sincerely yours

“Some guy from The Athletic,” you say, scrolling. “Oh, it gets better. ‘While his point production remains high’ — you’re literally leading the team in points, by the way — ‘one can’t help but notice the inevitable decline. His skating has slowed, his once-dominant faceoff percentage has dropped to merely excellent, and he’s showing his age in ways that would be concerning for any player approaching the end of their career.’”

“I’m having one of the best seasons of my life,” Sidney says, genuinely baffled.

“Oh, he mentions that,” you assure him. “Right here: ‘Despite putting up numbers that would be impressive for any player, the question remains: how much longer can Crosby’s aging body sustain this level of play?’”

Sidney makes a face. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Wait, there’s more,” you continue gleefully. “‘The veteran center, who will turn 40 next August, is undoubtedly in the final chapter of his storied career. While he continues to produce at an elite level — a testament to his hockey IQ compensating for diminished physical abilities-’”

“Diminished physical abilities?” Sidney interrupts, sounding offended now.

“‘-it’s clear that Father Time is undefeated. How much longer can Crosby stave off the inevitable decline? This season may very well be his last hurrah, a final desperate attempt to prove he can still compete with younger, faster, more dynamic players.’”

You look up from your phone to find Sidney staring at you with an expression somewhere between disbelief and annoyance.

“Did he just call me old and washed up while simultaneously admitting I’m having a career year?” He asks.

“Basically, yes,” you confirm. “He also uses the phrase ‘one foot in the grave’ in the next paragraph.”

“I’m thirty-nine, not ninety,” Sidney says.

“I know that,” you say, trying not to smile. “But apparently you’re ancient and decrepit and barely hanging on.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little bit,” you admit. “I mean, you did grunt when you bent down to tie your shoes this morning.”

“Everyone grunts when they tie their shoes,” he protests.

“And you went to bed at nine-thirty last night.”

“We had an early practice!”

“And you asked me to pass you the remote yesterday because it was ‘too far away.’”

“It was on the other side of the couch!”

You’re fully grinning now. “I’m just saying, maybe The Athletic has a point. You are getting up there in years. Practically geriatric by hockey standards.”

Sidney sets down the fork he’s holding very deliberately. “Geriatric.”

“Ancient,” you agree, stirring the sauce. “A relic. Basically a museum piece.”

“I’m top 10 in the league in points,” he reminds you.

“For your age group,” you tease. “Very impressive for someone so old. I’m proud of you for keeping up with the youngsters.”

“I’m not that old,” he says, moving toward you.

“Sure, grandpa,” you say sweetly. “Do you need help reaching anything? Should I put a chair in the shower in case you get tired?”

“You’re asking for it,” he warns.

“Asking for what?” you ask innocently. “Asking you to prove you’re not a decrepit old man who’s desperately clinging to relevance? I would never.”

He’s behind you now, his hands bracketing you against the stove. “Turn off the sauce.”

“What? Why?”

“Because dinner’s going to be late,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “And I need to remind you exactly what this old man can do.”

Heat that has nothing to do with the stove floods through you. “The pasta’s almost done,” you try weakly.

“It can wait,” he says. “Turn it off.”

You reach over and turn off both burners, your heart already racing.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against your ear, and you shiver. “Now, let’s see. How did you put it? Geriatric? Museum piece?”

“I was joking,” you say, but your voice is breathless.

“Were you?” He spins you around to face him, lifting you easily onto the kitchen island. “Because it sounded like you were questioning whether I can still keep up.”

“I would never question your abilities,” you say, but you can’t quite keep the teasing lilt out of your voice.

“Liar,” he says, stepping between your legs. “You just called me a relic. Suggested I need a shower chair.”

“You’re right, that was unfair,” you agree solemnly. “Shower chairs are for people in their nineties. You’re not quite there yet.”

His hands slide up your thighs, pushing up your dress. “You’re really committed to this bit, aren’t you?”

“I’m just concerned about your health,” you say innocently. “At your age, you should be careful not to overexert yourself. Maybe we should have a quiet night in. I could make you some tea. Get you a blanket. Put on Jeopardy.”

“I’m going to make you eat those words,” he promises.

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a guarantee,” he says, and kisses you hard.

You melt into it immediately, wrapping your legs around his waist, your hands fisting in his shirt. He’s kissing you like he has something to prove, all intensity and possession, and you’re very much here for it.

“Still think I’m old?” He asks against your mouth.

“Ancient,” you gasp, just to see what he’ll do.

What he does is lift you off the island like you weigh nothing, walking the three steps to press you against the refrigerator, his hips pinning you in place.

“Ancient,” he repeats, his hand sliding up to wrap lightly around your throat — not squeezing, just holding, possessive. “Ancient men can’t do this?”

He rolls his hips against you and you moan, your head falling back against the stainless steel.

“That’s what I thought,” he says smugly. “What else did the article say? Diminished physical abilities?”

“You’re, ah, you’re really taking this personally,” you manage.

“Damn right I am,” he says. “Some asshole writes that I’m washed up on the same day my girlfriend calls me geriatric. I’m feeling motivated to prove a point.”

“What point is that?” You ask, even though you know exactly what point he’s making.

“That I’m not even close to done,” he says. “On the ice or off it.”

He carries you back to the island, setting you down and immediately reaching for the hem of your dress.

“Off,” he commands.

You lift your arms and he pulls it over your head in one smooth motion, leaving you in just your underwear on the kitchen island.

“Much better,” he says, his eyes darkening as they track over you. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?”

“Do what?” You ask breathlessly.

“Have you right here,” he says, his hands sliding up your sides. “On the counter where I can see every inch of you. Where I can make you fall apart and watch it happen.”

“That’s very specific,” you manage.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about it,” he says. “Every time you’re in this kitchen, cooking, talking, just existing — I think about bending you over this island and making you scream my name.”

The words send heat straight through you. “Then what’s stopping you?”

“Nothing,” he says, and there’s a predatory edge to his smile now. “Not a damn thing.”

He hooks his fingers in your underwear and pulls them down, tossing them somewhere behind him. Then he’s pushing your legs apart, spreading you open on the counter, and you’re suddenly very aware of how exposed you are.

“Sidney-”

“Let me look at you,” he says, his voice rough. “So fucking pretty. So ready for me already.”

His fingers find you, sliding through wetness, and you gasp.

“This is for me?” He asks, circling your clit with devastating precision. “All this just from a little teasing?”

“You know exactly what you do to me,” you accuse.

“I do,” he agrees. “Just like you know exactly what you do to me. Calling me old. Questioning my stamina. You knew this would happen.”

“Maybe,” you admit.

“Definitely,” he corrects. He adds a finger, then two, and you arch against his hand. “You wanted to wind me up. Get me worked up. Well, congratulations. It worked.”

“Good,” you gasp.

“Good,” he echoes. “Now you get to deal with the consequences.”

He works you efficiently, knowing exactly where to touch, exactly how much pressure, building you up fast. You’re already close, wound tight from the anticipation, and he knows it.

“You’re going to come for me,” he says matter-of-factly. “Right here on this counter. And then I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk. Until you can’t remember any of those cute little jokes about me being old. Sound good?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, daddy, please-”

“That’s better,” he praises. “Much more respectful.”

His thumb finds your clit and you’re gone, coming with a broken cry, your hands scrambling for purchase on the granite counter. He works you through it, not stopping until you’re trembling and oversensitive.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, withdrawing his hand. “But we’re not done.”

“We’re not?”

“Not even close,” he says. He’s unbuttoning his jeans, pushing them down, and then he’s there, right at your entrance. “I’m going to prove to you exactly how much stamina this old man has.”

“Sidney-”

“What’s wrong?” he asks, pushing in just slightly, just enough to make you gasp. “Changed your mind about all those geriatric jokes?”

“No,” you lie, just to see what he’ll do.

“No?” He pulls back. “Still think I’m ancient and washed up?”

“Maybe,” you say, even though your body is screaming at you to stop teasing and just let him continue.

“Okay,” he says, and pulls out completely. “Then I guess we’re done here.”

“What? No-”

“No?” He raises his eyebrows. “But I’m so old and decrepit. Surely you don’t want to overexert me.”

“Sidney,” you whine, reaching for him.

“Say you were wrong,” he says. “Say I’m not old.”

“You’re not old,” you concede.

“Say you take it all back,” he continues. “The geriatric comments. The museum piece. All of it.”

“I take it back,” you say desperately. “All of it. You’re not old. You’re perfect. Please-”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me,” you beg. “Please, daddy, I need it-”

“Since you asked so nicely,” he says, and thrusts in fully, making you cry out.

The angle is perfect, deep and intense, and you’re so sensitized from the first orgasm that everything feels like too much and not enough at the same time.

“This what you wanted?” He asks, setting a demanding pace. “This old man fucking you on the kitchen counter?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, oh god-”

“Good,” he says. “Because I’m not stopping until you can’t remember any of those jokes. Until the only thing you can remember is my name.”

It’s not an idle threat. He’s relentless, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, the other sliding between your bodies to find your clit again.

“Too much,” you gasp. “I can’t-”

“You can,” he insists. “And you will. Come on, baby. Give me another one.”

“I just—I already-”

“I know,” he says. “And you’re going to do it again. Because you’re my good girl and you can take whatever I give you. Can’t you?”

“Yes,” you whimper. “Yes, daddy-”

“That’s right,” he praises, his fingers working faster. “Show me. Show me what a good girl you are.”

The second orgasm hits you like a freight train, unexpected and overwhelming. You actually scream, your nails scratching against the granite, your whole body going taut.

“Fuck, yes,” Sidney groans, his rhythm faltering. “Just like that, baby. So perfect. So good for me.”

You’re still shaking when he pulls out, and you make a sound of protest.

“Not done yet,” he reminds you. “Turn around. Hands on the counter.”

You scramble to obey on shaky legs, bracing yourself against the island. He’s behind you immediately, one hand between your shoulder blades, pressing you down.

“Stay just like that,” he instructs. “Let me see you.”

You can feel him looking, the weight of his gaze on your exposed body, and it should be embarrassing but instead it’s incredibly hot.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, and then he’s pushing back in, the new angle somehow even deeper.

You moan, your arms already shaking from holding yourself up.

“You okay?” he asks, stilling.

“Yes,” you manage. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he says, and starts moving again.

This angle is devastating. He’s hitting something inside you that makes your toes curl, makes your mind go blank, makes you forget every coherent thought except yes and more and please.

“Still think I’m old?” He asks, punctuating the question with a particularly deep thrust.

“No,” you gasp. “No, you’re—god, you’re perfect-”

“What was that article about?” He continues conversationally, like he’s not currently fucking you into incoherence. “Something about diminished physical abilities?”

“They were wrong,” you moan. “So wrong-”

“And you?” He prompts. “What about all your cute jokes?”

“Wrong,” you repeat. “I was wrong. You’re not old. You’re not—ah, you’re incredible-”

“That’s better,” he says, one hand sliding around to find your clit again. “Much better.”

“I can’t,” you protest weakly. “I can’t come again-”

“Yes you can,” he says with complete confidence. “One more. For me.”

“Sidney-”

“Daddy,” he corrects. “And you’re going to come one more time. Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you whimper, because what else can you say when his fingers are doing that and his cock is hitting that spot and everything is too much and perfect and-

The third orgasm is almost painful in its intensity. You collapse forward onto your forearms, your legs giving out, only Sidney’s hands on your hips keeping you upright.

“That’s it,” he groans. “Fuck, that’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

His rhythm goes erratic and then he’s following you over, coming with your name on his lips, his whole body going taut before he catches himself on the counter, careful not to crush you.

For a long moment, there’s just breathing. Heavy, labored, satisfied breathing.

“Okay,” you finally say into the silence. “Point made. You’re not old.”

He laughs breathlessly, carefully pulling out and turning you around. “Was there ever any doubt?”

“Maybe a little,” you tease, then immediately amend when he raises an eyebrow. “Kidding. Totally kidding. You’re clearly in excellent shape for a man of your advanced years.”

“You’re incorrigible,” he says, but he’s smiling.

“You love it,” you remind him.

“I really do,” he admits, pulling you in for a softer kiss. “Even when you’re being a brat about my age.”

“I wasn’t being a brat,” you protest. “I was just-”

You try to step away from the counter and your legs immediately buckle.

Sidney catches you before you can fall, his arm around your waist. “Careful.”

“My legs don’t work,” you say, genuinely surprised.

“No,” he agrees, looking far too pleased with himself. “They don’t. Wonder why that is.”

“You’re so smug right now,” you accuse.

“I have reason to be,” he says. “I just fucked my girlfriend so thoroughly she can’t walk. That’s not bad for an old man.”

“You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Never,” he confirms cheerfully. He bends and scoops you up, one arm under your knees, the other around your back. “Come on. Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.”

“The pasta,” you remember weakly.

“Can wait,” he says, carrying you toward the bedroom. “You, on the other hand, need to lie down before you fall down.”

“This is your fault,” you tell him.

“I know,” he says, completely unrepentant. “I’m very proud of my work.”

He sets you carefully on the bed and you immediately sprawl out, boneless.

“I’m never teasing you about your age again,” you declare.

“Yes you will,” he says, lying down next to you.

“You’re right, I will,” you admit. “But next time I’ll remember what happens when I do.”

“Good,” he says, pulling you against his chest. “That’s the goal. Pavlovian conditioning. You make old jokes, I make you unable to walk.”

“That’s not how it works,” you point out.

“Close enough,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I just got thoroughly fucked on my kitchen counter,” you say honestly. “Which, for the record, was incredible.”

“Good,” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “That was the intention.”

“Mission accomplished,” you assure him. “Though I do think we need to address the real issue here.”

“Which is?”

“That article was genuinely ridiculous,” you say. “You’re having one of the best seasons of your career and they’re acting like you’re on your deathbed.”

“Sports media,” he sighs. “They’ve been predicting my decline for years. At this point it’s just noise.”

“Does it bother you?” You ask.

“Not really,” he says. “I let my play speak for itself. They can write whatever they want.”

“You’re very zen about it,” you observe.

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” he says. “Plus, I have other things to focus on.”

“Like what?”

“Like making sure my girlfriend knows I’m not actually old and decrepit,” he says, squeezing you closer.

“Message received,” you assure him. “Loud and clear. You are a virile, athletic specimen in the prime of your life.”

“Better,” he says, satisfied. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I know,” you agree, tilting your head up to kiss him. “I’m very lucky. Not every ancient, geriatric, decrepit old man would put up with me.”

“You’re pushing it,” he warns, but he’s smiling.

“What are you going to do about it?” You challenge. “Fuck me until I can’t walk again?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he says. “I’m supposed to be conserving my energy. You know, because I’m so old.”

“Right,” you say solemnly. “Wouldn’t want you to throw out your back or anything.”

“That’s it,” he says, rolling you onto your back. “You asked for it.”

“Sidney!” You squeal, laughing. “I can’t! My legs don’t work!”

“Then I guess you’ll just have to lie there and take it,” he says, and the look in his eyes makes your breath catch.

“You’re insatiable,” you accuse.

“I’m motivated,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

“Motivated to prove you’re not old,” you say.

“Motivated to make you stop talking,” he counters. “Which, as we’ve established, I’m very good at.”

He’s kissing down your neck, your collarbone, your stomach, and you realize with a mix of anticipation and disbelief that he’s serious.

“We should eat dinner,” you try weakly.

“Later,” he says against your hip. “Much later.”

And as his mouth finds you and your back arches off the bed, you think that maybe teasing Sidney Crosby about his age is actually the best decision you’ve ever made.

The thing about dating Sidney Crosby is that sports media can be incredibly rude.

But the thing about Sidney Crosby is that he has very effective ways of proving them wrong.