grace

Sept. 2009; There were exactly three things you knew about the Pittsburgh Penguins before stepping through the employee entrance at Mellon Arena.

First, they had won the Stanley Cup three months earlier.

Second, your father had called every member of your family to announce that his daughter would be "working with Sidney Crosby," despite repeated explanations that you would be working under the athletic trainers; not with anyone in particular.

Third, you absolutely refused to embarrass yourself by acting starstruck. Professionalism first, always. Your doctoral advisor had drilled it into every sports medicine student before clinical placements began.

The athletes are patients; not celebrities, not role models, not childhood heroes. Patients. It didn't matter whether they were a middle school volleyball player recovering from an ankle sprain or one of the best hockey players on the planet, the standard of care never changed.

That mantra repeated itself in your head as you adjusted the strap of your backpack and followed the signs toward the medical offices.

The arena was quieter than you'd imagined. You'd expected something louder, somehow, more dramatic. Instead, it smelled faintly of fresh ice, coffee, athletic tape, and disinfectant.

People walked with purpose; equipment managers pushed overloaded carts down concrete hallways, someone wheeled a rack of freshly sharpened skates past you, a coach disappeared around a corner carrying a clipboard.

Nobody seemed particularly interested in the newest doctoral student trying very hard not to look lost.

A man in black athletic gear emerged from one of the offices and offered a warm smile, "You must be our student."

You nodded immediately, "Yes, sir."

He laughed, "Let's not start with 'sir.' Mike's fine." He introduced himself as one of the assistant athletic trainers before leading you through what felt like a maze beneath the arena.

The training room was larger than expected; treatment tables lined one wall, hydrotherapy tubs occupied another.

Shelves were stocked with braces, wraps, resistance bands, ultrasound equipment, and enough rolls of white athletic tape to supply a small hospital. Mike turns to you, watching as you take it all in. "This'll be home for a while."

You couldn't stop smiling, "It's perfect." You say, completely in awe.

He shrugs, "It won't stay this clean." Mike grinned knowingly, "Give it twenty minutes."

He wasn't exaggerating. Practice hadn't even officially started before players wandered in one by one; some stretched, some joked loudly, someone immediately stole another player's towel, a pair of defensemen argued about golf. One player raided the snack cabinet with the confidence of someone who'd been told to stop several hundred times before.

The room transformed from a spotless clinic to organized chaos almost instantly. You stayed close to one of the veteran trainers, observing more than speaking.

Your responsibilities would increase gradually; today was mostly introductions, tape jobs, documentation. Learning routines. Remembering names.

Which turned out to be much harder than anticipated. Every other person seemed named Chris, Kris, or Craig.

Around mid-morning, while you organized resistance bands by color after someone had mixed them together, the room became subtly quieter. Not silent, but different.

Nobody announced his arrival, nobody had to. The captain walked in carrying his stick over one shoulder. Sidney Crosby. Television hadn't prepared you for how normal he looked. Not larger than life, not intimidating; just young.

His practice jersey was damp around the collar, his hair stuck up in every direction beneath where his helmet had been. There was a tiny scrape across one knuckle.

He greeted nearly everyone by name before disappearing toward one of the treatment tables.

Mike leaned over. "Don't worry, the first time everyone meets Sid, they either freeze or stare."

"I wasn't staring." You defend immediately, much to Mike's entertainment.

He huffs out a laugh, "Sure."

You busied yourself with inventory; clipboard, pens, elastic wraps. Anything except looking in Sidney Crosby's direction again.

Five minutes later, however, the universe decides it no longer likes that plan. "Excuse me?"

You turned, Sidney stood beside one of the cabinets, looking genuinely apologetic for interrupting, "Sorry."

"No, you're okay." You shake your head quickly, standing up straighter.

"I, uh, " He glanced toward the shelves, "I can't remember where we keep the extra foam rollers."

You looked at the cabinet behind him, "They're," You stepped around him, "...right here."

He blinks, "Oh." he says, nodding dumbly.

He scratched the back of his neck, "Right." he offers a small smile, "My fault."

"No worries."

He picked one up before heading toward another treatment table. Mike looked over from across the room and raised one eyebrow.

You shrugged. What?

Ten minutes later, the same voice, "Sorry." You looked up again; Sidney, again.

"Do you happen to know if anyone's seen my water bottle?"

You blinked, "The blue one?"

He nods, "...Yeah." You pointed toward the stationary bike, "It's sitting over there."

He followed your pointed finger with his eyes before he nods, "Oh, Thanks."

Mike was openly smirking now, only humming as you shoot him a confused look.

He shook his head, "I'll tell you later."

By lunch, you had helped tape wrists, restocked supplies, documented treatment notes, and survived your first morning. Not bad.

As everyone filtered toward the cafeteria, you stayed behind to finish sanitizing equipment. The room had finally become quiet again.

You hummed absentmindedly while wiping down one of the treatment tables.

"You missed a spot." Sidney stood in the doorway.

You flinch, turning around with a quiet yelp before relaxing upon seeing him, "Holy, you scared me."

"Sorry." He looked genuinely guilty, frowning slightly.

There was a beat of comfortable silence. He glanced toward the coffee machine, "Is it always this quiet after practice?"

You look genuinely confused, "I've been here exactly four hours."

He nods, "Right," smiling to himself, "Forgot."

You tilted your head, "You forgot?" He looked around the room, "Feels like you've been here longer." He says honestly. Something about the comment landed softly; not flirtatious, not overly friendly. Just honest.

You smile slightly, "I'll take that as a compliment." He beams, nodding, as if you had said exactly what he was hoping for, "It was."

Another silence, still not awkward, but comfortably quiet for how chaos filled your day had been. Eventually he nodded toward your stack of paperwork, "Good first day?"

You shrug,"So far."

He chuckled, "They'll make you memorize everyone's tape preferences."

"They already started."

"Oof." He winces, "I've watched grown men become irrational because someone wrapped their ankle slightly differently."

You hum, "I believe it."

"You should." He nodded seriously, but he can't fight his own smile as he looks at you.

Over the next two weeks, you settled into a rhythm of morning practices, rehab sessions, treatment notes, and endless laundry. Not including coffee, but there was always coffee. Somewhere along the way, Sidney developed a habit.

Every day, usually once, sometimes three or four times.

He'd wander into the training room with what sounded like a legitimate reason. Need athletic tape, forgot a resistance band, looking for the massage gun, needed to ask Mike something, wanted to know if anyone had seen his gloves.

Half the time, whatever he was looking for was already in his hands, or sitting directly beside him, or exactly where it had been every single day.

The first few times, you assumed he was absent-minded.

By the second week, however, you weren't so sure. Because every visit somehow ended the same way; five minutes of conversation.

Nothing important. Movies, music, books, whether Pittsburgh weather was always this unpredictable. Whether ketchup belonged on scrambled eggs. (It absolutely does not, for anyone asking.)

Then he'd leave until the next excuse.

Mike finally cornered you while reorganizing supplies, "So, you gonna ask him?"

"Ask who?" You question. He stared, you stared back, "Sid." He says, looking at you with a certain, duh, look in his eyes.

Your eyes narrow, like you're trying to see where he's going with this, "What about him?"

"Whether he actually needs anything."

You frowned, "I think he usually does."

Mike laughed loud enough that another trainer looked over, "Oh, sweetheart. He hasn't needed a foam roller in eleven years."

The realization hit you sometime during the third week. Sidney walked into the training room holding a roll of athletic tape.

He looked around, then looked at you. "...Have you seen..." He glanced down, rolling the tape over in his hand, "Never mind."

You looked at the tape, then back at him, then back at the tape. He followed your gaze, nodding, "...Right."

A tiny grin tugged at your mouth, "You lose something?"

He simply shakes his head, "No."

"You sure?" You continue, pushing, as if offering him the chance to change his answer.

"Positive."

"So... you came in here because?" He thought about it for exactly two seconds before blurting, "I forgot."

"You forgot why you walked into the room?" You crossed your arms, "I don't believe you."

He nods, smiling shyly, "I know."

The confession came so easily that you blinked, "You know?"

He rubbed the back of his neck, "Sometimes I just end up in here."

You narrow your eyes, smiling amusedly, "You accidentally walk into the training room?"

"Apparently." He nods in confirmation, like his story tracks. You couldn't help smiling, he noticed, and smiled back. Neither of you said anything for a few seconds, until you break the silence, "You know..."

You picked up another roll of tape from the counter and held it out, "I think you're running dangerously low."

His grin widened, "I thought so too." He accepted it with exaggerated seriousness, "You probably saved my life."

You hum in fake thoughtfulness, "I deserve employee of the month." He hums in agreement, nodding seriously, "I'll put in a recommendation." He adds.

"You have that authority?" You tease, tilting your head.

He clicks his tongue, "No." He lingered another moment before heading toward the door, halfway out, he glanced back over his shoulder, "I'll probably forget something tomorrow."

You nod, biting back another smile, "I'll be ready." He only blinks, "Forgetting things?" He questions.

"For you." You correct.

His smile softened into something almost surprised, then he disappeared down the hallway. Mike, who had apparently witnessed the entire interaction from the opposite side of the room, slowly looked up from his paperwork, "Told you."

You pretended not to hear him.

But as you reached for another roll of tape, you caught yourself smiling.

And for reasons you couldn't quite explain, you had a feeling this clinical rotation was about to become much more than just another semester.

The following morning, you arrived twenty minutes early. Not because you expected anyone else to be there, because you liked the quiet.

The arena was still waking up; the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as you unlocked cabinets, restocked gauze, and checked inventory sheets left behind from the previous evening. Somewhere down the hallway, someone dragged an equipment trunk across the concrete floor, the sound echoing through the empty corridors.

You'd quickly discovered there were two entirely different versions of Mellon Arena.

There was game day; Loud, electric, crowded.

Then there was this; the building before sunrise, coffee brewing somewhere nearby, maintenance crews talking softly over the radio, the hum of refrigeration beneath the ice. It almost felt peaceful.

You were halfway through organizing ankle braces by size when footsteps approached. You looked up, expecting one of the trainers.

Instead; "You know practice doesn't start for another hour, right?" Sidney stood in the doorway wearing gray workout shorts and a Penguins t-shirt, gym bag slung over one shoulder. "You're reorganizing." He adds, noting the obvious.

"I am." You nod, still digging through ankle braces to find the rest of the size 8 set.

He nodded as though that made perfect sense, "I respect that." You smiled without looking up, "You've been here before me every day this week." You hum, "Why?"

He shrugged, "Lift before practice." You wait for him to continue, when he doesn't, you press, "And then?"

"Coffee." He explains lamely. You let out a little, ah, as you nod, "So this is your coffee stop?"

He held up the paper cup in his hand, "Already got one."

"Then why are you here?" There was a pause, long enough that you looked up. Sidney blinked once, "Good question."

You laughed, "You're doing it again. The wandering." He scoffs, like he's offended, "I don't wander, I walk with purpose."

"And your purpose is?" You tease, looking at him. He looked around the room dramatically, as if the answer might be taped to the ceiling, "Medical supplies?"

You let out a huff, trying not to smile, "That's your final answer?"

"If it's a bad one, it doesn't have to be." You shook your head at his words, laughing quietly as you returned to sorting braces, "I think you just like avoiding the locker room." You tease.

"I do." That answer came immediately, maybe too fast.

Your eyebrows lifted, "You do?"

He seems to notice the wordless question, "The guys are playing cards, and I already lost two hundred bucks." He explains, bummed, "It happened fast." You stared at him for a second before laughing again, "How does someone lose two hundred dollars before seven in the morning?" You ask.

He shakes his head, like he's just as confused as you are, "I'm talented." You let out a huff at his words, smiling, "I can see that." You tease.

"I thought coming in here would be safer. They can't make me bet on anything if I'm in here." He shrugs.

"That's pretty smart." You agree. The conversation drifted into silence, not uncomfortable; it never was with him. Sidney leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee while you finished arranging the shelves, "You always this organized?" He asks after a while

"God, this is nothing compared to my apartment. I color-code." You smile.

He made an exaggerated face, "I thought organizing braces by size was intense."

"I also organize my notes by anatomy." You add, as if it's criminal. He grins, playing along, "You're terrifying."

It was strange; most conversations with new people felt like work. Questions, answers, figuring out personalities. With Sidney, conversation seemed to happen by accident.

Nobody was trying very hard, nobody filled silences just because they existed. Sometimes one of you simply looked around the room for thirty seconds before someone thought of something else to say.

It shouldn't have worked. Yet somehow it did. The two of you did.

By the end of the week, everyone had noticed. Not in the way people notice flirting, nothing about your interactions resembled flirting. It was simply becoming expected.

If Sidney disappeared from practice for five minutes, "He in here?" One of the equipment managers would poke his head into the room.

Or Mike would glance toward the hallway, "Captain wandered off again." Someone else would answer without even looking up, "Training room." Every single time.

Even Sidney seemed vaguely aware of it.

Friday afternoon, after a particularly grueling practice, he'd wandered in with absolutely nothing. No tape, no water bottle, no mystery injury. He simply stopped beside one of the treatment tables. You looked up from your laptop,"...Need something?"

He looked around, "I was thinking."

"That's dangerous." You hum, smiling as you turn your attention to him.

He smiled, "I don't actually need anything." His eyes drifted toward the windows overlooking the empty bowl of the arena, "It's just quieter in here."

You glanced around. It was. The trainers had stepped into another office, the whirlpool room sat empty, only the steady hum of fluorescent lights filled the space. "I guess it is."

"Can I..." He gestured vaguely toward absolutely everything, "Sit?" You frowned at his words, "You don't have to ask." You say.

"I know." He shrugged, "I didn't want to interrupt."

"You've interrupted me every day for two weeks. I've started expecting it." You huff out a laugh. His expression shifted almost imperceptibly; something softer. "You have?" He asks.

"Yeah." You closed your laptop, "If you don't come in at least once, I assume you've gotten lost." Sidney watched you for a second before shaking his head, grinning, "I've gotta stop coming in here." He huffs out a laugh at your teasing.

"Please don't. It makes my day more interesting." You laugh.

His eyebrows lifted slightly, "I make your day more interesting?" He catches immediately. He leaned back in the chair, smiling to himself. Outside the room, someone yelled his name, "Crosby!" Neither of you moved, then, another voice, "Sid! You hiding again?"

Sidney sighed dramatically, "They found me." He stood reluctantly, grabbing the water bottle he'd apparently set down without realizing it. Halfway to the doorway, he turned back, "You working tomorrow?"

"Game day. So, yes." You nod, already dreading how long the day will probably be.

He nodded once, "Good." Then he disappeared into the hallway. You watched him leave for exactly half a second before returning to your charting. You chose to ignore the fact that you couldn't stop smiling.

Mike walked back into the room less than ten seconds later. He looked toward the hallway, then toward you, then toward the still-empty chair Sidney had been sitting in. He chuckled under his breath, "I've worked here a long time."

You offer him a brief glance, as if to show you're listening, "So?"

"I've watched rookies come and go. I've watched veterans retire. I watched Sid become captain." You nodded, unsure where he was going with this. Mike leaned one hip against the counter, "You know what he normally does between practice and media? He disappears into the weight room. Every day."

You looked back down at your paperwork, nodding slightly, "Okay." You mumble. He looks at you like he's trying to prove a conspiracy, "This week? He disappears into here." You uncapped your pen, "I hadn't noticed." You mumble.

Mike laughed so hard he nearly spilled his coffee, but you don't give him anymore material to dwell over, "I think you're reading too much into it." You hum absentmindedly.

"He likes you." Your pen froze, and he seemed to notice your immediate reaction, "As a person." Mike held up both hands in surrender, "Relax, I didn't say romantically. He just.. doesn't let many people into his routine."

You frowned slightly, "What do you mean?"

Mike looked toward the hallway where Sidney had disappeared, "When your entire life belongs to hockey," He paused, choosing his words carefully, "Routine becomes pretty sacred."

You listened. "He eats at the same places, he parks in the same spot, he stretches in the same order. If something becomes part of his routine, " Mike smiled knowingly, "It usually means it matters to him."

The room grew quiet again. You looked toward the open doorway, toward the hallway where he'd disappeared moments earlier, then back at the treatment table he'd been sitting beside.

You weren't sure why Mike's words lingered with you for the rest of the afternoon. Maybe because they felt surprisingly personal. Or maybe because, without realizing it, the sound of footsteps stopping outside the training room had already become part of your routine too.

The Penguins opened the regular season a week later, and the atmosphere inside Mellon Arena transformed almost overnight. Practice days had a rhythm to them, but game days were something else entirely.

Every hallway buzzed with movement, media crews wheeled cameras through the loading docks, security guards recognized familiar faces before checking credentials anyway, equipment staff moved with astonishing efficiency, jerseys hanging in perfect numerical order before players had even begun arriving.

The training room became controlled, yet still overwhelming. Tape, ice bags, pregame stretches, last minute maintenance.

Your first game day felt less like stepping into a professional hockey organization and more like trying to board a moving train. Mike noticed almost immediately, "Breathe." He grinned, "You'll figure it out."

Before you could answer, another player sat on one of the treatment tables, already extending his left ankle toward you, "You the new student?"

You nodded, so he continued, "Heard you're organized." You blinked, but he doesn't let you ask if that's a compliment before he's pointing toward his ankle, "You tape?"

You glanced instinctively toward Mike, he gave a subtle nod. Go ahead. You'd practiced ankle taping hundreds of times; lab partners, college athletes, volunteers, simulation exams. None of them had been NHL players preparing to skate in front of eighteen thousand people.

No pressure!

Your fingers worked automatically despite your racing thoughts; anchor strips, stirrups, heel locks, figure-eight, close, secure, check circulation. The entire process took barely two minutes.

The player flexed his foot experimentally, "Huh." Your stomach tightened. Was that a good "huh" or a bad "huh?"

He stood, shifted his weight, rolled the ankle once, before he nodded, "...Nice." Relief flooded through you. He grabbed his helmet, "You tape like Karen."

You looked over toward one of the veteran therapists. Then he was gone. Mike appeared beside you a moment later, "He say anything?"

You nod, smiling slightly to yourself, proud, "Said I tape like Karen."

Mike nodded approvingly, "High praise."

About twenty minutes before warmups, the room briefly emptied. Most of the players had scattered toward the locker room, and you finally had a chance to inhale half of the sandwich you'd abandoned nearly an hour earlier.

One bite in, "Busy?" You looked up, of course, Sidney, already dressed for the game except for his helmet. His hair was still damp from the shower he took before he came to the arena.

You huff, "Are you actually here for something?" He looked almost offended, "I always have a reason." He mumbles, as if to prove his point, he opened one of the cabinets, closed it, opened another.

You folded your arms, "What're you looking for?"

He glanced over, "Elastic wrap."

You walked past him, reached into the first cabinet he'd opened, pulled out the exact roll he claimed not to see, and held it out.

He accepted it with exaggerated dignity, "You don't have to look so smug." He laughed quietly.

You grin, before you returned to your sandwich. Only then did you realize he was still standing there, not leaving, just holding the elastic wrap. Waiting.

"You don't actually need that." You say knowingly, He looked down at it, then he tossed the wrap lightly onto the counter, "I've got a question." He says, pausing with a small smile, "I wanted to ask..." His expression became unexpectedly thoughtful, "What's your dream job?"

The question caught you off guard.

"My dream job? I dunno?" You shrug with a small smile. He doesn't seem to like that answer, though, "You've made it this far without thinking about it?" He pushes.

"I've thought about it." You leaned against the counter, "I just haven't decided." You looked at him curiously, "What about you? When you were little, what was your dream job?"

He smiled immediately, "I wanted to play hockey." You blink, questioningly, , "No backup plan? You just always knew?" You hum thoughtfully when he nods. You studied him for a second, "That must've been nice."

He considered the comment longer than expected, "...Sometimes." The answer was quiet, and not quite what you'd expected. Before you could ask what he meant, a staff member leaned into the room, "Sid, they're looking for you."

He sighed, "They always are." He grabbed the forgotten elastic wrap again before stopping beside the doorway. You hum, "Good luck today." You say, knowing he didn't need it either way.

He smiled, "Thanks." Then, almost as an afterthought, "I'll let you know if we win." You laughed, "I think I'll hear about it." You tease. He hums, like it wasn't obvious, "Probably." He shrugs before turning the corner, disappearing.

They won; the arena shook, fans screamed until your ears rang.

The postgame rush through the training room was somehow even busier than before, players cycled through treatment; ice baths, recovery shakes, media obligations, minor bruises, routine maintenance. Nearly three hours later, you were finally helping wipe down treatment tables when someone knocked gently against the open doorway.

Sidney. Still in partial gear, baseball cap already pulled over his messy hair. He pointed toward the hallway, "Told you. We won." You laughed, "I noticed." You confirm, teasingly.

"Just making sure." He started backing into the hallway, "See you Monday."

For some reason, watching him walk away after that felt different than it had before. Not because anything had changed, nothing had, he was still the captain, you were still just a doctoral student rotating through the medical staff.

But somewhere between misplaced tape rolls, terrible coffee, and conversations that started with absolutely nothing. You'd stopped thinking of Sidney Crosby as the biggest hockey player in the world.

He'd quietly become Sidney. And somehow, that felt like the more remarkable thing.

The first home stand of the season came and went in a blur.

By the end of your third week, the training room no longer felt intimidating. It still moved at a pace that occasionally left your head spinning, but your hands had learned where everything belonged before your brain had time to think about it; athletic tape lived on the second shelf, extra towels disappeared faster than anyone thought possible, ice bags were never where someone swore they'd left them.

You'd memorized the players' preferred stretches, who wanted conversation during treatment and who preferred silence, and which veteran inevitably forgot his water bottle every single morning.

Sidney, however, had become impossible to predict.

Some days he wandered in before sunrise with a coffee in one hand and no discernible reason for being there, other days you wouldn't see him until practice had ended, when he'd lean against the doorway with that familiar, almost sheepish smile, looking as though he'd accidentally found himself standing in the training room yet again.

It had become a running joke between the two of you; every time he appeared, you found yourself looking around for whatever excuse he'd brought with him.

Most of the time, there wasn't one.

A Friday night game against Detroit had stretched much later than anyone anticipated.

The building had slowly emptied over the last hour, the deafening roar of eighteen thousand fans replaced by the distant hum of industrial floor cleaners somewhere above the concourse. One by one, the players had finished treatment, gathered their bags, and disappeared into the Pittsburgh night.

The trainers weren't far behind; Karen wished you a good night before slipping on her jacket, Mike poked his head into the office long enough to remind you not to stay too late, "You heading out soon?"

You looked up from the mountain of chart notes spread across the desk and nodded, "Just finishing these."

He laughed, "I'll believe it when I see it." He said with a grin, reaching for the light switch in the adjoining office. The door clicked shut behind him.

A few moments later, the arena settled into a kind of silence you'd only experienced once before. It wasn't truly quiet, but it was close enough that you could hear the ventilation system humming overhead.

You rubbed at your tired eyes before looking back down at the final chart. Almost done. Finally.

A soft knock against the open door pulled your attention away. You didn't bother looking up immediately, "If you forgot your water bottle again," you called absentmindedly, "it's on the counter."

There was a pause, then a familiar laugh, "I actually remembered it tonight."

You smiled before your eyes even found him.

Sidney stood in the doorway, still wearing a gray Penguins hoodie over athletic shorts. His damp hair curled slightly at the ends, evidence of a shower taken not long ago, and in one hand he held a small brown paper bag with the logo of a sandwich shop stamped across the front. "So," you said, setting your pen down. "If you're not here for your water bottle.."

"I brought dinner." He explains the bag, like it wasn't obvious. Your eyebrows lifted, "For yourself?" You question.

He looked down at the bag as though genuinely considering the question, "I walked past the café. And I remembered," His shoulders rose in an almost embarrassed shrug, "You never ate."

You blinked, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him, "You noticed?" He frowned, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "You've skipped dinner twice this week."

You can't help but tease, just a bit, "You've been paying attention."

A faint flush crept across his cheeks, almost cartoonish, "I guess." The admission came quietly enough that it almost disappeared into the silence between you. He held the paper bag out, "I got turkey."

You accepted the bag, your fingers brushing his for only a second, it wasn't enough to linger, barely enough to notice, yet somehow, you did anyway, "So," you said, looking down at the sandwich before meeting his eyes again, "does this mean I owe you?" He tilted his head, "You can. If it makes you feel better." He shrugs.

A laugh escaped you, "Y'know, you've walked into this training room at least twice a day for three weeks now, and half the time you don't need anything."

He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, small enough that someone who didn't know him might have missed it entirely, "Maybe I like the company."

The words landed softly between you; not overly bold, not teasing, just honest. Your heart gave an annoyingly noticeable little flutter.

"You've got twenty-two teammates," you replied, hoping your voice sounded steadier than you felt.

He shakes his head, like they don't count, "I do, and they're exhausting." That made you laugh. You shook your head, smiling into the paper bag, "You know, Captain,"

He cuts you off with a shake of his head, "I've told you. You don't have to call me that."

"It technically is your title." You looked back at him curiously. He hesitated, long enough that you wondered if he'd changed his mind, then he rubbed the back of his neck, smiling almost shyly. "I kind of like hearing you say Sid."

The nickname slipped out before you could think about it, "Sid?"

His smile widened as you repeat his words, "I've literally never called you that before." He just shrugs, smiling like nothing could touch it, or a while, neither of you spoke.

You unwrapped half the sandwich while he wandered farther into the room, stopping beside one of the treatment tables. He picked up a roll of athletic tape, turned it over in his hands absentmindedly, then set it back down exactly where he'd found it.

"You know," you said between bites, "one of these days Mike's going to ban you from this room because of your loitering." He laughed quietly, lowering himself onto the edge of one of the treatment tables.

Another comfortable silence settled over the room; it was becoming your favorite kind. The sort that didn't need to be filled, the sort where simply existing in the same space somehow felt like enough.

Eventually, Sid glanced toward the clock mounted above the doorway, "You almost done?" He questions, and you follow his gaze, "How far's your apartment?"

"About a fifteen-minute walk." You nod, but your words make him pause, "You walk home? At this hour?" He questions, and you almost tell him he's sounding like your dad, before you bite back the comment.

You shrugged, "Pittsburgh's been nice to me." He frowned ever so slightly, "I'll walk with you." He offers immediately. You looked up, "You don't have to." You mumble, shaking your head slightly.

"I know." He said it so simply that it caught you off guard, "I just...don't really want you walking alone." There wasn't an ounce of obligation in his voice; no expectation, no insistence, just quiet concern. It was oddly endearing.

"You sure?" You ask again. He pushed himself off the treatment table, grabbing his own jacket from the back of a chair, already nodding, "I was heading out anyway."

You laughed, shaking your head as you gathered your backpack, because you knew he wasn't, not until you had agreed. Outside, the October air greeted you with a sharp chill that hinted winter wasn't far away.

The streets surrounding the arena were calmer than they'd been only hours earlier. A few fans still lingered in Penguins jerseys, laughing as they made their way toward nearby parking lots, but the city had largely returned to its usual rhythm.

The two of you walked side by side without much urgency, and for someone who spent every game under an unforgiving spotlight, Sid seemed remarkably comfortable in the quiet.

His hands stayed tucked into the pockets of his hoodie as he matched your pace effortlessly, "So," he asked after a few blocks, glancing over with genuine curiosity, "what made you pick sports medicine?"

You smiled to yourself, "No one's actually asked me that." You bumped his shoulder lightly with your own, "I liked figuring out why people got hurt." You hum.

"Really?" He looked at you for a moment before facing forward again, "That makes sense." He nods, "You've spent three weeks taking care of people you've only just met." His voice was quieter now, "You make it seem easy."

The compliment settled somewhere unexpectedly deep. You searched for something clever to say in return, but nothing came. Instead, you looked ahead and noticed a narrow brick pathway disappearing between two old maple trees, "I've never been down there."

Sid followed your gaze. "Me neither, It looks like a park. You wanna see?" The invitation came easily, as though he'd asked whether you wanted another cup of coffee. Nothing more, nothing less.

You hesitated for all of two seconds before nodding, "Sure." The path opened into a small neighborhood park tucked away from the surrounding streets.

It wasn't anything spectacular, no elaborate fountain, no towering monument. Just winding sidewalks, old iron lampposts, and trees whose leaves had begun turning brilliant shades of gold and crimson.

Near the center sat a weathered wooden bench overlooking the river, it looked as though it had been there forever, "You'd never know this was here," you murmured.

Sid slowed beside you, taking in the quiet view, and for the first time all evening, neither of you moved. The city continued around you in the distance, but here, it felt strangely separate. Like someone had carved out a tiny pocket of stillness in the middle of Pittsburgh.

"You wanna sit for a minute?" he asked, glancing toward you with an almost tentative smile. You looked at the empty bench, then back at him, "Yeah." You agree, smiling.

Neither of you had any idea that one simple decision to sit for five minutes before heading home would quietly become the beginning of everything.

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Chapter One - A Heart Like Hers

(2009) Chapter summary; A sports medicine doctoral student begins her clinical rotation with the Penguins' medical staff expecting nothing more than another semester of work. Instead, she meets Sidney Crosby; who keeps inventing reasons to wander into the training room. Friendship grows into routine, routine becomes tradition, and before either of them realizes it, they've claimed a little corner of Pittsburgh as their own.

posted 07/07

Chapter Two - It Had To Be You

(2010-2012) Chapter summary; Somewhere between spare keys, Sunday mornings, family dinners, and quiet nights studying while Sidney watches game film, the relationship becomes something permanent; or so it seems. But when a prestigious sports medicine institute on the West Coast offers the opportunity of a lifetime, the future they've imagined together begins slipping through their fingers.

Chapter Three - The Man Who Can't Be Moved

(2026) Chapter summary; Fourteen years later, you've built the career you always dreamed of. Sidney has built a Hall of Fame career of his own. Yet neither of you has ever quite managed to recreate what you once had together. When your father undergoes surgery in Pittsburgh, a familiar walk leads you back to the park where everything began. Sidney is already there. Still sitting on the same bench, still quietly carrying pieces of the life you once planned together.

Chapter Four - So Easy (To Fall In Love)

(2026-2027) Chapter summary; Neither of you tries to recreate the relationship you lost. Instead, you slowly learn the people you've become over the last fourteen years. Coffee turns into dinner. Dinner becomes weekends together. Old habits return naturally, while new dreams quietly take their place. For the first time since 2012, the future belongs to both of you.

Chapter Five - Just Like Heaven

Epilogue; Years after sitting beside the Monongahela River imagining a family that never seemed possible, you return to the same park with your daughter between you. Some dreams don't disappear with time. Sometimes they wait.