He’s not trying to figure himself out or prove anything. He just is. And that’s really attractive.”

“Plus he’s won three Stanley Cups,” Casey says. “Quinn’s won zero.”

“I’m not dating him for his Cups.”

“No, but it doesn’t hurt,” Kristýna says. “Success is sexy.”

“You know what’s sexy?” You say. “Emotional availability. Communication. Respect. Making me feel valued and seen. Sidney does all of that.”

Your teammates are quiet for a moment.

“Damn,” Kayle finally says. “That’s … yeah. That’s everything.”

“It is.” You realize something as you say it. “I haven’t thought about Quinn in weeks. Not really. Not in a comparing way or a missing him way or even an angry way. I just don’t think about him.”

“Because you don’t need to,” Sarah says gently. “You’ve moved on.”

“I have.” It feels good to say it out loud. “I’ve really moved on.”

“To someone better,” Taylor adds.

“To someone right,” you correct. “For me. Right now. Maybe forever, maybe not. But right for where I am.”

“Look at you being all emotionally mature,” Kristýna teases.

“I learned from the best.” You think about Sidney, about his patience and understanding. “He’s teaching me that relationships don’t have to be hard. They can just work.”

“That’s what happens when you date a man instead of a boy,” Casey says.

“Quinn’s not a boy-” you start, then stop. “Okay, emotionally he kind of is. Or was. I don’t know what he is now and I don’t really care.”

“That’s growth,” Kristin says, raising her glass again. “To moving on and moving up.”

“To Sidney Crosby,” Kristýna adds with a wink.

“To finding someone who sees you and values you,” Sarah says.

“To that,” you agree, clinking your glass against theirs.

Later, when you’re home and video chatting with Sidney, you tell him about lunch.

“Your teammates were talking about me?” He asks, looking amused.

“They like you. They think you’re good for me.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think they’re right.” You pause. “Sidney?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being patient. For letting me figure this out at my own pace. For not getting jealous when I talk about Quinn or need time to process. For just being you.”

His expression softens. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

“I want to. Because not everyone would be so understanding.”

“Well, I’m not everyone.” He grins. “I’m Sidney Crosby, three-time Stanley Cup champion, arguably the best-”

“Oh my god, stop.”

“-player of my generation, with devastating good looks-”

“Sidney!”

“-and an incredible girlfriend who I’m very lucky to have.”

Your heart swells. “I’m lucky too.”

“Good. So we’re both lucky. Perfect.”

“Perfect,” you agree.

And for the first time in a long time, you believe it.

***

Cole Harbor in July is perfect.

You’re sprawled on the dock behind Sidney’s house, book abandoned beside you, soaking up the sun. The lake is calm, reflecting clouds and blue sky. Somewhere behind you, Sidney and Nathan MacKinnon are arguing about the best way to grill salmon.

“You’re overcooking it,” Nathan says.

“I’m not overcooking it. I’ve made this a hundred times.”

“Yeah, and every time it’s dry.”

“You literally ate three pieces last week and said it was the best salmon you’d ever had.”

“I was being polite.”

“You asked for the recipe!”

You smile, listening to them bicker like an old married couple. Nathan’s been back in Cole Harbor for a week now, training with Sidney like they do every summer. When Sidney invited you to come stay for a few weeks, you’d been nervous about intruding on their routine, but Nathan had waved off your concerns.

“Please come,” he’d said over FaceTime. “Maybe you can teach him that not everything needs to be a competition.”

“Says the guy who races me to the gym every morning,” Sidney had called from off-screen.

“That’s different. That’s motivation.”

Now you’re here, settling into an easy rhythm. Morning workouts at Sidney’s home gym, afternoons on the lake, evenings cooking dinner and watching terrible movies. It’s domestic and comfortable and exactly what you needed after a long season.

Your phone buzzes. The group chat.

Sarah: How’s Nova Scotia? Are you having a maritime summer romance?

You: It’s great. Very relaxing.

Kristýna: That’s code for “I’m having so much sex I can barely walk”

You: Kristýna

Casey: She’s not denying it

You: I hate all of you

Taylor: Is Crosby still as perfect as you described?

You: More perfect actually. He made me breakfast in bed yesterday.

Kristýna: SEE. SO MUCH SEX.

You: It was French toast. It was sweet.

Anne: Sure. “Sweet.” Is that what we’re calling it now?

You flip them off through the phone even though they can’t see it.

“What are you smiling about?” Sidney asks, appearing beside the dock with a beer in hand.

“My teammates are awful.”

“What did they say this time?”

“They’re making assumptions about our … activities.”

Sidney grins, sitting down next to you. “Are they wrong?”

“That’s not the point.”

He leans over to kiss your shoulder, skin warm from the sun. “For what it’s worth, I’m not complaining about said activities.”

“Sidney!” You laugh, shoving him lightly.

“What? I’m just saying-”

“I’m going to throw you in the lake.”

“You can try.”

Nathan appears at the top of the dock. “Are you two done being gross? The salmon is ready and I’m starving.”

“It better not be dry,” Sidney calls back.

“It’s perfect. Because I took it off the grill.”

***

The next morning, you’re in Sidney’s home gym by seven. It’s a serious setup — weights, machines, a full rack of kettlebells, battle ropes, and enough space for three people to work out comfortably.

Nathan is already there, stretching. “Morning.”

“Morning,” you yawn, tying your hair up.

“Late night?” He asks innocently.

“Nathan.”

“I’m just saying, I came early and these walls are not as thick as you two seem to think-”

You throw a towel at him. He catches it, laughing.

Sidney emerges from the house with water bottles. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly.

“She’s throwing things at me.”

“You probably deserved it.”

“I definitely did.”

The workout is brutal. Sidney and Nathan push each other — and by extension, you — harder than you’d push yourself. But it’s good. You’re getting stronger, faster. Your trainer back home is going to be thrilled.

You’re on the battle ropes, arms burning, when Nathan pulls out his phone.

“Don’t stop,” he says, filming. “I’ll send you the video later. This is good content.”

“Nate-” you gasp out.

“Just keep going. Pretend I’m not here.”

You grit your teeth and keep the ropes moving, even though your shoulders are screaming. Through the burn, you can see Sidney in the background doing weighted pull-ups. Nathan pans to him briefly, then back to you.

“Alright, that’s good,” Nathan finally says. “You can stop.”

You drop the ropes and collapse on the floor, chest heaving. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“Debatable.”

Sidney finishes his set and drops down next to you, equally breathless. You both just lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling.

“I’m getting old,” Sidney says.

“You’re thirty-eight,” you remind him.

“Like I said. Old.”

“I’m twenty-five and I feel like I’m dying.”

“That’s because Nate’s a sadist.”

“I heard that!” Nathan calls from across the room where he’s now doing burpees because apparently he’s not human.

You roll onto your side to face Sidney. His hair is sweaty, plastered to his forehead. His shirt is soaked through. He’s breathing hard, color high in his cheeks.

He’s never looked better.

“What?” He asks, catching you staring.

Instead of answering, you lean forward and press a kiss to his thigh, just above his knee. It’s easier than sitting up to reach his face, and intimate in a way that makes him smile.

“Feeling affectionate?” He murmurs.

“Feeling grateful you didn’t make me do another set.”

“The workout’s not over yet.”

You groan. “You’re evil.”

“You knew what you were getting into.”

Nathan’s phone is still in his hand, but he’s not paying attention, too focused on his own workout. You don’t think about it. Why would you?

***

Three hours later, you’re cleaned up and sitting on the back deck with lunch when your phone starts buzzing.

Not just buzzing. Vibrating continuously. Text after text after text.

“What the-” You grab it, unlocking the screen.

Eighty-seven notifications.

“Um,” you say.

Sidney looks up from his sandwich. “What’s wrong?”

You’re scrolling through messages. Kristýna, Sarah, Casey, Kristin, Taylor, Maddi, Kayle. Your agent. Your parents. Your brother. People you haven’t talked to in months.

“I think something happened,” you say slowly.

Nathan’s phone starts buzzing too. He picks it up, frowns, and then his eyes go wide. “Oh shit.”

“What?” Sidney asks.

“I—fuck. Okay, don’t panic, but-”

Your phone rings. Kristýna, FaceTime. You answer.

“ARE YOU SEEING THIS?” Kristýna shouts before you can even say hello.

“Seeing what?”

“MACKINNON’S INSTAGRAM. THE MONTAGE.”

“What video?”

“THE TRAINING ONE. FROM THIS MORNING.”

You put her on speaker. “Kristýna, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hang on.” She disappears from the screen. You can hear her typing. Then she’s back. “I’m sending you a link. Look at it. Specifically the last five seconds.”

The link comes through. You click it.

It’s Nathan’s Instagram with a video posted an hour ago. The caption reads Summer training with @sidneycrosby87. The grind never stops 💪🏒

The video shows the home gym. Battle ropes, weights, Sidney doing pull-ups. Everything looks normal. Just two people working out.

And then, in the last five seconds, the camera pans slightly. There’s a mirror on the far wall — you hadn’t even noticed it this morning — and in that mirror, crystal clear, is you lying on the floor next to Sidney.

Rolling over. Leaning in. Kissing his thigh.

Sidney’s hand coming down to rest on your back.

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

“YEAH,” Kristýna says. “The internet is LOSING IT.”

You look at Nathan, who has his head in his hands. “Dude, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even see—I wasn’t paying attention to what was in the frame-”

Sidney takes your phone gently, looking at the video. His expression is unreadable.

“It’s everywhere,” Kristýna continues. “Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, Tumblr. Everyone’s talking about it. There are screenshots. Analysis posts. People are-”

You grab your phone back. “I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

“But-”

You hang up.

Silence on the deck.

“So,” Nathan says finally. “That’s not ideal.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Sidney says, but his voice is calm. Too calm.

“Are you mad?” You ask him.

“At Nate? No. It was an accident.” He looks at you. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know.” Your hands are shaking. “We were keeping it private. Not secret, but private. And now-”

“Now everyone knows,” Sidney finishes.

“I’m really sorry,” Nathan says again. “I can delete it-”

“It’s too late,” you say. “People have already seen it. Screenshotted it. It’s out there.”

Sidney reaches for your hand. “Hey. Look at me.”

You do.

“This isn’t how we wanted people to find out,” he says carefully. “But it’s not the end of the world. People were going to find out eventually.”

“But not like this. Not from an accidental Instagram video.”

“Does it really matter how they find out?”

You think about that. About keeping the relationship quiet, not because you were ashamed but because you wanted something that was just yours. Something the world couldn’t pick apart and analyze and have opinions about.

But Sidney’s right. It was always going to come out.

“I guess not,” you admit.

“So we deal with it.” He squeezes your hand. “Together.”

“Together,” you repeat.

Nathan’s phone buzzes again. He looks at it and winces. “Uh, guys? You might want to see what people are saying.”

“Do I though?” you ask.

“Some of it’s actually really sweet.”

Against your better judgment, you open Tumblr.

***

hockeystan2026

WAIT WAIT WAIT

IS Y/N Y/L/N DATING SIDNEY CROSBY??????

THE MIRROR. THE KISS. THE HAND ON HER BACK.

I’M SCREAMING

#WHAT IS HAPPENING #i need to sit down #sidney crosby #y/n y/l/n #hockey 

penguins-forever

okay but can we talk about how CUTE that moment was???

she just finished working out, she’s exhausted, and she rolls over and kisses his leg because it’s RIGHT THERE and it’s so casual and comfortable and domestic

they’re clearly so comfortable with each other

i’m emotional

#this is so soft #i love them already #sidney crosby #y/n y/l/n #hockey relationships 

feminist-sports-fan

Not gonna lie, I’m thrilled about this.

Y/N went through hell with Quinn Hughes. The disrespect, the White House visit, the gaslighting from his family. She deserved so much better.

And Sidney Crosby? Literally one of the most respected players in the NHL. Known for his charity work, his leadership, his VALUES.

She upgraded in every possible way.

#she deserves this #good for her #seriously good for her #y/n y/l/n #sidney crosby 

maple-leafs-girlie

i’m sorry but the AGE GAP

she’s 25, he’s 38

that’s 13 YEARS

am i the only one who finds this weird???

hockey-analysis replied:

she’s an adult. he’s an adult. they’re both professional athletes who understand the pressures of their careers. what’s the problem?

maple-leafs-girlie replied:

the POWER DYNAMIC? he’s SIDNEY CROSBY. he’s one of the greatest players ever. she’s a PWHL player. the imbalance is concerning.

feminist-sports-fan replied:

She’s an OLYMPIC GOLD MEDALIST who scored one of the most iconic goals in hockey history. She’s not some starstruck kid. She’s a professional athlete at the top of her game. Miss me with this “power dynamic” nonsense.

#discourse #age gaps #let adults date adults #y/n is not a child #stop infantilizing women

crosby-stan-87

I’M SORRY BUT THIS IS THE BEST NEWS I’VE HEARD ALL YEAR

Sidney has seemed so HAPPY lately and now we know why!!!

Remember that interview last month where he was smiling the whole time? THAT’S LOVE, BABY

#i’m so happy for him #he deserves love #they both do #sidney crosby #y/n y/l/n 

hockey-gossip-central

[SCREENSHOTS ATTACHED]

okay so I went back through Y/N’s instagram and there are CLUES

March 22: she posted a photo from Pittsburgh. Captioned “exploring new cities 🏙️”

April 3: Sidney posted a photo of homemade pasta. Y/N liked it within 30 seconds.

April 18: Y/N’s teammate Kristýna commented “say hi to your boyfriend” on a post. We thought it was a joke. IT WASN’T.

May 4: Sidney was spotted at a Sirens game. People thought he was just supporting women’s hockey. HE WAS THERE FOR HER.

THE SIGNS WERE THERE AND WE MISSED THEM

#detective work #how did we not see this #hockey relationships #y/n y/l/n #sidney crosby 

pwhl-fan-account

can we please talk about how this is HUGE for the PWHL?

Y/N Y/L/N dating Sidney Crosby brings SO much attention to women’s hockey

More people are going to watch PWHL games. More people are going to pay attention to women’s sports.

This is big. This matters.

#pwhl #women’s hockey #y/n y/l/n #visibility matters #representation matters

quinnhughes-defender

I feel bad for Quinn tbh

His ex is dating SIDNEY CROSBY

That’s gotta hurt

hockey-takes replied:

Maybe Quinn shouldn’t have laughed when Trump disrespected women’s hockey 🤷‍♀️

quinnhughes-defender replied:

that was MONTHS ago can we move on???

hockey-takes replied:

Y/N clearly has. To someone better.

#actions have consequences #quinn hughes #sidney crosby #y/n y/l/n #accountability 

nhl-critical

Reminder that Sidney Crosby has been relatively quiet on social issues

Y/N literally broke up with Quinn for not standing up for her

I hope Sidney is different but let’s not pretend he’s perfect

feminist-sports-fan replied:

Sidney has actually been pretty vocal about supporting women’s hockey. He’s donated to girls’ teams, attended games, promoted women’s programs. He’s not perfect but he’s better than most NHL players.

nhl-critical replied:

Fair. I just don’t want Y/N to get hurt again.

feminist-sports-fan replied:

Same. But I think she knows what she’s doing. She learned from the Quinn situation. She’s not going to settle for less than she deserves.

#sidney crosby #y/n y/l/n #hockey discourse #supporting women’s hockey

mackinnon-fan-29

NOT NATE ACCIDENTALLY OUTING THEM I’M CRYING

he’s probably feeling SO BAD right now

but also thank you Nate for giving us this content

penguins-forever replied:

THE WAY HE IMMEDIATELY TWEETED “my bad 😬”

ICONIC

#nathan mackinnon #sidney crosby #y/n y/l/n #accidental reveal #iconic behavior

***

You look up from your phone. “This is insane.”

“Some of it’s sweet though,” Sidney points out. “People seem happy for us.”

“Some people think you’re a predator.”

“Some people think the earth is flat. We can’t control what people think.”

Nathan is scrolling on his own phone. “For what it’s worth, most of the comments on my post are supportive. A lot of ‘omg cute’ and ‘power couple’ and stuff like that.”

“And the other comments?”

“I’m not reading those.”

Sidney’s phone rings. He glances at it and sighs. “It’s my agent. I should-”

“Take it,” you say. “I’m fine.”

He squeezes your hand once more before standing and walking inside.

You and Nathan sit in silence for a moment.

“I really am sorry,” Nathan says quietly.

“I know. It’s okay. It was an accident.”

“Sidney’s not mad?”

“He doesn’t seem to be.” You lean back in your chair. “I think part of him is relieved, actually. He hated keeping it quiet. He wanted to be able to talk about me, post about me, be public about it.”

“And you didn’t?”

“I just wanted something that was mine for a while. Something the world couldn’t dissect.” You smile slightly. “But I guess that’s over now.”

“For what it’s worth, you guys are great together. Like, genuinely great. I’ve never seen Sid this happy.”

“Really?”

“Really. He talks about you constantly. Like, I know your entire life story at this point. Your favorite foods, your teammates’ names, what you like to watch on TV, how you take your coffee-”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” you laugh.

“I’m just saying. He’s gone for you. Like, completely gone.”

Your chest warms. “I’m pretty gone for him too.”

“Good. You both deserve it.”

Sidney comes back outside, looking resigned. “Pat wants us to make a statement.”

“What kind of statement?”

“Just confirming the relationship. Maybe posting something on social media. He thinks it’s better to control the narrative than let people speculate.”

You consider this. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to do whatever makes you comfortable.”

“Sidney.”

“I’m serious. This is your life too. If you want to keep denying it, we can. If you want to go public, we can do that. It’s your call.”

You think about the Tumblr posts. About people analyzing your Instagram, tracking your movements, speculating about your relationship. They already know. Denying it would be pointless.

“Let’s do it,” you decide. “Let’s post something.”

Sidney’s face breaks into a smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m tired of hiding. And I’m proud to be with you. I want people to know that.”

“Okay.” He sits down next to you, pulling out his phone. “So what do we post?”

You look at Nathan. “Do you have any non-incriminating photos of us from this week?”

“Define incriminating.”

“Nathan.”

“I might have a few.” He scrolls through his camera roll. “There’s this one from yesterday on the lake — you’re both just sitting on the dock, watching the sunset. It’s pretty cute.”

He shows you. In the photo, you and Sidney are side by side, feet dangling in the water. Your head is on his shoulder. His arm is around your waist. The sun is setting behind you, painting the sky pink and orange.

It’s perfect.

“Send it to me,” Sidney says.

A minute later, Sidney posts it to Instagram. The caption is a simple Best summer yet ❤️

You repost it to your story with Couldn’t agree more.

Within seconds, the comments start rolling in.

You turn off your phone.

“No looking at comments for twenty-four hours,” you decree.

“Agreed,” Sidney says.

“Can I look?” Nathan asks.

“No.”

“But-”

“Nathan.”

“Fine.” He puts his phone away. Then, after exactly ten seconds, pulls it back out. “Okay but just one peek-”

You grab his phone and throw it in the lake.

“HEY!”

“You’ll thank me later!”

Sidney is laughing so hard he’s crying. You’re grinning. Nathan is staring at the water in disbelief.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” Nathan says.

“I can’t believe I didn’t do it sooner.”

“My phone!”

“It’s probably waterproof.”

“PROBABLY?”

Sidney stands, still laughing, and offers you his hand. “Come on. Let’s go inside before you throw anything else in the lake.”

You take his hand, letting him pull you up.

As you walk inside, you can hear Nathan wading into the water, muttering about “unhinged behavior” and “replacing this phone on Sidney’s credit card.”

Sidney wraps his arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to your temple. “So we’re public now.”

“We’re public now,” you confirm.

“How do you feel?”

You think about it. About the Tumblr posts, the analysis, the speculation. About the world knowing something that used to be just yours.

But you also think about not having to hide anymore. About Sidney being able to talk about you in interviews, about attending his games without pretending you’re just friends, about building a life together without secrecy.

“I feel good,” you decide. “Scared, but good.”

“I’ll be scared with you,” Sidney promises.

“Together?”

“Together.”

***

The Michigan sun is brutal, beating down on the boat as it cuts across the lake. Quinn is driving, one hand on the wheel, the other holding a beer. Jack is sprawled across the back seat, sunglasses on, supposedly napping but probably scrolling through his phone. Luke is sitting up front, feet propped on the dashboard.

It’s the perfect summer day. No pressure, no hockey, just the three Hughes brothers at the lake house like they’ve done every summer since they were kids.

Luke’s phone buzzes. Then buzzes again. And again.

“Dude,” Jack says without opening his eyes. “Put it on silent.”

“It is on silent,” Luke mutters, looking at the screen. His eyebrows shoot up. “What the fuck?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just-” Luke scrolls quickly. “Holy shit.”

“What?” Jack asks again, more interested now. He sits up, pulling off his sunglasses.

“You need to see this.” Luke’s voice is weird. Tight.

Quinn glances over. “See what?”

“Hang on.” Luke’s still scrolling, and his expression is getting progressively more shocked. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”

“You’re freaking me out,” Jack says, leaning forward. “What is it?”

Luke looks up at Jack, then at Quinn, then back at Jack. He makes a subtle head movement toward Jack — a “come here” gesture that Quinn notices but doesn’t comment on.

“What are you doing?” Quinn asks.

“Nothing. Just Jack, can you come here for a second?”

“Why?”

“Just-” Luke gestures more emphatically.

Jack, catching on that something is actually wrong, moves to the front of the boat. Luke turns his phone so only Jack can see, angling it away from Quinn.

Jack’s eyes go wide. “No fucking way.”

“I know.”

“Are you—is that-”

“Yes.”

“When did-”

“I don’t know, but it’s everywhere. Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr-”

“What are you guys talking about?” Quinn asks, starting to get annoyed. He’s been in a good mood all day — the sun, the lake, his brothers, no responsibilities — and now they’re being weird.

Jack and Luke exchange glances. There’s a whole silent conversation happening that Quinn can’t read.

“Guys,” Quinn says. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Jack says too quickly.

“It’s definitely not nothing. You both look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“We just-” Luke starts, then stops. “We need to tell you something.”

Quinn’s grip tightens on the steering wheel. “Tell me what?”

“Maybe we should dock first,” Jack suggests.

“Why would we need to dock?”

“Because-” Jack looks helpless. “Okay, there’s no good way to say this.”

“Say what?” Quinn’s heart is starting to pound. “Is someone hurt? Is it Mom? Dad?”

“No, no, everyone’s fine,” Luke says quickly. “It’s not—it’s nothing like that.”

“Then what?”

Another look between Jack and Luke.

“Just show him,” Jack says finally.

Luke hesitates, then holds out his phone.

Quinn glances at it while keeping one hand on the wheel. It’s Instagram — Nathan MacKinnon’s account. A video of a gym. He can see Crosby doing pull-ups in the background.

“Okay?” Quinn says. “MacKinnon posted a training video. So what?”

“Keep watching,” Luke says quietly.

Quinn looks back at the phone. The video pans across the gym. Battle ropes, weights, and then-

There’s a mirror. And in that mirror …

Quinn’s brain short-circuits.

That’s her. That’s definitely her. Same hair, same build, same-

She’s on the floor. Rolling over. Leaning toward-

Toward Sidney fucking Crosby.

Kissing his leg. His hand on her back.

Quinn’s hand slips on the wheel. The boat jerks slightly.

“Quinn-” Jack starts.

“This is fake,” Quinn says. His voice sounds strange to his own ears. “This is AI or edited or-”

“It’s not fake,” Luke says gently. “They both posted about it. Like an hour ago. It’s official.”

Quinn stares at the phone. At the video that’s now looping automatically. Her kissing Crosby. Crosby touching her back. Both of them so comfortable, so casual, like they’ve done this a thousand times.

“When-” Quinn’s throat is dry. “When did this happen?”

“We don’t know,” Jack admits. “But people are saying they’ve been together for months. Since like, March or April maybe?”

March. A month after the Olympics. A mont after you dumped him in front of everyone.

“That’s-” Quinn laughs, but it sounds wrong. “That’s insane. You’re pranking me. This is a prank, right? For TikTok or something?”

“Quinn-”

“Because there’s no way. There’s no fucking way she’s with Sidney Crosby. The guy is ancient. He’s like forty.”

“He’s thirty-eight,” Luke corrects quietly.

“Whatever. Same thing. And she’s—she’s dating him? Sidney Crosby? Captain Canada? Three-time Stanley Cup champion Sidney Crosby?”

“Yeah,” Jack says.

Quinn laughs again. It’s getting hysterical now. “This is hilarious. Like, actually hilarious. Good one, guys. You really had me going-”

“Quinn, it’s real,” Luke says, and something in his voice makes Quinn stop.

He looks at his younger brother. Luke’s expression is serious. Sympathetic.

“Show me her Instagram,” Quinn demands.

Luke hesitates, then navigates to your account. The most recent story is a repost — Sidney’s photo from the dock, sunset behind you both, his arm around your waist. 

Quinn feels something cold settle in his stomach.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he says. “Maybe they’re just friends. Maybe people are reading too much into-”

“Quinn.” Jack’s voice is firm now. “They both confirmed it. Sidney’s caption literally has a heart emoji. She reposted it with ‘couldn’t agree more.’ They’re together. They’re public about it.”

“But-” Quinn’s brain is trying to process this and failing. “When did—how did-”

“We don’t know,” Luke says. “But based on the comments, people think it started after the Olympics. After-”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

After she dumped Quinn at breakfast. After the White House visit. After everything imploded.

“So what,” Quinn says, and his voice is getting louder now. “She broke up with me and immediately ran to Sidney fucking Crosby?”

“It’s been five months,” Jack points out.

“Five months!” Quinn’s shouting now. “Five months and she’s already with someone else? Someone-” He gestures wildly at Luke’s phone. “Someone like that?”

“Someone like what?” Luke asks carefully.

“Someone better!” Quinn snaps. “Is that what you want me to say? Someone more successful, more respected, more everything!”

“Quinn-”

“No!” Quinn’s hands are shaking. He cuts the boat’s engine, letting them drift. “This is bullshit. This is complete bullshit.”

“Dude, you need to calm down-”

“Calm down? CALM DOWN?” Quinn spins to face his brothers. “My ex-girlfriend — who dumped me in front of the entire Olympic dining hall and then dragged me through the media for weeks — is now dating Sidney fucking Crosby and you want me to calm down?”

“You kind of brought the media thing on yourself,” Jack says, then immediately looks like he regrets it.

“What?”

“I’m just saying — the White House visit, the MAGA stuff, the interview-”

“Oh, so this is my fault?” Quinn’s face is flushing red. “I’m the bad guy because I went to the fucking White House?”

“You laughed,” Luke says quietly. “When Trump made that joke about the women’s team. You laughed.”

“It was funny!”

“Look, I laughed too, but it wasn’t,” Jack says. “It really wasn’t.”

Quinn stares at his brothers. “Are you serious right now? You’re taking her side?”

“There are no sides,” Luke says. “But come on, Quinn. You had to know she’d move on eventually.”

“To someone else, sure. To some random guy, fine. But to Sidney Crosby?” Quinn runs his hands through his hair. “Do you know how this makes me look?”

“How it makes you look?” Jack repeats slowly.

“Yes! Everyone’s going to be comparing us. Me versus Sidney fucking Crosby. And guess what? I’m going to lose every single comparison!”

“Maybe it’s not about you,” Luke suggests.

“Of course it’s about me! She’s doing this to get back at me!”

“Or,” Jack says, “she just likes him.”

“Nobody likes Sidney Crosby. He’s boring. He gives the same interview every time. He’s all ‘team first’ and ‘we need to play a full sixty minutes’ and media-trained bullshit.”

“He also has three Cups,” Luke points out.

“SO WHAT?” Quinn explodes. “So he has Cups and I don’t? So he’s more successful? So he’s … what? A better person because he does charity work and volunteers with kids?”

“I mean-” Jack starts.

“Don’t. Don’t even say it.”

Jack holds up his hands. “I’m just saying, maybe she wanted someone who would-”

“Who would what? Stand up for her?” Quinn’s voice is dripping with sarcasm. “That’s what everyone keeps saying, right? That I should have defended her. That I should have said something. But I didn’t think it was a big deal!”

“Quinn-”

“No, seriously. Trump made a joke. We all laughed. That’s it. That’s all that happened. And somehow that makes me the villain while Sidney Crosby — who wasn’t even there, who didn’t have to make any choices — gets to swoop in and be the hero?”

“It’s not about being a hero,” Luke says. “It’s about values. About showing up.”

“I showed up! I went to the Olympics! I was there for her gold medal!”

“And then we went to the White House and laughed when the president disrespected her and her entire team,” Jack says flatly. “Come on, Quinn. You had to know that would hurt her.”

Quinn is breathing hard now, hands clenched into fists. “She’s doing this to hurt me.”

“The world doesn’t revolve around you,” Jack says, starting to sound exasperated. “Maybe — and hear me out here — maybe she’s dating Sidney Crosby because she likes him. Because he treats her well. Because they have things in common. Not everything is about you.”

“They have nothing in common!”

“They’re both hockey players at the top of their sport,” Luke lists off. “They both deal with intense media scrutiny. They both care about making a difference. They both just went through the Olympics-”

“Stop,” Quinn snaps. “Just stop.”

“What do you want us to say?” Jack asks. “That it’s not fair? That she should still be pining for you? Because she’s clearly not.”

Quinn grabs Luke’s phone again, scrolling through the Instagram comments on Sidney’s post.

they’re so cute together

sidney looks so happy

she deserves someone like him after what quinn put her through

POWER COUPLE

this is the best news i’ve heard all year

from quinn hughes to sidney crosby is such an upgrade

That last one makes Quinn’s vision go red.

“Upgrade,” he reads aloud. “Everyone’s calling this an upgrade.”

“Quinn-”

“From me to him. That’s what they’re saying. That she upgraded. Like I’m the shitty first draft and he’s the final version?”

Neither of his brothers responds.

Quinn keeps scrolling, getting more agitated with each comment.

Remember when quinn laughed at the women’s team? Thank god she left him

Sidney would never disrespect women’s hockey like that

She went from a boy to a man

Quinn Hughes could NEVER

“This is insane,” Quinn mutters. “This is absolutely insane.”

He switches to Twitter. It’s worse there. Threads analyzing the relationship. Side-by-side comparisons of Quinn and Sidney. Timelines of how long they’ve probably been together.

One tweet has thousands of likes: Y/N really said “fuck mediocre men” and went straight to the top. Queen behavior.

“I’m not mediocre,” Quinn says.

“Nobody said you were,” Luke offers.

“That tweet literally-”

“That’s just some random person on Twitter. Who cares?”

“Everyone cares! This is all anyone’s going to talk about!”

“For like a week,” Jack says. “And then something else will happen and people will move on.”

“A week?” Quinn laughs bitterly. “Try forever. This is going to follow me around for the rest of my career. ‘Remember when Quinn Hughes dated that Olympic gold medalist and then she upgraded to Sidney Crosby?’ That’s going to be my legacy.”

“Your legacy is what you make it,” Luke says. “This doesn’t have to define you.”

“Easy for you to say. Your ex isn’t dating one of the greatest players of all time.”

“Pretty sure that’s still Gretzky,” Jack corrects automatically.

“SHUT UP ABOUT GRETZKY!”

The boat rocks with Quinn’s shout. A few birds take off from a nearby tree.

“You need to calm down,” Jack says firmly. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling. I’m reacting appropriately to my ex-girlfriend dating Sidney fucking Crosby!”

“Okay, but maybe stop saying it like that,” Luke suggests. “It’s getting weird.”

Quinn ignores him, going back to Instagram. He clicks on Sidney’s profile. The recent post has over 500,000 likes already. The comments are overwhelmingly positive.

He goes to your profile. You’ve gained 100,000 followers since this morning. Your post from yesterday — some wholesome picture of you reading a book — has comments about Sidney.

where’s sidney 👀

reading in cole harbor?

is this his house???

TELL US EVERYTHING

Quinn’s jaw clenches. Cole Harbor. You’re in Nova Scotia. At Sidney’s house. Which means the two of you are serious. Which means this isn’t just some rebound fling.

“I need to call her,” Quinn says suddenly.

“What?” both brothers say in unison.

“I need to call her. Talk to her. Figure out what’s going on.”

“Quinn, that’s a terrible idea,” Jack says.

“Why?”

“Because she doesn’t want to talk to you! She broke up with you five months ago! She’s moved on!”

“Maybe she hasn’t. Maybe this is … I don’t know, a cry for attention or something.”

Luke stares at him. “A cry for attention? She’s dating Sidney Crosby. What attention could she possibly need?”

“I don’t know! But I need to talk to her!”

“No,” Jack says firmly. “You don’t. You need to let this go.”

“Let it go? Let IT GO?” Quinn is shouting again. “My ex-girlfriend is dating arguably the best player in the NHL and you want me to just let it go?”

“Yes!” Jack shouts back. “Because it’s over! Your relationship is over! She’s with someone else now! You don’t get a say in her life anymore!”

“But-”

“But nothing! You messed up, Quinn. You chose the White House over her. You chose not to defend her when your mom threw her under the bus. You chose to minimize what happened instead of taking accountability. And now she’s chosen someone else. Someone who probably won’t make those same mistakes. And you have to live with that.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Quinn stares at Jack, then at Luke. Both of his brothers look sad. Sympathetic, but firm.

“This isn’t fair,” Quinn says, and he hates how his voice cracks.

“Life’s not fair,” Luke says gently. “But you’ll get through this.”

“How? How am I supposed to get through this? Every time I turn on the TV or check social media, I’m going to see them together. Every time someone mentions her, they’re going to mention him. I can’t escape this.”

“So don’t check social media for a while,” Jack suggests. “Focus on training. On next season. On yourself.”

“That’s your solution? Just ignore it?”

“What else are you going to do?” Jack asks. “You can’t change it. You can’t control what she does. You can only control how you react.”

Quinn wants to throw the phone in the lake. He wants to scream. He wants to rewind time to February and make different choices.

But he can’t.

“I should have defended her,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” Jack agrees. “You should have.”

“I should have skipped the White House.”

“Probably.”

“I should have told Mom to back off.”

“Definitely.”

Quinn sits down heavily, head in his hands. “I really fucked this up, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Luke says. “You did.”

“And now she’s with Sidney Crosby.”

“Yeah.”

“And everyone thinks she upgraded.”

“Yeah.”

“And I just have to  accept it?”

“Yeah.”

Quinn lifts his head. “I hate this.”

“I know,” Jack says, sitting down next to him. “But you’ll survive.”

“Will I though?”

“Yes. You will. Because you’re a Hughes, and we’re stubborn assholes who don’t stay down for long.”

Despite everything, Quinn almost smiles. “Mom would kill you for the language.”

“Mom’s not here.”

They sit in silence for a while, the boat rocking gently on the water. Quinn stares at the horizon, trying to process everything.

“Do you think she’s happy?” He asks finally.

Jack and Luke exchange glances.

“Yeah,” Luke says. “I think she probably is.”

“Good,” Quinn says, and he’s surprised to find he means it. At least a little. “That’s good.”

“You’ll be happy again too,” Jack says. “Eventually.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. But you will.”

Quinn nods, not entirely convinced but willing to believe his brothers wouldn’t lie to him about this.

“Can we go back now?” he asks. “I need to … I don’t know. Drink a lot. Or punch something. Or both.”

“We can do that,” Luke says, starting the engine.

As they head back toward the dock, Quinn takes one last look at the Instagram post. At your smile in that photo, genuine and bright. At Sidney’s arm around your waist, protective and proud.

You do look happy.

He hates it. But you look happy.

And maybe that’s what he deserves — to see you happy with someone else. To live with the consequences of his choices.

It doesn’t make it hurt any less.

But maybe, eventually, it will hurt a little less each day.

Maybe.

***

The house is quiet.

Too quiet.

You’re standing on Sidney’s deck, watching the sun set over the lake one last time. Tomorrow morning, you fly back to New York for Sirens training camp. Sidney leaves for Pittsburgh the day after. Summer is officially over.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Sidney says, sliding his arms around your waist from behind.

You lean back against his chest. “Just thinking about how fast this summer went.”

“Too fast.”

“Way too fast.” You turn in his arms to face him. “I don’t want to leave.”

“I don’t want you to leave either.” He brushes a strand of hair from your face. “But the season-”

“I know. The season. Hockey. Responsibility.” You sigh. “Being an adult is overrated.”

Sidney laughs softly. “We’ll see each other. The Sirens are in Pittsburgh in December for the Takeover Tour. And I can come to New York between games.”

“It’s not the same as this though.” You gesture to the house, the lake, the peaceful privacy you’ve had for weeks. “No teammates ‘accidentally’ walking in. No media. No schedule. Just us.”

“Just us,” he agrees, then smiles. “Although I could do without Nathan making commentary on our-”

“Sex life?” You finish. “Yeah, that got old fast.”

“The walls aren’t that thin.”

“Sidney. He texted me a winky face emoji after we stayed in bed until noon last Thursday.”

“Okay, so maybe the walls are a little thin.”

You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I’m going to miss this. Miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too.” His hands slide down to your hips, pulling you closer. “But we’ll figure it out. The distance, the schedules, all of it. We’ll make it work.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” He leans down to kiss you, soft and sweet. When he pulls back, there’s something heated in his eyes. “How are you feeling about our last night here?”

“Sad?”

“Besides sad.”

You catch his meaning immediately, heat pooling low in your stomach. “What did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking-” His voice drops lower, that gravelly tone that makes your knees weak. “-we should make the most of it. One more night where we don’t have to worry about being quiet or interrupted or anything except each other.”

“Is that so?”

“That’s so.” His hands are moving now, tracing patterns on your lower back, slipping just barely under the hem of your shirt. “Unless you’re too tired from packing?”

“I’m not tired.”

“Good.” He kisses you again, deeper this time. “Because I have plans for you.”

“Plans?”

“Very detailed plans.” His lips move to your neck, finding that spot that makes you gasp. “Starting with taking you inside. Then upstairs. Then-”

“Then?” You breathe.

“Then I’m going to take my time.” He bites gently at your pulse point. “Reminding you exactly how good we are together. So when you’re in New York and I’m in Pittsburgh, you’ll remember.”

Your breath catches. “Sidney-”

“Is that okay?” He pulls back to look at you, and despite the heat in his eyes, his voice is genuine. Making sure.

“That’s more than okay.”

His smile is devastating. “Good.”

He takes your hand, leading you inside. You’re barely through the door before he’s kissing you again, pressing you against the wall. His hands are everywhere — your waist, your hips, sliding up under your shirt.

“Bedroom,” you manage between kisses.

“Too far,” Sidney murmurs against your mouth.

“Sidney, we’re in the hallway-”

“Don’t care.”

His hand slides up your thigh, hitching your leg around his hip. You can feel him, hard against you, and suddenly you don’t care about the hallway either.

“Wait,” you gasp. “Wait, I—bedroom. Please. I want—I want to do this properly.”

Sidney pauses, breathing hard. “Properly?”

“Last night in Cole Harbor. Last night in your bed for months. I want-” You cup his face in your hands. “I want to take our time. Make it last.”

His expression softens. “Okay. Yeah. Upstairs.”

He steps back, taking your hand again. You follow him up the stairs, anticipation building with each step. By the time you reach his bedroom, your heart is pounding.

Sidney closes the door even though you’re alone in the house. The gesture makes you smile — creating a space that’s just yours, just his, even though you don’t need to.

“Come here,” he says softly.

You go to him, letting him pull you close. This kiss is slower, more deliberate. He’s savoring it, you realize. Memorizing the taste of you, the feel of you against him.

His hands slide under your shirt, warm against your skin. “Can I-”

“Yes.”

He pulls your shirt over your head, tossing it aside. His eyes track over you, dark and appreciative. “You’re beautiful.”

“You’ve seen me naked before.”

“Doesn’t make it less true.” He traces the line of your collarbone, down between your breasts. “Every time feels like the first time.”

“That’s-” Your breath hitches as his thumb brushes over your nipple through your bra. “That’s really romantic.”

“I have my moments.” He reaches around, unhooking your bra with practiced ease. It joins your shirt on the floor. “There. Much better.”

“Your turn.”

You tug at his shirt. He helps you pull it off, revealing the body you’ve spent all summer admiring. He’s in incredible shape — years of professional athleticism creating defined muscles and strength. But there are also scars. Surgery scars, injury scars, the physical toll of twenty years in the NHL.

You trace one on his shoulder. “Does this one still hurt?”

“Sometimes. When it rains.” He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. “But I’ve got a pretty good distraction now.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He walks you backward toward the bed. “The best distraction.”

The back of your legs hit the mattress and you sit, looking up at him. He’s backlit by the setting sun through the window, and for a moment you just stare. Sidney Crosby. In his bedroom. Looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

“What?” He asks, catching your expression.

“Nothing. Just taking a mental picture.”

“For when you’re in New York?”

“For always.”

Something in his eyes shifts. Goes even softer, even more tender. “I love you,” he says.

You freeze. It’s the first time he’s said it. The first time either of you have said it.

“You what?”

“I love you.” He says it simply, matter-of-factly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ve been wanting to tell you for weeks, but I didn’t want to rush you. But we’re running out of time and I—I needed you to know. Before you leave. That I love you.”

Your eyes are burning. “Sidney-”

“You don’t have to say it back,” he says quickly. “I’m not expecting—I just wanted you to know-”

“I love you too,” you interrupt.

He stops. “You do?”

“Of course I do. I’ve been in love with you since … I don’t know. Since you gave me your jacket? Since you sent me that video of Amber? Since you drove ninety minutes to watch me play? Maybe all of it. Maybe all at once.”

Sidney’s smile is radiant. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He leans down, kissing you deeply. “Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“Again.”

“I love you, Sidney Crosby.”

“Again.”

You laugh against his mouth. “I love you. I love you. I love-”

He cuts you off with another kiss, lowering you back onto the bed. His weight settles over you, familiar and perfect. Your legs wrap around his hips automatically.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your neck. “I love you so much.”

His hands are moving, unbuttoning your shorts. You lift your hips, helping him slide them down your legs along with your underwear. Now you’re bare beneath him, and he’s still half-dressed.

“Not fair,” you say, tugging at his shorts.

He grins, standing to strip them off. And then he’s naked too, and you take a moment to appreciate him. All of him.

“See something you like?” He asks, amused.

“Maybe.”

“Just maybe?”

“Definitely. I definitely see something I like.”

He settles back over you, skin against skin. The contact makes you both gasp. His hand slides between your legs, fingers exploring, finding you already wet.

“God,” he breathes. “You’re so ready.”

“I’ve been ready since the deck.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I liked the anticipation.”

He circles your clit with his thumb, making your hips jerk. “How about now? Still like anticipating?”

“Sidney-”

“Tell me what you want.” His fingers slide lower, teasing. “Use your words.”

“You. I want you.”

“More specific.”

You’re breathing hard now, arousal making it difficult to think. “I want your fingers. Inside. Please.”

“Like this?” He slides one finger in slowly.

“Yes—god, yes-”

“More?”

“More.”

He adds another finger, curling them just right. You arch into his hand, chasing the sensation. His thumb finds your clit again, circling in time with the movement of his fingers.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So gorgeous like this. So responsive.”

“Sidney, I’m close-”

“Already?”

“You know what you’re doing.”

He laughs softly. “I’ve had good practice.” His fingers speed up slightly. “Come on. Let go. Let me feel it.”

It doesn’t take long. The combination of his fingers and his voice and the knowledge that you love him and he loves you — it’s too much. You come with a gasp, clenching around his fingers, pleasure rolling through you in waves.

Sidney works you through it, gentle now, until you’re shaking. Then he slowly withdraws his hand.

“Beautiful,” he says, kissing you. “You’re so beautiful when you come.”

“Give me a second,” you pant. “I’ll return the favor.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.”

You push at his shoulder, making him roll onto his back. Then you’re kissing down his chest, his stomach, following the trail of hair that leads lower.

“You don’t have to,” Sidney says again, but his voice is strained.

“I know.” You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly. “I want to. Is that okay?”

“That’s—yes. That’s very okay.”

You lean down, taking him into your mouth. Sidney’s hand immediately goes to your hair, not pushing, just holding. Grounding himself.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s—god, that’s good.”

You work him slowly, using your tongue, your hand, everything you’ve learned he likes over the summer. His breathing gets ragged, his grip on your hair tightens.

“Stop,” he gasps suddenly. “Stop, I’m going to—if you keep doing that-”

You pull back with a soft pop. “That was kind of the point.”

“I want to be inside you.” His voice is wrecked. “Please. I need-”

“Okay.” You climb up his body, straddling his hips. “Like this?”

“However you want.” His hands grip your waist. “God, look at you. You’re perfect. You’re-”

You reach down, guiding him to your entrance. Then you sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch. You’re still sensitive from before, and the stretch is intense.

Sidney’s eyes are locked on where you’re joined. “So good,” he murmurs. “Always so good. How are you always so perfect?”

“Not perfect.” You’re fully seated now, both of you breathing hard. “Just perfect for you maybe.”

“Definitely perfect for me.”

You start to move, slow rolls of your hips. Sidney’s hands guide you, helping you find the rhythm. One of his hands slides up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple.

“Is this good?” You ask. “Do you-”

“It’s perfect. You’re perfect. Don’t stop.”

You don’t. You ride him slowly, savoring every sensation. The fullness, the friction, the way he’s looking at you like you’re everything.

“Touch yourself,” Sidney says suddenly.

“What?”

“Touch yourself. I want to watch you.”

Heat floods through you. You slide one hand down between your legs, finding your clit. The added stimulation makes you gasp, makes you clench around him.

Sidney groans. “That’s it. Just like that. God, you’re so hot.”

You’re close again, embarrassingly fast. Something about the way he’s watching you, the way he’s filling you, the way his hands are gripping your hips like he never wants to let go.

“Sidney-”

“I know. I can feel it. You’re close.”

“Come with me. Please. I want-”

“Okay. Okay, just keep touching yourself. Keep-”

His hips thrust up, meeting your downward motion. The angle changes slightly, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars.

“There,” you gasp. “Right there-”

“I’ve got you.” He’s thrusting harder now, chasing his own release. “Come on. Let go. I want to feel you-”

You come with a cry, pleasure crashing over you. Sidney follows seconds later, pulling you down hard on his hips, spilling inside you with a groan.

You collapse forward onto his chest, both of you shaking. His arms wrap around you immediately, holding you close.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your hair. “I love you so much.”

“Love you too.” Your voice is muffled against his shoulder. “So much.”

You stay like that for a while, just breathing together. Eventually Sidney shifts, carefully pulling out. You make a small sound of protest.

“Shh,” he soothes. “Just cleaning up. Then I’m coming right back.”

He disappears into the bathroom, returning with a warm washcloth. He cleans you gently, tenderly, then himself. Then he climbs back into bed, pulling you against his side.

“That was-” you start.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t want to leave tomorrow.”

“So don’t.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Stay here. Move to Pittsburgh. We’ll figure it out.”

You laugh softly. “I have a job. A team. A contract.”

“Details.”

“Important details.”

“I know.” He sighs. “But a guy can dream.”

“We’ll make it work,” you say, echoing his words from earlier. “The distance, the schedules. We’ll figure it out.”

“Because we love each other.”

“Because we love each other.”

Sidney’s hand traces patterns on your back. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Do you ever think about Quinn? About what could have been if things had been different?”

You consider the question. A few months ago, the answer would have been complicated. But now?

“No,” you say honestly. “I don’t. Because if things had been different with Quinn, I wouldn’t have you. And I wouldn’t trade this for anything.”

“Not even if Quinn had been perfect? If he’d defended you and supported you and done everything right?”

“Sidney.” You prop yourself up to look at him. “Quinn was never going to be perfect. Neither are you. Neither am I. But the difference is we’re perfect for each other. Our imperfections fit together. And I wouldn’t change that for anything. Not even a version of Quinn that doesn’t exist.”

His expression softens. “I’m really glad Nate accidentally posted that video.”

You laugh. “Me too. Even if it was mortifying.”

“Worth it though.”

“Definitely worth it.”

He pulls you back down, tucking you against his chest. “One more round before bed?”

“Sidney, we just-”

“I know. But it’s our last night. And I want to make the most of it.” His hand is already trailing down your side, reigniting the heat. “Please?”

“You don’t have to beg.”

“What if I want to?”

And he does. He begs beautifully, worshiping your body with his hands and mouth until you’re gasping his name again. You return the favor, learning new ways to make him fall apart.

By the time you finally fall asleep, tangled together in the sheets, the moon is high and your body is deliciously sore.

Your last thought before sleep claims you is simple: I love him.

And you know, with absolute certainty, that he loves you too.

The distance will be hard. The schedules will be complicated. The media will have opinions.

But you’ll make it work.

Because what you have with Sidney is worth fighting for.

And you’re not letting it go without a fight.

So you do. You walk him through the game, the plays, the goals. He watches your face light up as you talk, gesturing with your free hand, reliving the moments. This is his favorite part of the day — hearing about your games, sharing his, just being connected even when you’re hundreds of miles apart.

“What about you?” You ask when you’re done. “Ready for tomorrow?”

“Ready as I’ll be. It’s just another game.”

“It’s not just another game.” Your voice is gentle. “It’s Quinn.”

Sidney shrugs. “Yeah, but .., I don’t know. I’m not really thinking about it that way. It’s Minnesota. We need the two points. That’s what matters.”

“You’re very zen about this.”

“What’s the alternative? Get worked up about facing my girlfriend’s ex?” He smiles. “I’m thirty-nine years old. I’m past the drama.”

“You’re such an old man.”

“You like that about me.”

“I do,” you admit. “But seriously, are you okay? No weird feelings?”

Sidney considers this honestly. “No. I mean, I know who he is. I know you dated him. But that’s the past. I’m here now. We’re here now. And I’m not going to waste energy on something that doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It matters to him,” you say quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he’s probably thinking about this game a lot. About you. About us. About everything.”

“That’s his choice,” Sidney says, not unkindly. “I can’t control what he thinks or feels. I can only control my game. And my game has nothing to do with Quinn Hughes.”

You’re quiet for a moment. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Where’s this coming from?”

“I just … sometimes I forget how mature you are. How secure. And then you say something like that and I remember why I’m with you.”

“Because I don’t care about your ex-boyfriend?”

“Because you don’t need to prove anything to anyone. You just are.” You smile. “It’s very attractive.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Very.”

“Attractive enough for phone sex?”

“Sidney!” But you’re laughing. “Your teammates are in the rooms next to you.”

“So? I can be quiet.”

“You absolutely cannot.”

“I can try.”

“Go to sleep,” you say, still smiling. “You have a game tomorrow. And I have practice early.”

“Fine. But I’m holding you to this later.”

“Deal. Good luck tomorrow. Score a goal for me.”

“Always do.” He blows you a kiss. “Sleep well. I love you.”

“Love you too. Night.”

The call ends. Sidney sets his phone on the nightstand, still smiling. He’s asleep within fifteen minutes, relaxed and content.

***

Quinn is sitting in his living room, alone, staring at his phone.

He shouldn’t look. He knows he shouldn’t look. But he can’t help himself.

He opens Instagram. Your most recent post is from today — a photo from the Sirens’ game against the Torrent. You’re celebrating a goal, teammates piled on top of you. The caption reads Love this team ❤️

Sidney liked it. Of course he did. He probably watched the game from his hotel room. Probably texted you after. Probably-

Quinn closes the app. Opens it again. Goes to Sidney’s profile.

The most recent post is from two days ago — a photo from practice. Nothing interesting. But the comments are full of people asking about you, tagging you, treating you two like some kind of power couple.

He scrolls back further. There’s the photo from the summer — you and Sidney on that dock at sunset. 2.3 million likes. The comments are overwhelmingly positive.

they’re so cute together

best couple in hockey

the way he looks at her 🥺

Quinn’s jaw clenches. He closes Instagram, opens Twitter instead. Big mistake.

Someone’s made a compilation video of Sidney’s assists this season, set to music, with clips of you celebrating his goals even though you’re not there. It has 500k views.

Another tweet: fun fact: sidney crosby has 23 points since going public with y/n. he had 16 in the same number of games to start last season. love is real.

Someone replies: imagine having sidney crosby as your boyfriend. the flowers, the support, the MATURITY. quinn could never.

Quinn throws his phone across the room. It lands on the couch, unharmed.

He should eat something. He got meal prep delivered on Sunday — chicken, rice, vegetables, all portioned out. He grabs one from the fridge and throws it in the microwave.

While it heats, he stares out the window at his empty driveway. Jack and Luke are both in New Jersey. His parents are in Michigan. He’s alone in this big house he bought because it seemed like what successful NHL players did.

The microwave beeps. He eats standing at the counter, barely tasting the food.

Tomorrow he plays against Sidney Crosby. Against the man dating his ex-girlfriend. Against someone everyone seems to think is better than him in every possible way.

He should go to bed. Get rest. Be ready.

Instead, he sits on the couch and turns on the TV, pulling up highlight reels. Not of himself. Of Sidney.

He watches goal after goal, assist after assist. Watches Sidney lift three Stanley Cups. Watches interviews where Sidney is articulate and thoughtful and says all the right things.

Watches one interview from last month where someone asks Sidney about his personal life and he actually smiles and says, “I’m very happy. That’s all I’ll say about that.”

The interviewer presses: “Happy because of a certain Olympic gold medalist?”

And Sidney’s smile gets wider. “Like I said. Very happy.”

Quinn turns off the TV.

He sits in the dark for a long time before finally dragging himself to bed.

He doesn’t sleep well.

***

Sidney steps onto the ice for warm-ups, immediately falling into his routine. Stretches, skating patterns, a few shots on net. He’s done this thousands of times. It’s muscle memory now.

Across the ice, Quinn is doing his own warm-ups. Sidney notices him the way he notices all the opposing players — cataloging positions, tendencies, potential threats. But there’s nothing special about it. Quinn is just another defenseman he’ll need to get past.

Quinn, meanwhile, can’t stop watching Sidney.

He watches Sidney take shots, each one precise and powerful. Watches him laugh at something Malkin says. Watches the ease with which he moves, the confidence, the complete lack of awareness that Quinn even exists.

It’s that last part that bothers Quinn most. Sidney isn’t avoiding looking at him. Isn’t making a point of ignoring him. He’s just not thinking about him at all.

“You good?” Brock Faber asks, skating up beside Quinn.

“Fine,” Quinn says automatically.

“You’re staring at Crosby.”

“I’m not-”

“Dude. You are. Chill out. It’s just a game.”

But it’s not just a game. It’s Sidney Crosby dating his ex-girlfriend. It’s everyone comparing them. It’s the personification of everything Quinn lost.

The horn sounds. Warm-ups are over.

***

Sidney scores.

Of course he does.

It’s a beautiful goal — he takes a pass from Rakell, dekes around Spurgeon, and goes backhand top shelf. Gustavsson doesn’t have a chance.

Sidney celebrates with his teammates, then skates back to the bench. As he passes the Wild bench, his eyes don’t even flicker toward Quinn.

Quinn’s gripping his stick so hard his knuckles are white.

“Hughes!” Hynes barks. “You’re up next shift! Get your head in the game!”

Quinn nods, but he’s watching the replay on the jumbotron. Watching Sidney’s goal again. Watching the precision, the skill, the ease of it.

This is what you’re with now. This is who you chose.

When Quinn’s shift comes, he’s aggressive. Too aggressive. He takes a penalty for hooking in the neutral zone — a stupid, undisciplined play.

As he skates to the box, he sees Sidney on the ice for the power play. Of course.

The Penguins don’t score, but Sidney gets two shots on net. Both are dangerous. Both nearly go in.

Quinn watches from the penalty box, feeling helpless.

***

The Wild are down 3-1. Quinn is on the ice when Sidney gets the puck in the defensive zone.

This is it. This is his chance. Quinn can show everyone that he’s just as good. That Sidney isn’t untouchable.

He moves to intercept Sidney’s breakout pass. But Sidney sees him coming, adjusts, and makes a perfect saucer pass over Quinn’s stick to a streaking Rust.

Rust carries it in, shoots, scores.

4-1 Penguins.

Quinn slams his stick against the ice in frustration.

Sidney skates past him on the way to celebrate. Doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t acknowledge him.

It’s like Quinn doesn’t exist.

***

The Penguins are at a steakhouse downtown, celebrating the win. Sidney is wedged between Geno and Kris, menu open in front of him.

“I’m thinking the ribeye,” Kris says.

“You always get ribeye,” Geno points out.

“Because it’s good.”

Sidney’s phone buzzes. Saw the highlights. That goal was gorgeous. So proud of you ❤️

He smiles, typing back. Thanks. Wish you were here to celebrate.

You: Me too. What are you doing?

Sidney: Team dinner. Want to say hi to everyone?

You: Yes!

Sidney waits until after they’ve ordered, then holds up his phone. “Hey, guys? Y/N wants to say hi.”

“Put her on speaker!” Someone calls from down the table.

Sidney FaceTimes you, angling the phone so you can see the whole table. Your face appears, bright and smiling.

“Hi everyone!” You call.

A chorus of greetings erupts.

“Great game today!” You say.

“You watched?”

“Of course I watched. I always watch.”

“Even when we play Wild?” Geno asks, leaning into frame. “Even when we play ex-boyfriend?”

“Geno,” Sidney warns.

But you just laugh. “I wanted to make sure my boyfriend kicked ass. Which he did.”

“Did Hughes play well?” Kris asks innocently.

“I genuinely didn’t notice,” you say, and Sidney can tell you’re being honest. “I was too busy watching Sid.”

The team hoots and hollers. Sidney is grinning despite himself.

“Okay, okay,” he says. “Let me take you off speaker.”

“Bye, Y/N!” Multiple voices call.

“Bye, guys!”

Sidney holds the phone closer, stepping away from the table slightly. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. I love that they love you.”

“They love you too. They keep asking when you’re coming to Pittsburgh again.”

“Next month. I already have the tickets.”

“I can’t wait.” He glances back at the table where his teammates are laughing about something. “I should get back. Food’s probably coming soon.”

“Okay. Have fun. I love you.”

“Love you too. Talk tomorrow?”

“Always.”

He hangs up, still smiling, and returns to the table.

“You’re disgusting,” Rust says, but he’s grinning. “All happy and in love.”

“Shut up.”

“No, is good,” Geno says seriously. “You deserve this. You deserve to be happy.”

“Thanks, Geno.”

The food arrives. Sidney cuts into his steak — perfectly cooked — and listens to his teammates joke and argue and celebrate. He texts you a picture of his dinner. You send back a picture of your chicken caesar salad.

Sidney sets his phone down, content. Tomorrow they fly to Chicago. The day after, it’s a game against the Blackhawks. The day after that, back to Pittsburgh for a home stand.

It’s a good life. A full life.

And he gets to share it with you.

***

Quinn pulls into his garage at 11 PM. The game ended an hour and a half ago. He should have gone out with the team, but he couldn’t face it. Couldn’t face their sympathy or their carefully not-mentioning what everyone was thinking.

He grabs his meal prep from the fridge — the same chicken and rice he’s been eating all week — and throws it in the microwave.

While it heats, he checks his phone. Mistake.

Twitter is full of highlights from the game. Specifically, Sidney’s goal. Sidney’s assists. Sidney’s postgame interview where he’s relaxed and confident and everything Quinn isn’t feeling right now.

Someone’s made a side-by-side comparison: Sidney’s stats this season versus Quinn’s. Sidney is winning in every category.

Another tweet: sidney crosby really showed up to quinn hughes’ home and said “this is my house now” and scored a goal. iconic behavior.

A reply: quinn looked PRESSED the entire game. meanwhile sidney didn’t even acknowledge his existence 💀

Another: the difference between a man and a boy. sidney out here living his best life while quinn is clearly still bitter.

Quinn closes Twitter. Opens Instagram. More of the same.

The microwave beeps. He takes out his food, burns his hand on the container, swears.

He eats at the kitchen counter again. The food is bland. He should have added more seasoning to the meal prep.

His phone rings. Mom.

He considers not answering. But he knows she’ll just keep calling.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Honey! I just watched the game! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You seemed—you looked frustrated out there.”

“We lost. I’m allowed to be frustrated.”

“I know, but-” She hesitates. “Playing against Sidney must have been hard.”

“It was just a game.”

“Quinn-”

“Mom, I really don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“I’m just worried about you. You’re alone in that big house-”

“I’m fine. I’m an adult. I can handle being alone.”

“But are you happy?”

The question catches him off guard. “What?”

“Are you happy? Because you don’t seem happy. You haven’t seemed happy in months.”

Quinn looks around his empty kitchen. At the single meal prep container. At the lack of anyone else in the house. At his phone full of notifications comparing him to Sidney Crosby.

“I have to go,” he says. “I’ll call you this weekend.”

“Quinn-”

“Bye, Mom.”

He hangs up. Finishes his food. Puts the container in the dishwasher.

Then he sits on his couch in the dark and thinks about Sidney skating past him like he didn’t exist. About you watching the game and not even noticing Quinn was playing. About being so thoroughly moved on from that he’s not even an afterthought.

He pulls up YouTube and searches “Sidney Crosby highlights.” He doesn’t know why. Maybe he’s torturing himself. Maybe he’s trying to understand what you see in Sidney that you didn’t see in him.

He watches video after video. Sidney scoring goals. Sidney winning Cups. Sidney giving thoughtful interviews and saying the right things and being everything Quinn isn’t.

There’s one video from last week — Sidney at a charity event for kids learning to play hockey. He’s on the ice with a bunch of six-year-olds, laughing, helping them with their skating. He looks genuinely happy.

The comments are full of people praising him. Calling him a role model. Saying he’s what hockey should be about.

Quinn closes YouTube.

He should go to bed. Should sleep. Should rest for practice tomorrow.

Instead, he goes to his home gym and works out until his muscles are screaming. Trying to exhaust himself enough that he won’t think about Sidney. About you. About how thoroughly he’s lost.

It doesn’t work.

At 2 AM, he’s lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment from the game. Every time Sidney touched the puck. Every time he skated past Quinn like he wasn’t there.

Every time Quinn realized that to Sidney, he isn’t there. He’s not a rival, not a threat, not even a consideration.

He’s nothing.

And somewhere in a hotel, Sidney is probably asleep. Probably texted you goodnight. Probably fell asleep smiling, thinking about his goal, his win, his perfect life with his perfect girlfriend.

Quinn pulls a pillow over his face and tries not to think about how different things could have been.

If he’d just defended you at the Olympics.

If he’d just stood up to his team.

If he’d just been better.

But he wasn’t. And now he’s here, alone in his big empty house, while you’re with someone who is everything Quinn should have been.

The worst part? He can’t even be mad about it.

Because Sidney is better. By every measure — as a player, as a person, as a partner — Sidney is what Quinn failed to be.

And that’s the hardest pill to swallow.

Not that he lost you.

But that he deserved to.

***

Sidney is on a group FaceTime with five of your teammates. Kristýna, Sarah, Casey, Kristin, and Kayle are all squeezed into frame, looking at him with varying expressions of excitement.

“Okay,” Kristýna says. “Walk us through the plan one more time.”

Sidney runs his hand through his hair, nervous energy evident even through the screen. “I’m closing out the restaurant from our first date. The one in Hoboken. I’m going to fill it with her favorite flowers-”

“Peonies,” Sarah interrupts. “White and blush pink.”

“Right. Peonies. And I’m ordering the same dishes we had that night. The gnocchi, the carbonara, the caprese salad-”

“And tiramisu for dessert,” Kayle adds. “Lots of tiramisu.”

“Exactly. And then I’m going to-” He takes a breath. “I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

Squealing erupts from all five women simultaneously.

“FINALLY!” Kristýna shouts.

“It’s been a year!” Casey adds. “We were wondering when you’d do this!”

“Is that too fast?” Sidney asks, and he sounds genuinely worried. “A year seems fast. Maybe I should wait-”

“NO!” All five say in unison.

“Sidney,” Kristin says gently. “She’s been in love with you since the summer. Probably before. She’s ready. Trust me.”

“But what if she thinks it’s too soon? What if she wants more time?”

“She doesn’t,” Sarah says firmly. “She talks about you constantly. About your future together. About what it would be like to-” She stops. “Actually, I probably shouldn’t tell you that part. Spoilers.”

Sidney leans forward. “Tell me what part?”

“Nope. You’ll find out after she says yes.” Sarah grins. “Which she will. Now, let’s talk about how we’re getting her ready without making her suspicious.”

“That’s where I need your help,” Sidney admits. “I need her to dress up without knowing why. I was thinking maybe you could tell her you’re all going out? A girls’ night or something?”

“We can do that,” Kristýna says, already plotting. “We’ll tell her we’re going to that fancy cocktail bar in the city. The one with the dress code.”

“And we’ll make her get her nails done,” Kayle adds. “I’ll book us appointments for the day before. She won’t think anything of it.”

“Perfect.” Sidney pulls out a small box, opening it to show them the ring.

“Holy shit,” Casey breathes.

The ring is stunning. The center stone is a large, brilliant-cut diamond — easily three carats — but it’s the setting that makes it unique. The band is delicate rose gold, with smaller diamonds wrapping around in a subtle vine pattern. It’s elegant without being ostentatious, modern without being trendy.

“It’s perfect,” Kristin says. “She’s going to die.”

“You think she’ll like it?”

“Sidney, she’s going to lose her mind,” Sarah says. “That ring is exactly her style. How did you know?”

“I’ve been paying attention.” He smiles slightly. “She always mentions how she hates huge, flashy rings. But I wanted the center stone to be—I wanted it to be worthy of her. So I went with quality over size, and a setting that’s more her.”

“You did good,” Kristýna says. “Really good.”

“So we’re all set?” Sidney asks. “You’ll get her ready, tell her it’s girls’ night, and get her to the restaurant by seven?”

“We’ve got you,” Casey promises. “She won’t suspect a thing.”

***

You’re getting ready in your apartment, confused.

“I don’t understand why we need to get this dressed up for cocktails,” you say to Kristýna, who’s sitting on your bed watching you try on options.

“Because it’s a fancy place,” Kristýna says. “They have a dress code.”

“Since when do we care about dress codes?”

“Since tonight. Come on, you never get to dress up anymore. Humor us.”

You pull out a cream-colored dress — silk, knee-length, with delicate straps. “This one?”

“Perfect. Very bridal—I mean, very pretty. Very cocktail-appropriate.”

You narrow your eyes at her. “What did you just say?”

“I said it’s pretty. Why, what did you hear?”

“Nothing.” But you’re suspicious now. “Is something wrong?”

“Nope. Not a thing. Nothing at all. Why would you think that?”

“Because you’re being weird.”

“I’m not being weird. You’re being paranoid.” Kristýna stands up. “Put the dress on. We’re going to be late.”

You change, slipping on the dress and the nude heels Sarah forced you to buy last month. Your nails — done yesterday at Kayle’s insistence — are a soft pink that complements everything.

“You look gorgeous,” Kristýna says when you emerge from the bathroom. “Sidney’s going to—I mean, everyone at the bar is going to die.”

“Kristýna.”

“What?”

“You’re definitely being weird.”

“Just get in the car.”

***

The drive to Hoboken is odd. You’re supposed to be going to Manhattan. When you point this out, Kristýna says, “Change of plans. We’re meeting everyone at a different place first.”

“What place?”

“You’ll see.”

When the Uber pulls up in front of the restaurant — the same restaurant from your first date with Sidney — your heart starts pounding.

“Kristýna-”

“Go inside,” she says, grinning. “Trust me.”

“Are you coming?”

“Not this time.” She squeezes your hand. “This one’s all yours.”

You climb out of the car on shaky legs. The restaurant looks different — every window is lit with candles, and through the glass you can see flowers. Everywhere.

You push open the door.

The restaurant is empty except for the flowers. Peonies — your favorite — in white and blush pink, covering every surface. The same table from your first date is set for two, candles flickering. And standing beside it, in a suit you’ve never seen before, is Sidney.

Your hand flies to your mouth.

“Hi,” Sidney says, and his voice is shaking slightly.

“What-” You can’t form words. “What is this?”

“It’s been a year,” he says. “One year ago today, I drove an hour and a half to watch you play. And then I took you here for dinner. And you fed me tiramisu. And I knew — I think I knew even then — that I was going to fall in love with you.”

Tears are already forming in your eyes.

Sidney takes a step closer. “This year has been the best year of my life. And I know that’s a cliché, but it’s true. Every day with you is better than the last. Every conversation, every laugh, every moment — even the hard ones — I want them all. With you.”

“Sidney-”

“Let me finish,” he says gently. “I’ve been thinking about how to say this for weeks. I’ve written it down a hundred times. But now that you’re here, looking like that, I can’t remember any of it.”

You laugh through your tears.

“So I’m just going to tell you the truth,” Sidney continues. “The truth is that you walked into my life when I didn’t even know I was looking for you. I thought I was complete. I thought I had everything I needed — hockey, my family, my friends. And then I saw you crying at five in the morning in Milan, and everything changed.”

He takes another step. You’re close enough to touch now.

“You changed me,” he says. “You made me want more than just hockey. You made me want a life with someone who understands me. Someone who challenges me and supports me and makes me laugh. Someone who’s brave enough to stand up for what’s right even when it’s hard. Someone who teaches little girls that they can do anything. Someone who-” His voice cracks. “Someone who makes me want to be better than I am.”

“You’re already-” you start, but he shakes his head.

“I know it’s fast,” he says. “We’ve only been together a year. Some people would say that’s too soon. That we should wait. But I don’t want to wait. Because when you know, you know. And I know.”

He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small velvet box. Your breath catches.

“I know that I want to wake up next to you every morning,” Sidney says. “I want to watch you play hockey and celebrate your goals and comfort you after losses. I want to build a life with you, a home with you. I want kids with you someday, if you want that. I want to grow old with you. I want everything with you.”

He drops to one knee.

You make a sound that’s half-sob, half-laugh.

“I love you,” Sidney says, opening the box to reveal the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen. “I love everything about you. Your strength, your passion, your kindness, your terrible taste in reality TV-”

You laugh again, tears streaming down your face now.

“I love that you wear my jacket when you’re sad. I love that you FaceTime me after every game. I love that you stress-bake when you’re anxious and that you send me videos of dogs you see on the street. I love that you made my teammates fall in love with you. I love tha tAmber talks about you constantly. I love that you made me believe in this in a way I never believed in anything before.”

He takes a shaky breath.

“So Y/N Y/L/N, will you marry me? Will you let me spend the rest of my life loving you? Will you be my wife?”

You’re crying too hard to speak. So instead, you drop to your knees in front of him.

Sidney’s eyes widen. “What are you-”

You cup his face in your hands and kiss him. It’s messy and tearful and perfect.

“Yes,” you sob against his lips. “Yes, yes, yes. A thousand times yes.”

Sidney laughs, and he’s crying too now. “Yeah?”

“Are you kidding? Yes! How could I say anything but yes?”

His hands are shaking as he takes the ring from the box. “Can I-”

You hold out your left hand. He slides the ring on, and it fits perfectly. Of course it does.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathe, looking at it through your tears. “Sidney, it’s perfect.”

“You’re perfect.” He kisses you again, deeper this time. “You’re going to be my wife.”

“You’re going to be my husband.”

“Husband,” he repeats, like he’s testing the word. “I like that.”

“Me too.” You’re both still on your knees on the restaurant floor, foreheads pressed together. “How long have you been planning this?”

“Weeks. Your teammates helped. They knew about the dress, the nails-”

“That’s why Kristýna was being so weird!”

“She was trying not to spoil it.”

“She almost did.” You pull back to look at him. “This is why you closed out the restaurant?”

“I wanted it to be just us. Like our first date. But better.”

“It’s so much better.” You look around at the flowers, the candles, the carefully recreated meal. “You did all this?”

“I wanted it to be special. You deserve special.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

“Yes, you do.” He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “You deserve everything. And I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving that to you.”

You kiss him again, slower this time. Savoring it.

“Can we eat now?” You ask when you pull apart. “I’m starving and I can see the gnocchi and I’ve been stressed all day thinking this was just girls’ night-”

Sidney laughs, standing and helping you up. “Yes. Let’s eat. That’s why I ordered all your favorites.”

He pulls out your chair. You sit, and he sits across from you, and for a moment you just look at each other.

“This is real, right?” You ask. “I’m not dreaming?”

“It’s real.” He reaches across the table to take your hand, thumb brushing over the ring. “You’re going to marry me.”

“I’m going to marry Sidney Crosby.”

“Sidney Crosby is going to marry an Olympic gold medalist.”

“We’re going to be that couple, aren’t we? The hockey power couple.”

“I think we already are that couple.”

“Fair point.”

The waiter appears with the first course — the same caprese salad from your first date. Sidney must have briefed them thoroughly because the man is beaming.

“Congratulations,” he says warmly. “We’re honored to be part of this.”

“Thank you,” Sidney says. “For everything. For making this perfect.”

The waiter leaves. You take a bite of the salad, and it tastes exactly like you remember.

“I can’t believe you recreated the entire meal,” you say.

“I remembered everything from that night. What we ordered, what we talked about, how you looked in the candlelight.” He smiles. “I knew then that I was in trouble.”

“Good trouble?”

“The best trouble.”

Your phone starts buzzing. You pull it out — your group chat is exploding.

Kristýna: DID HE DO IT??? DID HE PROPOSE???

Sarah: SEND PICTURES OF THE RING

Casey: IF YOU DON’T ANSWER IN THE NEXT 30 SECONDS WE’RE ASSUMING YOU SAID NO

Anne: SHE BETTER NOT HAVE SAID NO

Kristin: She definitely said yes. I can feel it.

Taylor: PICTURES. NOW.

You laugh, snapping a photo of your hand with the ring, Sidney smiling in the background.

The response is immediate and chaotic.

Kristýna: AHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Sarah: THAT RING IS INSANE

Casey: I’M CRYING

Anne: YOU’RE GETTING MARRIED TO SIDNEY CROSBY

Kristin: I TOLD YOU THE DRESS WAS BRIDAL

Taylor: Can I be a bridesmaid? Please say I can be a bridesmaid

You look up at Sidney, grinning. “My teammates are losing their minds.”

“Mine are going to be the same. I told them I was doing this tonight.”

“You told everyone except me?”

“That was the point of the surprise.”

“Fair.” You put your phone away. “But right now, I just want to be here. With you. Celebrating us.”

“I can work with that.”

The rest of the meal is perfect. The gnocchi, the carbonara, the short rib — everything tastes even better than you remember. Or maybe everything just tastes better now that you’re engaged.

Engaged. You’re engaged to Sidney Crosby.

The thought keeps hitting you in waves, each one more surreal than the last.

When the tiramisu arrives, you feed him the first bite just like you did a year ago.

“This is where I knew,” Sidney says.

“Knew what?”

“That I was going to marry you.” He catches your wrist, kissing your palm. “When you fed me that bite of tiramisu and smiled at me like that. I knew.”

“You didn’t know. You’d just met me.”

“I knew,” he insists. “Maybe not consciously. But somewhere deep down, I knew you were it for me.”

“Sidney Crosby, secretly a romantic.”

“Not secretly. Not anymore.” He stands, offering his hand. “Dance with me?”

“There’s no music.”

He pulls out his phone, queuing up a song. Soft piano fills the restaurant. “Now there is.”

You take his hand, letting him pull you close. You sway together between the tables, your head on his chest, his arms around your waist. The ring catches the candlelight, sparkling.

“I love you,” you murmur. “So much. More than I thought it was possible to love someone.”

“I love you too.” He kisses the top of your head. “My fiancée.”

“Your fiancée,” you repeat, testing the word. “I like how that sounds.”

“Not as much as I’m going to like calling you my wife.”

“How soon can we get married?”

He pulls back to look at you. “How soon do you want to?”

“Tomorrow?” You laugh at his expression. “I’m kidding. Mostly. I just—I don’t want a long engagement. I don’t need a huge wedding. I just want to be married to you.”

“We can do whatever you want. Big wedding, small wedding, courthouse — I don’t care as long as you’re at the end of the aisle.”

“What about summer?” You suggest. “After the season ends? Something small, just family and close friends?”

“That sounds perfect.”

“Really? You don’t want something bigger?”

“I want you,” Sidney says simply. “Everything else is just details.”

You kiss him, pouring everything you feel into it. Love, gratitude, excitement, joy — all of it.

“Take me home, fiancé,” you whisper against his lips.

Sidney grins. “I like how that sounds.”

“Not as much as you’re going to like calling me your wife.”

He pays the bill — leaving what you suspect is an enormous tip — and leads you out to his car. The drive back to your apartment is quiet, hands intertwined, both of you stealing glances at the ring.

“Do you think anyone knows yet?” You ask. “Besides my team?”

“Our teammates definitely told people. My phone has seventeen missed calls from Geno.”

“We should post something. Make it official.”

“What do you want to post?”

You think about it. “Something simple. Just us. The ring. Let people figure it out.”

“I can work with that.”

At your apartment, Sidney takes a photo of you holding his hand, the ring clearly visible, your face glowing with happiness. He posts it to Instagram with a simple caption. She said yes 💍

Your phone explodes immediately.

But you don’t check it. Instead, you pull Sidney inside, close the door, and show him exactly how happy you are that he asked.

Later, much later, when you’re curled against his chest in bed, you whisper, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For this. For us. For giving me your jacket in Milan. For seeing me when I needed to be seen. For loving me even when I was broken. For everything.”

“You were never broken,” Sidney says fiercely. “You were healing. There’s a difference.”

“Well, I’m healed now. And it’s because of you.”

“We healed each other.” He kisses your forehead. “And now we get forever.”

“Forever,” you repeat, smiling against his chest.

It sounds perfect.

***

Quinn is scrolling through Instagram mindlessly when it appears.

A collaborative post. Two usernames at the top, @sidneycrosby87 and @yourusername.

The photo is simple but stunning. Your hand resting on Sidney’s, the ring catching the light. Both of you are slightly out of focus in the background, foreheads pressed together, smiling. The caption is a short She said yes 💍

Posted 3 minutes ago. Already 50,000 likes.

Quinn stares at the screen until it goes blurry.

Engaged. You’re engaged.

He knew it was coming. Of course he did. You’d been together over a year. Sidney was thirty-nine — he wasn’t going to waste time. But knowing it intellectually and seeing it are two different things.

The comments are already pouring in:

CONGRATULATIONS!!!

The ring is GORGEOUS

Power couple of the century

From Olympic gold to engagement ring gold ✨

Quinn Hughes could NEVER

That last one makes Quinn close the app. But his phone keeps buzzing. Jack is calling.

“Did you see?” Jack asks without preamble.

“Yeah.”

“You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Quinn-”

“I’m fine, Jack. She’s getting married. Good for her.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“Well, I am. What do you want me to say? That I’m devastated? That I can’t handle it?”

“I want you to be honest.”

Quinn is quiet for a long moment. “It’s been over a year. I should be over this.”

“Should doesn’t mean you are.”

“I know.” Quinn runs his hand through his hair. “I just—I keep thinking about how that could have been me. If I’d just-”

“Don’t do that to yourself.”

“How can I not? She’s marrying Sidney Crosby. The Sidney Crosby. And I had her and I—I fucked it up so badly that she’d rather marry someone fourteen years older than give me a second chance.”

“It’s not about age-”

“I know it’s not about age!” Quinn snaps. “It’s about everything else. It’s about the fact that he’s better than me in every way that matters.”

Jack doesn’t argue. What can he say?

“I need to go,” Quinn says. “I’ll call you later.”

He hangs up before Jack can respond.

On Instagram, the post is up to 200,000 likes.

Quinn throws his phone across the room.

***

“We broke the internet,” you laugh, refreshing the post again. “We’ve been up for ten minutes and we already have half a million likes.”

Sidney is behind you on the couch, arms wrapped around your waist, chin on your shoulder. “Geno texted me twenty more times. In caps lock.”

“Kristýna is already planning the bachelorette party.”

“She knows we just got engaged like two hours ago, right?”

“That’s not stopping her.” You lean back against him. “Are you happy?”

“Are you seriously asking me that?”

“I just want to make sure. That this isn’t too fast. That you don’t have regrets-”

Sidney turns you around to face him. “Listen to me. I have zero regrets. None. This is exactly what I want. You are exactly what I want. Forever.”

“Forever,” you repeat, smiling. “I like the sound of that.”

“Good. Because you’re stuck with me now.”

Your phone buzzes. Your mom, FaceTiming. You answer, and she’s already crying.

“My baby’s getting married!”

“Mom-”

“To Sidney Crosby! THE Sidney Crosby!”

“I know who I’m marrying, Mom.”

“Can I tell everyone? Can I post about it?”

“We just posted, so yes. Tell whoever you want.”

She squeals and hangs up. Sidney is laughing.

“Your mom is very excited.”

“She’s been planning my wedding since I was twelve. She’s going to lose her mind when we tell her it’s going to be small.”

“How small are we thinking?”

“Fifty people? Sixty max? Just close family and friends.”

“That sounds perfect.” He kisses your temple. “When do you want to tell everyone where and when?”

“Let them figure it out themselves. We can drop hints.”

“You’re evil.”

“You love it.”

“I really do.”

***

“I have one rule,” you tell your bridesmaids as you board the party bus. “Absolutely no strippers.”

“Boo!” Kristýna calls.

“I’m serious. I don’t want strippers. Sidney doesn’t want strippers at his thing either. We agreed.”

“You’re both so boring,” Sarah teases.

“We’re not boring. We’re just-”

“In love and committed and disgustingly wholesome,” Kayle finishes. “Yeah, we know.”

The party bus is decorated in white and gold, with a banner that reads “BRIDE TO BE.” There’s champagne, a playlist of your favorite songs, and your ten closest friends ready to celebrate.

Kristýna starts filming an Instagram story. “Bachelorette weekend, let’s GO! First stop: honky tonk bars!”

You’re wearing a white dress and a sash that says “FUTURE MRS. CROSBY” that you initially protested but secretly love. By the third bar, you’re drunk enough to not care about the photos.

“Speech!” Someone yells.

You climb onto a chair (bad idea, but champagne has eliminated your judgment). “I’m getting married!”

The bar cheers.

“To the love of my life! Who gave me his jacket when I was crying! Who drove ninety minutes to watch me play! Who loves me even though I’m a mess!”

“You’re not a mess!” Kristin shouts.

“I’m definitely a mess! But he loves me anyway!” You raise your glass. “To Sidney!”

“TO SIDNEY!” Everyone echoes.

Kristýna is recording all of this for Instagram stories. Later, you’ll watch them back and cringe. But right now, you’re just happy.

***

Sidney’s bachelor party is more subdued but no less chaotic.

“No strippers,” Sidney tells his groomsmen.

“That’s what they all say,” Brad Marchand teases.

“I’m serious. No strippers.”

“You’re so whipped,” Kris says fondly.

“Proudly.”

They end up at a Pirates game, then dinner at a steakhouse, then a bar where someone recognizes Sidney and buys a round for the whole group.

By midnight, Geno is filming Instagram stories of Sidney — three beers in and getting sentimental.

“I’m getting married!” Sidney announces to the bar.

“We know!” Someone yells back.

“To the most amazing woman! She’s so smart and beautiful and talented and she puts up with me-”

“Okay, buddy,” Kris says, trying to steer him to a seat. “Let’s sit down.”

“No! I need to tell everyone about her!” Sidney is pointing at random people. “Did you know she won Olympic gold? With the greatest goal you’ve ever seen? And she’s kind and she volunteers and she makes me want to be better-”

“We know,” Nate says, laughing. “You never shut up about her.”

“Because she’s perfect!”

Brad is recording this too. “This is going to be excellent blackmail.”

“I regret nothing!” Sidney declares.

The video ends up on Instagram. Within hours, it’s been screen-recorded and posted everywhere.

***

Quinn watches the Instagram stories with morbid fascination.

Your bachelorette party looks insane. You’re drunk and happy and surrounded by friends. There’s a video of you riding a mechanical bull (how very Nashville). Another of you and your teammates doing karaoke to “Love Story” by Taylor Swift.

You look radiant.

Sidney’s bachelor party stories are more restrained but still revealing. There’s the video of Sidney being sentimental about you. Another of him and Malkin racing to chug beers (Sidney loses). Photos of the whole group, arms around each other, celebrating.

Everyone looks happy.

Quinn closes Instagram and opens Twitter instead. Somehow that’s worse.

sidney crosby at his bachelor party talking about y/n like she hung the moon. that’s what real love looks like.

Y/N really upgraded in every possible way huh

The narrative has already been written. He’s the bad guy. Sidney is the prince. And you’re the princess who escaped.

Luke texts. Stop looking at social media.

Quinn doesn’t respond.

***

The villa is a dream.

Perched on the edge of Lake Garda, with views of the water and mountains, surrounded by olive groves and Italian cypress trees. You and Sidney chose it specifically because it’s close to Milan, where everything really began.

The ceremony is on the lawn overlooking the lake. Fifty-eight guests, all people you love. White chairs, an arch covered in peonies and Italian greenery, string quartet playing softly.

You’re in the villa, looking at yourself in the mirror. Your dress is simple but stunning — silk, form-fitting, with delicate straps and a low back. Your hair is in loose waves, a small veil attached. The ring Sidney gave you sparkles on your hand.

“You look beautiful,” your mom says, crying. “My baby.”

“Mom, don’t start or I’ll start.”

“Too late.” She dabs at her eyes. “Sidney is a lucky man.”

“I’m the lucky one.”

There’s a knock. Your dad pokes his head in. “Ready?”

“More than ready.”

***

The ceremony is perfect.

You walk down the aisle to your dad, and Sidney’s expression when he sees you is everything. His eyes get shiny, and you see Nate elbow him with a grin.

The officiant keeps it short. Readings about love and partnership, vows you and Sidney wrote yourselves.

Sidney goes first. “I promise to always give you my jacket when you’re cold. To watch your games even when I’m exhausted. To support your dreams as much as my own. To defend you, stand with you, and love you every single day for the rest of our lives.”

And you return the favor. “I promise to wear your jacket even when it’s too big. To watch your games even when you drive me crazy with your superstitions. To challenge you, support you, and remind you that you’re more than just a hockey player. To love you exactly as you are, for as long as we both shall live.”

“By the power vested in me,” the officiant says, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss-”

Sidney doesn’t wait. He pulls you in, kissing you deeply while everyone cheers.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the officiant announces, laughing, “Mr. and Mrs. Crosby!”

You walk back down the aisle together, hand in hand, as husband and wife.

***

The reception is in the villa’s courtyard. String lights overhead, long tables with white linens and more peonies, Italian food and wine flowing freely.

The speeches are perfect. Geno makes everyone cry and laugh. Kristýna roasts you lovingly. Your dad gives a toast about watching you grow into the woman you are.

The first dance is to “Fly Me to the Moon” by Frank Sinatra. Sidney holds you close, whispering “I love you” every few seconds.

“I love you too, husband.”

“Say that again.”

“Husband.”

“I’m never going to get tired of hearing that.”

Later, you dance with your dad, with Amber (who served as flower girl and took the job very seriously), with Sidney’s dad. Sidney dances with his mom, with your mom, with half the Pittsburgh Penguins.

As the sun sets over Lake Garda, you and Sidney stand on the terrace, looking at your party.

“Best day of my life,” Sidney says.

“Mine too.”

“Better than winning Olympic gold?”

“So much better.”

He kisses you, soft and sweet. “Ready to be married to me forever?”

“I’ve been ready since Cole Harbor.”

***

Quinn sees the wedding through People Magazine.

The article is published three days after the wedding, and it’s everywhere.

PEOPLE MAGAZINE EXCLUSIVE

OLYMPIC GOLD MEDALIST Y/N Y/L/N MARRIES NHL LEGEND SIDNEY CROSBY IN STUNNING ITALIAN CEREMONY

The hockey power couple tied the knot at a private villa on Lake Garda

By Jordan Bowers | July 28, 2027

Sidney Crosby and Y/N Y/L/N said “I do” on Saturday in an intimate ceremony overlooking Italy’s Lake Garda, PEOPLE can exclusively reveal.

The Pittsburgh Penguins captain, 39, and the New York Sirens center, 25, exchanged vows in front of approximately 60 close friends and family members at a private villa near the town of Salò.

“It was absolutely beautiful,” a source close to the couple tells PEOPLE. “Very romantic and personal. They specifically chose Lake Garda because it’s close to Milan, where they first connected during the 2026 Winter Olympics.”

Y/L/N, who won Olympic gold for Team USA in February 2026 with what’s been called “the goal of the decade,” wore a custom silk gown by Italian designer Giambattista Valli. The dress featured delicate tulle and a low back, with Y/L/N opting for loose waves and a simple veil.

Crosby, a three-time Stanley Cup champion, wore a classic navy suit by Tom Ford.

The ceremony took place on the villa’s lawn with views of the lake and surrounding mountains. White chairs were arranged in rows, with an arch covered in white peonies — Y/L/N’s favorite flower — and Italian greenery.

“The setting was breathtaking,” the source says. “Very elegant but not over-the-top. That’s very much their style.”

The couple wrote their own vows, which had several guests — including Pittsburgh Penguins teammates Evgeni Malkin and Kris Letang — tearing up.

“Sidney promised to always support Y/N’s dreams and to defend her,” the source reveals. “It was a clear reference to how they met — Sidney was there for her during a difficult time, and he’s been her biggest supporter ever since.”

The reception was held in the villa’s courtyard under string lights, with Italian cuisine and wine. The couple’s first dance was to “Fly Me to the Moon” by Frank Sinatra.

Crosby’s Penguins teammates served as groomsmen, while Y/L/N’s New York Sirens teammates were bridesmaids. Seven-year-old Amber Clement, a participant in Crosby’s Little Penguins Learn to Play program, served as flower girl.

“Amber was so excited,” the source says. “She’s been telling everyone she’s Y/N’s biggest fan. Having her in the wedding was really special for both Sidney and Y/N.”

The couple’s relationship became public in July 2026 when they were accidentally featured in an Instagram video posted by Colorado Avalanche center Nathan MacKinnon. They announced their engagement in March 2027.

This marks the first marriage for both. Y/L/N was previously in a relationship with Minnesota Wild defenseman Quinn Hughes, which ended in February 2026 following the Olympics.

“Sidney and Y/N are incredibly happy,” the source says. “They’re perfect for each other. This is a love story that’s been a long time coming.”

The newlyweds are honeymooning at an undisclosed location in Sardinia before returning to North America for the upcoming hockey season.

Representatives for both Crosby and Y/L/N declined to comment.

***

The article includes photos. You and Sidney cutting the cake. Your first dance. A group shot with the wedding party. You laughing at something Sidney whispered during the ceremony.

Every photo shows pure joy.

Quinn reads the article three times. The detail about Sidney’s vows — about defending you — feels like a knife.

That should have been him. He should have been the one defending you. Standing up for you.

Instead, he’s reading about your wedding in People Magazine.

***

The hotel is absurdly luxurious. Private villa, infinity pool, direct beach access, staff who anticipate your every need.

“This is insane,” you say, looking around the suite. “Sidney, this is—how much did this cost?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m worrying about it.”

“It’s our honeymoon. I wanted it to be special.” He pulls you close. “Besides, I can afford it. Let me spoil my wife.”

“Wife,” you repeat, smiling. “I’m your wife.”

“You’re my wife,” he confirms, kissing you. “And I plan to spend the next two weeks making sure you remember that.”

You barely leave the villa.

Room service, the private pool, the beach at sunset. But mostly, you stay in bed.

“We should probably see some of Sardinia,” you say on day three.

“We can see it next time.”

“Next time?”

“I’m planning to bring you back every year. This is our spot now.”

“Our honeymoon spot.”

“Exactly.”

On day five, you convince Sidney to leave the villa for dinner at a restaurant on the water. You’re recognized — there are other guests, including a Canadian couple who try very hard to play it cool.

The man approaches carefully. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but are you Sidney Crosby?”

Sidney smiles. “Guilty.”

“And Y/N Y/L/N? The Olympic gold medalist?”

“That’s me,” you say.

“Congratulations on the wedding! We saw the photos in People. Beautiful ceremony.”

“Thank you,” Sidney says, his hand finding yours under the table.

“We won’t bother you,” the man says. “Just wanted to say congratulations. My daughter plays hockey because of you,” he adds to you. “She watched your Olympic goal about a hundred times.”

“That means everything,” you say sincerely. “Thank you for telling me.”

They return to their table. Sidney squeezes your hand.

“You’re changing lives,” he murmurs.

“We both are.”

The next day, you go to the beach. Sidney insists on applying your sunscreen, taking his time with it. His hands on your skin, gentle and thorough.

“You’re very dedicated to sun protection,” you tease.

“I’m dedicated to taking care of my wife.”

“I can put on my own sunscreen.”

“But why would you when I’m here to do it?”

You don’t argue with that logic.

***

Quinn sees the post because of course he does. His algorithm knows exactly what to show him to cause maximum damage.

The tweet is from @CanucksFanGeoff. Just finished two weeks at the same resort in Sardinia as Sidney Crosby and his new wife. They came out of their villa for air maybe once in two weeks if you know what I mean 😉

Attached is a blurry photo — clearly taken from a distance, probably zoomed in — of Sidney applying sunscreen to your back on the beach. You’re laughing at something he said, head thrown back, completely at ease.

The tweet has 7,000 likes and counting.

The replies are exactly what you’d expect.

imagine being on your honeymoon with sidney crosby. the stamina. the dedication.

“came out once in two weeks” LMAOOO good for them

this is the most romantic thing i’ve ever seen

quinn hughes found dead in a ditch

That last one gets 2,000 likes.

Quinn closes Twitter. Opens it again. Closes it.

Jack calls. “Stop looking at Twitter.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re definitely looking at Twitter. That’s why I’m calling.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Quinn-”

“They’re on their honeymoon. They’re supposed to be happy. They’re supposed to be-” He can’t finish the sentence.

“You need to move on.”

“I’m trying!”

“Try harder. Go on a date. Meet someone new. Do something other than torturing yourself watching Y/N live her best life.”

“I can’t just-”

“Yes, you can. You’re choosing not to. There’s a difference.”

Jack hangs up. He’s getting better at the tough love thing.

Quinn looks at the photo one more time. You and Sidney on the beach. So happy. So in love. So completely moved on.

He’s been left behind.

And maybe that’s what he deserves.

But it still hurts.

***

“I don’t want to leave,” you say, watching the sunset from your private pool.

Sidney swims over, wrapping his arms around you from behind. “We can come back.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Every summer if you want.”

“I want.”

“Then we will.” He kisses your shoulder. “Ready to go back to real life?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Me neither. But we have a season coming up. You have training camp. I have training camp.”

“I know.” You turn in his arms. “But we’re married now. That makes everything different, right?”

“Everything and nothing,” Sidney says. “We still have the distance. The schedules. The pressure. But we’re doing it as husband and wife now.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“Me too.”

“Think anyone will care that we got married?”

“I think the entire hockey world cares that we got married.”

“Good.” You kiss him. “Let them care. Let them watch. Let them see what real love looks like.”

“Is this your way of saying we’re goals?”

“We’re definitely goals.”

Sidney laughs, pulling you closer. “I love you, Mrs. Crosby.”

“I love you too, Mr. Crosby.”

Tomorrow you fly home. Back to hockey, back to the media, back to real life.

But right now, in this moment, it’s just the two of you.

And that’s all you need.

***

The house is quiet.

It’s a rare thing these days — both of you home, no games, no practices, no obligations. Just a Wednesday evening in early April with playoff races heating up and the pressure mounting.

You’re curled up on the couch in Sidney’s Pittsburgh home (your home now, technically, though you still split time between here and New York). He’s in the kitchen making tea, and you can hear him moving around, the familiar sounds of home.

“Earl Grey or chamomile?” He calls.

“Chamomile. I need to sleep tonight.”

“Chamomile it is.”

He returns with two mugs, handing you one before settling beside you. You automatically shift to make room, tucking yourself against his side. His arm comes around your shoulders.

“This is nice,” you murmur.

“It is.”

“We should do this more often.”

“We should.” He’s quiet for a moment. “That’s actually—I wanted to talk to you about something.”

You sit up slightly, looking at him. There’s something in his tone. Serious. Important.

“Okay. What’s up?”

Sidney takes a breath. “I’m going to retire after this season.”

You freeze. “What?”

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while. And I’m—I’m sure. This is my last season.”

“Sidney-”

“Let me finish,” he says gently. “Please.”

You nod, heart pounding.

“I’m forty,” he continues. “I’ve been playing professionally for over twenty years. I’ve won everything there is to win. And I’m tired.”

“You don’t seem tired. You’re having a great season. You’re still one of the best players on the team-”

“I know. And that’s why I want to go out now. While I’m still playing well. Before I become a liability. Before I’m hanging on too long because I don’t know who I am without hockey.”

“Do you know who you are without hockey?” You ask quietly.

“I’m starting to.” He takes your hand. “I’m your husband. I’m someone who wants to spend more time doing charity work, working with kids, making a difference off the ice. I’m someone who-” He pauses. “I’m someone who wants to be a dad.”

Your breath catches.

“If you want that too,” Sidney adds quickly. “I know we haven’t talked about timing. And I know your career is at its peak right now. I would never ask you to-”

“Do you want kids?” You interrupt. “Like, really want them? Not just because you think you should, but because you actually want to be a father?”

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation. “I really want kids. With you. I want to see what a tiny combination of us looks like. I want to teach them to skate. I want to watch you be a mom. I want that life. The life that comes after hockey.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, processing.

“Say something,” Sidney says, and he sounds nervous.

“I want kids too,” you say slowly. “I’ve always wanted kids. But I’m twenty-six. I’m in my prime. The PWHL is still building. I can’t just-”

“I know. And I’m not asking you to stop playing. I would never ask that.”

“Then what are you asking?”

Sidney shifts to face you fully. “I’m asking if we can start trying. Not necessarily right now, but soon. And when it happens, I’ll be retired. I’ll be home. I can be the primary caregiver. You can take whatever time you need, and then go back to playing. I’ll be there with the baby. Supporting you. Making sure you can have both.”

You stare at him. “You want to be a stay-at-home dad?”

“I want to be whatever we need me to be. If that’s staying home with our kid while you play hockey, then yes. Absolutely.”

“Most hockey wives give up their careers-”

“You’re not a hockey wife. You’re a hockey player. And a damn good one. Why should you have to give that up?”

“Because that’s how it works. The man plays, the woman-”

“Fuck how it works,” Sidney says firmly. “We make our own rules. We decide what our family looks like. And if that means I’m changing diapers while you’re scoring goals, then that’s what we do.”

Your eyes are burning. “You’ve really thought about this.”

“I’ve thought about nothing else for months.” He cups your face in his hands. “I love you. I love watching you play. I love seeing you happy. And I know that hockey makes you happy. I’m not going to take that away from you just because we want a family.”

“What if I can’t do both? What if I’m a terrible mom because I’m always traveling-”

“You won’t be. You’re going to be an amazing mom. And I’ll come with you when I can. We’ll figure it out.”

“What about your retirement? People are going to have opinions-”

“People always have opinions. I don’t care. I’ve given twenty years to hockey. I’m allowed to step away. To choose my family. To choose you.”

You’re crying now. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Yes, you do. You deserve everything.” He wipes your tears with his thumbs. “So what do you think? Do you want to try?”

“What about timing? If I get pregnant during the season-”

“Then we adjust. We can try to time it so you’d be due during the off-season. Or close to it. But also-” He hesitates. “We might not get pregnant right away. It could take months. Or longer. So I don’t want to wait too long just for perfect timing that might never come.”

“That’s fair.” You’re thinking now, doing the math. “If we start trying soon, I could potentially be due in the winter. That’s middle of the season, but-”

“But you’d have time to recover and come back for playoffs,” Sidney finishes. “Or the following season. Whatever you need.”

“And you’d really be okay with staying home? With giving up-”

“I’m not giving up anything. I’m gaining everything I want.” He leans his forehead against yours. “I want this. I want you, and hockey, and a family, and all of it. But only if you want it too.”

“I want it,” you whisper. “I’m scared, but I want it.”

“I’m scared too. That’s okay. We’ll be scared together.”

“When do you want to start trying?”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

You pull back to look at him. Really look at him. At the man who gave you his jacket in Milan. Who drove ninety minutes to watch you play. Who proposed in a restaurant full of flowers. Who married you overlooking Lake Garda.

Who’s now offering to put his own legendary career aside so you can keep yours.

“I’m ready now,” you say.

Sidney’s eyes darken. “Now?”

“Now.” You stand, pulling him up with you. “We should probably practice, right? Make sure we’re doing it correctly?”

“Very important to practice,” Sidney agrees, voice going low and rough. “Wouldn’t want to mess it up.”

“Exactly. So … bedroom?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he sweeps you up into his arms, making you yelp with surprise.

“Sidney!”

“I’m practicing,” he says, carrying you toward the stairs. “Being a good husband. Taking care of my wife.”

“By carrying me to bed?”

“By worshipping my wife,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

***

Your bedroom is dark, lit only by the city lights filtering through the windows. Sidney sets you down gently, and then his mouth is on yours — deep and claiming and full of promise.

“I love you,” he murmurs between kisses. “So much. You have no idea what this means to me.”

“Tell me,” you breathe.

He pulls back, hands cupping your face. “It means everything. You mean everything. The fact that you’re willing to do this with me, to build this life with me-”

You kiss him again, cutting off his words. “Less talking. More practicing.”

He grins against your mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

His hands slide under your shirt — his shirt, actually, stolen from his closet this morning — and pull it over your head. You’re bare underneath, and his eyes go dark and hungry.

“You’re not wearing anything under that.”

“I got comfortable. We’re home.”

“You’re going to kill me.” But he’s already touching you, hands reverent and sure, like he’s memorizing every curve.

You reach for his shirt, tugging it off. He helps, and then you’re both shirtless, skin against skin. The contact makes you both gasp.

“Bed,” you manage.

“Bed,” he agrees.

You climb onto the mattress, and Sidney follows, settling over you. His weight is perfect — grounding without crushing. His hands are everywhere — your waist, your hips, sliding up to cup your breasts.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, lowering his head to take one nipple into his mouth. “So fucking beautiful.”

Your back arches. “Sidney-”

“I know. I’ve got you.”

His mouth moves to your other breast while his hand slides down, popping the button on your jeans. You lift your hips, helping him slide them off along with your underwear. Now you’re completely bare, and he’s still half-dressed.

“Not fair,” you pant.

“What’s not fair?”

“You’re wearing too many clothes.”

He sits back on his heels, grinning, and strips off his sweatpants and boxers in one motion. And then he’s bare too, and you take a moment to appreciate him.

Even at forty, he’s beautiful. Strong and solid and yours.

“See something you like?” He asks, echoing that first night.

“Everything. I like everything.”

He settles back over you, and you can feel him, hard and ready, against your thigh. Your hand wraps around him, stroking slowly.

Sidney groans, hips jerking into your touch. “If you keep doing that, this is going to be over very fast.”

“We have all night.”

“True.” But he gently moves your hand away, pinning both your wrists above your head with one of his. “But right now, I want to take my time with you.”

His free hand slides between your legs, finding you wet and ready. He circles your clit with his thumb, making you gasp.

“Already so ready for me.”

“Always.”

“Good.” He slides one finger inside you, then another, curling them just right. “Because I plan to make this last.”

He works you with his fingers, his thumb steady on your clit, until you’re writhing beneath him. Every time you get close, he backs off slightly, keeping you on the edge.

“Sidney,” you gasp. “Please-”

“Please what?”

“You know what.”

“Tell me.”

“I need you. Inside me. Please.”

“Since you asked so nicely.” He releases your wrists, positioning himself at your entrance. “You ready?”

“So ready.”

He pushes in slowly, giving you time to adjust. The stretch is perfect, the fullness exactly what you need.

“Okay?” He asks, holding still.

“More than okay. Move. Please move.”

He does, pulling out and pushing back in with a slow, deep rhythm. His eyes are locked on yours, and the intimacy of it makes your chest tight.

“I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you too.” His rhythm picks up slightly. “So much. You’re—god, you’re everything.”

“Harder,” you gasp. “You can go harder.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

His hips snap forward, harder now, deeper. The new angle hits that spot inside you that makes you see stars.

“There,” you manage. “Right there—don’t stop-”

“I won’t. I’ve got you.” One of his hands slides between you, finding your clit again. “Come on. I want to feel you.”

The combination of his thrusts and his fingers is too much. You come with a cry, clenching around him, pleasure rolling through you in waves.

“That’s it,” Sidney groans. “God, you’re perfect. So perfect.”

He’s close too — you can tell by the way his rhythm falters, becomes less controlled. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

“Come for me,” you whisper. “I want to feel it.”

“I’m—fuck-”

He buries himself deep and comes with a groan, spilling inside you. His arms shake with the effort of holding himself up, and you pull him down, wanting his weight.

You stay like that for a long moment, both breathing hard, hearts pounding in sync.

“That was-” Sidney starts.

“Yeah.”

He carefully pulls out, rolling to the side and pulling you with him. You curl against his chest, his arm secure around your waist.

“Think it worked?” You ask, only half-joking.

“Maybe. But we should probably keep practicing. You know, to be sure.”

You laugh. “Very thorough of you.”

“I’m very dedicated to this project.”

“I’ve noticed.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Are you happy? About all of this?”

“I’m terrified,” you admit. “But yes. I’m happy. I want this life with you. The retirement, the baby, all of it.”

“Even if people judge? Even if there’s backlash?”

“Let them judge. We know what we’re doing. We know what we want.” You prop yourself up to look at him. “You’re really sure about retiring?”

“I’m sure. I’ve had an incredible career. But it’s time. Time to be more than just a hockey player. Time to be a husband. A father. Time to support you the way you’ve supported me.”

“I’m going to miss watching you play.”

“I’ll miss playing. But I won’t miss it more than I’ll love being home with our kid. Watching them grow. Being present for all of it.”

“You’re going to be such a good dad.”

“You’re going to be such a good mom.” He pulls you closer. “And if it doesn’t happen right away, that’s okay too. We have time. We’ll figure it out.”

“Together.”

“Together.”

You lie there in comfortable silence for a while, processing everything. The retirement. The baby plans. The future unfolding before you.

“Sidney?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For choosing me. For choosing us.”

“I’ll always choose you,” he says simply. “In every universe, in every lifetime, I’ll always choose you.”

Your eyes burn again. “That’s really romantic.”

“I have my moments.” He tilts your chin up, kissing you softly. “Ready for round two? You know, for practice purposes?”

“Already?”

“I’m very motivated.”

“Clearly.” But you’re already responding to his touch, your body coming alive again. “Okay. But this time I’m on top.”

“I am very okay with that.”

You climb over him, straddling his hips. He’s already hardening again, and you smile.

“Someone’s eager.”

“Someone wants to have a baby with his wife.”

“Well then.” You position yourself above him, sinking down slowly. “Let’s make a baby.”

***

Later, you’re tangled together in the sheets, exhausted and satisfied.

“We should probably eat something,” Sidney says.

“Food sounds good.”

“Pizza?”

“Always pizza.”

He reaches for his phone, ordering from your usual place. While he’s distracted, you grab your own phone, opening the calendar app.

“What are you doing?” Sidney asks, hanging up.

“Trying to figure out timing. If we got pregnant this month, I’d be due in-” You count. “December. That’s middle of the season.”

“We’ll make it work.”

“But if we waited until-”

“Hey.” Sidney takes the phone from you, setting it aside. “We just agreed we’re not going to stress about perfect timing. We’re going to try, and whatever happens, happens. Okay?”

“Okay.” You snuggle back into his side. “You’re right. I’m overthinking.”

“You always overthink. It’s one of your most endearing qualities.”

“Endearing?”

“Absolutely. Right up there with your competitive streak and your habit of stealing my hoodies.”

“They’re comfortable.”

“They look better on you anyway.”

You lay in bed until the doorbell rings. Sidney gets up to get the pizza, and you take a moment to look around the bedroom. Your bedroom. In your home. With your husband.

Who wants to retire from hockey to be a stay-at-home dad so you can keep playing.

Two years ago, you were broken and hurting. Now you’re here, planning a future that feels impossibly good.

Sidney returns with the pizza and plates. You eat in bed, talking about nothing and everything. About his retirement plans. About your goals for the playoffs. About baby names (way too early, but fun to discuss). About whether you’ll raise your kids in New York or Cole Harbor or somewhere else.

“Wherever you’re playing,” Sidney says. “That’s where we’ll be.”

“You’d really move for my career?”

“Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because you’re Sidney Crosby. You’ve been in Pittsburgh your whole career. That’s your city.”

“And now my city is wherever you are.” He takes your hand. “I’m serious. If you test the market, we move. If you get traded, we go. Your career matters just as much as mine did.”

“I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” He sets his plate aside, pulling you close again. “Now, I think we should do one more round of practice before bed. Really make sure we’re doing this right.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“Only with you.”

And he proceeds to prove it, thoroughly, for the rest of the night.

***

The next morning, you wake up to Sidney already awake, watching you with a soft expression.

“Morning,” you mumble.

“Morning, beautiful.”

“How long have you been awake?”

“A while. I was thinking.”

“About?”

“About how lucky I am. To have you. To be building this life with you.” He traces patterns on your shoulder. “I meant what I said last night. All of it. I’m ready for this next chapter.”

“So am I.” You press a kiss to his chest. “Scary as it is.”

“Scary is good. Means it matters.”

“It definitely matters.”

“Come on.” Sidney sits up. “Let’s get some breakfast. You need to keep your strength up. Lots more practice ahead of us.”

You laugh, following him out of bed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

“I really do.”

As you head downstairs, hand in hand, you think about the future. About playoffs starting soon. About Sidney’s last season. About the possibility of a baby.

It’s terrifying and exciting and perfect.

Just like everything else with Sidney.

And you can’t wait to see what comes next.

Sidney is in the stands. You find him immediately, and he’s on his feet, clapping, beaming with pride. He mouths I love you and you mouth it back.

When they call your name as playoff MVP, you can barely skate forward to accept the trophy. Your hands are shaking.

“This is for every girl who was told hockey wasn’t for her,” you say into the microphone, voice cracking. “For every player who fought for this league to exist. For my teammates who believed we could do this. And for my husband-” You look at Sidney. “-who supports my dreams as much as his own. Thank you.”

The arena erupts.

***

You’re throwing up again.

It’s the third morning in a row, and you can’t ignore it anymore. At first you thought it was food poisoning. Then the flu. But now-

“Are you okay?” Sidney calls from the bedroom.

“Fine!” You call back, voice rough. “Just give me a minute!”

You rinse your mouth, staring at yourself in the mirror. Your face is pale, eyes shadowed. And your breasts have been sore for days. And you’re exhausted despite getting plenty of sleep.

Oh.

You grab your phone, checking your calendar. Your period is late. Three weeks late.

“Sidney!” You call, voice higher than usual.

He appears in the bathroom doorway. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

“I need you to go to the pharmacy.”

“Okay. What do you need?”

You meet his eyes in the mirror. “A pregnancy test.”

Sidney goes very still. “You think-”

“I’m late. I’m nauseous. I’m tired. I think … I might be.”

“I’ll go right now.” He’s already moving, grabbing his wallet and keys. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

“Sidney-”

“Yeah?”

“Get multiple tests. Different brands.”

“Multiple tests. Got it.”

He’s back in eight minutes with a bag from CVS. You lock yourself in the bathroom while he paces outside.

The first test is positive.

So is the second.

And the third.

You open the bathroom door, holding all three tests. Sidney looks at them, then at you, then back at the tests.

“Is that-”

“I’m pregnant,” you whisper.

Sidney’s face breaks into the biggest smile you’ve ever seen. He pulls you into his arms, lifting you off the ground and spinning you.

“We’re having a baby,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “We’re actually having a baby.”

“We’re having a baby,” you repeat, and then you’re both crying and laughing and kissing.

***

“Congratulations,” Dr. Liu says, smiling at the ultrasound screen. “You’re about seven weeks along. Due date is approximately late February.”

Late February. Middle of the season.

“Everything looks good?” Sidney asks, holding your hand.

“Everything looks perfect. Strong heartbeat. Good positioning. You’re young and healthy. I don’t anticipate any complications.” Dr. Liu pauses. “But I do need to talk to you about your career.”

You tense. “What about it?”

“You’re a professional athlete. High-impact sport. And while exercise is good during pregnancy, hockey specifically poses some risks. The checking, the falls, the potential for injury-”

“I can’t play,” you finish quietly.

“I would strongly advise against it, yes. At least once you start showing, the risk becomes too high. Even before that, the nausea and fatigue might make it difficult.”

You look at Sidney. He squeezes your hand.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll step away.”

“There are other ways to stay involved,” Dr. Liu suggests. “And after the baby comes, depending on your recovery, you can return to playing.”

“How long after?”

“That depends on many factors. Your delivery, your healing, your body’s response. Some athletes are back in six months. Some take a year. There’s no right timeline.”

You nod, trying to absorb this.

Sidney speaks up. “And I’ll be home. Taking care of the baby. So she can focus on recovery and getting back to playing when she’s ready.”

Dr. Liu smiles. “That helps tremendously. Having support makes all the difference.”

***

The Sirens’ PR team has set up a press conference. You’re sitting behind a table with the team’s GM, trying not to throw up from nerves.

“Thank you all for coming,” the GM begins. “We have an announcement regarding Y/N Y/L/N’s status for the upcoming season.”

You lean forward to the microphone. “I’ll be taking a leave of absence from hockey for personal reasons. This was not an easy decision, but it’s the right one for me and my family right now. I’m grateful to the Sirens organization for their support, and I look forward to returning when the time is right.”

The questions come immediately.

“How long will you be gone?”

“I’m not sure yet. It’s open-ended.”

“Is this related to your health?”

“I’m perfectly healthy. This is a personal decision.”

“Does this have anything to do with Sidney Crosby’s retirement?”

You keep your face neutral. “My husband supports my career completely. This decision is mine and mine alone.”

“Will you return next season?”

“That’s the plan. But we’ll see how things develop.”

You don’t give them anything else. The speculation will be rampant, but you and Sidney agreed to wait until the second trimester to announce the pregnancy. Just to be safe.

***

Quinn is on the boat with Jack and Luke when he sees the news alert on his phone.

BREAKING: Y/N Y/L/N taking leave of absence from PWHL for personal reasons

He reads the article once. Then again.

“What the fuck?” He mutters.

“What?” Jack asks from the driver’s seat.

“Y/N is leaving hockey. Taking a leave of absence.”

Jack and Luke exchange a glance.

“For how long?” Luke asks carefully.

“They don’t say. Personal reasons. Open-ended.” Quinn is scrolling through Twitter now, reading reactions. “Everyone’s freaking out. Some people think she’s sick. Some think-” He stops.

“Think what?” Jack prompts.

“Some think Crosby is making her quit now that he’s retired. That he wants a traditional wife who stays home.”

Luke snorts. “That’s ridiculous. Crosby would never-”

“How do you know?” Quinn demands. “You don’t know what happens behind closed doors. Maybe he’s—maybe he convinced her that she should stop playing. That she should just be his wife.”

Jack and Luke look at each other again. They’re definitely communicating something silently.

“What?” Quinn snaps. “Why are you guys looking at each other like that?”

“We’re not-”

“Yes, you are. You’re doing that thing where you have a whole conversation without talking. What aren’t you telling me?”

“Quinn,” Luke says slowly. “Have you considered an obvious explanation for why she’d take a leave of absence that’s open-ended and for personal reasons?”

“She’s sick. Something’s wrong with her.”

“Or,” Jack says pointedly, “she’s pregnant.”

Quinn stares at them. “What?”

“Think about it. Sidney just retired. They’ve been married over a year. She’s taking time off for personal reasons that’s open-ended. It’s pretty obvious, dude.”

“She wouldn’t—she loves hockey. She wouldn’t give it up for a baby.”

“She’s not giving it up,” Luke corrects. “She’s taking a break. That’s different. Lots of athletes have kids and come back.”

“But-” Quinn is struggling to process this. “But she’s at the peak of her career. She just won the Walter Cup. Why would she-”

“Because she wants a family?” Jack suggests. “Because maybe hockey isn’t the only thing that matters to her anymore?”

“Sidney is probably going to be a stay-at-home dad,” Luke adds. “So she can come back to playing after the baby’s born. It actually makes sense. He retires, they have a kid, he takes care of it while she keeps playing.”

“That’s-” Quinn can’t finish the sentence. The image is too much. Sidney at home with your baby. You going back to hockey. The perfect modern family.

“You okay?” Jack asks.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I said I’m fine!” Quinn stands up abruptly, making the boat rock. “Can we just—can we not talk about this?”

“Quinn-”

“I don’t want to hear about Y/N being pregnant with Sidney Crosby’s baby, okay? I don’t want to think about them having this perfect life while I’m-” He stops.

“While you’re what?” Luke asks gently.

“While I’m alone,” Quinn finishes quietly. “While I’m still stuck on someone who’s completely moved on. Who’s building a whole family with someone else.”