⋆ ˚｡⋆˚ems⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚

He's nearly sunken into the couch, layered underneath thick throw blankets and his daughter, her socked feet pressing into his hip.

A random movie is playing on the TV, bathing the room in a series of blues and purples. His daughter is a soft weight against him, a well-worn Minnesota shirt hanging off her shoulders, a splattering of signatures embedded into the fabric.

She's got one hand cradling her cheek as she sleeps up against Sam, his paws pressing up against her hair. The other hand is fisting a handful of a throw blanket underneath her chin, bundled up as a makeshift pillow. He's got the urge to take a photo of her, peaceful in sleep.

His phone buzzes once, then twice, on the coffee table. At first, he's content to leave it be. After all, it's nearly 11 P.M. on a Saturday night, in Pittsburgh, and it was well-known that he spent a good chunk of his free nights with his daughter. (They had spent the day at home, having an impromptu movie day. His daughter had shown him what seemed to be a million new clothes, excitedly chattering about the upcoming summer. It had been everything he needed before a playoff run.)

But, instead of stopping, his phone continued to buzz, nearly vibrating itself off the table.

Carefully, he grabs hold of his daughter's ankles, lifting her feet off his lap as he leans forward to grab his still buzzing phone, dropping them back down once he's got it in his hand. As he turns the screen on, he's immediately bombarded by a million notifications with Brad Marchand's name on every single one.

Brad Marchand (11:23): Hey, I'm going to assume you haven't seen this yet, and I hope your kiddo hasn't either.

Brad Marchand (11:23): https://twitter.com//2030094960507093254?s=20

Brad Marchand (11:24):https://twitter.com//crosby//20300949605001392?.a=20

Brad Marchand (11:25): Hold on, I'll send you a few more. I've already reached out to Mackinnon about it all. He's pretty active on Twitter. I think he'll do some good damage control.

He furrows his brows before clicking on the link, waiting for his browser to load.

It spins once, then twice, before the screen loads through, the familiar white background of Twitter filling his screen, and immediately, his screen is flooded. Photos upon photos of his own daughter fill the screen: her at the mall, at ballet class, in the box at games, scurrying down Pittsburgh's streets.

She's not looking at the camera in any of the blurry photos, more often than not, mid-scurry. They're all taken from a distance, slightly blurry, the pixels distorted from the zoom.

He clicked on one labeled Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre, 03:23, 11.12. He was so caught up in looking at the photo of his daughter through a window, mid-spin amongst her classmates, that he nearly missed the first response to the picture.

Nearly.

His eyes flickered down, then shoot open.

Underneath the original photo, a grossly edited photo of his daughter stared back up at him, nauseatingly realistic looking. If his daughter hadn't been right next to him, snoring her head off into a pillow, Sidney would've vomited if he saw the photos. If he had been on a roadie, he would've flown home, driven by nothing but the need to see his daughter breathing.

Even with her, half-sprawled on his lap, his fingers still wander to her tibial pulse point, feeling the soft thumping underneath his thumb as he stares at the photo. The fuzz of her Hello Kitty socks is warm against the exposed skin of his hip as he clicks onto the photo, nausea churning in his stomach.

Bloomed over his screen is a photoshopped image of his daughter, stuffed into a barrel; her skin is pale and blooming with darkened veins, sickly shades of green and blue decorating her screen. Her eyes, normally a dark brown that mirrors his, are blown wide and cloudy, her pupils a cloudy grey.

The longer he looks, the more obvious it becomes that it's photoshopped. Her freckles are missing, her nose isn't quite right, nor is the curl pattern of her hair. In the comments, someone is raving about how realistic it looks, and how the movie Megan is Missing had 'god plenty of screengrabs to use in edits'.

Nonetheless, he surges off the couch, ignoring the low noise of complaint before the snoring returns, her feet now tucked underneath the abandoned blankets.

He goes back to the other link, clicks, clicks once more, and is faced with the same setup: his daughter, or his daughter's body in this instance, lying on a rug with her head missing, splashes of red covering her body.

He recognizes this photo- it had been one Geno had posted for her birthday. In the original photo, she'd been cradling Sam in the crook of her arm, dressed like him for Halloween, her makeup smudged as he lapped licks all over her cheeks. In that photo, she had been wide-eyed and grinning, her mouth stained neon blue from a lollipop.

Hell, that's Sidney's rug underneath her, photoshopped all bloody. The same rug is right in front of his bed, a mere staircase away, unstained.

He clicks another: his daughter, photoshopped onto a stage, neck bent at an awkward angle. He recognizes the photo from his daughter's school's performance of Giselle, she had 'died' in the first act, crumpled onto the stage. In the original photo, there's the smallest uptick of a smile on her lips.

Another of her crumpled on a sidewalk, blood all around her body, crushed like a snail on concrete. That photo had been posted by the Penguin's Instagram page to announce the Little Penguin's chalk day. In the original photo, she's lying on top of a poorly drawn unicorn, grinning from ear to ear.

He clicks on another, and another, and another.

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By three in the morning, Sidney has puked twice.

Once, it was from the low boil of anger in his stomach, settling uneasily against his dinner. He had momentarily retreated to the kitchen to puke in the sink, unwilling to move too far from his still-sleeping daughter, keeping an eye on her from over the cabinet tops.

The second time had been from a particularly gruesome photo. It had been an edited photo that his mother had posted on Facebook; one of his daughter sitting in front of a fire, proudly showing off a well-toasted marshmallow. He didn't even want to think about what the edited photo looked like; the charred glimpse of his daughter was enough to send him back to the sink.

He's called a half-asleep Marchand back, called an angry, wide-awake Nate MacKinnon, sent an email to the PR department, and downloaded Twitter.

He's also embarrassingly moved his daughter into his bedroom, promptly locked all the windows and doors, and dragged in a kitchen chair. Now, he sits like a sentinel at the edge of the bed, still clasping her ankle. All he can do is watch the time slip by on the bedside clock.

He's seen every possible image of his daughter, photoshopped in some grotesque pose, attached to a simple photo of her through her everyday life. He's scrolled through hundreds of tweets condemning his baby girl to death, endless, nonsensical rants about how she was dragging the team down. (As if! His baby girl had been such a pillar in his career; Sidney's not even sure if he'd be able to continue chugging along if she died. In the event his daughter ever died, far before her time, when Sidney himself was still on Earth, the world would never see Sidney Crosby again. He'd spend his days tucked away in Halifax, roaming the halls of a too-empty lakehouse.)

His baby.

The same little girl who still slept tucked into his side, who enjoyed playing Sudoku of all games, and made elaborate yogurt bowls in the morning. The same girl who still had him braid her hair in the mornings, still slept in themed pajamas with a stuffed animal in the crook of her arm; the same one who called him Papa with undertones of a well-developed Canadian accent. The same little girl whom he had cradled in his arms all those years ago, still pink and crinkly from birth, with a head full of hair.

His daughter, whom he had raised since she was a little toothy baby.

Sidney's daughter. His daughter- his flesh, blood, and DNA.

His daughter, who, according to a small chunk of his own fans, deserved to die.

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By six, the PR department has gotten back in touch with him.

There's a drafted message sitting in his Twitter drafts, queued to post at nine, brimming with poorly contained anger, scathing, and demeaning. It's four paragraphs in length, neatly typed out and spaced, a condemnation of his own fans. It pairs nicely with the damage Nate has been kicking up on Twitter, accompanied by Marchy's Instagram stories of Sidney's daughter rolling around with his own daughters, with a short, scathing caption.

(From his spot on the chair, he can see his daughter's phone buzzing on her bedside table, the dimmed screen flashing.)

The panic has drifted from his body now, replaced by a burning anger. He's got a fistful of the comforter in his hands, nails digging into the soft fabric, knuckles white. The middle of his lower lip is bleeding, raw from where he's been biting down on it.

His daughter has barely moved. Her cheeks are still endearingly smushed into the pillows, drool pooling on her chin as she snores, her eyebrows twitching. He's moved from the chair to the bed, keeping one large hand on her curls, nails scraping against her scalp. He can't bring himself to be away from her any longer, not while she's been… condemned to death right under his nose.

It feels like he's failed somehow. How did he, as a father, miss this? Did she know about it? Had his daughter seen the seemingly endless images of her and felt like she couldn't tell him? Had she scrolled the same way he had, a morbid curiosity burning in her stomach as she continued to flick through the fake images? Did she sit in front of her mirror and cock her head- like she does whenever her pigtails are uneven, and imagine herself splattered on the concrete? As she walked down the sidewalks of Pittsburgh, flanked by her ballet friends, did she imagine a car slamming into her?

How had he missed the fact that people were stalking his daughter? How did he not notice the slew of photos of his daughter on the internet, unaware that the camera was pointed at her, capturing her everyday life? Or, had she known? Did she wake every morning knowing that somewhere in Pittsburgh, people were waiting for her, their computers loaded up with screen grabs of gory death scenes from movies, ready to photobash her into a corpse?

He feels like an outsider. Like a helpless bystander watching a slow-mo car crash, unable to do anything without the proper knowledge of what happened—

-her phone flashes again.

He's grabbing her phone before he can even think about it, thumb gliding over the numbers, 8778. It buzzes in his hands again, notifications popping up on the screen as it unlocks.

Floods of Twitter mentions fill her screen, numerous messages popping up before they're pushed down by more. There are a few other messages, three from Nate and two from Marchy, a handful of notifications from Instagram mentions, and a singular missed call from a spam number.

However, it's a text message that catches his eye:

emma: lmao, have u seen this one? absolutely wild! i'm pretty sure this one is from the walking dead lol, u look similar to their zombies.

Sidney clicks the link.

It's another picture of his daughter, grossly mutated, just barely identifiable. This time, it's a screengrab from one of his own interviews, his daughter curled into his stall, half-propped against the wall, sleeping.

At the time, she had been quietly snoring, just barely audible enough to be picked up by the microphones. Geno had been laughing in the background the entire time, bending over to prod at her cheeks as Sidney himself tried not to laugh, unable to properly answer one of the interviewer's questions, fumbling a response about the Avalanche.

When they had shuffled off, he had taken a photo of her, his chest bursting with fondness at the sight of her.

Now, he barely recognizes her.

In the new photo, her face is mashed in, obviously a layer from a zombie movie, as there are large bite marks scattered over the visible skin. The arm that had been tucked underneath her neck was gone, alongside one of her socked feet that had been hanging over the edge of his stall. She does, in fact, look like a zombie from The Walking Dead.

While it's not the most gruesome photo he's seen tonight, it still sends a massive shiver up his spine.

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By the time his daughter finally stirs awake, the PR-approved statement has been posted. He's not in the lineup for tomorrow’s open practice, nor is she expected to attend her ballet classes this week. Her phone has been stuffed away in Sidney's bedside table, completely shut off, hidden away from her eyes. When she gets it back, she'll note that her Twitter password and recovery email have been changed.

But that's all later.

Now, she groans, limbs stretching out as she stretches, twisting deeper into the sheets. He's moved from his chair to sit on the edge of the bed, a hand cupping her cheek, rubbing his thumb over the crease between her brows. She smiles up at him, eyes bleary and unfocused as she blinks away sleep, her eyes hooded.

“Go-oood Morning, Papa, Sam," sweetly, his daughter hiccups in the midst of her good mornings, stretching out a hand to pat Sam's head. His stomach plummets as her eyes flutter shut, muttering underneath her breath.

He's got half the mind to immediately launch into interrogative mode, to shake his daughter until he understands why she had hidden this from him; to understand why she hadn't come to him when the first photo of her fake mutilated body came across her screen.

Instead, he grabs her by the waist and maneuvers them until he's up against the headboard, her head lolling onto his shoulder, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He cradles her face in his hands, soaking in the sight of his breathing, lively daughter.

She's warm with life, cheeks flushed with still-pumping blood as she yawns, heavy huffs of breath pushing through her nose. She jerks back with wide eyes as her stomach rumbles with hunger, momentarily embarrassed by the loud noises. So unapologetically alive.

She opens her mouth, likely about to ask for breakfast, when he strikes.

"Emma sent you something interesting this morning."

His daughter stiffens, shoulders baring out; any previous laxity is gone, replaced by weariness. Ever so softly, she pushes against him, trying to withdraw from his grasp. But Sidney doesn't budge. He allows himself to grab onto her sides instead, taking her silence for the admission of guilt. She knows exactly what he’s talking about.

Her brows furrow together, slanting down, eyes darting around his face. Then, slowly, they slide over to where her phone had been sitting upon the bedside table, now gone. She blinks once, then twice, before promptly opening and closing her mouth.

They just blink at each other for a few minutes. As if sensing the tension, Sam sneezes before he rolls off the bed, his paws clicking against the hardwood as he retreats. His daughter huffs low, her shoulders drooping, blinking up at him with still-tired eyes.

“You, uh, weren't supposed to see that-"

"Were you going to tell me?"

She blinks at him, eyebrows raised as if she weren't expecting him to ask. She hesitates for the shortest of moments, uneased, "No."

No. No, Dad, I wasn't going to tell you people are following me through Pittsburgh and editing photos of me into corpses. No, Papa, I wasn't going to tell you that @SidCrosbLuvr1223 thinks I should jump off of PPG Arena because I'm obviously the reason the Penguins lost last week's game. No, Papa, I wasn't going to tell you that-

“I didn't want to worry you. It's, uh, just some photos. I didn't really think that it would be this big of an issue-"

"Because you didn't think!"

His voice comes out sharper than intended, bordering on a snap as she pulls back, anger dancing across her face. Before she can get another word out, he's barreling forwards, nearly frantic. They're both rearing up in the same anger, the same slant of their eyes, and clench of their jaw. If Sidney's teeth hadn't been knocked loose and replaced, he'd be in awe of the impressive size of her canines that once rivaled his.

“In what world would I not want to know that people are stalking you? I cannot fathom why you wouldn't tell me about this-"

"I didn't want to worry you before playoffs-"

"It's my job to worry about you! You're my child! I think I deserve to know whenever my child is in trouble, and I sure as hell deserve to know that she's getting death threats-"

"Would you just calm down, Jesus! It's not that deep-"

"I just saw a photo of you without your head! Marchand saw a photo of you in a barrel! What the hell do you think would've happened if I saw that on a roadie? Huh? What do you think I would've done if I were in Canada and saw a photo of you splattered on the concrete?"

"They're fake-"

"Goddamnit, that's not the point!"

Horrifyingly, Sidney realizes that his daughter is crying.

Despite the fact that her face is flushed in anger, her brows furrowed so low that they're nearly touching, jaw clenched tight enough to crack, she's crying. Tears brimmed in her waterline, clumping her lashes together, threatening to spill over. Her eyes have gone glossy; her usual dark eyes are glittery in the dimmed lighting of the bedside lamps. Her throat bobs with unmurmured cries, periodically swallowing back cries.

A single sniffle dissipates his anger as quickly as it came, swallowed by a chest-deep agony, a mournful noise bullying its way out of his throat. With a single tug, he pulls her down, pressing his chin to the top of her head. Slowly, he feels the coolness of tears soaking his shirt, periodically muffled sniffles filling the air.

He breathes once, then twice, scratching at her scalp with one of his hands, the other rubbing her back in circular, soothing motions. Just like when she was a small baby, when his hand used to span the entirety of her back.

"Sweetpea, you're my world. You're my baby, you understand me? It is never your responsibility to worry about my feelings; you have to tell me these things so I can keep you safe," his daughter makes a low, mournful noise, dragging her head across his shoulder in disagreement.

"No, no. Listen to me, you're my baby, alright? It's my job to keep you safe, to keep you happy and healthy. If anything- fuck, if anything happened to you, I don't know what I'd do. What if those people got violent? What if they followed you one day and just took you? If they can kill you over a screen, surely they can do it in person-"

Even more horrifyingly, Sidney realizes he's crying. They're not the same thick sobs that his daughter is muffling; instead, they silently slip down his face, trailing to the corners of his mouth as he struggles to swallow around the sudden thickness of his throat.

He buries his face into her unbrushed curls, inhaling the scent of her shampoo as he rocks them back and forth, holding her as closely as possible.

"I'm not mad at you, Sweetpea. I'm mad at this situation. I'm mad that people think they have the right to say these things about you, that they make those god-awful photos and don't feel shame about it. I'm so mad, I don't think I can even think straight. Just- just know that I'm not mad at you."

All he gets is a muffled noise of agreement and a slow nod. Perhaps it had been harsh of him to yell, maybe, if he wasn't so scared, he would've handled it better, gentler. But, even with her pressed in his arms, sniffling against the skin of his collarbone, flashes of the photos still paint themselves across his brain.

She doesn't say anything when he holds her a little tighter.

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“Alright, c'mon, baby. I think Sam is about to eat our trash if we don't get him breakfast soon."

The joke falls slightly flat as she rolls sideways out of his arms, flopping back onto the bed with a muted sniffle. Still, she cracks a small smile. It'll be tense for a few hours, as it always is after they fight. They'll both be balanced on a quick trigger with their anger, their emotions frayed raw.

But they'll both orbit one another.

She'll follow him to the rooms throughout their house, unwilling to let anger separate them during the scant hours of free time they have together during the season. He'll track her whenever she steps away for something, quietly keeping watch as she skitters throughout the halls.

At some point, the anger will morph into something softer, something rawer. But, until then, they'll just rotate around one another. So, Sidney watches as she shuffles into the bathroom, the sound of the shower starting up filling the room as steam creeps through the door.

He doesn't move from the bed.

It's only when the shower shuts off that he moves, stepping over that godforsaken rug as he heads to the kitchen.

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Now that Sidney knows, the tweets have mostly stopped.

He doesn't know if it was from the response or the sheer amount of cussing and kicking Nate had been doing on Twitter, alongside Marchy's posts. Perhaps it was the photo carousel that Geno had posted of him with Sidney's daughter. Geno had captioned it, Маленький Пингвин — я её люблю. Little Penguin, I love her.

(The first photo was taken at the 2007 NHL Awards when Sidney himself was just nineteen, Geno had been twenty, and his daughter had been just a few months old. In said photo, Geno's got her propped up against his chest, both of them smiling at the camera. In the background, Sidney's just barely visible on stage, giving a speech after one of his three trophies that night.)

Every now and then, a particularly cruel comment will flit across his feed, and with the secrecy of having a secret account- a fanpage about the Fairy Penguin breed (which he thought was delightfully ironic, since they were named Little Penguins) he was free to kick up a small, scathing storm of words.

Some nights, he still wakes up in a cold sweat, thinking of bashed-in faces and dulled eyes. When he's at home, sometimes he'll lie awake to the sound of her breathing, pressing his thumb against her pulse point. If he's away, he'll stare at their synced watches, watching as her heart rate steadily coasts through the night.

He can’t bring himself to look at barrels, or watch zombie movies, without his stomach churning. A small, obsessive part of him thrums rapidly whenever she stays behind on a roadie, however many hours away. He can’t help the slow mounting panic that fills his stomach whenever he thinks about it too hard, that somewhere in Pittsburgh, in the same city his daughter slept, someone had wanted her dead.

(Going to the cops had been a useless affair. It had enraged him so badly he had to step out at certain points, forced to listen to them tell him that there was nothing they could do. Keep an eye on her, they said, come back if it gets worse. He didn’t think it could get much worse than stalking and corpse-ifying his daughter.)

Even now, as she sleeps in the bed next to his, in a fancy hotel in the middle of New York, he can’t help but watch the slight rising and falling of the blankets. Maybe, someday, the paranoia will leave him. But for now, he keeps an eye out for signs of life.

It's well past two in the morning, and the majority of the team is asleep, except for a few of their younger players. The seat next to him is empty, per usual.

His phone vibrates once, then twice, his screen lighting up. Immediately, his wallpaper flashes up, a photo from when his daughter was far younger, her chubby cheeks smushed in his gloves as he holds her propped up in the Stanley Cup, grinning ear to ear.

A flash of fondness sparks in his chest at the photo; his daughter, barely two at that point, was dressed in a Penguin costume, Little Penguin embroidered across her belly.

He barely has time to reminisce on the photo before another text pops up, immediately catching his attention.

Sweetpea: papaim codl Sweetpea: do u think penguins get cold in the ice Sweepea: can u start apenuhin foundation to get warm jacket Sweetpea: i am penguin like u

He rubs at his eyes, trying to blink away sleep, furrowing his brows as he reads through his daughter's texts. He clicks the notification, waiting as the screen loads, swaths of text following. The first thing he notes is that the location underneath her contact photo is not Sewickley, PA, but Shadyside, PA, staring back at him.

What? Kiddo, are you alright?

Sweetpea: whenucome hoem? Sweetpea: i am stck in bathtub papa, stuck liek a duck Sweetpea: imsis u papa i dont know how to make chicken spagethhi

Baby, why are you up so late? Why aren't you home? What are you doing?

Sweetpea: m partying papa Sweetpea: duh Sweetpea: idunnohow to get hoe tho Sweetpea: ticket goen??

Call me. Hello? Pick up the phone, Sweetpea. I'm not mad. Please call me.

Sweetpea: cant i'm not supposed to tell papa Sweetpea: shh

Fuck. Okay.

Can you send me your location? I want to come party with you, Sweetpea.

Sweetpea: yessiree Sweetpea: [Attachment: 8778 Shadyside Ave] Sweetpea: canubrign socks? my small toe is codl

Of course. I love you.

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The link leads him to Google Maps, a beat-down, painfully obvious frat house filling the screen, Sigma Chi brazenly painted across a sheet-banner. His stomach plummets to his feet as he clicks on the little arrows guiding him closer to the house, broken red solo cups overflowing from a spilled trash can, folding chairs scattered across the unmowed grass.

He calls his daughter again. Straight to voicemail. Again.

Against his better judgment, he searches Sigma Chi Pittsburgh. His fingers shake as he types it out, worry settling deep into his chest. Later, he'll be angry. As soon as he hits search, his screen is filled with different news articles.

Sigma Chi added to list of fraternities under investigation following secretive rush nights…[Read More]

Pittsburgh Sigma Chi suspended for hazing…[Read More]

Pitt's Sigma Chi under investigation for sexual assault allegations against fraternity president...[Read More]

There's nothing Sidney can do on a plane, an hour away from Pittsburgh. Absolutely nothing.

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Sidney's the first one off the plane and out of the parking garage. Before he can even blink, he's barreling down I-376, pushing 90 in a 65.

As he floods the gas pedal, he can't help but think about the day his Sweetpea was born.

She had been born right after midnight, at twelve-twenty-four to be exact. Slipping out after two hours of labor, worringly quiet with an umbilical cord wrapped around her neck.

She had been whisked away from him before he had been able to catch a glimpse of her face, wrapped up in a muslin wrap. He remembers the words resuscitation before his mind momentarily blanks out; the stretch of time where his baby hadn't been breathing is nothing but a blur of terror.

He remembers that at twelve-twenty-six, the bustle had calmed down as the shrieking cries began. The nurses had cooed at her, even as she shrieked their heads off, high-pitched and red in the face.

He can remember how her mother had lain in bed, exhausted from labor, smiling at both of them. He remembers the nurse coming back with his daughter in her arms, a small, sweet bundle of pink muslin. His daughter, his sweet, darling daughter, had been a comforting weight in his arms- all six pounds and seven ounces of her, still wrinkly and pink.

By the time Sidney had been allowed to bring her home, her mother had already surrendered full custody to him. From there, it had just been him and his girl. She had slept like a perfectly content baby that first night, snuggled up against his chest as he sat awake all night, Sam sleeping at the foot of their bed.

Now, she's in some shitty fraternity house, drunk out of her mind, and cold instead of sleeping in their nicely protected house, warm and cozy, waiting for him to come back home.

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The first thing Sidney notes is the low, almost-sticky throbbing of the music.

The subwoofers are nearly vibrating out of their cabinets, some trashy, wanna-be rapper's homemade songs blaring through the house. It's alarmingly loud for three-fourty-five in the morning and even more worringly packed to the brim, on a Sunday night of all things.

A man who is not college-aged pushes past him, drinks sloshing in his arms as he stumbles, taking a minute to clamp Sidney on the shoulder. His breath is rank, the nauseating smell of onions- assumedly from the now-cooling cheeseburgers on a grill, and fruity alcohol. He's barely able to stand on his own two feet as he stumbles away, smashing into a group of younger boys with a cheer, the drinks being handed out.

He can see beards. Fully grown, badly maintained, grown adult beards meshing alongside the college shirts and sports tops, the occasional school shirt passing by him. He can see baby cheeks and patchy facial hair, acne-riddled faces, and braces, standing alongside men who look like they work 9-5s, with badly tattooed sleeves and neon construction company shirts.

If Sidney wasn't worried sick, nausea steadily mounting in his stomach, he'd be enraged. But, as he continues to push through the swaths of heavily intoxicated teens and grown adults, he can't feel anything but fear. His phone buzzes once, then twice, then a few more times.

Sweetpea: imin a shjower, imcold Sweetpea: iCan seecolors andsahpes Sweetpea: ithink I'm going tocomit all over myseld Sweetpea: :(((

Shjower. Shower.

Thankfully, the house is limited to the lower story, with the stairs blocked off with numerous miscellaneous items.

He pushes his way to the edges of the room, pushing through groups of lip-locked teens, rattling doorknobs as he goes. He opens a cleaning closet, a coat closet, two bedrooms, and another door that leads back to the kitchen before he finally opens the bathroom door.

Immediately, the stench of vomit hits him.

His daughter is slumped at the bottom of a bathtub, blearily blinking up at him, head cocked to the side. The water faucet is running water over an open drain, and steam is traveling through the room. There's vomit all over her chest, a sickly color of brown, splattered all the way down her dress. Her legs are dangling over the edge, limp against the porcelain.

She's got on a pair of leopard-print tights underneath her dress, torn to all hell and ripped in various places, with a pair of small black heels hanging off her feet. He doesn't recognize the dress she's wearing, though it may be more like a small scrap of fabric. He ignores the way his stomach plummets down to his feet, nausea running rampant, his head going dizzy at the sight of his sixteen-year-old.

She's glassy-eyed and half-slumped against the wall, her cheeks flushed from alcohol, curls dampened with sweat. She doesn't even notice that he's stepped into the room, staring off into space with heavily hooded eyes.

He's about to move forward, already pulling off his coat, when someone bumps into him, a heavy hand slapping him on his back. The stench of alcohol, cheap beer to be specific, reaches him. A fully grown man peeks over his shoulder, grinning ear to ear. His teeth are yellow, mountains of plaque built up.

"Yo, you have fun, man! That chick looks like a real tiger!"

Sidney blinks once, then twice. His vision swims as disgust blooms in his stomach, and before he can even think about what he's doing, he's whirling around.

Unlike the anger that mounts in his stomach on the ice, pushing him over the precipice and eventually leading him to abandon his gloves as he swings at opposing players, this anger is devastating in its weight. His fists are flying before he can even think about the repercussions of fighting at a party full of barely legal- and non-legal college kids- and grown adults, landing hit after hit on the man. The soft give of skin underneath his fists isn't soothing, nor is it assuring as he hits the man, once, twice, then thrice before the man slumps down.

No one blinks an eye. Even as blood gushed from the man's mouth, Sidney definitely knocked a few teeth loose. The man groans lowly, blinking rapidly before he stands up, blinks at him, then continues his descent down the hallway.

He throws one last lazy wink at Sidney before he disappears around a corner, loudly hollering something.

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No one stops him as he carries his daughter back through the party.

Maybe it's the fact he's two hundred something pounds, trucking through masses of scrawny college kids and beer-bellied middle-aged men, splatters of blood against his knuckles.

Or, perhaps, it's the rage that has slowly dragged itself out of the depths of his stomach, presenting itself on his face.

Sidney doesn't stop to think about it. He's got his daughter tucked in the curvature of his arms, her head nuzzled up against his pec as she blearily blinks up at him, hidden within his jacket. The tear tracks on her cheeks have dried up, yet she still sniffles repeatedly, hiccuping lowly on cries. Her eyes are fuzzy, pupils blown wide, eyes wandering away from his face.

She's quietly mouthing something against his chest, still hiccuping as he rocks her gently, keeping one hand pressed up against her feverish cheeks. He's practically got her entire body covered, his jacket hanging down to her knees, her legs tucked closely underneath his arms. He keeps her as close as humanly possible, faintly reminiscent of when she was a baby.

He doesn't even care that there's vomit smeared on his shirt, transferring from her chin to him, not while she's fisting pitiful handfuls of his game-day button-up, hiccuping on her cries. He can catch the words "Papa" and "Cold," her accent far thicker than her adopted American one.

It'd be endearing if she weren't drunk.

He can smell the alcohol on her, burning his nose as he pushes through the door, hurriedly walking to his still-running car. She smells heavily of lemonade and sweat, overridden by the smell of sick, small hints of the perfume he had bought for her creeping out. If he couldn't smell it, the way her eyes are dilated, and glossy would be a dead giveaway, slow as they creep over his face, her blinks heavy and delayed.

She's both warm and cold, shivering in his hold, but her face is flushed bright red, and the capillaries in her cheeks have burst from vomiting. (She's always been an intensive vomiter, much like him.) But, even as he lays her down in the backseat of his car, he remembers to tug a pair of socks from his carry-on.

She's angrily murmuring now, her hiccups louder as she struggles to sit up against his hand against her shoulder, trying to squirm herself closer, "Shh, it's okay, Sweetpea. Your toes are cold, no? Let me help."

He gets an angry hurrumph in response, her frantic shifting momentarily pausing as he undoes the straps of her heels, tossing them behind the driver's seat, then pauses to rotate her ankles. There's a blister on the side of her right foot, steadily leaking blood and staining her tights. He cusses lowly to himself before hooking a finger through one of the many holes and ripping it higher until her entire foot peeks out, the tights torn all the way up to her ankle. She flinches at the noise, nose scrunching up in displeasure as he looks closer at it, momentarily frozen.

Now, Sidney knew ballet was a particularly rough hobby. All too often, he'd come home to bloodied foot bandages in the trash, his daughter padding around their home in heavily bandaged feet, hobbling awkwardly on a misstretched ankle. Occasionally, she'd wake up with sharp, shooting pains in her calves, stirring him awake as she rolled them out in the wee hours of the morning. She'd climb back into bed with tears on her cheek, squishing herself right back into a ball.

Once, he had made her promise to tell him if things got too rough. Seemingly, she has forgotten that promise. His daughter, his baby, was mottled black and blue up to her calves. Her feet are littered with open blisters, angry shades of red mixed with the bruising, and her ankles are swollen.

Truly, Sidney doesn't think he can handle any more revelations for the night. Instead of asking her about the bruising, he chokes back the torrent of questions as she murmurs again, sliding the too-big socks over her feet. She makes a low, pleased noise before she pulls her legs up, curling into a small, vomit-covered ball.

He moves her to the passenger seat before she can fall asleep, cradling her jaw in his left hand as she smiles up at him, face streaked with tears, snot, and vomit.

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He tries not to cry as he drives home, this time, going painfully slow.

His darling girl is asleep in the passenger side, burrowed underneath his suit jacket in a ball, drooling against the leather console. Her snores are heavy and wet-sounding, occasionally punctuated by hiccups. He's got one hand wrapped around her jawline, rubbing his thumb over her cheek, his pinky occasionally straying to dip down and prod against her pulse point.

It feels like just yesterday she had been tottering through their kitchen in Cole Harbour, unsteady as she was learning to walk, ramming into his calves with her walker, babbling for Papa! Papa! throughout the house.

How did he miss his daughter growing so quickly? At what point did the sparkly tulle skirts and striped tights blur into leopard print tights and party dresses? When did the faint line between bottled pink lemonade blur into hard lemonade with vodka?

When, when, when.

He's not naive enough to believe that this was his kid's first venture into partying. Although he wishes he were.

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By the time he's got her tucked in bed, freshly bathed, no longer reeking of sweat, alcohol, and vomit, the clock is blinking five-fifteen A.M.

She's absolutely dead weight curled into his side, open-mouth snoring, limbs heavy in his hold. Tonight, she doesn't curl up in his hip like normal and chatter on about her day until sleep slowly drags her down. There's no murmur of Goodnight, Papa, I love you.

He thinks that she had been trying to say it as he propped her up on the bathroom counter and brushed her teeth, murmuring around the foamy toothpaste, before she had gone silent, somehow falling asleep as he was mid-brush.

Instead, there's nothing but the sound of her hiccuping snores and the whirring of the ceiling fan.

Tomorrow, he'll be angry.

Tonight, he allows himself to sink into his worry, the burst of terror that had exploded through his veins once the location link had come through: the sight of his daughter, covered in vomit and half-dead to the world in a shitty, stained bathtub flashing across his mind. The tone of the man's voice as he purred in Sidney's ear, telling him to have fun. He'll think about the warm feeling of blood against his knuckles.

He'll try not to think about what could've happened. What could've happened if the team had chosen to stay in a hotel instead of flying back, if the man had found Sidney's daughter before he had-

His daughter rolls, slowly but steadily, shifting off her back and rolling straight into his chest. She murmurs something low and indiscernible as her head thumps against his pec, eyes darting around from underneath her eyelids.

Tonight, he'll stay awake until the sunlight creeps in through the window, only falling asleep at ten-thirty.

For now, he wants to keep his eyes on his daughter.

Sidney can't help the yawn that cracks his jaw as he stretches, blinking away sleep, slowly looking around the room. There's a heavy weight at his hip, a soft cheek pressed into his chest, drool crusted on his stomach. Off to the side, a well-loved, once-weighted stuffed dog lies on its belly, somehow shoved away from his daughter's grasp during the night.

His daughter is still sleeping, thick brown ringlets strewn everywhere, frizzy from rolling around the bed. He can't fight the urge to sink his hand into those thick curls, twirling a few of them around his fingers as he stares down at her sleep-slacken face. Her eyes twitch every few seconds, lashes fluttering across her cheeks. She’s tan from the days spent lounging in the yard underneath Pittsburgh’s sun, thick clusters of freckles splattered across her cheeks.

Fondly, he can see the remnants of a temporary tattoo on her cheek, the familiar yellow of the Penguins logo visible. It had been a home game last night, a well-won 5-2 against Buffalo. She had been in the family box with the WAGs, cheering her head off, and somehow, she had even managed to get her hands on a penguin hat, whose yellow beak covering most of her forehead. She had been an absolute spitfire at the game, still full of her pre-teen brashness.

She's at her softest while she's asleep. Unbothered and unburdened by life, drifting throughout her dreams with no responsibilities. This is also when Sidney is at his softest, curled underneath a thick comforter with his daughter, hidden away from the outside world. There's no reporter lurking around the corner, waiting to snap a photo of the most private aspect of his life, no masses of fans watching his every movement. Here, he doesn't have to be a captain; instead, he's just a father.

It's just Sidney and his daughter, safe and happy within their home, curled together like otters. She's not a particularly heavy weight against his hip, nuzzled up against him like she's a baby once more, arms wrapped tightly around his chest, snoozing away. It reminds him of the summers spent in Nova Scotia, when she’s exhausted herself by swimming in the lake, retreating back to his arms. Or the occasional time she'd accompany him on a jet ski, lulled into a state of drowsiness from the lull of the water underneath them.

If it were any other day during the season, he'd be unwrangling his daughter from his hips before shuffling off to the bathroom to prepare himself for morning practice. He'd do his hair while listening to her snores, fondly watching her legs twitch as if she were running in her dream. She’d be snoring away like a train, completely unbothered by the noise of his routine.

He'd finish his morning routine before waking her, peeling her drool-slickened cheek off the sheets, combing a heavy hand over her curls. She'd be delightfully sleepy, big brown eyes half-shut as he pressed a kiss to her temple, as she fought to stay awake. She'd murmur something low and half-legible into his cheek as she butted their heads together, still clinging to the remnants of her dreams.

Slowly, she'd follow him through his routine, trailing behind him as he moved around the house, dragging a blanket around her shoulders. She'd be more akin to a ghost in the earlier hours of the morning, a passing ship behind him as she quietly padded through the halls. Neither of them would talk as he flowed through his routine, content to share in the few moments they could share before their commitments pulled them apart.

Just before he'd leave, she would bestow a kiss on his cheek with a toothy grin. He'd pretend not to laugh as she raced her way back up to his bedroom, thrumming with excitement at the idea of going back to bed.

Foolishly, when they were both younger, he thought leaving her would get easier. That maybe, as he left her in the arms of the WAGs, or the occasional babysitter, the naval deep feeling of sadness would go away. Maybe he'd be able to walk away from her and her murmurs of Papa without getting his heart crushed to a million pieces. But it never, ever did.

In fact, even twelve years later, it still yanked and gnawed at his heartstrings.

But that was their normal routine during the season. On the days he was able to wake in Pittsburgh, she’d crawl into his bed at some point in the night, still young enough to find cuddling acceptable before he’d wake up. If it were an away game, she'd travel with some of the WAGs to whichever arena they were in, somehow always tracing her steps back to his hotel room.

But today was one of the rare days during the season when he didn't have any morning commitments in Pittsburgh. There was no morning practice waiting for him, no appointments or meetings for any of his foundations, no team-bonding activities awaiting his arrival.

So, he's content to turn his cheek to the rays and slip back into sleep, pulling his daughter closer.

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The next time he wakes up, his daughter is also awake. She’s moved from his hip to the crook of his arm, pressing their cheeks together. She’s still sleepy, sluggishly blinking up against his cheek, lashes brushing up against his skin. She smiles at him when he looks back at her, lips twisting into a lopsided grin.

“G’morning, Papa.”

Her accent is endearingly thick in the morning, thickened from the summers she's spent in Cole Harbour, talking with her grandparents and neighbors. Her R's are thick and rolled, slurred through a yawn. He can't help but grin back, rubbing a thumb across her cheek, smoothing down her unruly eyebrows, "Good morning, sweetpea. Did you sleep well?"

She nods, eyes drooping as she shifts, ever so slightly stretching her limbs. She clicks her tongue once, then twice, before slumping back down, hiding her face once more. Arm waving in the air as she pads around the sheets, searching for her once-abandoned stuffed animal.

"Mhm, mhm."

She’s always quiet in the mornings, taking a good half-hour to pull herself together, often silent and sluggish until she’s gotten herself dressed and fed. It’s never failed to make something warm uncoil in his chest as she spends the first hour of the day curled up close to him. Sometimes, she'll just sit in the living room like a statue, unmoving as she blinks at the TV.

Selfishly, Sidney hopes she never grows out of it. He loves having the stretch of time she gives him, where she’s still warmed from the comforter, unbothered by the outside world. The faint stretch of time where she allows herself to be a child, uncaring about whether she's acting childish or embarrassing.

In the mornings, there’s no need for either of them to worry.

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She's still in her pajamas when they reunite in the kitchen.

They're a pair of pinstriped penguin-themed ones, the logo embroidered on the chest pocket. The ends of her pants drag ever so slightly over her slippers as she shuffles through, still blearily blinking. The stuffed dog has been left behind; in its place, she clutches a mug with #1 Dad written in blue, bold lettering. He can see the edge of a Christmas-themed hot chocolate pack peeking over the rim, one of the many single-use packs Nate had gotten her as a gift. This time, it's Santa S'mores flavor- whatever that means.

He can't help but grin at the sight of her as she yawns, standing still in the doorway as he flips the pancakes. The Keurig is already spitting out the last of its coffee, soon to be replaced with hot chocolate. She's still silent as she drifts around the kitchen, her slippers flopping against the floor as she walks, a steady clop clop clop. As she passes behind him, she butts her head between his shoulder blades, muttering lowly to herself.

They both work in silence, the pancakes bubbling as he flips them, the soft sizzle of the eggs alongside the hiss of the Keurig settling into his chest, domesticity curling deep into his gut. Sometimes, he wishes every morning were like this, slow and sweet.

He knows that tomorrow they'll be back to the push-and-pull of his schedule. On the days he's home, he'll be able to catch small glimpses of her own life, bustling with activities and friends. He'll catch small glimpses of her ballet bag thrown onto the floor, a new costume spilling out of the bag. Sometimes, she'll leave her homeschooling work on the table, her half-print, half-cursive writing neatly done. On nights he comes home late, she'll be curled up in her own bed, deep in sleep. Occasionally, he'll drift around the room, illuminated by strings of soft yellow light and the occasional lamp, and allow himself to be ever so slightly nosy. He'll soak in the small glimpses of her life until the off-season returns.

He knows he'll have to wait until the season is over to root himself back into her day-to-day life, that once they're back home in Canada, they'll be entwined together once more. They'll spend their days squirreled away in Cole Harbour, surrounded by nothing but their family and the lake. She'll bustle around the lakeside, well-tanned from her days in the sun, running around the shore with Sam nipping at her heels. He'll be able to spend entire, uninterrupted days with his daughter, rather than small snatches of time.

But for now, he's content to continue making pancakes.