just us
summary: it’s the summer of 2003. sidney realizes his feelings for his childhood best friend before he leaves for rimouski
pairing: sidney crosby x female reader
wc: 5.1k
It was a quiet, muggy August night in Cole Harbour, the sun was setting and the sky was streaks of coral and pink hues, the buzz of cicadas filled the silence between houses.
Sidney Crosby stood at the base of the oak tree in your backyard. A tree he had climbed hundreds of times to get your attention from your bedroom window. He glanced up toward the familiar second story window. It was open, like it always was in the summer evenings. A soft yellow light poured out of it, and the hum of some indie playlist drifted down to him.
You were up there. Maybe sitting cross legged on your bed like you always did, maybe scribbling in that journal you never let him read, maybe thinking about him, the way he couldn’t stop thinking about you.
It was getting harder to pretend.
You’d grown up together— through scraped elbows and failed math tests and late night pond skates. You knew him better than anyone else.
He picked up a small pebble and rolled it in his palm. He didn’t throw it, though. Not yet. There was a part of him that wanted to just stand there, rooted under that tree, watching the light spill out from your room like it was sacred.
Summer was ending. He was leaving soon. You were headed off to Dal.
So he tossed the pebble.
It tapped the window just light enough not to piss off your dad.
A few seconds passed before your head appeared through the open frame. You looked down, narrowed your eyes like you were trying to pretend you were annoyed. But the corners of your mouth twitched. “Sid,” you called. “If you scratch my window again, I swear to God—”
“You say that every time,” he grinned.
“And one of these days, I’ll mean it.”
“I need a goalie.” He says with a smile, tossing another pebble up and catching it midair like he had all the time in the world.
You raised a brow, arms crossed. “It’s late. Who’s playing hockey at this hour?”
He shrugs. “Me. Maybe you. Come down.”
When you were kids, you were fearless. Or at least, that’s how everyone saw you—diving in front of slapshots, chasing rebounds like your life depended on it, standing in the net without pads while Sidney Crosby wound up from halfway across the driveway. Parents used to wince. His mom once joked that you’d grow up with a dent in your shinbone shaped like his slapshot. But you never flinched. Because to you, playing goalie for Sid wasn’t just a game. It was yours. A ritual. Summer evenings, scraped knees, sweat-stuck shirts, and Sid’s laugh echoing off the pavement.
You would’ve stood there forever if it meant he’d keep looking at you like you were invincible.
But then time happened.
Sid got taller. Way taller. His shoulders filled out, his voice dropped, and his jawline could probably cut glass. He still looked at you like you were his person, but sometimes his gaze would linger a little longer, and you could feel something unspoken start to settle between you.
You stopped dressing like one of the boys. Not because anyone told you to—but because you wanted to. Wanted to feel pretty. Wanted him to notice.
And he did.
He never said anything, not out loud, but you caught it. The way his eyes would flick down when your shirt rode up during a game, or the way he’d go quiet when your cherry lip gloss caught the light. He wasn’t subtle—not with you.
You’d lean back on your elbows after a game, tired and breathless in the summer heat, and his eyes would rest on your collarbones just a second too long before he looked away like it burned.
And then there were the others.
The neighbourhood boys started making comments. Not about you directly at first—just about girls in general. About legs and low-cut shirts and what they’d do if they had five minutes alone with so-and-so behind the bleachers. You weren’t stupid. You heard it all.
Sid heard it too.
The first time someone made a comment about you, it was subtle. A joke. One of his teammates nudged him and said, “Your goalie’s growing up, huh? Damn, if she was mine…”
Sid punched him. Hard. Right in the shoulder. Told him to shut the hell up.
“Hey, don’t joke about Sid’s girl.” Another teammate laughed.
“She’s not my girl,” Sidney huffed, feeling something hot and messy climb into his throat. “She’s just my friend.”
But the words felt wrong the second they left his mouth.
His friend. Yeah. Sure. The same friend he looked for in every room. The one whose number he knew by heart, who could read him better than his own parents. The one whose lip gloss he could taste in the air before she even said a word. Who’d been his summer, every summer, since they were eight years old.
The guys laughed it off, turned their attention back to the rink, but Sid’s jaw stayed tight.
Because the thing was—he hated the way they talked about you. The way they looked at you now, like you were just another girl in shorts and a tank top. Like they hadn’t grown up watching you block every slapshot with nothing but a broken stick and guts. Like you weren’t you.
He didn’t know when it happened, when the line between my goalie and my girl started to blur. Maybe it was the first time you wore that stupid cherry lip gloss that made him forget what he was saying mid-sentence. Or when he saw some junior guy from school offer to carry your books and you smiled, polite but distant. That smile—the one that wasn’t for Sid.
You’d never smiled at him like that. And he didn’t know whether he wanted you to… or not.
“I don’t feel like playing tonight,” you said, your voice softer than usual, but heavy enough to pull him out of whatever thought he’d been stuck in.
“I’m leaving soon,” he said, not accusing, just honest. “Just thought we could get one last game in before I’m gone.”
You didn’t look at him when you answered. “Don’t make it sound like you’re dying.”
You said it like a joke, but it didn’t land. The tension in your chest was too tight, your throat too full. You weren’t mad. Not really. You were proud of him—so proud it hurt. You’d watched him chase this dream since he could barely hold a stick. You were there when he skated circles around kids twice his size, when scouts started showing up at games, when he whispered about the draft like it was some far-off galaxy he might never reach.
Now it was real. And he was leaving. For real.
Not for a weekend tournament or a training camp. This time, he was really going.
“Alright, we won’t play,” Sid said, and you could hear the disappointment under the easy tone. “Come down. We can sit by the dock.”
You hesitated at the window. The sky was streaked in pinks and purples now, the kind of sunset that felt like a painting, and the cicadas were still humming in the trees. You looked at him—standing there in that worn-out hoodie and beat-up sneakers, holding his stick loosely at his side like he couldn’t quite let go of it yet.
It would’ve been easier to say no. To climb back into bed, to turn your music up and pretend that nothing was changing.
But you never could say no to Sid. Not really.
So you climbed down from the oak tree, slow and quiet, and landed in the grass beside him. You didn’t say anything at first, just started walking toward the dock like you’d done a hundred times before—past the firepit, past the line of rocks you used to leap across like some made-up obstacle course when you were kids.
The boards of the dock creaked under your feet as you sat beside him, legs dangling over the water, the lake dark and glassy below.
You pulled your hoodie sleeves over your hands, and he let the silence sit for a minute before speaking.
“I’m scared,” he admitted, surprising you.
You turned to look at him.
“Not of hockey. Not of leaving. I’m scared of what it means if I go and everything’s different when I come back.”
You didn’t say anything right away. Just listened to the water lapping gently against the wood, the distant sound of a dog barking down the road, the weight of the words hanging between you like fog.
“It’s already different,” you said quietly.
He nodded, jaw tight. “I know.”
You looked at him then, really looked at him. His face was lit by the last remnants of golden light, his profile soft and familiar and impossibly grown-up all at once.
“I’m not going to ask you to stay,” you said. “Because you wouldn’t, and I wouldn’t let you. But I’m allowed to miss you, Sid.”
He turned to face you, eyes dark and honest. “I’ll miss you more.”
You gave him a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
A week later, you stood at the edge of his driveway, arms crossed against the morning chill, watching as he packed the last of his bags into the back of his parents’ van. Taylor was already in the backseat, headphones on, legs propped against a duffel bag. It was quiet, heavy with the kind of silence that comes when you know something is ending—at least for now.
Sid turned back one last time, eyes lingering on you like he was trying to memorize the way you looked in that moment. Like he didn’t want to forget. His dad whistled, tapping the side of the van, voice calling out, “Say your goodbyes, Sid. We’re rolling out.”
The knot in your stomach pulled tighter.
You didn’t cry. Not until after he was gone.
Sunday nights became something different after that. Sometimes you’d get a call—never promised, but you noticed the pattern. He’d ring you after checking in with his parents, speaking low so he wouldn’t wake his roommates. Just a soft “Hey,” and you’d curl into your bed with your heart in your throat, pretending things hadn’t changed.
About a month after he left, you got his first letter in the mail. Neat handwriting, a little smudged like he’d written it in a rush. Like maybe he couldn’t wait to talk to you in a way a phone call couldn’t touch.
Postmarked from Rimouski, Quebec
It’s late, and I should probably be asleep. Morning skate starts early and the guys already give me hell for looking half-dead on the ice. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you tonight.
Everything’s fast here. Faster than Cole Harbour, faster than I thought I was ready for. The drills are harder, the pressure’s heavier, and every time I step on the ice, I feel like I have to prove I belong here all over again.
But I’ve been doing okay. Better than okay, actually. Coach pulled me aside yesterday—said I was standing out. He smiled when he said it, that kind of rare, real smile like he actually meant it. I should’ve felt proud. I did. But the first thing I wanted to do was tell you.
I miss your laugh. The way you say my name when you’re annoyed but not really. I miss seeing you in that hoodie that’s still technically mine. And the cherry lip gloss. God, I miss that stupid lip gloss.
Tell the dock I said hi.
Always,
Sid
You read it three times.
You didn’t write him back.
Not because you didn’t care—God, you cared too much. His letter sat folded on your desk, worn soft at the edges from how many times you’d picked it up, read it, traced the handwriting like it might tell you what he couldn’t quite say.
He hadn’t said the words. Not exactly. And neither had you.
And maybe that’s what scared you the most.
So instead, you did nothing. Waited. Let the days pass and told yourself he was probably too busy to notice anyway. Told yourself it would be easier to pretend that things were still the same. That nothing had changed.
Until Friday.
You were in your dorm room at Dalhousie, halfway through folding your laundry when you heard a knock on the door—followed by giggles and footsteps from down the hall.
One of the girls you barely knew from your floor poked her head in, a teasing smile on her lips.
“Uh, hey—your boyfriend’s here.”
You blinked. “What?”
She grinned. “Big guy. Kinda ridiculously hot. Said he’s looking for his goalie?”
Your stomach dropped.
No. No way.
You shoved your laundry onto your bed and nearly tripped getting to the door. Your heart was pounding like it wanted out of your chest. You had no plan, no words, nothing prepared.
And there he was.
Sidney. Standing in the hallway like something out of a daydream.
Bag slung over his shoulder. Hockey hat barely hiding the way his hair curled at the edges. And those eyes—those same warm, familiar eyes—locked on you the second you stepped out.
He smiled, just barely. Nervous. Hopeful. “Hey.”
You stared at him. Speechless.
“I was in town for a few days,” he said, shifting on his feet. “Figured I’d surprise you. I didn’t mean to freak you out or anything, I just—”
You shook your head, your voice barely steady. “No. You didn’t. I just—I didn’t expect—”
Him. Here. In front of you. Looking like everything you’d missed and tried to push down since the day he left.
The hallway was suddenly too bright, too loud with the buzz of distant music and the occasional slam of a dorm door. But all you could focus on was him—his hoodie, the way his hands kept twitching like he didn’t know what to do with them, the look in his eyes.
“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” he admitted. “You didn’t answer my letter, and I thought maybe I said too much. Or not enough.”
You blinked. “Come in,” you said suddenly, pulling the door open wider. “You’re making the girls on this floor lose their minds.”
That got a half-smile from him. “Sorry.”
You stepped aside, and he walked in slowly, glancing around your dorm room like it was sacred ground. Like it held more answers than you did.
He dropped his bag on the floor and stood awkwardly near your desk, hands in his hoodie pocket. “You look different,” he said quietly.
“Different how?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Older. Like you belong here.”
You crossed your arms, trying not to let your heart fall out of your chest.
“And you?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Do you feel like you belong where you are?”
Sidney hesitated. His eyes dropped to the floor for a second before coming back to meet yours.
“On the ice? Yeah. But… off of it?” He shook his head slightly. “It’s loud. Fast. I’m always around people but never really with anyone, you know?”
You nodded. You did know.
He glanced around your room again, eyes lingering on the little details—the photos tacked above your desk, the throw blanket on your bed, the notebook half-open beside your computer. It was nothing special, but it was yours.
And for a moment, he looked like he wanted to memorize it all.
“I missed this,” he said. “Just being around you. Talking like we used to.”
“You could’ve called more,” you said, trying to keep the edge out of your voice.
He looked guilty. “I know. I wanted to. I just… I didn’t know how to talk to you sometimes. Not without feeling like I’d screw it all up.”
You stayed quiet.
Sid sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “When I left, I thought I had to push everything else aside. Focus. No distractions. But you… you weren’t a distraction. You were the only thing that ever made it all make sense.”
Your heart stuttered at his words.
The room suddenly felt too small, too quiet, like it was holding its breath right along with you.
You looked at him—really looked at him. The way his shoulders rose and fell with the weight of what he’d just said, the way his jaw clenched like he wasn’t sure if he should’ve kept that to himself. But his eyes didn’t waver.
“You mean that?” you asked, barely more than a whisper.
Sidney nodded once. “I always told myself hockey had to come first. That if I wanted to make it, there couldn’t be room for anything else. But then I’d think about you. About summers at the dock, and Sunday night phone calls, and the way it felt to just… be with you. And none of it made sense without you in it.”
Your throat tightened. You wanted to say something, anything—but it felt like every word you might say was stuck somewhere behind your ribs.
“You weren’t a distraction,” he said again, quieter now. “You were the calm.”
For a long moment, all you could do was stand there, the air between you thick with everything left unsaid for far too long.
It was like time folded in on itself—like you were back in your backyard, under the oak tree, with scraped knees and sunburnt cheeks… except now everything felt heavier. Realer. Like one wrong move would tip everything over.
Sid looked at you like he wanted to say more—but maybe he didn’t need to. Maybe this was the part where words finally gave out and something deeper took over.
You took a breath, your voice barely there. “What happens now?”
He stepped in, slowly, like giving you every chance to stop him. But you didn’t move. You couldn’t.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m tired of pretending it’s not real.”
“Okay,” you said softly, your lips curving just the tiniest bit. “Then don’t go yet.”
You didn’t know what would happen next when you said it—just that you couldn’t stand the thought of him walking away again. Not now. Not when everything felt so close to slipping out into the open.
Things felt like how they used to. Like when you were fifteen and he’d sneak into your room after long games or stormy nights. You’d watch old movies until you fell asleep, tangled in blankets and inside jokes. Back then, it was innocent. Easy.
Now, it wasn’t.
You were both lying on your sides, the narrow bed a little too small, the space between you a little too charged. You wore a big t-shirt that definitely used to be his—soft with wear, sleeves swallowing your hands, his name faintly cracked on the back. He hadn’t said anything when he saw you in it, but his eyes had lingered.
Sid stayed a safe distance away, hands tucked behind his head like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. But every once in a while, your legs would shift beneath the blankets and your foot would brush against his.
Every time it happened, it felt like a spark—quiet, electric, impossible to ignore.
Neither of you said anything.
You could feel his presence like gravity. Like if you moved even half an inch closer, you’d fall right into him. Your fingers itched to close the space, to trace the curve of his jaw, to say what you couldn’t bring yourself to speak out loud.
But instead, you just laid there in the dark, lit only by the soft glow of the streetlamp outside your window, your breaths slow and synced, hearts pounding in the silence.
He shifted slightly. You felt the mattress dip, the blanket pulled tighter.
“Still can’t sleep on my back without you kicking me,” he muttered.
You smiled, eyes still on the ceiling. “I’m not kicking. You’re just always in the way.”
Another pause. This one longer.
“I missed this,” he said finally. His voice was quiet. Honest. Like a secret.
“I missed you,” you whispered back.
The silence that followed was thick and fragile, like if one of you said the wrong thing, the whole moment would shatter.
But no one moved.
Not yet.
The silence wrapped around you both, warm and weighty, like a blanket too heavy to throw off. You could hear Sid breathing—slow, even, but not quite relaxed. Like he was trying too hard to seem unaffected.
You weren’t sure who moved first. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was both of you at the same time, drawn together by muscle memory and something that had been pulling at you for years.
Your fingers brushed under the blanket.
You both stilled.
Then—barely, almost accidentally—his pinky hooked around yours.
It was tentative. Shy, even. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.
Your heart fluttered against your ribs, and you didn’t pull away. You didn’t even breathe.
Slowly, your hand turned in the space between you until your palm was facing his. His shifted too. And then, his fingers slid into yours like they were meant to be there.
You let out a shaky breath.
Neither of you said a word. You didn’t need to.
The pressure of his hand in yours—warm, solid, careful—said it all. That he was still here. That he didn’t want to leave. That maybe this thing between you wasn’t just one-sided memories and what-ifs.
It was real.
Sid gave your hand the faintest squeeze, and when you squeezed back, you felt him exhale like he’d been holding that breath for years.
You didn’t fall asleep right away.
You just laid there in the quiet, hands tangled beneath the sheets, both pretending it wasn’t a big deal.
But it was.
The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the warmth.
It was early—just past sunrise, judging by the soft pink light filtering through the blinds—and your room was quiet, the kind of hush that only exists in those in-between hours where the world hasn’t fully woken up yet.
The second thing you noticed was him.
Sid was still asleep beside you, breathing steady, his face relaxed in a way you rarely saw. Somewhere in the night, the careful distance between you had disappeared. His arm was draped loosely around your waist, and your legs were tangled with his beneath the blankets. Your head was resting just beneath his chin, tucked into the curve of his shoulder like it belonged there.
And it felt… natural. Like this wasn’t the first time. Like your bodies had remembered something your minds were only just beginning to admit.
You tilted your head slightly, just enough to look at him.
He looked peaceful, younger somehow, like the weight he always carried—expectations, pressure, the whole future of his hockey career—had melted off in sleep. His hair was a mess, and your heart did something stupid at the sight of it. At the fact that he was here, in your bed, holding you like it was the most normal thing in the world.
You should’ve felt awkward. You didn’t.
Instead, you felt calm. Safe. Full of something that buzzed just under your skin.
You stayed there for a while, memorizing the way it felt to be wrapped up in him, like maybe if you stayed still enough, time would stop and this moment could stretch forever.
Eventually, he stirred. You felt him shift, his grip around you tightening just a little, like he was afraid you’d vanish.
Then his voice—raspy and low, still thick with sleep.
“You’re still here.”
You smiled into his shirt. “So are you.”
He pulled back just enough to look down at you, eyes heavy-lidded but clear, searching.
Neither of you said what you were both thinking.
Not yet.
But as his thumb brushed gently over the back of your hand, you knew—it was only a matter of time.
You both lingered in the quiet of the morning longer than you probably should’ve. But eventually, the real world started to creep back in—responsibilities, timelines, and the fact that Sid still had to visit his parents before heading back to Quebec.
He moved around your room slowly, folding his hoodie into his bag, stuffing the sleeves in like he didn’t really want it to fit. You sat on the edge of your bed, knees drawn to your chest, watching him in silence. There was something tender about the way he moved, like every motion was saying I’m not ready to leave yet.
He zipped his bag and slung it over his shoulder, pausing at your door.
“This part sucks,” he said quietly, glancing back at you.
You gave him a small smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “You’ll be back before I know it.”
“Yeah,” he nodded, but it felt like neither of you really believed it. Not the way you wanted to.
You walked with him down the hall, the silence between you thick with all the things you hadn’t said. And when you reached the door, it just… hung there. The moment. Heavy and still.
“I’ll call you,” he said, adjusting the strap on his shoulder.
You nodded. “You better.”
He didn’t move.
Neither did you.
Then his voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “Last night… wasn’t nothing, right?”
You shook your head slowly. “No. It wasn’t.”
Sid’s eyes searched yours—like he needed to be sure, like he didn’t want to make the wrong move. Your heart beat so loud you were sure he could hear it.
“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” he murmured.
Your breath caught. “Then do it.”
He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. But you didn’t. You tilted your chin up just slightly, eyes fluttering shut.
And when his lips finally touched yours—it wasn’t rushed, or desperate. It was soft. Certain. Like every moment between you, every summer night and almost-confession, had been leading to this.
He kissed you like a promise. And you kissed him back like you believed it.
When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, exhaling like he’d been holding that breath for years.
“See you soon?” he asked softly.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “See you soon.”
And then he turned, walked down the hall, and disappeared around the corner.
But this time, he wasn’t just leaving.
He was coming back to something.
To you.
Six months later
The city lights of Quebec glittered outside your hotel room window, casting a soft glow on the room. You were laying on the king bed when Sid walked into the room, the door clicking shut behind him as he tossed his bag to the side. His team had just wrapped up a practice, and despite how tired he looked, there was something about him that made your heart skip—something about the way he walked into a room like he belonged there, like you belonged there.
“You’re late,” you teased, looking up from your phone, a smile tugging at your lips.
He grinned, shrugging. “You knew what you were signing up for when you agreed to date a hockey player. Practices, travel, interviews. Sometimes I don’t even know what city I’m in.”
You laughed, pushing off the bed and walking toward him. “I’m just messing with you. I know you’ve got your schedule. But I miss you, Sid.”
His expression softened, and for a moment, the playful atmosphere between you two faded. Sid stepped closer, his hands brushing your shoulders before he cupped your face gently. He didn’t need to say anything—his eyes already said it all.
“I miss you too,” he whispered, his voice low and almost secretive, like he was revealing something precious. “But I’m glad you’re here. I hate being away from you. It’s never the same without you around.”
You rested your hands on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms. The last few months had been a whirlwind of letters, late-night calls, and stolen weekends whenever his schedule allowed it. But through it all, there had been a steady pulse between you two, a rhythm that felt so natural, like you were both exactly where you needed to be.
“I’m glad I’m here too,” you said, your voice soft. “I still don’t get how you manage all this. You’re traveling, training, playing… and yet, you still find time to be with me.”
He smiled, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “You make it easy. You make everything easier.” He hesitated for a beat, the words hanging in the air like they meant more than just this moment. “You’re the reason I can do it all, y’know?”
Your breath caught in your throat, the simplicity of the statement making your chest tighten. He looked at you like you were everything.
Before you could respond, he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. The familiar weight of his arms around you felt like home, like a place you could both just exist, without pressure, without rushing to the next thing.
“You’ve changed everything for me,” he murmured, his lips grazing your ear. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
You let out a soft breath, your fingers finding his. The world outside was still moving, the clock ticking on, but in that room, in that moment, everything felt still.
“I’m proud of you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “For everything you’ve done, everything you’re going to do.”
Sid pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “I couldn’t have done any of it without you. You’re the best thing I’ve got, y’know that?”
You laughed softly, the words warm and tender. “I’m just glad I’m the one you get to come home to after every game. Even when you’re tired and running on nothing but adrenaline.”
He smiled, leaning in for another kiss, this one deeper, slower. And for a moment, you lost yourself in it, in him. This was what it had all come down to. All the waiting, all the hesitation—it had led here. To you and him, together.
When the kiss finally broke, he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you tightly as he rested his chin on your head.
“I don’t want this to ever change,” he murmured.
“Neither do I,” you said, voice thick with emotion.
And for the first time, there was no uncertainty. There was no fear. Just Sid. Just you. And everything you’d been waiting for, unfolding in front of you.
