the lovers

Colton Y/L/N. The analysts have been saying his name for months. “A generational playmaker.” “The most NHL-ready defenseman in the draft.” “A leader on and off the ice.” To you, he’s just Colton. The boy who scraped his knees on the driveway asphalt, who ate cereal for dinner more times than you’d like to admit, who held your hand in the emergency room when you broke your wrist slipping on a patch of black ice after one of his 5 a.m. practices.

On the massive, wrap-around screen, the commissioner is at the podium. “With the tenth pick in the 2025 NHL Entry Draft, the Utah Mammoth are proud to select …”

Colton sucks in a sharp breath. His hand, the one not currently being held captive by your own, clenches into a fist on his thigh. He was projected to go anywhere from eight to twelve. This is the zone. The air crackles.

You lean in, your voice a whisper meant only for him. “Breathe, honey. Just breathe. Whatever happens, happens. You got here. That was the mountain. This is just the view from the top.”

He turns to you, his eyes — your eyes — wide with a swirling storm of hope and fear. “What if they don’t … what if I just sit here?”

“Then you sit here,” you say, your voice firm, unwavering. “You sit here with your head held high, next to your mother who is so ridiculously proud of you it feels like my heart is going to hammer its way out of my chest. And then tomorrow, you go to whatever development camp you’re invited to and you skate circles around the guys they picked instead. But that’s not going to happen.”

The kid from Utah walks across the stage, a blinding smile on his face as he pulls on a jersey in a color combination that seems scientifically engineered to be unappealing. The camera pans across the remaining prospects. It lingers on Colton for a moment. He looks impossibly young, impossibly handsome, a man-child on the precipice of his entire life.

“And now,” the commissioner’s voice booms again, “we go to the Pittsburgh Penguins, drafting from their locker room at PPG Paints Arena.”

The screen splits. On one side is the stage. On the other is a live feed of Kyle Dubas, surrounded by his staff, looking intense under the fluorescent lights of the Penguins’ inner sanctum. A hush falls over your section of the arena. This is it.

Your grip on Colton’s knee tightens. He’s stopped breathing entirely.

Dubas leans into the microphone. There’s no dramatic pause. He’s all business. “With the eleventh overall selection, the Pittsburgh Penguins are proud to select, from the London Knights … defenseman, Colton Y/L/N.”

The world explodes.

Or maybe it just shrinks, collapsing into a single point of brilliant, blinding light. The sound rushes in — a roar from the crowd, a shriek from Colton’s agent, Jon, on his other side, and a choked sob that you realize, with some distant part of your brain, is coming from you.

Colton jolts as if struck by lightning. He turns to you, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated shock. “Mom?”

He says it like he’s five years old again, asking if Santa Claus is real.

You launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck as he stands. He’s six-foot-three now, a solid wall of muscle, but in your arms, he is still the fifty-three pounds of boy you used to carry to bed. He lifts you off the ground in a hug that smells of nervous sweat and expensive fabric, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“You did it,” you whisper, tears streaming freely down your face now, messing up the makeup you so carefully applied. “Oh, my baby, you did it.”

“We did it,” he corrects, his voice thick with emotion. He sets you down, his hands framing your face. He looks at you, really looks at you, and the gratitude in his eyes is a physical force. “We did it.”

Jon is clapping him on the back, pulling him towards the stairs. “Let’s go, kid! Your future is waiting!”

The walk is a blur. Flashing lights from a hundred cameras create a strobing, disorienting effect. The roar of the crowd is a physical pressure against your skin. You watch him descend the stairs, shake the commissioner’s hand, and take the offered jersey.

The iconic skating penguin logo is stretched across his broad back. Y/L/N and the number 25 are printed beneath it. He pulls it on over his dress shirt and tie, and the fit is perfect. It looks like it has always belonged to him. He puts on the hat, turns to the sea of faces, and smiles.

It’s the same smile that once flashed a missing front tooth. The same smile that beamed up at you from the ice after his first goal in peewee hockey.

You stand at the bottom of the stairs, a fixed point in his swirling new universe, and you just watch. You watch him become someone else. Not just your son anymore. He’s the first-round pick of the Pittsburgh Penguins. He belongs to them now, in a way. To the city. To the fans.

The next hour is a whirlwind. He’s pulled from one media station to another. Print journalists, television crews, podcasters. You trail behind, a silent shadow, letting Jon run interference. You answer a few questions yourself when a reporter corners you.

“How does it feel, as a single mom, to see him achieve this dream?”

“It feels,” you say, your voice steadier than you expect, “like watching every single sacrifice pay off in one perfect moment.”

Eventually, the initial frenzy subsides. A team representative, a kind-faced woman named Peggy, leads you and Colton towards a quieter backstage area. “We just need to get some content for socials, and then we have a car waiting to take you to the team dinner,” she explains.

Colton nods, still dazed. He hasn’t let go of the jersey. He clutches it in his hand like a holy relic.

They lead you into a small, curtained-off room. It’s blessedly quiet. For the first time since his name was called, it’s just you, Colton, and Jon.

“Okay,” Jon says, his phone already pressed to his ear. “I’m getting the contract details ironed out. Colton, your phone is going to melt. Don’t even look at it for the next hour.”

Colton just nods, sinking onto a small sofa. He looks at you, a dazed, happy smile playing on his lips. “Penguins, Mom. Pittsburgh.”

“I know, honey. It’s incredible.”

“It’s …” He shakes his head, at a loss for words. “It’s Sid’s team.”

As if on cue, Jon’s eyes go wide. He lowers his phone slightly. “Holy … Colton. You need to take this.”

He hands the phone to Colton, who looks at it, confused. The screen is blank, a private number. “Who is it?”

“Just answer it,” Jon says, his voice uncharacteristically shaky.

Colton swipes to answer, putting it on speaker without thinking. “Hello?”

A voice comes through the speaker. It’s calm, familiar, and carries the unmistakable cadence of a Cole Harbour, Nova Scotia native.

“Hey Colton, Sid Crosby here.”

The air leaves the room.

Colton freezes. His eyes, wide as dinner plates, lock with yours. You feel your own heart skip a beat. Sidney Crosby. The Sidney Crosby is on the phone. Your son’s childhood hero. The reason he wore number 87 through his entire minor hockey career.

Colton swallows hard, his voice coming out as a squeak. “Uh. Hi.”

You want to laugh, you want to cry, you want to tell him to say something, anything, more articulate than ‘hi’.

Sid’s voice is warm, a low chuckle on the other end. “Just wanted to be one of the first to say welcome to Pittsburgh. We’re all really excited to have ya.”

“Th-thank you,” Colton stammers, finally finding a few more words. “Thank you, Mr. Crosby. It’s … wow. It’s an honor.”

“Please, call me Sid,” he says, and the easy-going kindness in his tone is disarming. “Listen, I know your head’s probably spinning right now. Just wanted to say congratulations. You earned it. Watched some of your shifts from the OHL playoffs. You’ve got a hell of a game.”

You watch as a slow blush creeps up Colton’s neck. Praise from the captain. From a living legend. “Thank you, Sid. That … that means a lot, coming from you.”

“Enjoy the night with your family,” Sid continues. “It’s a big moment. Soak it all in. But be ready to get to work when you get to town. We’ve got a lot to do.”

“Yes, sir. I will be. I’m ready.”

“Good to hear. Alright, I’ll let you go. See ya at camp, kid.”

“See you at camp. Thank you.”

The line clicks dead.

Silence.

Colton stares at his phone as if it might spontaneously combust. He slowly lowers it, his hand trembling slightly. He looks up, first at Jon, then at you. His expression is one of pure awe.

“Sidney Crosby,” he whispers, the name a prayer. “He called me ‘kid’.”

Jon is beaming. “That’s your captain, Colton. Welcome to the show.” He claps him on the shoulder again. “I have to go take five more calls. I’ll meet you by the car in ten. Don’t go anywhere.” He strides out of the room, already barking into his phone.

The silence that descends is different this time. It’s heavy with the weight of the moment. The adrenaline is beginning to fade, replaced by a bone-deep sense of accomplishment.

Colton turns to you, the dazed look in his eyes slowly clearing, replaced by an intensity that takes your breath away. He closes the distance between you in two long strides, his brand-new Penguins hat askew on his head.

“Mom.”

His voice is thick again. The phone call, the jersey, the reality of it all, it seems to have finally broken through the wall of shock.

“I’m here, baby.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He just looks at you, his gaze tracing the lines of your face. It feels like he’s seeing all eighteen years at once. The late nights helping with homework after you got home from your waitressing shift. The beat-up station wagon you drove for a decade, the one that always smelled faintly of hockey gear and gasoline. The Christmases where his one big gift was a new pair of skates, and yours was watching him open them. The parent-teacher conferences you attended alone. The tuition for hockey camps you paid for by taking on extra shifts, your feet aching so bad you’d have to soak them in Epsom salts for an hour every night.

He sees it all. You know he does.

“Do you remember,” he starts, his voice cracking, “that tournament in Sault Ste. Marie? When I was twelve?”

You nod, a lump forming in your throat. You remember it perfectly. “The alternator on the car died in the middle of a blizzard, halfway there.”

“Yeah,” he says, a wet sheen in his eyes. “And we were stranded for six hours. And you used all the cash you had for the hotel room to pay the tow truck driver. And we slept in the car, in the freezing cold, so I wouldn’t miss the first game.”

“You had two goals and an assist,” you say softly. “It was worth it.”

“I sat there tonight,” he continues, his voice dropping to a raw whisper, “and all I could think about was that. And the hundred other things like that. You, working two jobs so I could play Triple-A. You, driving me to the rink when you were so tired you were falling asleep at red lights. You, telling me I could do this, even when I didn't believe it myself.”

He reaches out, his large, calloused hands — a hockey player’s hands — gently taking yours.

“I get to play hockey for a living. I get to play for the Pittsburgh Penguins. Sidney Crosby just called my phone,” he says, his voice breaking on the last part. “And none of it, not a single second of it, happens without you.”

The tears are back, hot and fast. You try to blink them away, but it’s a losing battle.

“You’re the one who put in the work, Colton. You skated until your feet bled. You studied, you trained, you did everything right.”

“Because you showed me how,” he insists, squeezing your hands. “You never quit. On anything. On us. So I knew I couldn’t either. Everything I am is because of you. We did this. Don't you ever think it was just me.”

He pulls you into another hug, and this one is different. It’s not the explosive, adrenaline-fueled hug from the stands. This one is quiet, reverent. It’s the hug of a young man who has just realized the full scope of his mother’s love and sacrifice, and the weight of that understanding is both beautiful and crushing.

You hold onto him, burying your face in his chest, inhaling the clean scent of his dress shirt and the faint, lingering smell of the arena. You hold onto your son, the boy you raised against all odds, the man who is about to step into a life that is bigger and brighter than anything you could have ever dreamed for him.

“I’m so proud of you, Colton,” you manage to say, your voice muffled by his suit jacket.

He kisses the top of your head. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you more.”

Peggy peeks her head through the curtain, her smile apologetic. “Sorry to interrupt. The car is ready when you are.”

Colton pulls back, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, a gesture so boyish it makes your heart ache. He gives you a watery smile, straightens his shoulders, and suddenly, he’s not just your son anymore. He’s Colton Y/L/N, property of the Pittsburgh Penguins.

He holds out his arm for you. “Ready to go to dinner?”

You loop your arm through his, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Lead the way.”

As you walk through the sterile backstage corridors, your heels clicking on the polished concrete, you feel the shift. The world has tilted on its axis. The quiet, predictable life you built for the two of you, a fortress of love and routine, has just been spectacularly breached. And as you step out of the arena and into the warm night air, towards the waiting black car, you can’t shake the feeling that everything — absolutely everything — is about to change.

***

The two days following the draft are a hallucinatory blend of champagne headaches, a thousand repetitive text messages, and the surreal experience of seeing your son’s face on ESPN every time you turn on the television. You fly back home to Orlando in a daze, the quiet of your house a startling contrast to the non-stop sensory assault of Las Vegas. The silence is cavernous. It’s the first time in eighteen years you’ve come home to an empty house that is going to stay empty.

Colton is in Pittsburgh for a whirlwind three-day development camp. A meet-and-greet, a tour of the facilities, a light skate. It’s a preview of the life that awaits him, and a preview of the life that awaits you.

You’re unpacking your suitcase when your phone buzzes with a text from your best friend, Brandi.

Brandi: Have you been on Twitter?

You text back, a sense of dread pooling in your stomach. The internet is a place you generally try to avoid.

You: No. Why? Did someone say Colton looks bad in a Penguins hat? Because I will fight them.

A new message from Brandi pops up immediately. It’s not text. It’s a link to a tweet from an account called “Bardown Beauties.” The tweet contains a screenshot from the draft broadcast. It’s a candid shot of you, caught mid-laugh as Colton tells you a joke just before his name is called. Your head is tilted back, your eyes are crinkling at the corners, and the ridiculously expensive dress Brandi forced you to buy looks, you have to admit, pretty good under the arena lights.

The caption above the photo reads: Forget the prospects, the real first-round pick at the 2025 Draft is Colton Y/L/N’s mom. Absolute rocket. #NHLDraft #MILF

You stare at the screen. You read the word. M-I-L-F. You know what it means. You are not, despite Colton’s frequent jokes, a thousand years old. Below the tweet are thousands of likes and a cascade of replies.

She’s only 36! That’s insane.

Smokeshow. Colton got the good genes.

Suddenly I’m a huge Penguins fan.

Your face flushes with a heat that has nothing to do with the Florida humidity. It’s a bizarre cocktail of emotions. There’s a sliver of flattery — it’s certainly nicer than being called old and haggard — but it’s buried under an avalanche of indignation and a profound sense of … violation. This was your moment with your son. A moment of pure, unadulterated pride and love. And these strangers, these anonymous faces on the internet, have twisted it into something cheap. Something about you, and not him.

Your phone rings. It’s Colton. You force a lightness into your voice that you do not feel.

“Hey, superstar! How’s Pittsburgh?”

“It’s awesome, Mom. The rink is … wow. But that’s not why I’m calling.” His voice is tight, clipped. He sounds angry. “You saw it, didn’t you?”

You sink onto the edge of your bed. “Saw what, honey?” You lie, poorly.

“The tweet. The pictures. All of it,” he says, his voice laced with a protective fury that is so profound it makes your heart ache. “Jon sent it to me. I’m so sorry, Mom. It’s disgusting. They’re being so disrespectful. I’m going to tell the team’s PR guy to get them to take it down.”

“Colton, no,” you say, your voice firm. “Don’t do that. You’ll just make it a bigger deal. It’s the internet. It’s stupid and silly and it will be gone by tomorrow when they find something else to obsess over.”

“But they’re talking about my mom,” he says, the emphasis on the word making him sound about twelve years old. “It’s not right.”

“I know, sweetie. And I love you for being angry for me,” you say, your voice softening. “But honestly? I’m a 36-year-old woman. I’ve been called a lot worse than ‘smokeshow’ by men who were actually standing in front of me. I can handle a few anonymous trolls on the internet. This is your time. Don’t let this silliness taint it. Okay?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. You can hear the gears turning in his head, his anger warring with his instinct to listen to you.

“Okay,” he finally sighs, defeated. “But if anyone says anything at camp, I swear …”

“You will be a professional,” you interrupt gently. “You will be the bigger man, the one who doesn’t get rattled by nonsense. You are a Pittsburgh Penguin now. You hold your head high and you ignore it. Promise me.”

“… I promise,” he grumbles.

“Good. Now tell me everything. Does the locker room smell as bad as your old hockey bag?”

He laughs, the tension finally breaking. The conversation shifts to safer territory — to the intimidating size of the veteran players, the crisp, clean feel of the ice, the thrill of seeing the Stanley Cup banners hanging from the rafters. You talk for an hour, and by the time you hang up, the ugly incident has been pushed to the back of your mind.

It’s just the internet, you tell yourself. It will go away.

***

The summer passes in a blur of empty-nester prep. You help Colton pack. You make lists of things he’ll need for his apartment, should he make the team and get to move out of the team hotel. You have a “last supper” at his favorite hometown restaurant. You try, and fail, not to cry when you hug him goodbye as he gets into the car service that will take him to the airport, and to his new life.

“Call me every day,” you say, clutching the front of his shirt.

“Twice a day,” he promises, his own eyes suspiciously bright. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you more.”

And then he’s gone. The house is silent again, but this time, it’s a permanent kind of quiet.

The daily calls become a lifeline. He tells you about the grueling two-a-day practices, the punishing off-ice workouts, the sheer, breathtaking speed of the game at the NHL level. He’s exhausted, sore, and homesick, but beneath it all is a thrum of pure joy. He is living his dream.

You, meanwhile, are living a life you don’t quite recognize. You go to work — your sensible job as an office manager for a dental supply company — and you come home. You cook dinner for one. You watch whatever you want on television without having to fight for the remote. You have friends, you have hobbies, but the central organizing principle of your life for the past eighteen years is now a thousand miles away. You are unmoored.

It’s the third week of September. Main training camp is in full swing. Colton has survived the first round of cuts, the one that sends the junior-eligible kids and long-shot prospects home. He’s now skating with the big club, a minnow in a sea of sharks.

“I shared a line with Sid in a drill today,” he tells you during your nightly FaceTime call. He’s sitting on the edge of his perfectly made hotel bed, a towel slung around his neck, his hair still damp from the shower.

“Really?” You ask, propping your phone up against a pillow on your own bed. “How was that?”

“Terrifying,” he says without hesitation. “He passed me the puck and my hands turned into bricks. I completely fumbled it. It was so embarrassing.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing,” Colton says, shaking his head in disbelief. “He just circled back, picked up the puck, passed it right back to me and said, ‘Let’s try that again.’ Like it was no big deal.”

“He sounds like a good captain.”

“He’s … different,” Colton says, searching for the right word. “He doesn’t talk a lot. But when he does, everyone shuts up and listens. Even Geno. And he sees everything. It’s like he has eyes in the back of his head.”

You smile. “Well, you just keep your head down, work hard, and try not to fumble his passes.”

“That’s the plan,” he laughs. “Gotta go, Mom. Team meeting. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Love you.”

“Love you more.”

He hangs up, and you’re left staring at your own reflection on the dark screen. You feel a pang of loneliness so sharp it takes your breath away. You are proud of him, so proud it hurts. But you miss your boy.

***

The next afternoon, in the sprawling, state-of-the-art locker room at the UPMC Lemieux Sports Complex, the air is thick with the smell of sweat and liniment. Practice was a brutal, up-tempo bag skate, designed to separate the men from the boys. The veterans unwind with the practiced ease of men who have done this a thousand times. The rookies move with a quiet, nervous energy, trying to stay out of the way.

Colton is one of the last ones off the ice, getting in extra work with one of the assistant coaches.

Sidney sits on the stool in front of his stall, methodically untaping his skates. His movements are economical, precise. He’s thirty-eight now, his hair flecked with gray at the temples, but his focus is as sharp as it was when he was a rookie. He listens to the rhythm of the room — the snap of towels, the murmur of conversations, the clatter of sticks being put away. It’s the soundtrack of his life.

A few stalls down, two of the newer prospects are talking. They’re both first-year pros, up from the AHL, cocky in the way that only twenty-year-olds who haven’t been humbled yet can be. Their names are Poulter and Davies.

“Did you see Y/L/N out there today?” Poulter says, peeling off his sweat-soaked shoulder pads. “Kid can actually skate.”

“Yeah, he’s not bad,” Davies agrees. “Hey, random, but my buddy sent me this thing from the draft. A picture of his mom. Dude …”

Sid’s hands pause in their work. His focus doesn’t shift, his eyes remain on his skate laces, but his ears are open. He’s the captain. It’s his job to know the temperature of the room.

Poulter lets out a low whistle. “Oh, I know what you’re talking about. The one that was all over Twitter? She’s a total smokeshow. Unbelievable.”

“Right?” Davies says, his voice a little too loud in the cavernous room. “I saw the broadcast clip. My jaw hit the floor. Can’t believe she’s old enough to have a kid Colton’s age. She looks like she’s thirty, tops.”

“Total rocket,” Poulter confirms with a smug nod. “Y/L/N is one lucky kid. Hope she comes to the family Christmas party.”

A skate drops to the floor.

The sound is not loud, but it’s sharp, and it cuts through the chatter.

Sidney stands up. He doesn’t look angry. He looks worse. He looks disappointed. He turns his head slowly, and his gaze lands on the two young players. The room, which had been humming with low conversation, falls silent. Everyone can feel the shift in pressure.

“What was that?” Sid asks. His voice is quiet. It’s not a yell. It’s a low, cold query that carries more weight than any shout ever could.

Poulter and Davies freeze, their eyes wide. They look like two kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

“Uh, nothing, Sid,” Poulter stammers. “Just … talking.”

Sid takes a slow step towards them. He’s not physically intimidating in the way that some of the bigger players are, but his presence, his aura, fills the space. “No, I heard you. You were talking about Y/L/N’s mother.”

Davies swallows hard. “We were just saying …”

“I know what you were saying,” Sid cuts him off, his voice still level, but with an edge of steel. “That’s his mother you’re talking about. His family. She’s not here to be a topic of conversation for you. She’s not here for you to rank or comment on. She’s not your entertainment.”

The two prospects shrink under his gaze, their faces burning with shame. The silence in the room is absolute. The other veterans are watching, letting the captain handle his business.

“This is a place of work,” Sid continues, his voice unwavering. “And that kid in here,” he gestures vaguely towards the showers, “is trying to earn a spot. The last thing he needs is to hear guys in his own room talking about his mom like she’s some piece of meat.”

He looks from one to the other, letting his words sink in. “Show some respect. For him. For her. For this room. Understand?”

“Yes, Sid,” they both mutter, their eyes glued to the floor. “Sorry, Sid.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” he says, his voice softening just a fraction, the lesson now delivered. He turns and walks back to his stall. The moment has passed. The tension begins to dissipate.

Just then, Evgeni Malkin, who had been silently stretching his giant frame on the floor nearby, gets to his feet. He saunters past Sid’s stall, a towel around his neck and a wide, mischievous grin on his face. He claps a hand on Sid’s shoulder.

“Is captain talk,” Geno says, his Russian accent as thick as ever. “Very serious. Good captain.”

Sid just shakes his head, a small, weary smile touching his lips. “Geno …”

Geno leans in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial rumble that is still audible to half the room. He looks at Sid, then glances over at the thoroughly chastened rookies, and then back to Sid. The grin widens, revealing a missing tooth.

“But …” Geno says, pausing for dramatic effect, “they are not wrong.”

He lets out a booming laugh, a genuine, infectious sound that finally shatters the remaining tension. He gives Sid’s shoulder another hearty slap and continues on his way to the showers, still chuckling to himself.

Sidney watches him go, the weary smile turning into a genuine one. He shakes his head again, a silent acknowledgment of his friend’s incorrigible nature. For over twenty years, Geno has been the one person who could always break through his captain’s intensity with a perfectly timed piece of absurdity.

He sits back down and picks up his other skate. The room slowly returns to its normal rhythm. But something has shifted for Sid. He thinks of the new kid, Y/L/N. A good kid. Works hard, keeps his mouth shut. He’d seen the photo from the draft, of course. It was hard to miss. A quick glance, an acknowledgment that, yes, she was a beautiful woman, and then he’d moved on. He hadn’t given it a second thought.

But now, he sees it differently. He sees the kid, trying to navigate the immense pressure of his first NHL camp. And he thinks of the mother, the one who was now the subject of locker room chatter, the one whose private moment of joy had been turned into public fodder. The one who had, by all accounts, raised this promising young man all on her own.

He makes a mental note. Look out for the kid. It’s his job as captain, but suddenly, it feels a little more personal. It’s about respect. It's about protecting the room, and that includes the families that support it.

Later that evening, you get your call from Colton. He sounds lighter, happier than he has in days.

“You’ll never guess what happened at practice,” he says, his voice buzzing with excitement.

“What?”

“We were doing this breakout drill, and I kept chipping the puck off the glass. It’s faster here, you know? The timing is different. And I was getting so frustrated. And then Sid skated by.”

“Oh?” You say, a smile in your voice. “Did he tell you to try again?”

“Better,” Colton says, practically bouncing. “He pulled me aside after the drill. He actually took five minutes and walked me through it. Showed me how to use my body to shield the puck, to get my head up a fraction of a second sooner. He said … he said I had good instincts and just needed to trust them.”

A warmth spreads through your chest. It’s one thing to be his teammate. It’s another to be his mentor.

“Wow, honey. That’s amazing.”

“I know! It was the coolest thing. He didn’t have to do that, Mom. Especially after I fumbled his pass the other day. I feel like … I don’t know. Like maybe I actually have a shot.”

“You do have a shot,” you say, your voice full of a conviction you feel deep in your bones. “You just keep listening to your captain. He sounds like a good man.”

“He is,” Colton says, his voice full of hero worship. “He really is.”

You hang up the phone that night feeling a sense of peace you haven’t felt since he left. Your son is in good hands. He’s being challenged, he’s being pushed, but he’s also being looked after.

You have no idea, of course, of the conversation that took place in the locker room. You have no idea that Sidney Crosby’s simple act of kindness was born from a moment of quiet, firm defense. A defense of a young player’s dignity, and by extension, a defense of yours. You just know your son sounds happy, and for now, that’s all that matters. You are a thousand miles away, but in a strange way, the orbit of your quiet life in Florida has just edged a little closer to the gravitational pull of a man in Pittsburgh you have never even met.

***

The call comes on a Tuesday afternoon, the kind of sleepy, sun-drenched day in central Florida where the biggest event is the mailman arriving. You’re in your kitchen, humming along to a playlist of 90s rock, chopping vegetables for a salad you will eat alone. When your phone rings, displaying Colton’s name, your heart does its customary little flip.

“Hey, honey,” you answer, wedging the phone between your ear and shoulder as you scrape diced cucumbers into a bowl. “Don’t you have practice?”

“Finished an hour ago,” he says. His voice is flat. Devoid of its usual energy. A cold dread, sharp and immediate, courses through you. You put the knife down on the counter.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, your own voice quiet. “Colton, what happened?”

This is it. The call you’ve been fearing for six weeks. The one where he tells you he’s been cut, that he’s being sent to the AHL affiliate in Wilkes-Barre, or worse, back to his junior team in London.

“I’m not coming home, Mom,” he says, and the words are a punch to the gut. You close your eyes, gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles turn white. You were prepared for this. You told yourself you were. You were lying.

“Oh, baby,” you start, the sympathy thick in your throat. “It’s okay. It’s just one step back. You’ll work hard and …”

“No,” he interrupts, and for the first time, you hear a tremor in his voice. Not sadness. Something else. Something that sounds suspiciously like suppressed joy. “You don’t understand. I’m not coming home because Coach Muse just called me into his office.”

You wait, holding your breath.

“He told me to stop living out of a suitcase,” Colton says, his voice finally cracking, the emotion breaking through like a dam. “He told me to go find an apartment.”

The world stops. The hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of a lawnmower, your own heartbeat — it all fades into a dull roar in your ears. You slide down the kitchen cabinets until you’re sitting on the cool tile of the floor.

“Colton,” you whisper, the name a fragile thing.

“I made the team, Mom,” he sobs, and now he’s not holding back at all. It’s a raw, ragged sound of pure, unadulterated relief. “I actually made it. I’m in the NHL.”

The tears come then, hot and silent. You cry for the exhausted eighteen-year-old on the other end of the phone, and you cry for the determined six-year-old who first stepped onto the ice, his ankles wobbling. You cry for every dollar you saved, every mile you drove, every doubt you pushed aside.

“You did it,” you say, your voice thick with tears. “Oh, my sweet boy. You really, really did it.”

“Get on a plane,” he says, his voice still shaky but now underpinned with a frantic excitement. “The season opener is Tuesday. Against the Rangers. At home. You have to be there.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you promise. “Just tell me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Are you wearing a tie right now?”

He laughs, a wet, hiccupping sound. “No, Mom.”

“Good,” you say, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “Because I’m not there to fix it.”

***

Forty-eight hours later, you are stepping out of a cab into the crisp, alien air of a Pittsburgh autumn. The sky is a brilliant, cloudless blue, and the leaves on the trees are a riot of gold and crimson. You check into a hotel downtown, the city’s iconic black and gold color scheme seemingly imprinted on every street corner.

In your room, you lay the jersey out on the bed. It’s a real one, not a knock-off. Colton had it custom-made and overnighted to you. The iconic penguin crest on the front, and on the back, in bold, white letters: Y/L/N, and beneath it, the number 42. You trace the stitching with your finger. It feels sacred.

Colton meets you in the hotel lobby before he has to head to the rink. He looks exhausted and wired all at once, a human bundle of nervous energy. He hugs you so tightly you can barely breathe.

“I’m going to throw up,” he says into your hair.

“No, you’re not,” you say, pulling back to look at him. “You’re going to go out there and play your game. The same game you’ve been playing your whole life. The ice is the same size. The puck is the same size.”

“Sidney Crosby is not the same size,” he mutters, running a hand through his already messy hair.

You laugh, smoothing down his collar. “Just try not to hit him with a pass in the skates. Here.” You hand him a small, worn photograph from your wallet. It’s a picture of him at age seven, wearing a comically oversized jersey, a gap-toothed grin on his face as he holds up his first-ever trophy. “Put this in your stall. For good luck.”

He takes it, his expression softening. “Thanks, Mom.” He pulls an envelope from his pocket. “Your ticket. Section 104, row F. It’s a good one. You’ll be right by the glass for warmups.”

“I’ll be the one screaming the loudest,” you promise.

He gives you one last, quick hug. “Gotta go. I’ll see you after.”

And then he’s gone, swallowed by the revolving door, leaving you standing in the polished lobby, your heart beating a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

***

The energy inside PPG Paints Arena is a living thing. It thrums through the soles of your shoes, a current of anticipation and civic pride. You find your seat, the jersey feeling both like a costume and a second skin. The sheer number of people, the noise, the dazzling lights — it’s a world away from the cold, quiet rinks of his youth.

The lights go down. A hype video plays on the massive scoreboard. The music thunders. And then, the team emerges from the tunnel, a stream of black and gold skating onto the pristine white ice. You’re on your feet with everyone else, craning your neck, searching.

And then you see him. Number 42.

The team makes their way down the tunnel, and then, as if by some unspoken signal, they all stop, leaving the entire sheet of ice open. All except for Colton. A few players tap his shin pads with their sticks as they pause. He looks up, confused for a second, before the realization dawns on him.

It’s the rookie lap. The tradition. His solo moment in the spotlight.

A roar goes up from the crowd as they recognize the ritual. Colton hesitates for a moment, then a shy smile breaks across his face. He takes off, his skates carving clean, powerful arcs into the fresh ice. For one solitary lap, he is the only one out there, the center of this universe, skating under the bright lights with twenty thousand people cheering for him. For your son.

The tears you’ve been holding back all day finally spill over, hot and fast. You don’t bother to wipe them away. This moment is too beautiful to be blurred.

The game itself is a 60-minute anxiety attack. It’s faster in person, more violent. The sound of a body hitting the boards in front of you is a sickening thud that makes you flinch every time. You watch Colton’s every shift, your muscles tensing whenever he goes into a corner, your breath catching whenever he rushes the puck.

Late in the first period, it happens. Colton corrals a loose puck at his own blue line and makes a smart, simple pass up to his defensive partner, who then threads a long pass to a streaking Bryan Rust. Rust fires a wrist shot that beats the Rangers’ goalie clean. The horn blares, the red light flashes, and the arena explodes.

You’re screaming, hugging the strangers next to you. A minute later, the goal is announced: “PENGUINS GOAL! Scored by #17, Bryan Rust! Assists from #58, Kris Letang, and … #42, Colton Y/L/N!”

His first NHL point.

As the celebration on the ice dies down, you see Rust skate to the net, retrieve the puck, and toss it to the bench, where a trainer catches it. You know, with a certainty that makes your heart swell, that the puck is for Colton.

The game is a back-and-forth affair. It’s tied 2-2 late in the third period. The tension is unbearable. The Penguins are pressing. Colton, seeing an opening, jumps into the play, taking a pass at the top of the faceoff circle. It’s a defenseman taking a chance, a risky move for a rookie.

He doesn’t hesitate. He winds up and fires a slapshot.

Time seems to slow down. You watch the puck leave his stick, a black blur against the white ice. It rises, finding a hole through the tangle of bodies in front of the net. The goalie, screened, reacts a split second too late.

The puck hits the back of the net with a sound that is uniquely distinct. Thwack.

The eruption of noise is volcanic. It’s a physical force that pushes you back in your seat even as you leap to your feet. Colton is mobbed by his teammates, his helmet knocked askew by a joyous head rub from Evgeni Malkin. He’s laughing, screaming, pointing to the sky.

Your scream is lost in the roar of 20,000 others. You’re jumping up and down, tears and laughter mingling on your face. He did it. He scored. His first NHL goal.

As the scrum of players disperses, you watch closely. Sidney skates calmly to the net. He reaches in, picks out the puck, and gives the referee a nod. As he skates back to the bench, he passes Colton, gives him a firm tap on the helmet, and hands the precious souvenir to the trainer. The gesture is quiet, professional, and loaded with significance. It’s the captain, acknowledging the moment. Anointing the rookie.

The Penguins hold on to win 3-2. Colton is named the third star of the game. You watch, beaming, as he skates out one last time to acknowledge the cheering crowd.

***

After the game, you navigate the labyrinthine corridors of the arena to the designated family area, a polished hallway outside the locker room doors. It’s controlled chaos, filled with stylish wives, excited children, and proud parents. You feel a little out of place in your jersey, but you don’t care.

The door opens, and Colton emerges, his face flushed with victory, his hair still wet. He spots you and his face breaks into a grin so wide it looks like it hurts. He closes the distance in three long strides and lifts you into a bone-crushing hug.

“Did you see that?!” He shouts over the din, spinning you around. “Did you actually see it?! It went in! I scored! In the NHL!”

“I saw it!” You laugh, your feet dangling above the floor. “You were amazing! The whole arena was screaming your name!”

He sets you down, his eyes shining. “Okay, okay, check this out.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out two pucks, both encased in clear plastic and wrapped in white athletic tape. On the tape, in neat black marker, are the details.

Colton Y/L/N - First NHL Point - Assist - 10/7/25 vs. NYR

Colton Y/L/N - First NHL Goal - 10/7/25 vs. NYR

He presses them into your hands. They’re heavy. Real.

“They’re for you,” he says, his voice suddenly quiet, serious. “For the mantle. For everything.”

You hold the pucks in your hands. They’re heavy, solid. They feel like everything he’s ever worked for, everything you’ve ever sacrificed for, distilled into two dense circles of vulcanized rubber.

“Colton, they’re yours,” you whisper, your throat tightening.

“Everything I have is yours,” he says simply, and with a sincerity that makes your heart ache. “We did this, remember?”

You pull him into another hug, a tight, fierce one. “I love you more than you’ll ever know.”

“Mom,” he says, his expression shifting slightly. He looks over your shoulder. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

You turn. Walking towards you, looking impossibly larger in person even without his gear, is Sidney Crosby. He’s wearing a team sweatsuit, his hair is damp, and there are the faint, tired lines of competition etched around his eyes. He looks less like a superstar and more like a man who just finished a very hard day at the office.

“Sid, this is my mom,” Colton says, his voice full of reverence. “Mom, this is Sid.”

Sidney offers you a small, genuine smile and extends a hand. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you,” he says, his voice calm and low. “You must be incredibly proud.”

You place your hand in his. His grip is firm, warm, and calloused. You are acutely aware that this is the hand that has hoisted the Stanley Cup three times. “More than you’ll ever know,” you reply, finding your voice. “Thank you. For everything. For looking out for him.”

You gesture with the puck still in your other hand. “And thank you for this. It means the world to him. To us.”

His eyes, a deep, intelligent hazel, meet yours. He holds your gaze for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. There is no hint of the locker room talk, no trace of anything other than sincere respect. 

“He earned it,” Sid says, his gaze shifting to include Colton. “Hell of a shot. It was the first of many.” He gives Colton a nod. “Great game tonight, kid. Keep it up.”

“Thanks, Sid,” Colton breathes, looking star-struck all over again.

With another polite nod to you, Sid moves on, disappearing into the crowd of families. The interaction couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds, but it leaves an electric hum in the air.

“Come on,” Colton says, pulling you from your reverie. “I’m starving. Let’s go get that celebratory dinner.”

As you walk away, arm-in-arm with your triumphant son, you can’t shake the feeling of that handshake, of that direct, unwavering gaze.

***

Sidney stands for a moment, watching you and Colton disappear down the hall. He sees the easy affection between you, the way you laugh at something your son says. It’s a world he is familiar with — the families are the bedrock of the team — but he’s always observed it from a slight distance.

A heavy hand claps him on the shoulder, making him jolt.

“Captain is thinking hard,” Evgeni Malkin rumbles beside him, a wide, knowing grin on his face.

“Just tired, Geno,” Sid says, turning to head back toward the locker room. “Long game.”

“Tired?” Geno says, easily keeping pace. “Or you see pretty mama and now your brain is scrambled egg?”

Sid shoots him a warning look, but there’s no heat behind it. “Don’t start.”

“She is good looking,” Geno continues, ignoring him completely. “I see from bench. Very nice. Young guys are not so stupid, eh?”

Kris Letang falls into step on Sid’s other side, toweling his perfectly coiffed hair. He looks impossibly fresh for someone who just played 25 minutes of hockey.

“He’s not wrong, Sid,” Letang says, his French-Canadian accent smooth as silk. “She’s very elegant. You can see where Colton gets his good manners from.” He winks. “And he’s a good kid. You’d be doing him a favor, really. Being a positive male role model.”

Sid stops, turning to face his two oldest friends, his two longest-tenured teammates. “Are you guys serious? That’s Y/L/N’s mom. He’s my rookie. He’s eighteen. Stop it.”

Geno just laughs, a loud, booming sound. “So? You are old. You need nice woman. She is nice woman. Is simple math.”

“It’s not math, it’s … inappropriate,” Sid insists, feeling a ridiculous flush creep up his neck.

Letang smirks. “Is it? Or are you just scared, Captain?”

Sid throws his hands up in exasperation, a gesture of pure defeat that only Geno and Tanger can elicit from him. He turns and walks away, leaving them laughing in the hallway.

But as he retreats to the quiet of the empty locker room, he can’t brush it off. He thinks of the way your eyes lit up when you talked about your son. He thinks of the strength in your handshake, the genuine gratitude in your voice. He thinks of the easy, unguarded smile you gave Colton as you walked away.

Don’t be ridiculous, he tells himself, pulling off his sweatsuit. She’s Colton’s mom.

But for the first time in a very long time, the ever-sensible, always-focused voice of reason in Sidney’s head sounds a little less convincing than he’d like.

***

The six weeks since the home opener have settled into a new, strange rhythm. Your life in Florida continues its quiet, orderly pace, while Colton’s life in Pittsburgh unfolds in a series of frantic, exhilarating highlights you watch on a screen. You’ve become an expert on the NHL’s streaming package, your evenings now dictated by the Penguins’ schedule. You learn the names of the broadcasters, the tendencies of the referees, and the particular way your son looks when he’s tired versus when he’s frustrated.

It's a strange, disconnected intimacy. You talk on the phone every day, but it’s not the same. You miss the comfortable chaos of having him in the house.

So when he texts you on a Tuesday morning, it’s like a beacon of light.

Colton: Hey Mom. We play the Lightning in Tampa on Saturday night. It’s a quick trip, just in and out. You should come.

Your fingers fly across the screen.

You: I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Already looking up hotels.

Colton: No need. I got you a room at the team hotel. It’s all set. Just drive down Saturday.

The casualness of it, the ease with which he can now provide for you, sends a fresh wave of pride washing over you. For eighteen years, you handled the logistics of his entire life. Now, he’s handling yours.

***

Saturday arrives, and you make the two-hour drive from Orlando to Tampa with the windows down, the warm November air a welcome balm. You check into the gleaming waterfront hotel, your room offering a panoramic view of the bay. It’s a level of luxury you’re still not quite used to.

You meet Colton in the hotel lobby for a quick, pre-game lunch. He looks good, if a little tired. The grind of an 84-game season is starting to set in.

“Are you excited?” He asks, stealing a french fry from your plate.

“Are you kidding? I’m ecstatic,” you say. “I can’t wait to see you play in person again. It’s not the same on TV.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “It’ll be good to have you there. It feels … normal.”

The word hangs in the air between you. Nothing about this life is normal, but having you in the stands, that’s a piece of the past he can hold onto. He gives you your ticket, hugs you tight, and heads off with the team for their pre-game meetings and nap. You’re left with a few hours to kill, your own nerves starting to hum with a familiar, pre-game frequency.

***

In the visitor’s locker room at Amalie Arena, the atmosphere is loose but focused. The Penguins are on a winning streak, and the mood is light. Players are getting their sticks taped, stretching, going through their individual rituals.

Sidney is sitting in his stall, methodically lacing his skates, his mind already running through the game plan. He’s trying to focus, but his two longest-tenured teammates are making it difficult.

“So, Captain,” Geno says, plopping down on the stool next to him with a dramatic sigh. He’s already in his full gear, minus the helmet. “You see rookie’s mom tonight? You say hello? Or you hide in here like scared little boy?”

Sid doesn’t look up from his laces. “I’m focusing on the game, Geno. We’re playing a very good hockey team.”

Kris, stretching his groin against the wall nearby, laughs. “He says that every time. Sid, the universe is giving you a sign. An away game in her backyard. You just have to walk up to her in the family area after the game and say, ‘Would you like to get a drink?’”

“It’s not that simple,” Sid mutters, pulling a lace tight with a sharp tug.

“Is that simple!” Geno insists, gesturing with his massive, gloved hands. “You are Sidney Crosby. She is beautiful woman. You say, ‘You, me, drink.’ What is problem?”

“The problem is that she’s the mother of our eighteen-year-old rookie defenseman who sits three stalls down from me,” Sid says, his voice low and firm. “It’s a line you don’t cross. End of story.”

“Excuses,” Kris says, switching legs. “You’ve been weird since you met her at the home opener. Just finally work up the balls and ask her out.”

“I’m not having this conversation …” Sid starts to say, but his voice trails off.

His eyes have flickered up and landed on the doorway to the trainer’s room. Standing there, holding a freshly sharpened pair of skates, is Colton.

Colton has frozen mid-stride. His eyes are wide. It’s impossible to know how much he heard, but judging by the way the color is draining from his face, he heard enough.

The joking banter in the room dies instantly. The handful of other players who were within earshot suddenly find the tape on their sticks fascinating. The air grows thick with a horrified, awkward silence.

Geno and Kris exchange a wide-eyed, ‘oh shit’ look.

Sid’s heart plummets into his stomach. This is it. This is exactly what he was afraid of. He’s embarrassed his rookie, made him uncomfortable in his own locker room, and shattered the professional boundary he values so highly.

He stands up, his skates still untied, and takes a step towards Colton. His mind is racing. He has to fix this.

“Colton,” he says, his voice low and urgent, full of sincere regret. “Man, I am so sorry you heard that. They’re just messing around, you know how they are. I want you to know, I have the utmost respect for you, and for your mom. I would never, ever cross that line. It was just a stupid locker room joke. It won’t happen again.”

He’s rambling, he knows it, but he can’t stop. He needs to convey how deeply he means it.

Colton just stands there for a second, his expression unreadable. Then he seems to shake himself out of his stupor. He walks past Sid to his own stall, sets his skates down, and begins to untie his shoes. He doesn’t say a word.

Sid follows him, his voice dropping even lower. “Seriously, Colton. I’m mortified. It’s unprofessional and …”

“Sid.”

Colton cuts him off, his voice quiet but firm. He finally looks up from his shoes, and his eyes meet Sid’s. There’s no anger in them. There’s something else. Something thoughtful.

“It’s okay,” Colton says.

Sid blinks, completely thrown. “No, it’s not okay. I put you in a terrible position.”

“No,” Colton says, shaking his head as he pulls off a running shoe. “Just … listen.” He takes a deep breath, and it feels like every other person in that corner of the room is holding theirs.

“My mom,” he begins, his voice steady, “she’s been a mom since she was eighteen years old. That’s it. That’s all she’s ever really gotten to be. Her entire adult life, every single decision she’s made, has been about me.”

Sid, Geno, and Kris are silent, listening with a new, sober attention.

“The jobs she worked — waitressing at night so she could drive me to practice in the morning. Where we lived — always making sure it was in the right school district for the hockey program. What she did on weekends … it was never for her. It was always driving to some tournament in the middle of nowhere, sitting in a freezing cold rink for six hours, just for me.”

He pauses, his gaze becoming distant for a second, lost in a memory. “She never dated. Not really. I remember she went on a few dates when I was in middle school. This one guy was a real jerk, and he made some comment about how much time she spent on my hockey. She came home that night, and I heard her crying in her room.” He swallows hard. “After that, she just … stopped. She told me once she didn’t have time for anyone who wasn’t 100% in on ‘Team Colton’.”

He looks back at Sid, his eyes boring into him with an unnerving intensity. “She deserves to have her own team now. She deserves to go to dinner with someone who isn’t her son. She deserves a good guy.”

He lets that hang in the air for a beat. “And you’re a good guy, Sid. I see how you treat people. The trainers, the staff, the rookies … everyone. You’re the best guy I know.”

Sid is speechless. This conversation has veered into territory he could never have anticipated. He feels a deeper respect for this kid blooming in his chest, so strong it almost knocks him off balance.

Then, Colton’s expression shifts. The softness hardens into something protective, fierce. It’s the look he gets before he’s about to clear the front of the net.

“But,” he says, his voice dropping a little, “I swear to God, if you ever, ever hurt her … you need to understand something.” He takes a half-step closer. He’s no longer a rookie talking to his captain, he’s a son talking about his mother.

“If you make her cry, if you aren’t completely honest with her, if you disrespect her in any way … I know what the deal is. I know you’re Sidney Crosby, and I’m some kid on an entry-level contract who could be on a bus to Wheeling tomorrow. I know you could probably make one phone call and I’d never play in this league again.”

He leans in, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. “But spending the rest of my career playing in the ECHL would be absolutely worth it to me if it meant I got to protect my mom from a broken heart. Are we clear?”

The silence in the locker room is now so absolute you could hear a pin drop. Geno and Kris are staring, their jaws practically on the floor.

Sidney Crosby, a man who has faced down 250-pound defensemen his entire life, who has played through immense pain in the crucible of the Stanley Cup Final, finds himself completely intimidated by an eighteen-year-old kid. And he respects the hell out of him for it.

He can only nod, his throat suddenly dry. “Crystal clear, Colton.”

And just like that, the tension breaks. Colton’s face relaxes into a small, wry smile. The fierce protector vanishes, replaced by the easy-going kid.

“Okay, good,” he says, as if he hadn’t just threatened the career of a living legend. He starts pulling on his hockey socks. “So, after the game … her favorite place is a little Italian spot about twenty minutes from the arena. It’s over in Ybor City. It’s called Bernini of Ybor. She loves their gnocchi.”

He stands up and claps Sid on the shoulder, a shockingly familiar gesture that makes Sid’s eyebrows shoot up.

“I expect her home by midnight, Captain.”

And with that, Colton Y/L/N turns, grabs his helmet, and heads out of the room towards the ice for warmups, leaving his captain, and two of the league’s most seasoned veterans, completely and utterly speechless.

Geno is the first one to move. He lets out a long, slow whistle.

“Wow,” he says, his voice full of awe. “Rookie has, how you say … very big balls.”

Kris is just shaking his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Kid’s got his priorities straight. Damn.” He looks at Sid. “Well, you got the green light, my friend. And a shovel talk from a guy who can’t legally buy you a beer.”

Sid is still processing the whiplash of the last five minutes. He feels like he’s just been through a full-speed collision. The kid’s fierce loyalty, his surprising maturity, his unconditional love for his mom … it’s overwhelming. He’s not just thinking about you anymore. He’s thinking about the incredible young man you raised.

The pre-game buzzer sounds, jarring him back to reality. He has a game to play. But as he finishes tying his skates, his mind is already miles away, replaying Colton’s words.

She deserves a good guy.

The question is no longer if he should ask you out. The question is how he can possibly live up to the impossibly high standard your son just set.

***

The game is a hard-fought, gritty win for the Penguins. A 3-2 victory where Colton plays solid, defensive minutes, finishing the game with a plus-one rating and a handful of blocked shots. You watch from your seat, your heart swelling with a quieter, more sustainable kind of pride. The shock of his first goal has worn off, replaced by the steady joy of watching him belong. He is an NHL defenseman. It’s no longer a dream, it’s his job.

After the final horn, you make your way to the designated family waiting area, a familiar ritual now. The space is smaller and less glamorous than the one in Pittsburgh, but the energy is the same — a low hum of relief and celebration.

The players begin to emerge. Colton spots you immediately, a tired but happy grin on his face. He comes over and gives you a sweaty, all-encompassing hug.

“You play so well tonight, honey,” you say, pulling back to look at him. “That blocked shot in the third was incredible.”

“Thanks, Mom,” he says, his face flushed. “Felt that one in my teeth.” He looks over your shoulder, then back at you, a strange, meaningful glint in his eye. “Hey, can you just wait here for a sec? Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

He says it with a forced casualness that immediately puts you on high alert. Before you can question him, he squeezes your arm and disappears back towards the locker room. You stand there, puzzled, watching the remaining players trickle out.

And then you see him. Sidney emerges from the tunnel, flanked by Geno and Kris. He’s laughing at something Geno said, his face relaxed. He looks up, and his eyes meet yours from across the room. The laughter dies on his lips. He freezes for a split second, a deer caught in the headlights. He gives you a small, hesitant nod of acknowledgment and looks like he’s about to make a sharp right turn and flee.

You watch, fascinated, as an entire silent drama unfolds in the space of three seconds. Geno stops, looks from Sid to you, and then back to Sid with an expression of profound exasperation.

“Sid,” Geno says, his voice a low rumble. “Go now. No excuses.”

Sid shakes his head almost imperceptibly, his eyes pleading. “Geno, I can’t.”

Geno is having none of it. He puts a massive, gloved hand on the middle of Sid’s back. “Yes. You can.”

And then he shoves him.

It’s not a gentle nudge. It’s a full-body, hockey-player push that sends Sidney Crosby — three-time Stanley Cup champion, future Hall of Famer — stumbling forward several steps in your direction. He catches his balance with the practiced grace of a world-class athlete, but his face is a mask of pure mortification. He whips his head around to glare at Geno, who simply beams, gives him a huge, toothy grin, and a double thumbs-up before steering Kris in the opposite direction.

And now, Sidney Crosby is standing five feet in front of you, looking more flustered than you’ve ever seen a human being look. It’s so unexpected, so completely at odds with his public persona, that you can’t help the small smile that touches your lips.

“Uh,” he starts, running a hand through his damp hair. “Hi. Sorry about that.”

“Hi, Sidney,” you say, your voice full of amusement. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Fine,” he says quickly, his eyes darting back towards where Geno disappeared. “He’s … strong.” He clears his throat, his professional composure starting to reassert itself, though his cheeks are still tinged with pink. “It was a great game tonight. Colton played really well. Very responsible in his own end.”

He’s deflecting, you realize. Using hockey talk as a shield.

“He did,” you agree. “I was so proud watching him.”

An awkward silence descends. It stretches for a beat, then two. He’s clearly struggling with something. He takes a deep breath, the kind a person takes before plunging into icy water. His gaze meets yours, direct and sincere now.

“So,” he says, his voice a little shaky. “I know this is … this is probably very forward. And maybe out of line. But Colton happened to mention that you like Italian food.”

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“And I was wondering,” he continues, the words coming out in a slight rush, “if you weren’t too tired, or if you don’t have other plans … if you would let me take you to dinner?”

The question hangs in the air between you, stunning you into silence. Sidney Crosby is asking you out on a date. You feel a thrill, a flutter in your stomach you haven’t felt since you were a teenager yourself. You glance over his shoulder and, as if on cue, Colton peeks out from the locker room doorway. He catches your eye and gives you two enthusiastic, frantic thumbs-up.

The pieces click into place. Colton’s strange behavior, Geno’s shove … it was all a conspiracy. A ridiculous, sweet, high-school-level plot to get the shy captain to talk to the rookie’s mom.

A real, genuine smile breaks across your face, erasing any hesitation.

“I’d love that, Sidney.”

The relief that floods his face is so obvious it’s almost comical. “Yeah? Great. That’s … great.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re sitting across from him in a quiet corner booth at Bernini of Ybor. You’d ridden over in a black car service the team uses, the silence between you filled with the nervous energy of a first date. The restaurant is beautiful, all dark wood and exposed brick, with the low, warm hum of happy diners.

The conversation starts as you expected it would — stilted, polite, and centered around the one thing you have in common: hockey.

“The power play looked good tonight,” you offer, taking a sip of the red wine the waiter recommended.

“Yeah, we’ve been working on the zone entry,” he says, studying his own menu intently. “Getting the puck in with possession is key against a team that pressures like Tampa.”

You talk about Colton’s development, about the team’s schedule, about the different feel of the arenas around the league. It’s nice. It’s safe. But it’s not a date. It’s an interview.

Then, you decide to take a page out of Geno’s book and give things a little push.

“So,” you say, setting your menu down. “What does Sidney Crosby do when he’s not being Sidney Crosby? When the season is over and you can finally breathe. What do you do?”

The question seems to surprise him. He looks up from his menu, his guard dropping for a fraction of a second. “That’s a good question.” He pauses, genuinely considering it. “I go home. To Nova Scotia. I have a place on the lake. It’s quiet.”

“Quiet sounds nice,” you say.

“It is,” he agrees. “It’s the one place I don’t feel like … you know.” He gestures vaguely, a motion that encompasses the restaurant, the fans, the entire world of expectations that surrounds him. “I just fish. See my family. My sister, Taylor. My parents. It’s … normal.”

There’s that word again. The same one Colton used. The longing for normalcy from two people living the most abnormal of lives.

“It must have been a lot,” you say softly. “Being ‘The Next One’ since you were fifteen.”

He gives you a small, wry smile. “It had its moments. It’s a weird way to grow up. Your whole life is scheduled. Hotels, buses, planes, rinks. You miss a lot of stuff. High school dances, proms, just … hanging out.” He shrugs, a gesture of acceptance. “But I got to play hockey for a living. It’s a trade I’d make every single time.”

He leans forward, his elbows on the table, his intensity focused entirely on you now. “What about you? Colton told me … he told me you were eighteen when you had him.”

“I was,” you confirm, your voice steady. “A baby having a baby.”

“You sacrificed a lot for him,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact.

You feel a lump form in your throat, an old, familiar knot of emotion. “They never felt like sacrifices,” you say, and it’s the truest thing you’ve ever said. “When you’re a parent, it’s just … what you do. His dream became my dream. There wasn’t a line between the two.”

“But you must have had your own dreams,” he presses gently.

You find yourself telling him things you haven’t articulated to anyone in years. About your plan to go to college for graphic design. About the part-time jobs that became full-time careers. About the loneliness of parent-teacher conferences and the specific, gut-wrenching fear of your car breaking down when you only have fifty-three dollars in your bank account until payday.

He listens. He doesn’t just hear the words; he actively listens, his eyes full of a deep, quiet empathy. He doesn’t offer platitudes or sympathy. He just nods, creating a safe space for you to speak.

Then, you turn it back on him. “What about you? All those years on the road. It must get lonely.”

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “You’re surrounded by twenty guys all the time, but yeah. It’s a different kind of lonely. Everyone knows the hockey player. Not a lot of people know the person. It’s hard to know who you can trust.”

You talk for two hours. You talk about favorite movies, bad travel experiences, the weirdness of being recognized in public, and the simple joy of a home-cooked meal. You discover he has a dry, understated sense of humor that makes you laugh, a real, deep belly laugh you realize you haven’t done in ages. You feel a connection, a spark of recognition between two people who have lived strangely parallel lives of dedication and sacrifice, albeit in vastly different arenas.

For the first time in as long as you can remember, you are not just “Colton’s mom.” You are you. And the man across from you, he’s not just “Sidney Crosby.” He’s Sid. A kind, funny, surprisingly shy man from Nova Scotia with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

As he pays the bill — insisting over your protests — he smiles. “Colton was right. The gnocchi is amazing.”

“He’s usually right about things like that,” you say, smiling back.

The ride back to the hotel is different. The silence isn’t awkward anymore. It’s comfortable, companionable. He walks you all the way to your hotel room door.

“I had a really, really great time tonight,” he says, his voice sincere. He’s standing a little closer than he needs to.

“Me too, Sid,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

He just nods, his eyes lingering on yours for a long moment before he gives you a small, shy smile and turns to walk down the hall to his own room.

You let yourself into your room, your mind reeling. You lean against the door, a goofy, giddy smile plastered on your face. You feel light, hopeful. You feel like a teenager after a perfect first date.

There’s a soft knock on the adjoining door that connects your room to Colton’s. You open it.

He’s standing there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his expression a comical mixture of a nosy best friend and a worried father.

“Okay,” he says, walking into your room and closing the door behind him. “Full debrief. Now.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up out of pure happiness. “Debrief on what, Mr. Nosy?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Mom,” he says, flopping down onto the edge of your bed. He crosses his arms, trying to look stern and failing miserably. “How was it? Was he a gentleman? Did he make you laugh? Did he say anything stupid? Do I need to go down the hall and kick my captain’s ass?”

“It was wonderful, Colton,” you say, your voice soft. You sink into the armchair opposite the bed. “He was a perfect gentleman. And yes, he made me laugh. A lot.”

The tension drains from Colton’s shoulders, replaced by a genuine, heartfelt relief. “Good,” he says, his voice losing its joking edge. “That’s good. You deserve that.” Then the stern look returns. “Because I meant what I said, you know.”

“I know you did, sweetie,” you say, your heart overflowing with love for this incredible young man you raised. “And that’s one of the million reasons why I love you so much.”

He smiles, a real, happy smile. “I love you too, Mom.” He gets up to leave, then pauses at the adjoining door, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Just one last thing,” he says.

“What’s that?”

“It’s 11:58,” he says, glancing at an imaginary watch on his wrist. “You cut it a little close on curfew.”

You grab the decorative pillow off the armchair and hurl it at him. He dodges it with a laugh, slipping back into his room and closing the door, leaving you alone in the quiet, happy glow of a night that feels, impossibly, like a new beginning.

***

The months that follow your first date in Tampa are a whirlwind of quiet moments stitched together across time zones. The relationship builds not in grand, sweeping gestures, but in the steady accumulation of small, private intimacies.

It’s in the nightly FaceTime calls that become as routine as brushing your teeth. You’ll be curled up on your sofa in Orlando, and he’ll be in a sterile hotel room in Calgary or San Jose, his face tired but his eyes lighting up when he sees you. You talk about everything and nothing — about your day at work, about a funny text Colton sent, about the book you’re reading, about the nagging soreness in his shoulder.

It’s in the dinners when the Penguins are on a home stand in Pittsburgh. He’ll send a car for you, and you’ll fly in for a weekend, staying in a hotel near his home. He introduces you to his favorite sushi place, a tiny, unassuming spot where the owner knows not to make a fuss. He holds your hand under the table, his thumb gently stroking yours, a silent, grounding connection in a world that is always watching him.

Colton, for his part, becomes the wry, supportive gatekeeper of your burgeoning romance. He develops a running joke with his captain.

“Taking my mom out again tonight, Sid?” He’ll ask in the locker room after a morning skate, a twinkle in his eye. “Don’t scratch my car.” The first time he said it, a few of the younger players nearly fainted. Now, it’s just part of the room’s rhythm.

Sid will just shake his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “Not your car, kid. And I’ll have her home by curfew.”

The season grinds on. Colton solidifies his place on the blue line, his confidence growing with every game. The Penguins make a respectable playoff run, battling their way to the second round before being eliminated in a hard-fought six-game series.

The end of the season is always abrupt. One day, there is the singular, all-consuming focus of the Stanley Cup playoffs. The next, there is silence. Boxes to be packed, goodbyes to be said, and the sudden, yawning expanse of the offseason.

You’re in Pittsburgh for the team’s exit meetings, helping Colton pack up the apartment he moved into mid-season. Sid had insisted on taking both of you out for one last dinner before you all scattered for the summer.

You’re at a quiet steakhouse, tucked away in a corner booth. The conversation is easy, comfortable. You’re talking about summer plans. Colton is excited to get home to Florida, to feel the sun, to decompress for a few weeks before his intense training regimen begins.

“What about you, Sid?” Colton asks, polishing off the last of his steak. “Straight back to Nova Scotia?”

“Yeah, that’s the plan,” Sid says, swirling the ice in his water glass. He looks at you, his expression uncharacteristically hesitant. “I was, uh, actually wanting to talk to you both about that.”

You and Colton exchange a curious glance.

“I know the summer is a weird time,” Sid begins, his eyes focused on you. “Everyone scatters. But I go home. To my lake house in Cole Harbour. And it’s … it’s my favorite place in the world. It’s the one place I can just shut everything off.”

He takes a breath. “I was wondering, and I know it’s a lot to ask, and please feel free to say no … but I’d love for you to see it.” He shifts his gaze to include Colton. “I’d love for both of you to come up. For the summer. Or for as long as you want. Colton, you can train with me and Nate. We’ve got a pretty serious setup there. It’ll get you ready for next season.”

Then, his eyes find yours again, and his voice softens. “And you … you can just relax. Read a book by the lake. Go for a walk. Finally have a summer that isn’t about packing up gear and driving to a rink.”

The offer is so full of sincerity, so loaded with unspoken meaning, that it takes your breath away. This isn’t just an invitation for a vacation. This is an invitation into his life. Into his sanctuary.

You look at Colton. His eyes are wide, a slow, incredulous grin spreading across his face. He looks from Sid to you, and he gives the tiniest, almost imperceptible nod.

You turn back to Sid, a warmth spreading through your chest that has nothing to do with the wine.

“Sid,” you say, your voice a little thick. “We’d love to.”

***

Three weeks later, you step off a plane in Halifax, Nova Scotia, and the air is the first thing you notice. It’s clean, cool, and smells of pine and the faint, briny tang of the distant sea. It’s a world away from the thick, humid blanket of a Florida summer.

Sid is there to meet you, looking more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him. He’s in a simple t-shirt, shorts, and a baseball cap. The ever-present tension he carries in his shoulders during the season seems to have melted away. He hugs you, a long, welcoming embrace that feels different here, on his home turf.

The drive to Cole Harbour is beautiful, all rolling green hills and glimpses of the sparkling Atlantic. You eventually turn off the main road and onto a long, winding gravel driveway, trees forming a dense canopy overhead. And then, the woods open up, and you see it.

His house is not the ostentatious mansion you might expect. It’s a beautiful, modern log-and-stone home, nestled perfectly into the landscape, with a wall of windows overlooking a serene, glass-like lake. It’s private, peaceful, and unpretentious. It’s perfectly him.

“Wow,” is all Colton can manage to say from the back seat.

“Yeah,” Sid says, a quiet pride in his voice. “It’s home.”

The summer settles into a rhythm that feels both brand new and deeply familiar. The mornings are for work. Sid and Colton, often joined by a ridiculously energetic Nathan MacKinnon, are gone by 7 a.m. for grueling workouts in Sid’s state-of-the-art home gym, followed by on-ice sessions at a local rink.

You spend your mornings with a cup of coffee and a book on the huge wooden deck that overlooks the lake. You watch the mist burn off the water, listen to the haunting call of the loons, and feel the layers of stress and responsibility you’ve carried for two decades begin to peel away. For the first time in your adult life, your only job is to simply be.

The afternoons are lazy and beautiful. Sometimes the three of you take the boat out, the cool spray a welcome relief in the afternoon sun. Colton learns to waterski, his athletic prowess translating surprisingly well. Other days, you and Sid just sit on the end of the dock, your feet dangling in the shockingly cold water, and talk for hours.

One Sunday, he takes you to his parents’ house for dinner. You’re nervous, but Troy and Trina Crosby welcome you with the easy, unpretentious warmth of Maritime hospitality. They treat you not as a guest, but as family.

Trina pulls you aside in the kitchen as you’re helping her clear the plates. She’s a woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense air you immediately like and respect.

“I haven’t seen Sidney this relaxed, this happy, in years,” she says, her voice quiet as she stacks plates. “Since he was a boy, really. His whole life has been about the pressure. With you, it’s like he can finally just be himself.” She turns to you, her expression full of a mother’s gratitude. “Thank you.”

“He did that himself,” you say, deeply touched. “He’s a wonderful man.”

“Yes,” she agrees, a proud smile on her face. “He is. And he’s got good taste.”

***

One clear, cool night in August, after a long day on the water, you’re all sitting around a crackling fire pit near the edge of the lake. The sky is a deep, star-dusted velvet, the Milky Way a brilliant slash across the darkness.

“I can’t believe we have to leave in two weeks,” Colton says, poking the fire with a long stick. “This has been the best summer of my life.”

“You’ve earned it, kid,” Sid says, his arm resting comfortably around your shoulders. “You put in the work.”

“Thanks to you,” Colton says. “I feel twice as strong as I did last year. I’m ready.” He looks from Sid to you, a deep, mature gratitude in his eyes. He stands up, stretching his long frame. “Alright, I’m beat. I’m heading in. Don’t stay up too late, you two.”

He gives you a kiss on the top of your head and claps Sid on the shoulder before heading up to the house, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, fire-lit dark.

You lean your head on Sid’s shoulder, watching the embers dance. “He’s really grown up this year,” you say softly.

“He’s an incredible young man,” Sid agrees. “You did a hell of a job.”

You sit in comfortable silence for a long time, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the gentle lapping of the lake against the shore.

“A year ago,” you say, your voice barely a whisper, “I was sitting at the draft in Las Vegas. I was so proud, and so terrified. I had no idea what was coming. I was just trying to hold on tight.”

“And I was in the Penguins locker room,” he says, his voice a low rumble next to your ear, “about to draft a kid from the London Knights who was going to completely change my life.”

He shifts, turning to face you. He takes your hand, his fingers lacing through yours.

“I love you,” he says. The words are simple, direct, and hold the weight of a truth he’s been settling into all summer. “I think I’ve been falling in love with you since that first night in Tampa.”

Tears well in your eyes, sparkling in the firelight. “I love you, too, Sid.”

“When I asked you to come here,” he continues, his thumb stroking the back of your hand, “I just hoped you’d like it. I hoped it would be a nice summer. But seeing you here, on the deck in the morning with your coffee, laughing with my mom in the kitchen, sitting right here … it feels like you’ve always been here.”

He brings your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently.

“It feels like home.”

He leans in, and his lips meet yours. It’s not the tentative kiss of a new romance, full of questions and uncertainty. It’s a kiss of deep certainty. It’s a kiss that tastes of woodsmoke and promises, of a shared past and a future you will build together.

You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You look past him, at the dark, peaceful water, at the sturdy, welcoming house, at the brilliant, endless sky. For eighteen years, home was wherever Colton was. It was a person, a responsibility, a fierce and unconditional love.

Now, you realize with a sudden, breathtaking clarity, home has expanded. It’s still the boy, now a man, sleeping soundly in the house behind you. But it’s also the man whose hand you’re holding, the quiet sanctuary he’s built, and the incredible, unexpected love that has filled a part of your heart you didn’t even know was empty. You’re not just Colton’s mom, and he’s not just Sidney Crosby. You’re partners. And you are, finally and completely, home.

***

Three Years Later

The locker room at PPG Paints Arena smells exactly the same. It’s a timeless mixture of sweat, clean laundry, and the sharp, metallic tang of sharpened skates. The energy, however, is different. It’s younger. There’s a new guard, a new rhythm.

Colton Y/L/N, now twenty-two and an alternate captain with a freshly stitched ‘A’ on his jersey, sits on the stool in front of his stall. He’s no longer the wide-eyed rookie trying to stay out of the way. He is the anchor of the defense, a leader in this room, fielding questions from a small cluster of reporters with an easy, practiced calm. The Penguins have just won their season opener, and the mood is buoyant.

“… yeah, I thought the new pairings felt good,” Colton is saying, peeling tape off his shin pads. “Communication was solid. We’ve still got things to clean up, but for the first game, you take the two points and build on it.”

A new voice pipes up from the edge of the scrum. He’s a young reporter from The Athletic, keen to find an angle the veteran journalists might have overlooked.

“Colton,” the reporter begins, “obviously this is the first opening night in a generation without Sidney Crosby being a part of this team. How weird does it feel to start a season without him around?”

Colton stops what he’s doing. He slowly looks up, his expression completely flat. The other, more seasoned reporters around the young man share a subtle, knowing glance. The kid has just stepped on a landmine he doesn’t even know exists.

A long, silent beat passes. Colton just stares, his gaze so incredulous it’s almost comical. Then, a low chuckle escapes his lips. It builds into a full, genuine laugh. He shakes his head, running a hand over his hair.

“Weird to not have him around?” Colton repeats, the question thick with amusement. He picks up his water bottle and takes a long drink, making the reporter wait. “Man, I don’t know,” he says, finally lowering the bottle. “It’s sort of hard to feel that way considering I ate breakfast across from him this morning while he was getting spit up on by my baby sister.”

A stunned silence falls over the scrum. The reporters exchange confused looks. The young journalist who asked the question looks completely lost.

“Your … your baby sister?” He stammers, his pen hovering uselessly over his notepad.

Colton’s expression shifts. He leans forward slightly, adopting the patient, overly-enunciated tone one might use with a small child who can’t grasp a simple concept.

“Yeah,” Colton explains slowly. “Callie. She’s six months old. You know. Little human? Cries, sleeps, spits up on my mom’s husband?”

He lets the words hang in the air, a breadcrumb trail the reporter is still failing to follow. The kid’s face is a perfect mask of incomprehension.

Colton lets out a dramatic, long-suffering sigh.

“Sidney Crosby,” he clarifies, as if explaining 2+2=4. “He’s married to my mom. He’s my stepdad. We live in the same house.”

The collective sound of frantic typing fills the room as the other reporters hammer out their new headlines. The young reporter’s jaw has physically dropped.

Colton grins, the last piece of the puzzle finally clicking into place for the poor kid.

“So, no,” Colton finishes, a triumphant twinkle in his eye. “It’s not weird not having him around.”

He takes another long swig of water, the universal sign for this interview is over. He stands up, stretching his tired frame.

—

When you were fifteen, the world still felt endless, like a place you could get lost in and never have to come back from. It smelled like wet grass after practice, like borrowed jerseys and the sweet smoke that drifted from bonfires on late summer nights.  

That was the year Sidney Crosby started walking you home.

He’d already been the boy people whispered about, the one on the verge of something huge. But to you, he was just the boy who stopped his stride to match yours when your backpack was heavy, who looked at you through fogged-up bus windows like you were the only familiar thing in a world that kept changing too fast.  

You’d tease him for being quiet. He’d tease you for never shutting up. Somewhere in between, it turned into something softer something the universe had written in the stars before either of you knew how to read.

He taught you to skate one winter afternoon at the little rink behind his house, both of you bundled so thick you could barely move. The sky was bruised purple, the air cold enough to bite your nose, and your hands were trembling inside his gloves. You couldn’t stop laughing every time you fell, and he couldn’t stop reaching for you.  

“Stop letting me win,” you said breathlessly after your tenth stumble.  

“I’m not,” he lied easily, grinning.  

You leaned into him, cheeks burning from the cold. “You so are.”  

He shrugged, eyes bright beneath the edge of his toque. “Maybe I just like seeing you smile.”  

And that was it. That was the whole beginning.

The years after that were a blur of growing up together, half kids, half something that felt much older. Long bus rides. Shared playlists. Handwritten letters when he traveled for tournaments. He’d press them into your palm before he left, smelling faintly of soap and winter air.  

When his first interview hit TV, your mom called you in to watch. You tried to play it cool, but your chest had gone warm all the same. The kid with the shy smile and the soft eyes on the screen was still the one who’d held your hand while you tried not to fall. 

By seventeen, things were different. Scouts started showing up, reporters too, and the weight of what could be pressed down on him harder every week. He was still Sid, still the boy who carried your skates and bought you hot chocolate, but now there were people in suits whispering his name in hallways.  

He never let it change how he looked at you. If anything, he held tighter. He’d call from away games, voice quiet and tired, and you’d listen while he talked about drills and travel and the strange loneliness that came with being the kid everyone already decided was special.  

“Everyone keeps saying I’m supposed to be something,” he’d murmur into the phone, static crackling in the line.  

“You already are,” you’d whisper back.  

He’d go quiet for a moment, and then, softly: “You know I couldn’t do this without you, right?”  

You smiled into the dark. “You could. You just don’t have to.”

When draft week came, he begged you to come with him. Not casually, not with that half-grin charm he actually showed up at your door with his cap in his hands and asked your parents if they’d let you go.  

“I’ll make sure she’s safe,” he promised, awkward in the foyer while your mom tried not to laugh. “I just need her there.”  

Your dad looked at you, then at him, then said, “Don’t let her get lost in the airport.”  

Your mom told you afterward that your dad couldn’t even get through his next beer because of how earnestly Sid had asked.

You packed what would fit in a duffel bag. You couldn’t believe any of it was real until you were sitting in that conference room in Ottawa, your hand in his, the smell of cologne and fresh paint hanging in the air. His knee was bouncing the whole time, and when they finally called his name, he just froze.  

“Go,” you whispered.  

He turned to you, eyes wide, and smiled like he’d been waiting for permission.  

You clapped until your hands burned, crying and laughing all at once while he walked to the stage in that new suit. Cameras flashed and somewhere between him pulling on the jersey and the first handshake, he looked right at you and smiled that big crooked smile of his.  

Later, when it was all over and the photographers had finally left him alone, he found you in the hallway, still in that scratchy borrowed blouse. He didn’t say a word, just picked you up and spun you once, his face pressed into your neck.  

“I did it,” he whispered.  

“You did,” you said, grinning against his shoulder. “You really did.”  

He set you down but didn’t let go of your hand. “Don’t go home yet.”  

“I have to, Sid.”  

“Not forever. Just… promise you’ll come when I move. I don’t want to do any of this without you.”  

You promised. Of course you did.

You flew home with him afterward. He couldn’t stop talking, couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t stop looking at you like you were the one who made it happen. You remember sitting in the window seat, his head tipped against your shoulder, his voice low.

“Pittsburgh,” he said, like he was testing the sound of it. “You think you’ll come visit?”

You’d laughed, nudged him with your knee. “Visit? You’re gonna be too busy being famous for me.”

“Bullshit,” he said immediately, voice soft but steady. “You’re coming with me eventually. I’ll figure it out.”

And he did.

He was drafted at seventeen, moved at eighteen, and you visited whenever school and money let you. Holidays. Long weekends. You’d show up at the rink, nervous and proud, and he’d find you in the stands no matter how big the crowd got.  

But those first few years were strange anyway, calls late at night, you half-asleep in your childhood bedroom while he was in some hotel room miles away, whispering about how weird it was to live in a house owned by a legend he looked up to, about how he kept forgetting to eat dinner because he was so focused on training. You’d listen, eyes closed, smiling into the phone.

“You okay?” you’d ask sometimes.

He’d hum a little, that low sound that always meant he was thinking too much. “Yeah. Just... wish you were here.”

Sometimes when you’d visit he’d walk you through locker-room corridors that smelled like tape and sweat and ice, his hand at the small of your back like he still couldn’t believe you were there. “You miss home?” you asked once.  

“Sometimes,” he said, glancing over. “But it feels less far when you’re here.”  

You were twenty when he finally asked you to move to Pittsburgh. He asked like he’d already been carrying the thought around in his chest for months.

“Come here,” he said one night, over video call, his hair a mess from practice and his voice rough with exhaustion. “I can’t do this long-distance shit anymore, Y/n. I hate it. I hate coming home to an empty house. I hate not seeing you.”

You’d blinked, quiet for a moment, because he looked so serious, so heartbreakingly sincere.

“Sid—”

“Just move here,” he interrupted, desperate now. “Please. I’ll get you whatever you need. You can finish school here. Or work. I don’t care. Do nothing at all. I’ll take care of you. I just... I want you here.”

He flew back the next day. Drove straight from the airport to your parents’ house. Sat at the kitchen table across from your dad again, nervous as hell, palms pressed flat against the wood.

“I want to take care of her,” he’d said, voice shaking slightly. “And I can’t do that if she’s in a different country.”

Your mom teared up immediately. Your dad sighed, leaned back, and after a long pause, finally nodded.

And just like that, you were packing boxes, saying goodbye to childhood bedrooms, and watching the world blur past the car window as you followed him to Pittsburgh.

The first apartment wasn’t fancy. It was too quiet at night, and you could hear the hum of the fridge from your shared bedroom. But every morning, he’d wake up first, kiss your shoulder, whisper something half-asleep like, “You look pretty in the morning light.” Every night, he’d pull you against him and fall asleep mid-sentence.

There were days you’d find his gear drying in the bathtub because he didn’t want to wake you by running the laundry too late. There were nights he’d come home so exhausted he’d just drop onto the couch in full hoodie and sweats, mumbling, “Don’t let me nap, I’ll mess up my schedule,” and then you’d end up curled against him anyway, a movie still playing in the background.

He took you to games whenever he could. You’d sit quietly in a seat where he could see you, heart pounding, the cold seeping through your coat while you watched him move. There was something different about seeing him under the lights, all focus and precision. The same boy who once tripped over his own stick now commanded the ice like he’d been born there.  

Between periods he’d skate past and tap his stick on the glass right where you sat. Just once, quick, but always there.  

You’d smile every single time.  

Afterward, when the reporters swarmed him and the cameras flashed, you’d wait in the car with the heater running. He’d slide into the passenger seat, still flushed, smelling like sweat and the faint sweetness of his shampoo.  

“They asked about you again,” he’d mutter, unbuttoning his shirt.

“What’d you say?”  

“That you hate attention.”  

You grinned. “Good answer.”  

He leaned over and kissed your cheek. “It’s true.”

It was all noise and bright lights; media, pressure, expectation, but he still came back to you every night, still left his stick leaning against the wall by the door like it was a normal life you shared. You’d sit together on the couch, half-watching TV, your legs thrown over his lap while he iced his knee.  

“You ever think about where we started?” you asked once.  

He smiled, eyes closed. “Backyard rink, remember?”  

“Yeah.”  

“Still my favourite place in the world.”  

You laughed quietly. “Even after all this?”  

He opened one eye, smiled crookedly. “Especially after all this.”  

When he lifted the Cup at twenty-one, you were there in the crowd, screaming yourself hoarse, surrounded by people who had no idea the girl crying with joy was the same one who’d once knocked him flat on his ass because she couldn’t stop slipping.  

That night, when the world went quiet again, he got home, exhausted and glowing. His hair was still damp from the shower. He didn’t say much—he never did—but when you kissed him, it felt like the whole thing had been leading here.  

He rested his forehead against yours and whispered, “Can you believe it?”  

You smiled. “I can believe you.”  

And the ring he slid on your finger that summer during a quiet ceremony on a Cole Harbour beach with just family and the sound of waves still catches the light the same way now.  

The baby came next, because of course she did.

You’d been nauseous for days before you finally bought the test. He was the one pacing outside the bathroom door, muttering, “Whatever it says, we’ll figure it out.” When you stepped out, teary and smiling, he went pale, then grinned so wide it hurt to look at.  

“Guess we’re really doing this,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.  

“Looks like it.”  

He laughed nervously, then kissed you like it was the first time all over again. “You’re gonna be an amazing mom.”  

“And you’re gonna be—” you stopped, still stunned “—holy shit, Sid. You’re gonna be someone’s dad.”  

He blinked, then started laughing too, the kind of laugh that comes when you’re so scared you can’t do anything else.  

“Jesus Christ,” he said, pulling you into a hug. “I don’t even know how to hold a baby.”  

“You’ll learn.”  

And he did.

Nine months later, you were in a hospital bed with his hand wrapped tight around yours, and the nurse was telling you to breathe. He was pale, trying to look brave, squeezing your hand like he could take the pain for you. And then suddenly she was there, pink and perfect and wailing her lungs out.  

Sophie.  

He cried before you did. Big, stupid tears that caught in his eyelashes. He didn’t even try to hide them. “Hey, bug,” he whispered, voice cracking. “It’s Dad. You’re okay, sweetheart. You’re perfect.”  

You watched him cradle her like she was made of glass. Every instinct in him shifted right then, like the world rearranged itself around that tiny heartbeat.  

It didn’t happen overnight, but the apartment turned into something else, baby clothes hanging over the chairs, formula tins stacked by the sink, a bassinet squeezed between the couch and the wall.  

He’d rush home from practice, still in sweats, to change diapers and rock her back to sleep. When she cried at three in the morning, he’d stumble out of bed mumbling, “Got it, sweetheart,” before you could even move.  

He’d sit in the dim light of the nursery, whispering stories to her about road trips and ice rinks, his voice low and soft.  

You’d watch from the doorway, heart breaking and healing all at once.  

Sometimes he’d look up, catch you there, and smile that small, crooked smile. “Hey,” he’d whisper. “Look what we did.”  

And you’d nod, eyes burning. “Yeah. Look what we did.”

She was colicky and impossibly loud for something so small. You’d walk the floor until your arms ached, both of you running on caffeine and adrenaline. Sid would take over when you couldn’t keep your eyes open anymore, pacing the narrow hall in his socks, whispering nonsense like it was a game plan.  

“Alright, kiddo. We’re gonna regroup. You, me, fresh diaper. Maybe a little bottle. Let’s execute, yeah?”  

Some mornings he’d fall asleep sitting up with her tucked under his chin, one hand cupped over the back of her tiny head. He’d wake an hour later, stiff and grinning. “We survived,” he’d whisper, like it was the first win of the season.  

And then he’d go to practice.  

The team got used to him showing up with dark circles under his eyes, baby spit on his sleeve. A few of the guys teased him and he’d just shrug, that quiet pride sitting behind everything he said. “She’s perfect,” he’d tell them. “Loud as hell, but perfect.”  

He kept a photo of her tucked in his glove compartment. One of those quick Polaroids from the hospital, her wrinkled face, his exhausted smile. He’d touch it sometimes before games, a quick tap like superstition.

And when the concussions started, Sophie was barely starting to stand on her own.  

You’d known it could happen, but nothing prepares you for the stillness of a darkened room, the way he’d wince when the lights were too bright or the noise too sharp. The house would go quiet those weeks; no TV, curtains drawn, Sophie’s toys moved to the far end of the hall.  

You’d tiptoe around with her in your arms, whispering, “Daddy’s resting, bug.”  

Sometimes you’d find her crawling up onto the couch where he lay, blanket pulled up to his chin. She’d place her small hand on his cheek, just sit there, like she could will the ache away.  

He’d open his eyes, dazed and soft. “Hey, Soph,” he’d whisper, and she’d smile that tiny, toothy smile that always broke him open.  

“Da?” she’d ask, the word new in her mouth.  

“Yeah, baby. Way better.”  

It was the smallest thing, her chubby hand on his jaw, his smile, but it felt like a whole universe of love pressed into that quiet room.

She started walking during an off-week. He’d been on the floor building a ridiculous tower of blocks, head still tender, body still tired. You were folding laundry, half-listening to him mumble commentary under his breath.  

“Alright, we’ve got a strong defensive structure,” he said, stacking the last block on top. “Team Crosby looks solid.”  

Then she just… stood up. No warning. No wobble. Took two steps straight toward him, squealing.  

He froze, jaw slack. “Did you—did you see that?”  

You looked up, half a shirt still in your hands, and laughed through a sob. “She’s walking!”  

He caught her before she could fall, scooping her up, spinning once, dizzy and loud. “You did it! You did it, bug!”  

She squealed again, hands fisted in his shirt, and he looked at you over her shoulder, grinning like a fool. “She’s an athlete already.”  

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Or she’s just trying to get away from you.”  

He pressed a kiss to her hair. “Same thing.”  

That night he stayed up late editing video clips of her waddling across the rug, adding dramatic hockey commentary over it. “And Sophie Crosby takes her first stride, beautiful form… what a natural.”  

Time folded around itself after that. Healing, practices, road trips, baby milestones. Sophie’s first full word, dada, of course, her first haircut, her first visit to the rink. She’d toddle around the locker room in a tiny jersey with his number stitched across the back, grabbing at tape rolls and water bottles.  

The guys loved her. They called her the team mascot. She’d stumble from one to another, babbling, sticky fingers clutching protein bars from the snack table.  

Sid never got over it. Every time she called for him, something in his chest lit up.  

“She’s gonna run this place someday,” he said once, watching her chase a puck across the floor.  

You nudged him with your shoulder. “You say that like you’re proud.”  

“I am,” he said easily. “Scared as hell, but proud.”

There were rough days too, nights where his headaches came back, or the pressure of everything he carried pushed down harder than usual. He’d come home quiet, jaw tight, and you’d know without asking.  

You’d hand him the baby, press a kiss to his temple. “Go rock her for a while.”  

And he would. Always. Within minutes the tension would bleed out of his shoulders, replaced by that soft smile you loved more than anything.  

Sometimes you’d catch them dancing in the living room, her tiny head on his shoulder, his bare feet moving slowly across the carpet.  

He’d look up and grin. “She likes Sinatra.”  

“She likes you,” you’d correct, leaning against the doorway.  

He shrugged. “Good taste.”  

She grew fast, too fast. One year bled into the next, the tiny onesies replaced with skates and pink helmets. Sid was the one who laced them up for her the first time. You stood by the boards, camera in hand, heart in your throat.  

She wobbled out onto the ice, small and fearless, arms spread wide for balance. He followed behind her, a few careful strides, his stick dragging the ice.  

“Like this, bug,” he called softly. “Little steps.”  

She mimicked him, tongue poked between her teeth, and took two solid glides before falling on her butt. The sound of her giggle filled the rink.  

He skated over, crouched down, and said, “You okay?”  

“Again!” she shouted.  

He laughed, scooped her up, set her on her feet again. “Atta girl.”  

You caught it all, the light, the laughter, the look he gave her when she tried again. That same look he’d given you when you were fifteen on the backyard rink, back when everything was simpler and smaller and still somehow the same.  

When they came off the ice, she ran to you, cheeks red, curls damp under her helmet.  

“Mommy, I skated!”  

“I saw,” you said, kneeling to hug her. “You were amazing.”  

Sid leaned on the boards behind you, breath fogging in the cold. “She’s got it,” he said quietly.  

You smiled at him over her shoulder. “She’s got you.”  

He reached out, brushed a curl from her forehead. “Lucky kid.”  

You shook your head, eyes soft. “Lucky dad.”  

He grinned, small and shy. “Yeah. That too.”

You were still young yourselves, still figuring it out, but somehow it all worked. The world called him captain, superstar, savior of a franchise, and at the end of every day he came home to you, to her, to the life you’d built quietly between all the noise.  

He’d hang up his keys, toe off his shoes, and say, “Hi, baby.”  

You’d smile from the kitchen. “Hi, yourself.”  

Then he’d drop his gear, scoop Sophie into his arms, and everything would settle.  

And then it happened again the same way it always did with you two: all at once.  

You’d been joking one night while half-asleep on the couch, a movie playing low in the background, Sophie snoring softly on Sid’s chest, about how she needed a little sibling.  

“She’s getting spoiled,” you mumbled, eyes half-shut.  

Sid yawned. “She’s perfect.”  

“She’s bossy.”  

“She gets that from you.”  

You snorted. “Oh, bite me.”  

He smiled, kissing the top of Sophie’s head. “What, you want another one to boss me around?”  

“Maybe,” you said, teasing. “Maybe I do.”  

He turned his head to look at you, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Careful, sweetheart. You know what happens every time we joke about that.”  

You laughed, threw a throw pillow at him, but you were already smiling too wide for him not to notice.  

A few weeks later, you were standing in that same bathroom again, same mirror, same shaky hands, watching the second pink line appear.  

Sid was in the kitchen, still in pajamas, rummaging through the fridge when you walked in. You didn’t even say anything you just held the test out, heart hammering.  

He blinked, then set down the milk carton. “No fucking way.”  

You nodded. “Way.”  

He rubbed his face, started laughing quiet at first, then full on. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. Again?”  

You laughed too, the sound cracking open something warm inside your chest. “Guess we’re doing this again.”  

He kissed you until you couldn’t breathe, then whispered against your mouth, “We’re so bad at not making kids.”  

You giggled. “You say that like it’s a problem.”  

He smiled, forehead resting against yours. “It’s not.”

Sophie was four when Camden arrived, a spring baby, stubborn from the moment she took her first breath.  

Sid cried again. You thought maybe he always would. The nurses barely had time to swaddle her before he was holding her close, whispering things only she would ever know.  

He glanced at you, eyes red, smile wobbly. “She’s got your nose.”  

“She’s got your lungs,” you groaned, laughing weakly as Camden wailed at full volume.  

He chuckled, rocking her gently. “Already knows how to make an entrance.”  

When Sophie came to meet her, she climbed right onto the hospital bed like she owned it, curls wild, eyes wide.  

“My sister?” she asked, peering at the tiny bundle in your arms.  

“Yep,” you said softly. “This is Camden.”  

Sophie frowned. “She’s… small.”  

“She’ll grow,” Sid said, smiling.  

Sophie crossed her arms. “I teach her hockey.”  

Sid laughed. “Good. She’ll need a coach.”  

Sophie looked at him seriously. “I’m coach. You be water boy.”  

You burst out laughing, and even Sid couldn’t stop grinning. “Bossy,” he muttered under his breath, but he looked so damn proud.

Those first weeks with two kids felt like chaos and magic at once. Sid learned to rock Camden with one arm while helping Sophie with her coloring books with the other. The house smelled like baby lotion and spilled juice and something always baking in the oven just a little too long.  

You’d find him sitting on the living room floor, Camden asleep against his chest, Sophie braiding his hair with tiny elastic bands.  

He’d look up and whisper, “Don’t laugh. She said it’s my turn to be the princess.”  

You’d bite your lip to keep from smiling too hard. “You look beautiful, babe.”  

He’d grin. “I know.”  

The nights were harder. The baby cried, Sophie had nightmares, and he had road games that left you both too tired to speak. But every time he came home, no matter how late, he’d peek into both rooms before doing anything else.  

Sometimes you’d wake in the middle of the night to find him standing in the doorway, arms crossed, just watching them sleep.  

“What are you doing?” you’d whisper.  

He’d shrug, still looking at them. “Just… can’t believe this is ours.”  

You’d press your face into his shoulder. “You said that last time.”  

He’d smile quietly. “Still true.”

He became that dad, the one who knew every pediatrician’s number by heart, who memorized nap schedules and snack preferences, who could swaddle faster than most nurses.  

The guys teased him endlessly. “Crosby, you got glitter on your hoodie,” someone would say before practice, and he’d just smirk. “Comes with the territory.”  

But he lived for it. The diaper runs. The bedtime stories. The tiny pink skates lined up by the door.  

One morning, while you were making pancakes, Sophie wandered in wearing one of his jerseys, Camden perched on her hip like a doll.  

“Daddy says girls rule,” she announced proudly.  

Sid followed behind her, rubbing his eyes, hair sticking up. “I did not—”  

Sophie cut him off, grinning. “You did.”  

He groaned, leaning against the counter. “She’s gonna quote me forever.”  

You smiled sweetly. “Good. Maybe she’ll remind you.”  

He looked at both of them, then at you, and that crooked grin crept across his face. “You’re all evil.”  

You kissed his cheek. “You love it.”  

He sighed dramatically. “Yeah, I really do.”

That summer, after a long season, you would go home to a cabin by the lake. No cameras. No schedule. Just you, Sid, and the girls.  

He’d take Sophie out in the canoe while you stayed on the dock with Camden, her little feet kicking in the warm water.  

From a distance, you’d hear Sophie’s laugh echo across the lake, bright and wild. Sid’s voice followed, playful and patient.  

“Don’t rock the boat, bug!”  

“Am not!”  

“You are!”  

You’d watch them disappear around the bend, your chest tight with a kind of happiness you couldn’t explain if you tried.  

Later, when the girls were asleep, you’d sit together on the porch, feet up on the railing, the sound of crickets thick in the air.  

Sid would tilt his beer, glance at you. “You ever think about how lucky we got?”  

You smiled softly. “All the time.”  

He leaned back, head tilted toward the stars. “I don’t know what I did right.”  

“You loved me,” you said simply. “And you never stopped.”  

He looked over, eyes catching the soft glow from the porch light. “That I can promise.”  

And he did. Every day.

By the time Camden was three, things felt balanced in that warm, messy Crosby way. You had it down to a rhythm: two car seats, two different snack preferences, two very different temper tantrums. Sophie was convinced she could raise Camden herself. Camden followed her everywhere, trailing behind with her curls and her constant questions.  

Sidney, for all his schedules and precision, was blissfully chaotic at home. He’d lose his car keys in the fridge, his wallet in the toy bin, his stick tape in the crayon box. But somehow, the house still ran because he made it run.  

You used to joke, “You’re the captain of the Penguins and this house,” and he’d grin that half-smile, scratch his jaw, and say, “This team’s a lot louder.”  

Life felt… whole. Busy and loud and covered in sticky fingerprints, but whole.  

Until one chilly February morning when you stood in the bathroom again, hands trembling, heart hammering against your ribs.  

You didn’t even call for him right away. You just stared at the test on the counter, the same quiet disbelief curling in your chest.  

When you finally did, he came padding down the hall in sweatpants, hair still damp from his shower, half a bagel in hand.  

“What’s up, sweetheart?” he said, voice casual, crumbs clinging to his lip.  

You held up the test.  

He froze mid-chew. “No.”  

You nodded.  

He blinked. “No fucking way.”  

“Sid—”  

He dropped the bagel. “You’re serious?”  

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh. “Dead serious.”  

He dragged a hand down his face, groaning into his palm. “We were careful!”  

You laughed softly. “Apparently not careful enough.”  

He looked up at you, that same overwhelmed look he’d had every single time before, shock melting slowly into something softer, deeper. Then, of course, came the smile. That full, helpless, can’t-fight-it smile.  

“I’m not even mad,” he said quietly. “You know that, right? I just… Jesus, babe. We’re really doing this again?”  

You stepped forward, wrapping your arms around his waist. “Looks like it.”  

He buried his face in your hair, laughing into the curve of your neck. “You’re trying to build a hockey team, aren’t you?”  

You smiled against his chest. “We’re halfway there.”  

He pulled back enough to look at you, his grin softening into something tender. “You sure you’re okay with this?”  

You nodded. “As long as you are.”  

He kissed you once, slow and steady. “Then I’m perfect.”

The ultrasound came a few weeks later, and that was when the real chaos hit.  

You’d been holding his hand, already emotional, already ready to hear “just one,” when the nurse tilted her head and frowned at the screen.  

Sid’s grip tightened. “What’s that face for?”  

She smiled politely. “Well, it looks like… two.”  

He blinked. “Two what?”  

You laughed nervously. “Don’t you dare say—”  

“Two heartbeats,” she finished.  

Sidney’s jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”  

The nurse chuckled. “Definitely not. Congratulations, you’re having twins.”  

There was a full five seconds of silence where neither of you moved. Then he said, very quietly, “Holy shit.”  

You started laughing half disbelief, half hysteria. “Twins. We’re having twins.”  

Sid turned to you, his face pale but smiling, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to lose it. “We’re so fucked.”  

You burst out laughing, tears in your eyes. “Language, Dad.”  

He covered his face with both hands, shaking his head and laughing too. “I don’t even know where we’re gonna put them!”  

You squeezed his knee. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”  

He peeked through his fingers, eyes soft. “You’re way too calm.”  

“You’re way too dramatic.”  

He smiled, leaned over, kissed your forehead. “You love me.”  

You nodded. “Always.”

The months that followed were wild. You’d thought two pregnancies had prepared you, but twins were a whole different story. Sid took it like a mission; organized, meticulous, borderline obsessive. He baby-proofed the baby-proofing. Built cribs side by side, checked their screws twice, made spreadsheets for feeding schedules you didn’t even need yet.  

Sophie and Camden were ecstatic.  

“Can I name one?” Sophie asked.  

“You can help,” you told her.  

“We get a bunk bed?” Camden asked, bouncing on the couch.  

Sid groaned. “Let’s get through the pregnancy first, okay?”  

Every night, he’d press his ear to your belly, trying to guess which one was kicking. “This one’s the troublemaker,” he’d say, hand splayed across your skin.  

You’d laugh. “That’s exactly what you said last time.”  

He’d grin, still focused. “Yeah, and I was right.”

Meadow and Iris arrived in early winter, tiny and perfect, two soft bundles that stole your breath the second you saw them.  

Sid was beside himself. He cried before you even held them, tears streaming unchecked as he whispered, “They’re both here. They’re both here.”  

When the nurse placed them in your arms, one pink, one sleepy, both with that same Crosby chin you felt the world tilt and settle.  

Sid hovered close, brushing a finger down Iris’s cheek. “How the hell did we make four of them?”  

“Magic,” you murmured, half-dazed.  

He smiled, eyes glassy. “You’re magic.”  

You laughed weakly. “You’re delirious.”  

He leaned over, kissed your forehead. “Deliriously in love.”  

Later, when the room went quiet and the girls were swaddled tight in their bassinets, you found him standing between them, hands on the edge of each tiny crib.  

He was whispering softly.  

“What are you saying?” you asked, still groggy.  

He turned, cheeks wet. “Just… trying to promise them everything.”  

You swallowed hard. “Like what?”  

He smiled faintly. “That I’ll always come home. That I’ll never miss a birthday. That I’ll teach them how to skate. That I’ll love their mom forever.”  

Your heart ached at the tenderness in his voice. “You already do all that.”  

He nodded, looking down at the twins. “Just making it official.”

Home got louder after that. Much louder.  

Two bassinets. Two monitors. Two different cries. Sophie became the self-appointed “second mom,” walking around in your slippers with a pacifier in each hand. Camden was mostly interested in their hats.  

Sid was everywhere at once, changing, burping, singing off-key in the middle of the night. The man could score goals in front of thousands but still panic when one baby spit up while the other started crying.  

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered one night at 3 a.m., pacing the nursery with Iris in one arm and a bottle in the other. “You’d think I’d have the stamina for this.”  

From the bed, you called sleepily, “You’re doing great, babe.”  

He looked over his shoulder, smiling despite himself. “I’m running a full penalty kill here.”  

You laughed, rolling onto your side. “And you’re winning.”  

He kissed the top of Iris’s head. “Barely.”

By the time they hit six months, the house was a full-on circus. Sophie and Camden turned the twins’ tummy time into commentary competitions.  

“Meadow’s winning!” Sophie shouted.  

“No, Iris is faster!” Camden countered.  

Sid stood over them, arms crossed, trying to look serious. “Girls, this isn’t a competition.”  

Sophie looked up at him, all big eyes and mischief. “You’re just saying that because Iris won.”  

He opened his mouth, then closed it. “...Maybe.”  

You nearly fell off the couch laughing.

But it wasn’t just funny. It was beautiful. There were moments, soft, quiet ones that stopped you in your tracks.  

Like how Sid always found a way to hold both twins at once, one on each shoulder, whispering to them about their sisters, about the rink, about how lucky they all were.  

Or how, when you all piled into bed on Sunday mornings, four little girls tangled in blankets and curls, he’d just lie there, blinking at the ceiling, that tiny smile on his lips.  

“You okay?” you’d ask softly.  

He’d turn his head, eyes shining with something you could only call peace. “Yeah,” he’d whisper. “I think this is everything I ever wanted.”  

And you’d believe him.

The girls loved his accomplishments like they were their own, parading around the house with Olympic gold dangling from their necks, pretending they were superheroes. Camden once wore his 2010 gold to kindergarten show-and-tell, declaring, “My dad won this for being the best at hockey!”

At games, they’d sit in the stands in little Crosby jerseys, cheering louder than anyone, their tiny voices cutting through the roar of the crowd.

In 2017, when he went back-to-back with the Cup, the twins just babies then sat giggling inside the massive trophy for photos, their chubby legs kicking as Sid laughed, “They fit perfectly.”

Media loved asking about the family in interviews: “How’s fatherhood treating you, Sid?” He’d smile shyly, say, “Best part of my life,” and everyone ate it up.

Now it’s years later, and the noise hasn’t stopped it’s just changed shape. Sophie’s sixteen now, all long legs and confidence, her dad’s calm but your spark. She rolls her eyes when Sid asks about school, but she still hugs him every time he walks through the door. The tough years, the slammed doors, the eye rolls, the quiet distance had softened into something new. There was still attitude, still that teenage fire, but now it came wrapped in warmth and laughter.  

Sid used to joke, “She finally stopped hating me.”  

You’d correct him every time. “She never did. She just forgot she liked you for a minute.”  

And it was true. Somewhere between fourteen and sixteen, she’d turned back toward him, and when she did, it was with all that old affection, plus something new a sense of humor that could disarm the entire household.

Social media became her new playground. It started small: funny clips of her sisters, old photos, harmless jokes. But then she discovered that people on the internet loved her dad.  

The first video she posted was a chaotic montage: Sid in the background doing dishes, folding laundry, tying skates, all set to some pop song that made no sense. The caption said, “Living with an old man who peaked in 2009 (love you tho, dad).”  

You’d been scrolling on your phone when you saw it. “Sid,” you called from the couch, half laughing, half horrified. “You’re viral.”  

He froze mid-step, a dish towel over his shoulder. “What?”  

“Look.” You turned the phone toward him.  

He squinted, then blinked. “That’s… me.”  

“Yup.”  

He frowned. “When did she even film that?”  

You grinned. “Yesterday, when you were folding the laundry and singing Hall & Oates.”  

He looked personally betrayed. “She recorded that?”  

You were laughing too hard to answer.  

Sophie came downstairs a few minutes later, earbuds in, scrolling through her own comments. “Oh my God, Dad, people love you.”  

“People are laughing at me.”  

“They’re laughing with you,” she said, draping her arms around his shoulders. “You’re like a meme, but in a cute way.”  

He blinked. “That’s… not comforting.”  

She kissed his cheek. “You’re welcome.”  

He sighed, glancing at you over her head. “This is my life now, huh?”  

You smiled. “Apparently.”

It didn’t stop there, of course.  

Sophie had inherited his timing, his dry humor, and your mischievous streak, which made her a menace with a camera. She’d film herself asking him the most ridiculous questions just to watch his face.  

“Dad, do you ever wish you were athletic?”  

Sid would pause mid-bite at the kitchen table. “What does that even mean?”  

“Like, if you could play sports or something.”  

He’d stare at her. “I—Sophie. That is what I do.”  

She’d smirk into the camera. “Oh right. I forgot.”  

He’d glance at you, half amused, half exasperated. “She’s your kid.”  

You’d smile sweetly. “She’s our kid.”  

Sometimes she’d post old photos, grainy Polaroids of you and Sid from when you were teenagers, laughing in some forgotten kitchen, arms around each other. Or pictures of her as a baby sitting on his lap after a game, his cheeks flushed and tired, his smile soft.  

The captions were always equal parts chaos and love.  

“They’ve been embarrassing me since 2009.”  

“Proof my parents were hot and in love before I existed.”  

You didn’t know whether to be flattered or cry.  

Her followers loved it. 

Sid was horrified.  

“People shouldn’t even know what our kitchen looks like,” he muttered one evening, scrolling through the comments on your phone.  

You grinned. “Relax, no one’s complaining about your knife skills.”  

He groaned. “This is your fault. You’re too calm about this.”  

“Because she’s responsible,” you said. “And she’s funny. Look how happy everyone is.”  

He rubbed his face, half laughing, half defeated. “I just don’t understand why people care.”  

“Because she’s you, Sid,” you said softly. “And people like you.”  

He paused, lowering the phone. “She’s not me. She’s better.”  

You smiled. “That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”  

One evening, you found them both sitting in the living room, the TV on some old war documentary. Sophie was trying to convince him to record a “get ready with me” video for a laugh.  

She pointed the camera toward him. “Okay, Dad, tell them your skincare routine.”  

He blinked at the screen. “Uh… soap?”  

She laughed so hard she nearly dropped her phone.  

He tried again. “I use… water?”  

“Iconic,” she said, gasping through giggles. “You’re an influencer.”  

He smiled, shaking his head. “You’re out of your mind.”  

You leaned against the doorway, watching them, that warm hum in your chest.  

He caught your eye, grin softening. “What?”  

You shrugged, smiling. “Just… you two.”  

He looked at Sophie, then back at you. “She’s pretty amazing, huh?”  

You nodded. “She always has been.”  

And she was, every bit of her.  

The confidence, the humor, the fire. All those parts of her that were his and yours and entirely her own.  

They’d made it through every phase, every storm, every slammed door.  

And now here she was, sixteen and fearless, reminding the whole world just how good a dad he really was.

Despite his protests, he couldn’t stay mad. He never could. Especially not when Sophie would curl up beside him on the couch some nights, phone in hand, grinning.  

“Dad, read the comments.”  

He’d shake his head. “Nope. I’m not doing that.”  

“C’mon,” she’d insist, shoving the phone toward him. “They love you. Look, someone said you are ‘bee-keeping age.’”  

He blinked. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”  

“Yes.”  

He sighed. “Then… fine.” He’d hand the phone back, muttering, “You’re all insane.”  

But the next morning, you’d catch him humming while he made coffee, that small smile tugging at his mouth.  

“You read more of the comments, didn’t you?” you teased.  

He looked up, trying to hide his grin. “They said I was ‘wholesome.’ I can live with that.”  

You laughed softly. “You’re a natural-born influencer, Crosby.”  

He pointed his spoon at you. “Don’t say that word to me.”

Sophie knew exactly how far she could push it, and she never crossed the line. She didn’t post anything private, never the girls’ faces without asking, never anything from the house that felt too personal. She understood, instinctively, how much her parents valued their quiet life.  

When her following grew, thousands, then tens of thousands, and more, she came to you both one evening, nervous, twisting her hair.  

“I just wanted to tell you before it gets weird,” she said. “It’s kinda blowing up.”  

Sid looked like he’d swallowed a puck. “Define ‘blowing up.’”  

“Like… people are making edits of you and Mom.”  

He blinked. “Edits?”  

She nodded. “Like, cute little montages. Everyone thinks you’re couple goals.”  

You laughed quietly, heart warm. “We are couple goals.”  

Sid groaned. “This is so bizarre.”  

Sophie reached out, squeezed his arm. “It’s all good stuff, Dad. I promise. People love how normal you are.”  

He stared at her. “That’s the strangest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”  

But then she smiled, wide, earnest, proud, and something in him melted, as it always did.  

He sighed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Alright, alright. Just… keep it kind. No videos of me snoring.”  

She grinned. “Too late.”  

He groaned, burying his face in his hands while you laughed beside him.  

But you caught the way he looked at her afterward, how soft his eyes went, how full of quiet pride they were.  

She’d found her own kind of spotlight, and she was using it with grace. Just like her father, even if he couldn’t see it yet.

Sid had always known Sophie was good, but sixteen made him realize she wasn’t just good. She was special.  

She didn’t skate like a girl learning from her dad, or like a kid trying to live up to a name. She skated like someone who’d been born on the ice, who understood every inch of it down to the smallest sound. She read plays like she’d been studying them since before she could talk which, in a way, she had.  

Every stride, every shift of her body, every snap of the puck against her stick, it was all hers.  

“Jesus,” Sid muttered under his breath one afternoon, watching her run a drill from behind the glass. “She’s better than I was at that age.”  

You grinned from beside him. “I know. You look terrified.”  

He laughed softly. “I am.”  

“Why?”  

“Because she’s sixteen and faster than me.”  

You nudged him with your elbow. “You love it.”  

He smiled, eyes never leaving the ice. “I really, really do.”

They’d still skate together when they could, early mornings before anyone else hit the rink, or late at night when the building was quiet.  

He’d be the one lacing up beside her, hair tucked under a beanie, muttering, “You ready, bug?”  

She’d smirk, tugging her gloves on. “You sure you are, old man?”  

He’d snort. “You’re not beating me today.”  

“Yeah, okay.”  

Ten minutes later, she’d fly past him, flick the puck into the top corner, and shout over her shoulder, “Looks like I win again!”  

He’d laugh, hands on his knees, pretending to catch his breath. “You’re lucky I’m 38 and not 16.”  

“You’re lucky I’m not in the league yet,” she’d shoot back.  

He’d grin at her, that same proud, boyish grin that used to melt you. “God, I love you.”  

“Love you too, Dad,” she’d say, and it always caught him a little off guard, how easy she said it now.

He went to every single game he could. Sometimes he’d try to blend in, hat pulled low, hoodie up, but it never worked. Not in Pittsburgh.  

Parents would glance his way, whisper, “Is that—?”  

Kids would sneak looks over their shoulders.  

He never made a scene, never drew attention. He just sat quietly beside you, hands clasped, eyes fixed on the ice. You’d feel him tense with every play, muttering soft commentary under his breath like he was coaching through instinct alone.  

When Sophie scored, he’d break his rule, always just once, clapping louder than anyone else in the stands.  

“That’s my girl,” he’d say under his breath, eyes bright.  

After the game, people would approach, always polite, always hesitant.  

“Mr. Crosby, could we maybe get a photo?”  

He’d smile, that shy, practiced one, and say, “Of course, as long as it doesn’t bother the team.”  

Sophie would roll her eyes when she saw the line forming near the locker room. “You’re more famous than me, Dad.”  

He’d grin. “Not for long.”  

She’d smirk, bump his shoulder as they walked out together. “You’re right about that.”  

And he’d just shake his head, grinning to himself.

Sophie drove now, which was both thrilling and terrifying.  

She’d toss her keys in the bowl by the door like it was nothing, while you and Sid stood there remembering the days she couldn’t even tie her skates without help.  

“Where are you going?” Sid would ask.  

“Out,” she’d say.  

“With who?”  

“Friends.”  

“Names.”  

“Dad.”  

“Places.”  

“Dad.”  

You’d hide your laugh behind your coffee mug.  

He’d grumble under his breath, watching her walk out with her hair up, hoodie zipped, confidence radiating off her. “Friends,” he’d mutter. “That’s code for boys.”  

You’d smile softly. “She’s smart. And she’s yours. She’ll be fine.”  

He’d sigh. “I know. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”  

Sometimes you’d catch him watching her from the porch when she came home, headlights flashing across the driveway. He’d wait until she was inside before locking the door, muttering something about “protocol.”  

You’d tease him gently. “You’re still tracking her location, aren’t you?”  

He’d give you that stubborn look. “Obviously.”

Camden was thirteen now and blossoming into her own brand of chaos. She’d appointed herself Sid’s personal stylist, claiming he needed a “younger perspective.”  

Before every home game and road trip, she’d stand in front of his open closet, arms crossed, scanning the suits like a fashion critic.  

“This one,” she’d say, holding up a navy jacket. “It says, I’m mature but approachable.”  

He’d blink. “I just want it to say I’m on time.”  

She’d grin. “You’re welcome.”  

Some days she’d braid his hair, little messy ones he’d leave in longer than he should’ve, just because it made her happy.  

“You look pretty, Daddy,” Iris would say, watching from the kitchen counter.  

He’d wink. “Always do, sweetheart.”  

Meadow, quieter and more thoughtful, had taken up drawing. She’d sit cross-legged on the floor, sketching her sisters or the dog or Sid lacing up his shoes.  

When she showed him one once, him tying Sophie’s skates while she leaned on his shoulder, he just stared at it for a long time.  

“Can I keep this?” he asked softly.  

She nodded. “It’s for you.”  

He smiled, tucking it into his wallet. “You’re gonna make me cry.”  

“You cry all the time,” Iris said, giggling.  

And he laughed, eyes wet. “Yeah, I kinda do.”

Life moved fast, but it was good better than good. It was warm and full and alive.  

The house buzzed with music and laughter and the sound of skates clattering by the door. The twins chased the dog through the living room, Camden argued over hair ties, and Soph would sit at the kitchen table taping her stick while her dad watched from across the counter.  

He didn’t say it out loud, but you could see it in the way he looked at her: proud, in awe, a little heartbroken that she’d grown up right before his eyes.  

“You ready for tomorrow?” he always asked, voice low.  

She smirked, not looking up. “Always.”  

“Think you’ll score?”  

She grinned. “Only if you’re watching.”  

He smiled. “Always, bug.”  

And she knew he meant it.  

Because no matter how old she got, or how big her world became, there’d always be one constant, her dad, standing somewhere behind the glass, eyes shining, heart full, whispering the same thing he had since she was two years old:  

“That’s my girl.”

The drive home from the rink was always quiet the way only post-game rides can be. Like tonight was, Sophie is still flushed from adrenaline, the twins in the back half-asleep against each other, Camden humming along to whatever pop song played low through the speakers. Sid had one hand on the wheel, the other absently tapping the beat on his thigh.  

By the time you pulled into the driveway, the sky was turning that soft blue-gray that means dinner’s late but nobody cares. The house filled up fast: skates thunked down by the door, bags dropped in the hall, the faint smell of the crockpot that had been on all afternoon greeting everyone.  

Meadow and Iris went straight to the table, already pulling out their math homework, pencils tapping and papers shuffling like they were running a tiny study group. Camden flopped onto the couch, remote in hand, announcing, “I earned this.”  

“You fell asleep during the 3rd,” Sophie teased, brushing past her.  

“Exactly,” Camden said, completely serious.  

Sid shook his head, laughing under his breath as he followed you into the kitchen. He grabbed the cutting board while you turned on the stove, the two of you moving around each other the way people do when they’ve been doing it forever. He chopped vegetables; you stirred the sauce; Iris came in every few minutes asking for help with fractions.  

“Seven-eighths plus one-half,” Sid muttered, glancing at her paper. “That’s—uh—”  

“—one and three-eighths,” you said without missing a beat.  

He pointed his knife at you. “Show-off.”  

You smirked. “Still smarter than the captain.”  

The kitchen was alive with noise: sizzling pans, the twins arguing softly about decimals, Camden laughing at something on TV. It was the kind of noise that filled you up instead of wearing you down.  

Sophie came down the stairs about twenty minutes later, hair still damp from her shower, the faint smell of her shampoo trailing behind her. But it wasn’t her hair that made Sid’s knife pause mid-chop, it was the outfit.  

Jeans. A fitted top. Her favorite jacket. Makeup. The kind of look that said I’m not staying in tonight.  

Sid turned, brows up. “Where are you going?”  

“Out,” she said, breezy as anything, grabbing her phone from the counter.  

He blinked. “Out where?”  

She was already slipping on her shoes. “Just out, Dad.”  

“What friends?”  

She smiled without looking at him. “Friends you know.”  

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, because you did know. The boyfriend. The same one she’d told you about quietly one night while helping you with laundry, cheeks pink but eyes bright.  

Sid didn’t know yet.  

He crossed his arms, leaning against the counter. “Names, please.”  

She sighed, exasperated. “Dad.”  

“Places, too.”  

“Dad.”  

You were definitely giggling now, trying to look busy stirring the sauce.  

He looked over at you, suspicious. “What’s funny?”  

“Nothing,” you said, badly hiding a smile.  

Sophie rolled her eyes, knowing she’d lost that side of the argument. “It’s fine, Mom knows.”  

That made Sid turn fully toward you. “You know?”  

You lifted a shoulder, pretending nonchalance. “Mhm.”  

“And you didn’t tell me?”  

You grinned, enjoying yourself now. “Wasn’t my secret to tell.”  

He stared at you both, connecting dots in real time. “Wait. Wait a second.”  

Sophie was halfway into her jacket when he said, “It’s a boy, isn’t it?”  

She froze. “It’s—”  

He held up a hand. “Don’t. Don’t say ‘a friend.’”  

She smiled, trying not to laugh. “It’s… a friend.”  

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.  

You lost it then, laughing softly as you leaned against the counter. “Sid—”  

“No, no, it’s fine,” he said, voice rising just a little. “It’s just—when did she get old enough to have friends?”  

“About three years ago,” you teased.  

He looked from you to Sophie and back again, and something in his expression shifted, a flash of disbelief and understanding, the realization that this was exactly how it started for the two of you. He’d been her age when he first waited outside your door, palms sweating, pretending to be just a friend.  

He pointed at Sophie, half scolding, half helpless. “You know I was your age when I started seeing your mom?”  

Sophie groaned. “Ew, Dad, I don’t need that visual.”  

He grinned, shaking his head. “I’m just saying—I know how this goes.”  

You stepped in then, gently touching his arm. “And you turned out okay.”  

He sighed, looking at you with that mix of love and exasperation that’s carried you both through a lifetime. “Barely.”  

Sophie leaned over, kissed his cheek. “You’re being dramatic.”  

He tried to scowl, but his voice softened. “Text me when you get there, okay?”  

“I always do.”  

He pointed a finger. “And no speeding.”  

“I’m literally the best driver in this house.”  

“Watch it,” he warned, but he was smiling now.  

She laughed, waved at you both, and was gone in a flash, door swinging shut, the sound of her car fading down the street.  

For a second, the kitchen was quiet except for the faint buzz of the stove and the twins whispering about long division at the table.  

Sid leaned back against the counter, exhaling. “I hate this.”  

You smiled, sliding an arm around his waist. “You don’t. You’re just remembering what it felt like.”  

He nodded slowly, eyes softening as he stared toward the door. “Yeah. That’s exactly the problem.”  

You pressed your cheek against his shoulder. “She’s fine, Sid. You raised her right.”  

He kissed the top of your head, voice low. “I know. I just wish time would slow down.”  

From the living room, Camden shouted, “Dad, come here! They’re showing highlights of your rookie season!”  

He groaned. “Great. Just what I need. More reminders I’m ancient.”  

You laughed quietly, turning back to the stove. “Go on, old man. Your fan club awaits.”  

He kissed your temple before walking away, muttering something about “ungrateful children,” and the sound of his laughter mixed with Camden’s filled the room again.  

Somewhere upstairs, Sophie’s room light flicked off, her perfume still faint in the air, her laughter still lingering in your ears.  

Sixteen. You remembered it well, the thrill, the nerves, the first taste of freedom.  

And now it was her turn, with her dad watching the door like he always had, torn between pride and nostalgia, the two oldest hearts in the house beating in the same quiet rhythm.

The night settled in soft and warm after dinner, like it always did after a long day on the ice. The living room glowed gold from the lamplight, movie flickering faintly across the walls. The girls were scattered across the couch in a pile of limbs and blankets: Camden tucked against your side, Iris and Meadow half-asleep on Sid’s lap, and you pressed against him with your head on his shoulder.  

Sid’s fingers absently traced lazy shapes along your arm while the twins snored softly against his chest. Every now and then, Camden would mumble something about the movie and you’d smile, brushing her hair back. It was quiet and comfortable in that perfect way, the kind of family stillness that made the world outside feel irrelevant.  

Then the front door creaked open.  

Sid’s head lifted immediately.  

Sophie stepped inside, hair a little tousled from the cold, cheeks flushed, that unmistakable post-date smile tugging at her mouth as she glanced at her phone and typed something, thumbs flying.  

“Hey,” she said casually, kicking her shoes off.  

“Hi, baby,” you said softly. “Good time?”  

“Yeah,” she murmured, still texting, still smiling.  

Iris stirred against Sid’s chest. “Who’re you texting?” she asked sleepily, voice small.  

Sophie froze for a second. “Just a friend.”  

Camden was more awake than she looked. “Ohhh, a friend,” she teased, grinning from her nest of blankets.  

“Shut up, Cam.”  

Sid smirked. “Yeah, Cam, be nice to your sister.” He paused, eyes narrowing just slightly. “So… what kind of friend are we talking about?”  

Sophie groaned, dramatically tossing her head back. “Dad.”  

“Don’t ‘Dad’ me. I’m just asking questions.”  

“Yeah, interrogating,” Camden muttered.  

He ignored her. “Did you guys go out to eat?”  

“Mhmm.”  

“Where?”  

“Just a diner.”  

“Which diner?”  

“Does it matter?”  

“Yes.”  

You were laughing quietly now, shaking your head against his shoulder. “Sid, let her breathe.”  

“I’m just getting information,” he said, trying and failing to sound casual.  

Sophie plopped down on the armchair across from him, still glowing from whatever time she’d just had. “It’s fine, Mom already knew.”  

He shot you a look. “You knew again?”  

“Maybe.”  

He groaned. “You two are a conspiracy.”  

Camden giggled, “She’s dating, Dad!”  

“I’m not dating,” Sophie corrected. “We’re just hanging out.”  

“Good,” Sid said immediately. “Because dating isn’t necessary.”  

“Oh, for God’s sake.”  

“No boys,” he said, deadpan. “Just focus on hockey.”  

You snorted. “Yeah, because that’s realistic.”  

“Worked for me,” he said, smug.  

Sophie’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh yeah? Then what about Mom?”  

He blinked. “What about her?”  

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, grinning now, reaching for the bookshelf. “Just wondering what your definition of ‘no dating’ was when you were sixteen.”  

“Don’t you dare,” he warned, already laughing because he knew exactly what she was doing.  

“Oh, I dare.”  

She pulled down the old photo album you kept there, the one with frayed corners and a thousand memories pressed between its pages. She flipped it open dramatically and turned it toward him. “You’re lucky Grandpa didn’t kill you, sir. Look at this.”  

The twins, suddenly wide awake, scampered over to see. “Is that you, Daddy?” Iris gasped, pointing.  

It was. A younger Sid in a hoodie and backward cap, standing in front of your parents’ house with his arm around a teenage version of you. You were both laughing, faces flushed, a little too close.  

“Yep,” Sophie said triumphantly. “Caught red-handed. The teenage menace himself.”  

Camden squinted. “Mom, you look so young.”  

“I was young,” you laughed, reaching for the album. “That was before your dad learned how to shave properly.”  

Sid groaned, rubbing his face. “Jesus. I was a child.”  

“You were sneaking out of my house,” you corrected.  

Sophie nearly choked laughing. “See! Grandpa told me about that!”  

Sid pointed at her, mock serious. “Your grandpa is a traitor.”  

“Grandpa said you used to show up at 11 p.m. in your stupid hoodie and tap on her window,” Sophie continued gleefully. “With a stick in your hand because you’d just left practice.”  

“Okay, I’m cutting this story off,” Sid said, grabbing for the photo book.  

You swatted his hand away. “Nope, it’s staying open.”  

He sighed, half smiling. “You all gang up on me.”  

“Because you deserve it,” you said sweetly.  

Sophie smirked. “So maybe you don’t get to tell me no boys, considering you were the blueprint, old man.”  

He tried not to laugh, jaw tightening like he was holding onto authority by a thread. “That was different.”  

“How?”  

“I was responsible.”  

“Sure you were,” you said, unable to keep a straight face.  

Camden giggled. “Dad, you were totally not responsible.”  

Iris gasped again, clutching the photo album. “Daddy, your hair looks funny.”  

“It was the two-thousands!” he groaned. “We all looked funny!”  

The next morning, Sophie’s latest upload popped up on your feed, a short, quiet video.  

It was just a photo of you and Sid at seventeen, grinning into the camera, her caption simple:  

They said no dating at sixteen. Hypocrites.  

You showed Sid at breakfast, sliding your phone across the table.  

He stared at it for a long moment, lips twitching. “She’s grounded again.”  

You laughed, kissing his cheek. “You love it.”

He sighed, shaking his head. “Yeah. I really do.”

Then he smiled, the kind that still felt like the boy from the photo, and went back to flipping pancakes while his daughters bickered and the morning sunlight caught on the old photo album, open still on the couch, a reminder of everything you’d built and everyone they’d become.

—

The car ride home is quiet, but not the bad kind. It's the kind of quiet that hums, like the air's holding its breath. You're both still buzzing from dinner, first date night in God knows how long, no kids, no interruptions, just the two of you at a candlelit table with wine and actual adult conversation. Sidney's hand hasn't left your thigh since you got in the car, his fingers warm through your dress, thumb brushing lazy circles that make your skin tingle. You're not sure if it's the merlot or the way his jaw looks in the streetlights, but you're already half gone, and you haven't even made it through the front door.

The kids are gone for the night, your youngest, barely a year old, is with your mom, probably drooling on her couch, and the older two are off at sleepovers, probably terrorizing their friends' parents with sugar-fueled chaos. It's just you and Sid. For once. No bottles to warm, no bedtime stories, no 3 a.m. wake-ups. Just this heavy, electric thing between you that's been simmering for months, buried under quickies and exhaustion and the kind of vanilla sex that gets the job done but leaves you both craving more.

You used to be wild. Before the kids, before the schedules, before life got in the way. Back when you'd fuck on the kitchen counter just because it was Tuesday, or when Sid would pin you against the shower wall and make you forget your own name before breakfast. Now? It's been months of one-round, lights-off, let's-be-quiet-so-we-don't-wake-the-baby sex. Not bad. Just not you. Not him. Not the way it used to be, when you'd leave each other wrecked and grinning and barely able to walk.

Tonight feels different. Like you're both teetering on the edge of something feral again.

Sid pulls into the garage, kills the engine, and looks over at you, his eyes dark under his eyelashes. "You looked fucking incredible tonight," he says, voice low, like he's been holding it in all evening.

You smirk, unbuckling your seatbelt. "You're not so bad yourself, Crosby. Cleaned up nice for once."

He snorts, climbing out of the car, his dress shirt stretching across his shoulders in a way that makes your mouth dry. "Don't get used to it. I'm back in sweats tomorrow."

"Tragic," you tease, following him inside. The house is too quiet without the kids, a little eerie, but also freeing. Like you're sneaking around in your own life. You kick off your heels by the door, the clack of them hitting the floor loud in the stillness, and Sid's already loosening his tie, tossing it over the back of a chair like it personally offended him.

"You want a drink?" he asks, heading for the kitchen, his voice carrying that post-date-night rasp that always makes your stomach flip.

"Nah," you say, brushing past him toward the stairs. "I'm gonna change. Don't fall asleep on me, old man."

He groans, leaning against the counter, watching you go. "I'm not that old. And I'm not sleeping. I've got plans."

You glance over your shoulder, one brow arched. "Plans, huh?"

His eyes flick down your body, lingering on the curve of your hips in your dress. "Yeah. Big ones."

You laugh, soft and a little breathless, and head upstairs, your heart already pounding. You've got a plan of your own, one he doesn't know about yet. One that's been tucked away in the back of your closet for years, waiting for a night like this.

The bedroom is dim, just the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting shadows across the king-sized bed. You slip out of your dress, letting it pool on the floor, and open the closet, reaching for the box you hid behind a stack of sweaters. Your fingers brush the tissue paper, and your pulse kicks up a notch. The lingerie is exactly as you remember it, delicate, white lace, soft and sheer in all the right places, the same set you wore on your wedding night. Back when Sid couldn't keep his hands off you for more than five minutes, when he'd torn it off you by 2 a.m. and promised to buy you a new one. He never did. You never cared.

You slip it on, the fabric cool against your skin, hugging your curves like it was made for you. A sheer teddy, all lace and thin straps, with a neckline that dips low and a hem that barely skims your thighs. You adjust the straps, smooth your hands over your hips, and take a deep breath. Your reflection in the mirror looks like a memory, like the woman you were before life got so damn busy, before you were chasing toddlers and wiping spit-up off your shoulder. You feel like her again. And you know Sid's gonna lose his fucking mind.

Downstairs, you hear him moving, ice clinking in a glass, the soft thud of his shoes hitting the floor. You smile to yourself, nerves and anticipation twisting together in your chest. You slip on a silk robe, just to keep the surprise under wraps, and head to the closet door.

"Sid?" you call, voice light, teasing. "You coming up or what?"

His footsteps are already on the stairs, heavy and quick. "Yeah, yeah, keep your panties on, actually no take 'em off," he calls back, and you bite your lip to stifle a laugh. Oh, he has no idea.

You hear him enter the bedroom, the mattress creaking as he drops onto it with a tired groan. "Fuck, I'm beat," he mutters, probably stretching out, still in his dress shirt and slacks, one arm slung over his eyes like he's half-asleep already. "You better not be putting on clothes, babe. I'm serious."

You don't answer. Not yet. You untie the robe, let it slide to the floor, and step out of the closet, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk. "How's this?"

He lifts his arm, blinks once, and then his whole body freezes. His mouth drops open, just a little, and his eyes, God, his eyes, go wide, dark, and hungry, raking over you like he's never seen you before. The lace clings to your skin, leaving nothing to the imagination, and you can practically feel the heat of his gaze as it drags over the curve of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the bare skin of your thighs.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he breathes, sitting up so fast the headboard rattles. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, standing in one fluid motion, his slacks pulling tight across his thighs. "Is that?"

"Mhmmmm… thought you might need a reminder."

He's across the room in two strides, hands finding your hips, his eyes still glued to the lingerie like he's trying to memorize every inch. "You're trying to kill me," he murmurs, voice rough, low, already fraying at the edges. "You, fuck, babe, you look…"

He doesn't finish the sentence. Doesn't need to. His hands are already moving, sliding over the lace, thumbs brushing the sheer fabric where it stretches over your hips. He's looking at you like you're a goddamn miracle, like he's twenty-five again and you're standing in that hotel suite on your wedding night, about to ruin him for anyone else forever.

"You like it?" you ask, tilting your head, letting your hair fall over one shoulder.

"Like it?" He laughs, short and ragged, like you've just asked the dumbest question in the world. "I'm about to lose my fucking mind."

You grin, stepping closer, your hands finding the buttons of his shirt. "Good. That's the plan."

His breath hitches as you start unbuttoning, slow and deliberate, your fingers brushing his chest with every undone button. He's already hard, you can tell by the way he shifts, the way his slacks tent just slightly, the way his hands grip your hips like he's trying not to drag you to the bed right now. But he lets you set the pace, lets you peel his shirt off, lets you run your hands over the hard planes of his chest, his abs, the familiar scars and muscle that still make your mouth water after all these years.

"You're gonna make me beg, aren't you?" he murmurs, leaning in to kiss the curve of your neck, his lips hot and soft against your skin.

"Maybe," you tease, pushing him back toward the bed until the backs of his knees hit the mattress. He sits, pulling you with him, your thighs straddling his lap as the lace rides up just enough to make him groan.

"Fuck, baby," he whispers, hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the sheer fabric. "You've been holding out on me."

You laugh, low and breathy, grinding down just enough to make him hiss. "We've been busy, Sid. Three kids'll do that to you."

He groans again, head tipping back as you roll your hips, the friction of his slacks against the thin lace making your head spin. "Don't remind me. I love 'em, but, fuck, I missed this."

You lean in, lips brushing his ear. "Missed what?"

He growls, low and desperate, his hands gripping your ass hard enough to leave marks. "You. This. Us. The way you make me fucking crazy."

You smile against his jaw, kissing the stubble there, feeling the way his body tenses under you, like he's barely holding it together. "Good. Because I missed it too."

That's all it takes.

Sid's mouth crashes into yours, a full-on assault, hot, wet, and filthy, his tongue plunging into your mouth with a hunger that makes your knees buckle. You kiss him back just as brutally, lips sliding together, tongues tangling in a messy, desperate dance, his teeth grazing your lower lip until you moan into his mouth. His stubble scrapes your chin and upper lip, leaving a delicious burn as you suck on his tongue, tasting the faint bitterness of wine and the raw need radiating off him. Your hands fist his hair, pulling hard, and he groans, the sound vibrating through you, making your core throb. You pull back, gasping for air, your lips swollen and slick, but Sid doesn't give you a second to breathe. He dives back in, chasing your mouth with a low, needy sound, his tongue thrusting deeper, kissing you like he's trying to consume you, like he's been starving for this for months. Spit clings to your lips, a thin string connecting you as you pull back again, panting, but he's relentless, dragging you back for another bruising, open-mouthed kiss that leaves you dizzy.

"Fuck, baby," he mumbles against your lips, his voice rough and frayed, his hands sliding down to grip your ass through the lace, fingers sinking into the soft flesh. "Just like that." Your body presses tight against him, your breasts crushed against his bare chest, the sheer teddy doing nothing to hide the way your nipples harden, poking through the delicate lace. You grind down onto his lap, feeling the thick, pulsing heat of his cock through his slacks, the fabric pulling tight across his muscular thighs, and he hisses, his hands squeezing harder, urging you to move again. "You're so good for me," he murmurs, his lips brushing your jaw, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver through you.

"Sid, fuck," you gasp, your voice breaking as his lips trail down your throat, sucking at the sensitive skin below your ear, his teeth scraping lightly, making your core clench with need. His hands roam, one sliding up to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple through the lace.

"Need to taste you," his voice is low and wrecked, his lips brushing the pulse point of your neck as he flips you onto your back at the edge of the bed. Your body bounces against the mattress, legs dangling over the side, the lace teddy riding up to expose the soft curve of your hips, the tops of your thighs glistening with sweat. Sid drops to his knees between your legs, his broad shoulders, thick with muscle from years on the ice, filling the space, his calloused hands gripping your thighs with a possessiveness that makes your heart pound. He leans in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your pussy through the sheer lace, his lips hot and teasing, the muffled sensation sending a jolt through you, making you gasp and buck your hips. "Fuck, baby," he murmurs, his breath warm against the fabric, "you're so ready for me."

He kisses you there again, slower, his tongue dragging over the lace, pressing against your clit through the thin material, and you whimper, your hands clutching the sheets, desperate for more. Finally, he pulls the lace aside, exposing your slick, swollen folds, and his eyes go dark and hungry, pupils blown wide as he takes you in, wet and ready under the dim glow of the lamp. "So beautiful," he breathes, his voice almost broken, as he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his stubble scraping softly, making you shiver.

Then his mouth is on you, his tongue sweeping through your folds, slow and deliberate, savoring every inch, and you cry out, your hips bucking off the bed. He groans, deep and guttural, the vibration pulsing through your core, and you feel his forehead press against your thigh, a fleeting moment of pure bliss, like he's been dreaming of this taste for months and it's undoing him. "Holy shit," he murmurs, his lips brushing your skin, his breath hot and ragged. "You taste like heaven."

His tongue dives deeper, licking broad, wet stripes before circling your clit slowly, each stroke sending sparks through your body. "So good," he murmurs, his voice muffled, his lips brushing your clit as he sucks it gently, then harder, until your thighs tremble around his head, your hands fisting his thick, dark hair, tugging so hard he moans again, the sound sending another jolt of heat through you. His fingers, strong and rough from years of gripping sticks, dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you open, his blunt nails leaving faint crescent marks as he devours you. His tongue thrusts inside you, curling and probing, while his nose brushes your clit, the wet sounds of his mouth filling the room, mixing with your gasping moans and his low grunts.

"Sid, please," you beg, your voice shaking as you grind against his face, your thighs quivering, your core tightening with every flick of his tongue. "Don't stop." He's relentless, his tongue working you with the focus he brings to the ice, hitting every spot that he knows makes you unravel. He sucks your clit hard, then releases it with a soft scrape of his teeth, and you cry out, your back arching, your nails digging into his scalp, not quite on the edge yet, but so close it hurts.

He pulls back, just enough to look up at you, his lips slick and shining, his jaw tight, his eyes burning with want. "You're doing so good, baby," he murmurs, kissing your thigh again, his lips wet and warm, leaving a trail of your wetness on your skin. "Wanna make this last." He stands, his broad chest heaving, his cock straining against his slacks, thick and heavy, the outline making your mouth water. He unbuckles his belt with trembling hands, shoving his pants and boxers down, and you can't look away, his cock flushed, thick, veins prominent, the tip glistening with precum, bobbing slightly as he steps out of his clothes.

He flips you onto your stomach, pulling you to the edge of the bed, your knees sinking into the mattress, your ass up, the lace teddy stretched tight across your hips, barely covering you. Sid stays standing, his hands, large, calloused, dusted with dark hair, roaming your body, tracing the curve of your spine, the swell of your ass, the flushed skin of your thighs. "You're perfect," he growls, his voice raw, his fingers tugging at the lace. "This lingerie, God, I'll never forget this."

You glance over your shoulder, smirking, your hair falling in your face, your lips still swollen from his kisses. "Then fuck me like you mean it, Crosby."

His eyes darken, a greedy glint flashing as he grips your hips, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh, his thumbs brushing the dimples at the base of your spine. He lines himself up, dragging the thick tip of his cock through your folds, slow and teasing, coating himself in your slickness, and you moan, pushing back, desperate for him. "Please, Sid," you beg, your voice raw, your hands clutching the sheets. 

"Fuck," he breathes, his voice wavering as he pushes in, slow and deliberate, stretching you open inch by inch, his cock thick and hot, filling you completely. You gasp, your fingers clawing at the sheets, your walls fluttering around him, adjusting to the stretch, the burn so good it makes your head spin. He groans, low and primal, his hips pressed flush against your ass, his hands gripping you hard enough to leave bruises, his fingers digging into the curve of your hips. "Missed this," he murmurs, his voice rough with need, his chest heaving, the muscles in his arms flexing as he holds himself still, letting you feel every pulsing inch of him.

He starts to move, pulling back slowly, letting you feel the drag of his cock, the veins catching against your walls, before slamming back in, hard and deep, the force jolting you forward, your breasts bouncing against the lace, your nipples scraping the fabric. He fucks you hard, relentless, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. His hand comes down on your ass, a sharp, stinging slap that makes you gasp, the heat spreading across your skin, and he groans, his voice low and rough. "You take me so well," he says, his hand smoothing over the stinging skin before slapping it again, lighter this time, but enough to make you moan.

Your thighs tremble, your knees digging into the mattress, your body rocking with every thrust, the lace teddy riding up higher, exposing the flushed skin of your lower back, the curve of your ass bouncing against his pelvis. "Harder," you whimper, your voice breaking, your moans coming out choked and uneven as he hits that perfect spot inside you, each thrust sending sparks through your core. His hands grip your hips tighter, his fingers sinking into the flesh, and he leans down, his lips finding yours in a messy, desperate kiss, his tongue plunging into your mouth, swallowing your broken sounds as he fucks you harder.

"Fuck, baby, you’re so good," he growls against your lips, his voice needy, his stubble scraping your chin as he kisses you deeper, all teeth and tongue, spit slicking your lips. Your thighs shake, the muscles in your thighs and calves burning from holding yourself up, and you start to falter, your knees sliding down the edge of the bed, your body sinking lower. Sid grabs a fistful of your hair, wrapping it around his hand, pulling just hard enough to make you gasp, your scalp tingling with the sting.

"Look at us," he orders, his voice rough and commanding, tugging your hair to turn your head toward the mirror in the corner of the room, just beside the bed. Your eyes meet the reflection, and the sight makes your breath catch, your body flushed and trembling, the lace teddy bunched around your hips, your breasts spilling out, nipples hard and red from his touch; Sid behind you, standing tall, his muscular frame glistening with sweat, his abs flexing with every thrust, his cock disappearing into you, slick and glistening, his eyes locked on yours in the mirror, dark and intense, his jaw clenched with raw need.

"Watch," he growls, pulling your hair tighter, forcing you to keep your eyes on the mirror as he slams into you, deep and hard, the angle making you clench around him, your walls fluttering with every thrust. The sight is obscene, your body rocking, your ass bouncing against his hips, the lace framing your curves, his hand in your hair, his other hand gripping your hip, leaving faint red marks on your skin. You see your thighs quiver, your body responding to him, his cock stretching you, the slickness coating him as he moves. He slaps your ass again, the sharp sting making you cry out, your voice breaking into a choked moan.

"Sid, please, I need…," you beg, your voice raw, your moans stuttering as the pleasure overwhelms you, your body trembling under his touch. He's hitting it so good, each thrust making your vision blur, your voice catching in your throat, unable to form proper moans as you gasp and whimper, your body rocking with his. "You're doing so good, baby," he murmurs, his voice low and rough, his lips brushing your ear before he kisses you again, messy and desperate, his tongue tangling with yours as his hand slides down to your clit, his fingers, rough and rubbing slow circles that make you tremble, your core tightening, the pleasure building further.

Your legs give out completely, your knees sliding down until you're flat against the bed, your ass still up, your face pressed into the sheets. Sid doesn't stop, his hand still in your hair, keeping your head tilted toward the mirror as he fucks you harder, his hips slamming against you, his cock hitting that spot that makes you see stars. "Just like that," he growls, his voice raw, his fingers pressing harder against your clit, his other hand gripping your hip so tight you know you'll bruise, his nails digging into your skin. He kisses you again, and you can barely kiss him back, your moans reduced to broken whimpers as he drives into you.

"Pleasepleaseplease, Sid, fuck, I'm so close," you beg, your voice barely a whisper, your body shaking, your thighs slick with arousal, your breaths coming in short, desperate gasps as you watch yourself in the mirror, your messy hair, your swollen lips, your eyes half-lidded with pleasure, your body rocking under his. He groans, his thrusts growing harder, more deliberate, his cock dragging against your walls, each stroke making you feel every inch, every vein, every pulse.

"Good girl," he growls, his fingers pressing just right on your clit. "Come on, baby." Your orgasm builds slowly, a tidal wave of heat and pleasure that crashes over you, making your vision white out, your body convulsing as you come, hard and shattering, your walls clenching around him, milking him as you cry out, your voice a broken, desperate wail, loud enough to echo in the quiet house. He keeps thrusting, drawing it out, his fingers relentless, his lips finding yours again, kissing you through the aftershocks, swallowing your whimpers as you shake beneath him.

He's not far behind, his thrusts growing erratic, his cock pulsing inside you as he groans, low and primal, his hand tightening in your hair, his eyes locked on yours in the mirror. "Fuck, good girl, you're so…God… you’re perfect," he murmurs, his voice cracking, his hips jerking as he spills into you, hot and thick, his thrusts slowing but not stopping, drawing out every last shudder, every last wave of pleasure, until you're both trembling, spent, and gasping for air.

The rest of the night is slower, softer, but no less intense. You don't leave the bed. The lingerie stays on, mostly, until it doesn't, and Sid's hands never stop touching you, like he's making up for every rushed, tired moment of the last few months. You fall asleep tangled in each other, his arm slung over your waist, your legs tucked between his, the lace crumpled somewhere on the floor.

When you wake up the next morning, he's already watching you, propped up on one elbow, his hair a mess and his smile soft. "Morning, gorgeous."

You stretch, grinning. "Morning, Captain."

He leans in, kissing your shoulder, then your jaw. "We're doing that again tonight, right?"

You laugh, rolling onto your side to face him. "The kids are back tomorrow, Sid. Enjoy the quiet while it lasts."

He groans, dramatic, but pulls you closer. "Fine. But I'm calling your mom. She's taking the baby for a week."

"You're impossible," you mutter, but you're smiling, already half-lost in the way his hands are moving again, slow and deliberate, like he's got all the time in the world to ruin you again.

And God, you let him.

　　WHEN THE OLDEST Celebrini was born, her parents had been set on no longer having kids. They figured y/n was enough — and for a while, she was. Y/n was one of the easiest babies imaginable. No fussing, she slept on schedule, and overall, she was the most perfect little girl.

But as the years passed, Robyn and Rick began trying for another child. They knew the next baby might not be as easy as y/n, but they were ready. After about four years of trying with no success, they gave up.

Then, two years later, Robyn found out she was pregnant with a baby boy. When they told six-year-old y/n — quiet, shy, and sweet — she was absolutely over the moon. She had always wanted a little sibling, ever since she’d spent the day with a friend who had a baby sister.

But when Aiden was born, y/n was terrified. Not because she didn’t want him, but because she was scared she’d break him. He was so small, so fragile. Every time her parents let her hold him, her little heart pounded with fear.

With time and reassurance from her parents, her fear faded. She stayed careful, but she started spending more time with her baby brother.

Then it happened again. Her parents sat her down with news of another baby. Despite their concern she might be upset, y/n was thrilled. She didn’t care that it was another boy — though she had hoped for a sister.

Macklin was born a few months later. Y/n, now eight, was a little disappointed it wasn’t a girl, but she already loved the little boy unconditionally. Aiden was now two — a wild, adventurous toddler in her opinion.

Y/n embraced the big sister role easily. Whenever her parents stepped away, even just to the kitchen — she was there, making sure Macklin didn’t roll off the couch and that Aiden didn’t run full speed into the walls.

It was hard for her to feel close to her younger brothers, though. With a six and eight-year gap, she worried they’d eventually stop needing her, or worse — stop loving her. But after a long, emotional talk with her parents, she understood that wouldn’t happen. Her parents loved all their children equally. Her fears melted.

By the time she was ten, her parents sat the three of them down again — news of another sibling. Aiden and Macklin didn’t fully understand, but y/n did. And she was thrilled, once again hoping for a sister.

She spent the whole pregnancy begging anyone who would listen for a girl.

When they brought home baby Charlie, y/n was buzzing with excitement. She finally had a sister.

Two years passed. Y/n, now twelve, noticed a pattern — her siblings all came two years apart. So she spent Charlie’s entire second year waiting for the news of another baby.

But the news didn’t come for a while.

When it finally did, y/n was thirteen and completely shocked. She figured Charlie was the last. She was wrong.

Baby RJ was born, and despite the growing age gap, y/n didn’t distance herself. She adored him. He was easier than all the others — a calm baby with big eyes and a peaceful soul. She felt so lucky.

As the years passed, her siblings looked up to her. She was their safe space. And when Aiden got into hockey, y/n was at every single game, cheering him on. When Macklin followed, she was right there again — balancing school and life, doing everything she could to support them.

Still, the younger Celebrinis took her for granted. She never really got into hockey, which Aiden and Macklin thought was pretty lame. They didn’t mean to hurt her — but it stung.

By eighteen, y/n left for college. She stayed in touch at first, but the focus was always on Aiden and Macklin and their hockey careers. Summers passed, and she stopped going home. She made excuses — “I have summer classes,” or “Layla asked me to stay with her.”

The truth? She needed space. After a childhood of helping raise her siblings, she was finally taking back her life.

But the excuses could only hold for so long. Aiden and Macklin, just twelve and ten, started to notice. They missed her. Charlie and RJ weren’t old enough to fully grasp what was happening, but they felt the absence.

After college, y/n drifted even further. She still called on occasion, but it wasn’t the same. She watched their lives from the sidelines — Aiden going to college, Macklin getting drafted, Charlie’s soccer games, RJ picking up hockey. All of it — through TV screens and social media.

It broke her heart, watching them grow without her. Saying goodbye without ever really saying it.

When Macklin was recruited for the 2025 IIHF World Championship, y/n was so proud. He was going to be representing Canada. She debated reaching out — worried she’d distract him, or worse, that he’d be angry.

But her heart won.

She called her parents and told them her plan. They gave her the address and times for Macklin’s practice.

She showed up at the arena, nerves buzzing. Who knew the hardest part would be just getting inside? Even after showing ID, the staff didn’t believe her — so they called Macklin.

She waited anxiously. Then she saw him — shorter than she remembered, but grown up. His eyes scanned the space before landing on her.

His jaw dropped. And then he ran.

He threw himself into her, nearly knocking her over. She laughed through the tears. He clung to her like he’d never let go.

“Is this real?” he whispered.

She nodded, rubbing his back. “It’s real, Mack. I’m so sorry.”

“No,” he said firmly. “Don’t apologize. You’re here now.”

She pulled back, looking at him — really looking. He was eighteen now. A man. And she’d missed so much.

But she was here. And that mattered.

The team was wrapping up practice, the echo of skates still fading across the ice as Macklin jogged off, sweat-soaked and smiling. Y/n waited near the bench area, a little awkward in her too-warm sweater, heart still hammering from seeing him again.

He beamed when he spotted her. “Y/n, c’mon! There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Before she could answer, he grabbed her wrist gently and led her toward a group of players packing up their gear. Her nerves kicked up again, but she followed. Macklin slowed when he reached one of the veterans — tall, calm, magnetic even out of his pads.

“Sid,” Macklin called out, tapping him on the shoulder. “This is my sister, Y/n.”

Sidney Crosby turned around with a polite smile and extended a hand. “Hey. Nice to meet you.”

Y/n smiled back, her palm brushing against his — warm, steady. “You too.”

He looked at her for a beat longer, eyebrows furrowing slightly. “Wait… I thought you only had one sister? The little one. Charlie, right?”

Macklin didn’t even notice what he’d just said — just laughed. “Yeah, Charlie’s the baby. She’s the boss of all of us.”

But y/n froze. The smile dropped from her lips before she could stop it.

Only one sister.

That’s what people thought — even Macklin’s own teammate. Like she had vanished so well, her existence had been erased.

Her throat tightened. “Right,” she muttered, stepping back slightly. “I guess I don’t really count anymore.”

Macklin turned, confused. “Y/n—”

But Sidney had already clocked the shift in her. His easy smile faded, replaced by something gentler. He touched Macklin’s arm. “Hey, give us a sec?”

Macklin hesitated, then gave her a concerned glance before nodding and stepping back.

Y/N stood there, arms folded, trying not to let it all spill out. She didn’t want to cry in front of someone she just met.

Sidney’s voice came quietly. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry.”

She nodded, brushing it off with a brittle smile. “It’s okay. I’ve been… out of the picture for a while.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not still part of it.”

Her eyes flicked up to his. His voice was so calm, like the words were just facts, not attempts to comfort.

He continued, “People forget what they can’t see. It’s not right. But it happens.”

Y/n gave a quiet laugh, dry and self-deprecating. “Guess I disappeared pretty well, huh?”

“You showed up today,” he said. “That says more than disappearing ever could.”

There was a pause. A quiet space between them, filled with unsaid things.

“You’re close with Mack,” she said eventually.

“Yeah. I try not to be the old guy on the team,” he said, cracking a smile. “But he’s easy to like.”

She chuckled softly. “Yeah. He always has been.”

They didn’t say anything after that. They just stood there for a few minutes, not moving, not pretending to be anywhere else.

Eventually, Macklin returned, and the moment faded into the background. But not completely.

Over the next few days, y/n stayed around. Macklin insisted on it. Their time together healed things faster than she expected — shared meals, stories, late-night conversations that made her feel like his sister again.

And Sidney?

He was always there — never too close, but never far either.

He held doors open. He brought her coffee once when he overheard her mention she missed the kind from her favorite campus café. He sat beside her at practices when he wasn’t on the ice, quiet and steady, asking gentle questions that didn’t pry but still made her feel known.

They didn’t flirt.

Not really.

But there was something building — in the way he always found her in a room, and the way she started noticing when he wasn’t around.

He didn’t rush it. Didn’t push. He was patient.

It wasn’t until the team dinner, a few nights before the end of the tournament, that anything shifted.

They ended up seated next to each other — Macklin’s doing, she was sure. The food came. The conversations blurred around them. And halfway through, as she laughed at something Sid said — not even a joke, just the way he told it — she caught him looking at her.

Not just a glance. A look.

Like he was seeing something rare.

She looked away first.

After dinner, outside the restaurant in the cool night air, they lingered while Macklin joked with teammates nearby.

Sidney turned to her. “Can I walk you back to your hotel?”

She nodded. “Sure.”

They walked in comfortable silence, the sounds of the city quiet behind them. His hands were in his pockets. Hers were clenched nervously at her sides.

At the door to her building, she paused. “Thanks for… everything.”

He shook his head, his voice quieter now. “You don’t owe anyone thanks for being here. Least of all me.”

She looked up at him, and for a second, everything she’d been carrying — years of distance, guilt, loneliness — sat heavy in her chest.

“You make it easy to stay,” she said, voice barely a whisper.

His eyes didn’t leave hers. “Then stay.”

A beat.

Just a look — full of the promise of something neither of them was ready to rush.

“Goodnight, Y/n,” he said.

“Goodnight, Sid.”

And when she closed the door behind her, her heart was still racing. Not with fear.

But with something she hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

Hope.

Macklin wasn’t stupid.

He noticed it the second y/n sat beside Sidney at the team dinner. The way Sid subtly angled his body toward her. The way she smiled a little longer than usual, tucking her hair behind her ear like she used to when she was nervous but trying to play it cool.

And the way Sid looked at her?

Yeah. Macklin had seen that look before. Usually on the ice — right before Crosby made a move no one else saw coming.

After the dinner, as they all walked back to the hotel, Macklin hung back. Watched the two of them walking just a little ahead. Not touching. Not talking much.

But that energy was undeniable. It crackled in the space between them like static.

Macklin smirked to himself.

Game on.

The next morning, at breakfast in the hotel lobby, Macklin slid into the seat across from y/n with a grin that screamed trouble.

“Sleep okay?” he asked innocently.

“Yeah, why?” y/n eyed him suspiciously, stirring her coffee.

He shrugged. “No reason. Just wondering if maybe you dreamt about anyone who’s captain of a certain NHL team.”

She froze. “Macklin—”

“I mean, Sid’s single,” he continued, ignoring the warning tone. “You’re single. You both like quiet walks and brooding in corners. It’s kind of perfect.”

Y/n gave him a flat look. “You’re not funny.”

“I’m a little funny,” he said, winking. “Come on, Y/n. I’ve never seen him not look like a stone-faced killer… until he talks to you.”

She rolled her eyes, biting back a smile. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

Macklin leaned forward, suddenly serious. “Look, I know you’re trying to be careful. And I get it — it’s been a long time since you let anyone in. But… you’re allowed to.”

Her gaze softened. “You think he’d even be interested?”

Macklin grinned. “He already is.”

Y/n stared at her coffee, cheeks warming. “We’re just… talking.”

“Sure,” he said, standing up and stretching. “And I’m just a casual hockey player.”

She threw a napkin at him as he walked away.

Later that day, Macklin caught Sidney in the hallway outside the locker room.

“Hey, Sid,” he said casually. “You doing anything after practice?”

“Not really, why?”

“You should come to dinner with me and Y/n.”

Sid paused. “Just the three of us?”

“Yep.”

There was a beat.

Sid narrowed his eyes. “You setting me up?”

Macklin threw his hands up. “I’m just trying to have dinner with my sister and a teammate. No hidden motives.”

Sid didn’t look convinced.

But he showed up anyway.

At dinner that night, Macklin made an excuse halfway through the meal — something about needing to call Charlie back at home.

Y/n squinted at him. “You’re ditching already?”

“I’ll be back,” he said quickly, already moving. “You two can hold down the fort.”

She looked across the table at Sidney, who was trying — and failing — not to smile.

“So… this was definitely a setup,” she said.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “But I’m not mad about it.”

She smiled. “Neither am I.”

They didn’t talk about anything huge that night. No big confessions or declarations. Just soft laughter. Easy glances. A shared dessert.

By the time Macklin returned, twenty minutes later and suspiciously not on the phone, he found them leaning toward each other across the table, heads close.

He didn’t interrupt.

He just stood there for a second, watching.

His sister. The one who had drifted so far — was glowing in a way she hadn’t in years.

And Sid? The guy who rarely let anyone past the surface?

Yeah. He was in trouble.

Macklin grinned.

Mission: very much in progress.

They didn’t talk about it.

Not openly.

Not the way her hand always found the seat beside his in the locker room lounge. Not the way his eyes lingered when she laughed at something one of the rookies said. Not the subtle shift in energy every time they were near — like the air itself leaned closer.

Sidney never rushed it.

Y/n liked that about him. He didn’t push. He didn’t flirt for attention. He just noticed things — like when she rubbed the back of her neck when she was overwhelmed, or how she only took sugar in her coffee when she was tired. He started ordering it sweet on days she didn’t realize she needed it.

And she noticed things too — like the quiet way he always watched the ice before practice, alone, as if centering himself. The way he always waited to leave until Macklin did, like a protective older brother. The way he softened around her, even when he didn’t mean to.

Every night they walked back from the arena or a team dinner, the gap between them felt smaller. And every time they reached her hotel, it was like hitting pause on something that wanted so badly to play.

That night, it was raining.

Not hard — just a soft, steady drizzle that misted the streets and clung to the air like memory.

They’d stayed late after dinner. Macklin had ducked out early again, probably on purpose, and Sidney offered to walk her back.

Again.

The silence between them was comfortable. Familiar. But tonight, it felt different. Charged.

Y/n broke it quietly. “I used to think I couldn’t come back.”

Sid turned his head. “Why?”

She exhaled, hugging her arms. “Because too much time had passed. Because I thought if I showed up again, I’d be the girl who abandoned everyone.”

“You didn’t abandon them,” he said softly.

“I left.”

“You needed to.”

She looked up at him then, her expression vulnerable. “What if they still blame me?”

“I don’t think they do,” he said. “And even if they did… it doesn’t change that you came back. That you’re still here.”

She stared at him, rain softening the ends of her hair, skin dewy and glowing beneath the streetlight.

He cleared his throat, hesitating. “You know, Macklin asked me what I thought of you.”

Her brows rose. “He did?”

Sid nodded, smiling. “A while ago. I told him you reminded me of someone who moves before the puck even drops. Like… you know exactly where the play’s going. Just a little too scared to skate toward it.”

Her lips parted, stunned into silence.

He took a slow step forward, then another — not crowding her, just closing the distance in a way that made her chest ache.

“I’ve been waiting for you to make your move,” he added, voice low.

Y/n’s heart thundered in her chest.

“And if I don’t?” she asked, a whisper.

“Then I will.”

A pause. A single breath.

Then he leaned in.

Slow, deliberate — like he wanted to give her every second to stop him.

She didn’t.

Her eyes fluttered closed just as his lips brushed hers — tentative at first, a quiet meeting of warmth and longing. Then deeper, more certain. A kiss that spoke of everything unsaid between them — the years lost, the closeness found, the fragile beginning of something that had waited long enough.

When they pulled apart, their foreheads rested against each other’s.

She smiled, dazed and breathless. “Took you long enough.”

He laughed quietly. “You were worth the wait.”

From then on, it wasn’t a question of if, but when.

They still moved slowly — stolen glances at games, late-night talks in hotel lobbies, hands brushing under tables like a secret. They didn’t need to rush. They had time now.

And for the first time in years, Y/n felt like she had a place again — not just as Macklin’s sister or the girl who left.

But as someone worth staying for.

And someone worth kissing in the rain.

NAVIGATION　　 ✶ 　　NHL MASTERLIST

--

You’re pretty sure Valentine’s Day games are a scam. Some cruel cosmic joke designed to make girlfriends sit through 60 minutes of freezing cold air and overpriced concessions just to watch their man play his heart out in a sport that could, at any moment, take all his teeth and potentially a limb.  

Not that you minded. Much.  

Sidney had played his ass off tonight—like he had something to prove. Not that he ever really didn’t, because the man didn’t know how to do anything half-assed. Especially not when it came to hockey. Or you, for that matter.  

But of course, it just had to be Valentine’s Day.

You stood now in the tunnel by the player’s exit, phone in hand, watching as Penguins fans in Crosby jerseys flooded toward the concourse, buzzing about the win. Your fingers flew over your screen.  

You: You know I was going to blow you when you got home, but I’m reconsidering because you just had to make it about you tonight.

Three dots appeared almost immediately. Then vanished. Then nothing.  

You rolled your eyes and snorted. “Coward.”  

The man had just been named first fucking star of the game. Of course he had. Two goals, one assist, and a faceoff win percentage so sexy it made you squirm a little. You knew his media obligations were kicking off soon—he was probably just peeling his sweaty gear off now, miserable about the idea of answering questions about “how it felt” and “what went right tonight.”  

Sid: Can’t believe you’re texting me shit like that while I have to sit half dressed with 5 cameras pointed at me.

You bit your lip and grinned.  

You: I can. 

You: You looked good tonight. Real good. Like I’d let you put it in my ass kind of good.  

You: Kidding. Kind of.  

Another pause. He was slow replying, which you’d expected, and it only made you smirk more knowing he was probably trying not to react in front of his teammates or, worse, the media guys. You could practically see his jaw tightening as he tried to suppress a smile, annoyed but secretly delighted.  

You could picture him already—still in his gear, slumped at his stall with his towel around his neck and that half-annoyed, half-resigned expression on his face. Someone probably tossed a mic in his face already. He was probably giving them that polite nod, the “Sure, go ahead” look, all while internally screaming. Sidney, Sidney, Sidney. Too private for his own good.

Sid: Go to my place. I’ll be done soon.

Sid: Stop texting me this shit.

You laughed out loud, drawing a glance from a nearby couple as you stepped out into the cold Pittsburgh night.

You: Oh baby, I haven’t even started.  

You: Maybe I’ll be in your bed.  

You: Maybe I’ll be in your shower.  

You: Maybe I’ll be in that stupid jersey you “don’t like me wearing because you take it seriously.”  

You could practically hear him groaning through the screen.

Sid: You’re an asshole.

Sid: Say the same shit every time anyway.

Sid: “Good team effort, got the bounces, lucky to come out on top.”

Sid: Happy now?

You: You forgot “credit to the guys” and “just trying to play the right way”

You: Gotta hit all the NHL buzzword bingo squares.

You: And don’t forget to smile like a humble Canadian virgin!

No reply. You let that one simmer. He was either suffering or plotting. Maybe both. Probably both.

You pulled your coat tighter around you, breath fogging in front of your face as you made your way to your car. The wind cut through your jeans, but your smile stayed in place. There was something so satisfying about teasing him after a big win—especially when he hated the attention but couldn’t stop being the best guy on the ice. You just couldn’t help yourself.

You got in the car and cranked the heat while pulling up the radio broadcast. They were still recapping the game, gushing over Sid like he wasn’t just a man who’d once tripped over his own shoe in the hallway.

“…and of course, Crosby with a textbook finish. You can see why he’s still one of the most consistent players in the league…”

You rolled your eyes, mimicking the voice in the car. “Oh yes, Sidney. So clean. So polished. Such a gentleman. Definitely didn’t say he was going to fuck me through the headboard if he scored tonight.”

Traffic cleared slowly as you went to his place, a familiar route etched into your brain. His street was quiet when you pulled in—classic Sid, all understated wealth and privacy. It took you forty five minutes to get from the arena to his house, another five to park and kick off your shoes inside the door.  It smelled like him—like clean laundry, cedarwood, and that subtle vanilla scent of his shampoo you’d teased him for using but secretly loved.

You wandered through his halls, turning on a few lights, getting cozy. It always felt familiar here, even though it was very clearly his space—clean, functional. Like a guy who didn’t like clutter but had more money than he knew what to do with.

You padded into the kitchen and pulled open the fridge. Full of ingredients. Not a single thing you could just grab and go.

“Romantic,” you muttered under your breath, pulling out a container of strawberries instead and wandering toward the couch.

The rest of the house was dark except for the hallway light, left on for you, and your socked feet were silent on the hardwood as you climbed the stairs to his bedroom. The hallway was chilly as you padded toward the bedroom in your socks, carrying the half-eaten strawberries and your phone tucked beneath your arm. Sid’s place had that always-too-clean look to it. Like he tried to live in it, but barely spent enough time home for it to actually look lived in. You made a note to mess it up later. Nothing too dramatic—just a sweatshirt on the floor, maybe a bra hanging off the couch cushion, leave a cup on the counter. Domestic terrorism.

You tossed your phone on the nightstand and peeled off your jacket, fingers brushing over the remote on the dresser.  

TV on.  

Pants off.  

You were in his bed now, wearing his shirt—an old Penguins one that smelled like his laundry detergent and game day nerves—and absolutely nothing underneath.  

Just as God intended.  

The analysts were falling over themselves about his performance.

“…you know what you’re getting with Sid. Every single night. Discipline. Poise. He’s just got it.” You snorted.

“Yeah, discipline until he’s got me pinned under him telling me I’m not going anywhere until I apologize for teasing him about his ‘media voice.’”

Another buzz from your phone.  

Sid: About to start media. They’re dragging it out tonight.  

Sid: You’re lucky I like you.  

Sid: And that I want to fuck you stupid.  

You choked on your laugh, clutching your phone tighter as you wiped strawberry juice from your fingers onto his shirt. You stretched dramatically across the bed and typed.  

You: Wow. Romantic.  

You: Just like I dreamed when I was 10.  

You: “One day I’ll date a hockey player who talks to me like a caveman on Valentine’s Day.”

Sid: Don’t act like you don’t like it. You’re already naked, aren’t you?

You: You’re not even here yet and you already think you know everything.  

Sid: I do know everything. And I know you’re wearing my shirt. And that’s it.  

Sid: Because you’re predictable. And a little slutty.

You covered your face with one hand and laughed out loud into the empty room. Your heart fluttered like a fucking schoolgirl even as you cursed him out in your mind.  

There was something wildly unfair about the duality of Sidney Crosby. The version the world knew—stoic, polite, humble to the point of parody. And then the real version. The one who texted you filthy things from the dressing room and called you a brat with that low rasp in his voice that promised you wouldn’t be walking straight the next day.

He was such a damn con artist.

You: You’re the one who’s gonna cry when I leave you with blue balls tonight.  

You: “Sorry Sid, I got tired waiting for you.”  

You: “Sorry Sid, I used all my energy climbing your stairs.”  

You: “Sorry Sid, I found your toothbrush and that did it for me.”

Sid: You’re such an asshole.

Sid: You’re lucky I’ve been horny for you since warmups. 

Sid: You knew what you were doing, sitting that close.

You had known.  

You always knew.  

And he always played better when he knew you were there watching.  

You yawned, stretched your legs beneath his sheets, and flopped dramatically on the bed, taking up all the space just to be a brat. You could already hear it: his sigh of fake annoyance when he got home, the shake of his head, the way he’d peel your shirt up with one hand and drag your body down with the other.  

You rolled to your stomach, phone buzzing again beside you.  

Sid: I’ll be home soon. You better be exactly where I think you are.

Sid: And if you’re not, you’re done. Actually done. I’ll find a Valentine who respects me.

You: You?  

You: Wanting respect?  

You: I’m sorry. I thought this was Sidney “I’ll fuck you on the bench if no one’s around” Crosby.

No reply. Which told you all you needed to know.  

He was already doing media.  

Probably giving his same bland ass answers.  

Probably planning what he was going to do the second he walked through that door.  

You looked around, debated getting up to light a candle or make the bed look a little less like a war zone. Then shrugged.  

Let him deal with the chaos he caused.  

You flipped onto your back and sighed happily, smirking at the ceiling.  

The remote was still in your hand when the screen switched from the postgame panel to the locker room feed. You didn’t even bother turning up the volume—didn’t need to. You could already hear it in your head.  

Sidney Crosby, media-trained robot, coming to life in hi-def.

You sighed and settled deeper into his bed, still cocooned in his shirt, bare legs tangled in his sheets. The duvet smelled like him. So did the pillow you were shamelessly half-lying on, half-straddling. Your phone sat close, a loaded weapon in the war of flirtation, but for now, you watched.  

There he was, perched in his stall, sweat-slick hair hidden under a black team hat, compression long sleeve clinging to his chest and arms like it was painted on. No jersey. No pads. Just muscle, all angles and sharp focus, like the game hadn’t even left his bloodstream yet. Cue Captain Canada.

The reporter asked about the team’s energy tonight, and you muttered out loud to no one, “We played a full sixty, stuck to our game, did the little things right—blah, blah, blah.”  

And then, right on cue:  

“Yeah, I thought we played a full sixty tonight… stuck to our game, did the little things right…”  

You cackled.

“Fucking called it.”  

He looked half dead behind the eyes, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, nodding as another reporter threw a question at him. You didn't even bother listening this time. You just watched his face. That twitch of his mouth when he was trying not to say what he really wanted to say. That calm, serious voice he used like a shield. That stupid, safe, polished version of himself that made you want to throw something at the screen.  

Because you knew the real Sid.  

The one who talked absolute filth into your ear with that same mouth.  

The one who made fun of his teammates the second the cameras were off.  

The one who said “fuck” more than he said “I.”  

And then—then—it happened.  

The reporter asked:  

“It’s Valentine’s Day, Sid. You played a great game. Got any plans tonight?”  

You sat up a little. That one actually surprised you. When did the reporters get so bold?

He gave them that laugh—that stupid, breathy chuckle he only used when he didn’t want to give too much away. Then he smiled, eyes low, lips pressed together like he was fighting off the real answer.  

“No,” he said. “Just recover. Get ready for the next one.”  

That was it. That was all.  

You stared at the TV, jaw slightly open.  

“Recover?” you muttered. “That’s your answer? No wink? No cute little nod? Not even a fucking smirk? You lying sack of shit, Sidney Patrick.”  You looked absolutely nuts talking to yourself.

You picked up your phone and unleashed.  

You: “Just recover,” he says.  

You: Wow. My pussy just dried up.  

You: Say hello to celibacy apparently.  

Still no reply. You fired off another.  

You: You are such a fucking fraud.  

You: There is literally a naked woman in your bed. Right now. At your house.  

You: On Valentine’s Day.  

You: But nooo, he’s gonna “recover.”  

You: Go ahead, Sid. Recover. I’ll just be here. Thinking about life. My choices. The fact I could’ve fucked a dentist. Or literally anyone else but hey.

You bit your lip to hide a smile, watching him wrap the interview up, nodding politely, face locked in full Captain Mode. You could practically feel the tension buzzing under his skin. The itch to get the hell out of there and back to you.  

One more for good measure:  

You: When they say “Crosby keeps his private life quiet,”  

You: They don’t know it’s because he talks so much shit in bed the FCC would fine him.

That did it.

Your phone lit up almost the second he stood from his stall.  

Sid: You need to be stopped.

Sid: You need help.

Sid: I’m not even out of the building yet and I’m hard.

You flopped backward against his pillows, laughing like a lunatic.  

You: I’m sorry did you forget you have a girlfriend? Did your nut brain erase me from memory just because you got first star??

You: Not even a cute little “gonna go home to the girl who’s been letting me rearrange her insides all season”???

You: Also don’t think I didn’t notice your compression shirt. You know exactly what you’re doing you manipulative little slut.

Sid: Jesus Christ

Sid: You knew what you signed up for.

You: I signed up for the hot hockey sex. The rest was a scam.

You: Don’t worry, I’ll be asleep by the time you get home.  

You: No recovering necessary. You’re off the hook.

Sid: You’re not gonna be able to walk tomorrow if you keep this up.  

Sid: You want recovery? I’ll give you something to recover from.

You swallowed.  

Slowly.  

Okay.  

So maybe you did like poking the bear.  

And maybe the bear knew exactly how to fuck you into next week.  

You tucked your phone under your pillow and let out a slow breath, heart thudding, a little thrill sparking low in your belly.  

Valentine’s Day.  

Just another game on the calendar.  

Until Sid got home.

And the worst part was, you didn’t even realize you’d fallen asleep. One second you were tucked under his sheets, limbs comfortably sprawled, phone still clutched in one hand and TV murmuring softly in the background… and the next, you were blinking against the warm glow of the bedside lamp and squinting up at a very large, very amused, very smug silhouette looming over you.

“Unbelievable,” Sidney muttered, shaking his head as he stood beside the bed. His coat was halfway off, his cheeks still pink from the cold outside, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and that fucking backwards hat still on his head. “All that mouth, and look at you now. Out cold.”

You groaned before you could speak, voice thick with sleep and low like you’d swallowed a blanket. “'M not.”

“You literally just snored,” he said, dropping his bag to the floor with a thud and crouching beside the bed. “Like a full-on little cartoon snore. Tiny inhale, wheeze on the exhale. Real cute.”

“I did not snore,” you mumbled into the pillow. But your voice was gravelly, throat dry, and goddammit—your limbs were heavy with sleep, and he smelled so good, and everything was so warm.

“Look at you,” he murmured, brushing a few strands of hair off your cheek. “Talked all that shit and knocked yourself out.”  

You shifted slightly, nose scrunching, a quiet little groan escaping your throat.

“Mmph.”  

He grinned. Leaned in close to your ear.  

“Babe.”  

Nothing.  

“Babe.” He kissed your cheek. “Hey. Hey. Wake up.”  

You grunted, rolling slightly. “M’tired…”  

You rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hand, barely lifting your head from the pillow.

“…What time is it?”

“Late. Or early. Depends who you ask.” He pressed a kiss to your hair. “You passed out. Didn’t even make it to Valentine’s Day sex.”

You groaned again, voice muffled. “I didn’t mean to. Your bed is criminally warm. I got cozy. My body betrayed me.”

“You talked a lot of shit.”

“Yeah well, I thought you were gonna be faster.”

He laughed low in his chest, slipping his hand beneath the covers to grab your hip and give it a squeeze. He climbed onto the bed with all the smug grace of a man who had absolutely earned this moment of superiority. He leaned down, one knee pressing into the bed right between your legs, and shoved at the covers just enough to catch a glimpse of your legs tangled beneath his sheets.

“You look real cozy for someone who was talking an awful lot of shit about how boring I am,” he said, tone low and teasing.

You squinted at him, your voice a gravelly whisper.

“You are boring. You literally said, ‘recover.’ Who says that on Valentine’s Day? Recover from what, Sidney? Being 37?”

He let out a sharp laugh and pushed your hair back from your face, warm fingers brushing your cheek.

“You’re a little shit,” he murmured.

“And you’re a liar.” You poked a finger into his chest. “You lied to the media. There was an actual naked girl waiting for you in your bed and you gave them the ‘I’m gonna rest up’ speech like a fucking priest.”

Sid rolled his eyes.

“You know I can’t give them anything,” he said. “They’ve been trained like bloodhounds. If I so much as hint at having plans, I’ll have a fucking headline on every sports page tomorrow.”

“God forbid people find out you’re not a virgin,” you deadpanned.

“Watch it,” he warned playfully. “I am a role model.”

You burst out laughing, head tipping back into the pillow.

“Oh my god, you are so full of shit. You talk like you’re running for office, but then you come home and say things like, ‘c’mere, baby, I’ve been thinking about fucking you against the kitchen counter since warmups.’”

He grinned. “Still true, by the way.”

You hummed and looped your arms around his neck lazily.

“You missed your shot then, Captain Celibate. Shouldn’t have let me fall asleep.”

Sid smirked and kissed the corner of your mouth.

“Didn’t realize the threat of dick was the only thing keeping you awake.”

“You should’ve. It’s your strongest feature.”

He laughed again, breath warm against your cheek, before ducking his head to kiss you properly—slow and deep and good, like he had all the time in the world. You melted into it, arms tightening around his neck, legs shifting beneath the covers until you hooked one behind his bent knee, dragging him closer.

Then he nuzzled into your neck again and added, low and dirty:  

“You wanna go back to sleep, or you want me to give you something real to recover from?”  

You groaned dramatically. “You are such a whore, oh my god.”  

“And yet, here you are. In my bed. Wearing my shirt. Wet for me in your sleep, probably.”  

“Shut up—”  

“You were,” he said smugly, dragging his hand up your thigh. “I checked. You twitched.”  

You covered your face with both hands. “You’re disgusting.”  

“You’re worse,” he said, kissing down your throat. “And when you wake up tomorrow sore as hell, I want you to remember who was ready when the moment came, and who—” he nipped your collarbone— “took a nap.”  

“Sidney.”  

“Y/n.”  

You sighed, dropped your hands, and stared up at him.  

“You gonna fuck me or give another locker room interview?”  

He grinned. And with that, he kissed you again, deep and slow and fucking smug. You could feel the smile on his mouth, even as he pressed you back into the mattress like you were the only thing worth coming home to.  

"Holy shit," you said, breathless as he tugged your shirt up over your hips, revealing those barely there red panties you wore when you knew he’d be seeing them. Lacy. Dark. A tiny bow on the waistband.

Sid looked smug. “I’m so obsessed with you, it’s disgusting.”

“You're disgusting,” you corrected, but you were already arching up, letting him pull the shirt over your head. 

He laughed low, all pleased with himself. "You love it."

His hand slipped a little higher, fingertips grazing the side of your hip where your underwear were just barely clinging to your curves.

You sucked in a breath you tried to pretend was casual. "Sid," you warned.

"What?" he drawled, blinking down at you like he hadn’t just started setting your entire nervous system on fucking fire. You lifted your head, giving him a look. "You’re fucking pushing it."

Sid grinned, so goddamn starved it made your toes curl. "You need me to spell it out, Y/N Y/LN?" he teased, voice dropping into that dangerous gravel. "Need me to tell you how bad I wanna fuck you?"

You groaned, covering your face with both hands like that could somehow save you. "Jesus Christ, Sidney."

He pulled your hands away, kissing your knuckles like a fucking gentleman, even while his other hand kept creeping higher up your thigh.

"Could just be gentle," he murmured, kissing the inside of your wrist now, right over your pulse. "Real slow, babe. Let you sit on my cock nice and easy. You barely gotta do anything. I'll do all the fuckin' work."

You whimpered, and he fucking heard it.

He grinned harder, absolutely predatory now, shifting to hover over you more fully, careful not to press too much weight onto you.

"Bet you miss it," he murmured against your ear, lips brushing your skin. You literally had sex in his bed this morning but you hated that he was right, you did miss it.

"Sid," you gasped, arching your back automatically, and fuck, he hadn't even touched you properly yet.

He chuckled low and mean, dragging his mouth along your throat, nipping lightly. "Tell me, baby," he rasped. "Tell me how bad you want it."

You shoved at his chest weakly, more for show than anything else. "I hate you," you breathed. "I fucking hate you."

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled, grinning into your hair. "You love this dick though."

You burst out laughing, half-horrified and half-scorched alive. "You are so fucking nasty," you managed between giggles, pinching his arm lightly.

He caught your hand easily, pressing it down above your head, pinning you with almost no effort. "And you're so fuckin' wet for me right now, I can feel it through your goddamn panties," he grunted, pressing his hips into yours just enough to make you feel the thick, heavy line of him behind his dress pants.

You whimpered again, biting your lip. "Sid," you whispered desperately.

He kissed the corner of your mouth. "Say it," he ordered softly. "Say you want me."

You squeezed your eyes shut, breathing hard.

It was so unfair, how good he was at this. How easily he turned you into this trembling, needy thing even when you thought you had the upper hand for most of the day

But he looked at you like you were the best part of his night. Like he couldn’t wait to ruin you in the best goddamn way.

You cracked your eyes open, meeting his gaze. "I want you," you whispered. "You asshole."

Sid’s grin turned downright feral.

"Yeah?" he rasped, nuzzling into your jaw, his hand finally — finally — sliding under your panties, the rough pads of his fingers skimming where you were already slick and throbbing for him. "Good," he murmured. "‘Cause you're not gettin' away from me, princess. Not tonight."

You gasped as his fingers slipped deeper, teasing, and you clawed at his shoulders, your nails digging into the solid muscle there.

"Sid," you panted. "Bed’s gonna break if you fuck me the way you're lookin' at me right now."

He laughed low, dirty, and thrilled. "Then we'll buy a new one," he said, voice rough as he sank two fingers into you slowly and deep. "Hell, babe, we'll break every goddamn bed from here to fuckin' Canada if it means I get to feel you come around me again."

You moaned helplessly, arching into him.

And when he bent down, kissed you— really kissed you, slow and filthy and possessive — it felt like a promise burned into your skin.

Sid could’ve fucked you stupid in under thirty seconds if he wanted. The way you were already whimpering under him, writhing in his hands, he knew it wouldn’t take much.

But tonight — tonight he wanted to be slow. He wanted to wreck you proper. Melt every bone in your goddamn body.

He slipped his fingers out of you with a slow, slick sound that made you whimper again. He fucking loved that sound. Loved everything about you like this — messy and needy and all his.

"You gotta relax, baby," Sid murmured, dropping kisses along the flushed line of your throat, working his way lower. "Can't be tense on me. Gotta stay nice and easy for me."

Sid pulled back from your body just enough to catch you breathless— just enough to see you, all flushed and desperate, lips swollen, hair a wild halo against the pillows. His heart punched hard against his ribs.

"Fuckin' hell, Y/N," he muttered, staring at you like he couldn’t decide whether to devour you whole or build a shrine at your feet. "Look at you."

You whimpered and tangled your fingers into his hair, tugging gently, begging him wordlessly to keep going.

Sid huffed a soft, broken laugh, dragging your panties slowly — so slowly — down your thighs, baring you completely to him. He didn’t just toss them. No. He pocketed them. Smirked while he was doing it. Like the absolute sex demon he was.

And he was hard. So hard it was actually starting to hurt. He was damn near grinding in his pants for some kind of friction.

He pressed a kiss right between your breasts, trailing down your belly. You shivered so hard it made the mattress creak.

Sid grinned against your skin. "You already taste so fuckin' sweet," he muttered, nosing at your core, not even touching you properly yet, just letting the heat of his breath drive you crazy. "Bet you could get me drunk off your pussy right now, baby. All thick and fuckin' sweet just for me."

"Oh my god, Sidney," You gasped, tossing your head back. "You're fucking filthy."

"Yeah, well," he said, voice low and smug. "You like it, baby. You like havin' me mouth off about how sweet your pussy is when you’re desperate."

You made a sound somewhere between a moan and a sob, and Sid finally gave you what you needed — flattening his tongue and dragging it up through your folds, slow and deep.

Your entire body jerked.

"Jesus fuck, Sid," you gasped, arching off the bed, thighs trembling.

He groaned into you, his hands sliding under your ass to tilt you up even closer to his mouth. "You’re fuckin’ drippin', babe," he muttered, voice vibrating against your soaked skin. "Beggin' for it. Haven’t even touched my cock yet and you’re already so fuckin' close, huh?"

"Fuck you," you moaned, trying to close your thighs around his head — he loved when you did that, so desperate you wanted to trap him there.

Sid laughed low, all smug satisfaction, and stiffened his tongue to shove into your leaky entrance, bobbing in and out like he was starving. Every little whimper, every twitch of your hips, just made him harder, his cock aching in his dress pants.

He shifted one hand, dragging two fingers back inside you, pumping slow, gentle strokes in and out while he circled your clit with his tongue, slow and deliberate. His fingers moved slow between your legs, curling deep, working that perfect rhythm only he knew. Your thighs quivered, trying to clamp shut, but he squared his shoulder and pushed them open lazily. "None a' that," he said, smirking. "You’re taking it, baby. Not hidin’ from me now. Not after all that shit you talked on my phone."

You clawed at the dress shirt he was still wearing, trying to yank him back up. "You’re such a fucking dick," you gasped. "Coulda just got me some flowers and left me the fuck alone—"

Sid grinned, slow and greedy, dragging the how tongue down your slick folds, circling your clit just hard enough to make your hips jerk. "And miss this?" he murmured. "Babe, you’re better than Christmas. Better than a fuckin’ playoff win."

He pushed your shirt up higher until your breasts were exposed, beautiful and tender. He palmed one carefully, thumb brushing across your hardening nipple, and you gasped, your legs falling further open for him.

"Sensitive, huh, baby?" he whispered, watching you squirm. "Bet you could come just from my mouth on you right now, no hands, nothing."

"You’re fucking killing me," you moaned, lifting your hips helplessly, trying to get more friction.

He laughed again — slow, dangerous — and dipped his head to take your clit back into his mouth, sucking softly, then harder, pulling a desperate, broken sound from your throat.

You fisted his hair, hips rocking mindlessly against his face, your whole body tightening.

"Sid, fuck," you gasped, "I can't—I'm gonna—"

He lifted his head, grinning at your flushed, wrecked face. "You gonna come for me already, baby? Just from my fuckin' fingers?" he teased, pumping them harder now, twisting his wrist so his palm rubbed against your clit perfectly. "Fuck, that's hot. Goddamn, you're perfect. So fuckin' good for me,Y/N."

"Jesus–Fuck–Sidney." you cried out, arching hard off the bed as you came, gripping his wrist as if to tell him not to stop, body shuddering, your pussy clenched down so hard around his fingers it almost hurt, soaking his hand and mouth with a gush that made Sid groan into you.

He kept working you through it, slow and patient, until you were trembling, whimpering, utterly wrecked.

He kissed you again, deep and slow, until you went boneless against the sheets, gasping for air.

He pulled his fingers out finally, dragging them slow between your thighs, teasing your slit just to hear you whimper again. Then he sucked his fingers into his mouth, groaning low like you were the best fucking thing he'd ever tasted.

You slapped his chest weakly. "You're disgusting," you muttered, still breathless, half-dazed.

Sid grinned and grabbed your hand, pressing it to the bulge straining against the front of his now wrinkled pants. "Yeah? Feel how bad you got me, baby?" he rasped. "’M about two seconds away from blowin' my load like a fuckin' teenager over here."

You laughed, exhausted and glowing and a little feral around the edges. "Good," you whispered, hooking your legs around his waist. "Now fucking do something about it, Crosby."

He stripped his shirt off one-handed, tossing it somewhere behind him, before finally, finally undoing his jeans.

His cock sprang free, hard and leaking, and you made a broken, desperate sound that made Sid’s heart squeeze. Your mouth actually watered.

“Baby… fuck,” he muttered, his voice low and rough as he guided your hands above your head, he tapped his tip against your slick folds, nudging your clit teasing the both of you, you instinctively moved forward, preparing for more stimulation, “You ready for me, huh?”

You nodded, your breath catching in your throat as you felt the warmth of the head pressing against your entrance, so close yet so far. You could barely form words, the need building inside you too overwhelming, and all you could do was let out a shaky breath, your hips shifting slightly against him. “Mhmmm,” you murmured, your voice trembling with anticipation. “need you.”

With a groan, Sidney shifted above you, his hands holding your hips as he slowly pushed his length into you, slowly, inch by inch. The sensation was overwhelming—your heat, your tightness, the way you stretched around him as he filled you. He couldn’t hold back the curse that slipped from his lips as he bottomed out inside you, his breath ragged as he held you close.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned into your neck, "tightest fuckin' thing, swear to god...made for me."

Sid stayed still for a moment, just breathing, letting you adjust, feeling your soft, fluttering muscles pulsing around him.

You let out a soft moan, your head falling back further into the pillow as you adjusted to the feeling of him inside you. The stretch was delicious, filling you completely, and the slow, steady throb of him buried deep inside made your pulse race. You could feel every inch of him, the way he fit perfectly against that gummy spot inside you, and it made you dizzy with need.

It took every ounce of control he had not to just start pounding into you like a goddamn animal.

Instead, he pulled out slow, almost all the way, and slid back in with one long, careful thrust that made you whimper and dig your heels into the mattress.

"That’s it," he murmured against your temple. "Just like that, princess. Let me take care of you."

He fucked you slowly—long, hard, deep strokes,  savoring every twitch and gasp and curse. You arched under him, hips pushing up, body moving with his like you’d been built just for this.

The sound of his hips hitting the back of your thighs filled the room. He kept a first grip on your hips as he continued a consistent pace. At some point your brain just melted. Your eyes could no longer focus on him above you and your mouth hung open, moans no longer falling from your lips. The only thing you could do was tighten around him.

Sid could feel you getting close. He dropped down, his chest pressing right up to yours stopping his thrusts. But in your cockdrunk you started to grind upwards when Sidney wouldn’t move. Caught between needing the break but also wanting him to continue.He wanted this to last though. 

And just like that, he was sitting back, pulling you up with him. Chest to chest, you were now on top. His lips catching yours in something deeper now—hotter, messier. You gasped as he lifted you slightly, maneuvering with muscle memory and intention, letting you sink down completely onto his cock.

“I got you,” he murmured, one hand on the small of your back, the other moving down to stroke your thigh. “Just move how you want. I’ll follow your lead.”

You couldn’t answer — too full, too overwhelmed, too in love — so you just sat on your knees and began rocking your hips in desperation. He knew you were getting impatient. It was in the way your hips started moving impatiently against his aching cock. He knew you needed to come and that you were close. It was in the way you took everything he gave you, every rough upward thrust, every whispered praise.

You leaned forward, one hand braced on his broad shoulder, the other tangled in his hair as you rode him slowly — hips rolling in little waves, the angle hitting all the right places, making your whole body quake.

“‘M close Sid,” you whispered, gasping when his thumb found your swollen clit again.

“Good,” he said hoarsely, “You need it. Look at you. All needy and swollen. You’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. You know that?”

“Don’t stop ohmygodohgodfuck-” you whined, burying your face in his neck.

Sidney couldn’t stop even if he tried to. You’re too damn addicting.

He starts to thrust upward, matching the pace in which you're riding him. He desperate to watch you fall apart on top of him. He pushes two fingers into your mouth, you instinctively start sucking on them as if they’re his cock.

“There she is,” he whispers, rough and low.

You clamp down around his cock, coming hard and fast. It rolled through you in heavy, pulsing waves–warm and all consuming–pulling a wrecked cry from your lips.

“Fucking–Jesus–I’m–Goddammit Sid–”

Sidney came with a deep, desperate groan, burning his face in your neck as his cock twitched inside of your pussy. He emptied himself inside, thrusting up lazily a few times, fucking his come deep inside of you, even as you writhe above him in overstimulation. He watches as his cock drags in and out of you, a circle of your cream circling the base as his come leaks down his length and down to his balls. 

Sid pressed you back onto the mattress, unintentionally thrusting his softened cock into you. You whine softly, already spent and tired and ready for bed. He presses gentle kisses to the side of your face.

“You okay?”

“Mm.” You mumble softly, already drifting off.

You had all the time in the world now. Sid had made damn sure of that.

And you—well, you were the subject of speculation, fascination, and, in some corners, outright disapproval. The girl too young, too fresh, too much of a contrast to the quiet, calculated, carefully managed existence Sidney had built. The age gap was undeniable, a 16-year stretch that gave people ammunition, as if they hadn’t already decided what they thought about you.

It didn’t help that you weren’t some seasoned socialite or a familiar name in hockey circles. You weren’t a sports reporter or a PR darling, not a longtime fixture at games. No, you were something worse in the eyes of his critics—young, new, and entirely yours.

They didn’t know about the late-night conversations, the ones where Sidney’s usual reserve cracked open just enough for you to slip inside. They didn’t see the way he softened when you spoke, or how he looked at you like he was trying to memorize every version of you—the excited, the sleepy, the frustrated, the amused.

They didn’t know that you never sought him out, that he was the one who lingered after your first meeting, the one who texted first, the one who—despite all logic, despite knowing exactly what kind of reaction this would spark—had made it clear he wanted you.

But they knew enough to talk.

"She’s barely old enough to drink."

"What could they possibly have in common?"

"Sid’s having a mid-life crisis."

The comments should have been easy to ignore. Sidney wasn’t the type to entertain gossip, and you’d never cared about the opinions of people who didn’t know you. But still, the weight of it settled into your bones some days, making you wonder if you were an anomaly in his otherwise perfectly controlled life.

Because he was Sidney Crosby—captain, legend, a man whose legacy had been cemented long before you were even in high school. And you? You were just the girl people assumed was temporary.

And maybe that’s what made it all the more exhilarating.

The funniest part? You and Sidney actually found the whole thing hilarious.

The first time you showed him a comment under some sports gossip post—"She’s basically a child. This is so embarrassing for him."—he just blinked at you, unimpressed.

"Didn’t realize I should be embarrassed for enjoying my life," he said dryly, barely looking up from his coffee.

You snorted. "Yeah, well, you should probably start wearing knee braces to dinner so people know how frail you are."

From then on, it became a running joke.

Like when you posted a dimly lit photo of your hand wrapped around a wine glass at a fancy steakhouse, the edge of Sidney’s plate barely in frame, and captioned it: Dinner with my old man 🤍

Or when you caught a candid of him rubbing his temple after a long day and added it to your Instagram story with the text: He’s got a headache from all the whippersnappers in his life.

Or, your personal favorite, when you recorded him tying his skates before practice, zoomed in on his face as he focused, and added: D1 Grandpa Energy.

The chirps were constant, and he took them all in stride. In fact, he played along—leaned into it, even.

"Think I should start stretching before we go out?" he mused one evening as you got ready for dinner. "Maybe bring a heating pad?"

You grinned at him in the mirror. "I already put Icy Hot in your bag. Just in case you pull something walking to the table."

He rolled his eyes, but you caught the twitch of his lips.

Despite the internet losing its collective mind, the reality of your relationship was effortless. Sidney was steady, calm, and deeply private. You, on the other hand, were unbothered, playful, and just reckless enough to make things interesting. You balanced each other out in a way that worked, even if people didn’t understand it.

You loved how Sidney never treated you like you were some silly, naive kid. He respected you—your thoughts, your humor, your way of seeing the world. And you, in turn, loved teasing the hell out of him, keeping him on his toes in a way no one else really dared.

Like the time you went with him to a team dinner, and while everyone was talking hockey, you casually turned to him and went, "Tell me again what it was like growing up without color TV?"

The table went silent for a beat before someone—probably Letang—burst out laughing. Sid just gave you that look, equal parts unimpressed and amused, before shaking his head.

"She’s funny, huh?" he muttered, reaching for his drink.

"A regular comedian," you quipped, clinking your glass against his.

That was the thing—no matter how much outside noise tried to define your relationship, the two of you had already decided what it was.

It was simple. You liked each other.

Sidney didn’t buy you expensive things to impress you. Sure, he could, but he knew that wasn’t why you were here. Instead, he showed up in little ways—the way he always made sure to order your fries extra crispy because that’s how you liked them, or how he’d automatically pull you closer when cameras were around, just to make sure you didn’t get overwhelmed.

And you? You made sure he laughed. Really laughed. The kind of laugh that shook his shoulders and made his eyes crinkle, the kind of laugh he rarely let people see.

You were good together. You fit, even if people couldn’t wrap their heads around it.

And honestly? That just made it more fun.

It was nearly midnight, and the two of you were on the couch, deep in a heated argument over absolutely nothing.

"I'm just saying, people who don’t let the cereal sit in the milk for at least thirty seconds before eating it are a danger to society," you declared, pointing your spoon at him.

Sidney, reclined against the cushions in his sweatpants and a faded Team Canada hoodie, exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. "That’s ridiculous. You want it soggy?"

"Not soggy, perfectly saturated," you corrected, scooping another spoonful of Cinnamon Toast Crunch from your bowl. "It enhances the experience."

Sid shook his head, glancing down at his own bowl—practically dry because, of course, he barely let the milk touch his cereal before shoveling it into his mouth like some kind of barbarian. "There’s no way you actually believe this."

"I do," you said, dramatic as ever, settling further into your spot next to him. "This is a hill I will die on."

Sid sighed, took another bite, and then, without missing a beat, shot back, "Guess you’d better hope I go first then."

You gasped, shoving his shoulder. "Did you just—"

He fought back a smirk, chewing methodically like he didn’t just say something that made your jaw drop. "You’re too young to be making retirement home decisions, anyway," he added, extra casual.

"Wow," you scoffed, setting your bowl down. "Big words for someone whose lower back cracks every time he stands up."

He snorted, finally breaking into that slow, warm smile that made your stomach flip.

It was moments like this that made you realize why, despite the comments and the noise, this relationship worked.

You weren’t intimidated by him. Not by his reputation, not by the weight of who he was. You poked fun at the untouchable Sidney Crosby the way most people wouldn’t dare, but you never disrespected him. You met him as a person, not as a legacy.

And Sid—Sid liked that.

He liked how quick you were, how you made fun of him without ever making him feel small. How you never treated him like some god on skates but also never downplayed how much he meant to people. It was a balance no one had quite figured out before you.

He let out a deep breath, stretching his arm along the back of the couch, his fingers absentmindedly toying with the ends of your hair.

"You done bullying me for the night?" he asked, amused.

You hummed, considering. "Depends. You gonna admit my cereal method is better?"

"Absolutely not."

"Then no."

He chuckled, shaking his head before wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you in. You melted into his side like it was second nature, warm and easy.

The whole world could talk. The whole world could speculate. But in here, in this quiet moment between bowls of cereal and bad jokes, you fit like you were always meant to.

Two small children in oversized 87 jerseys sprinted down to the glass, their tiny hands pressing eagerly against it as they peered onto the ice.

“Daddy!” they called in unison, their voices muffled by the roar of the rink.

Sidney skated by, immediately pivoting back when he heard them. Stopping in front of them, he grinned. “Hey, guys. You having fun?”

“Daddy, look!” Olivia spun around excitedly, showing off her Crosby 87 jersey that nearly swallowed her small frame.

“Hey, that’s my name!” Sidney teased.

“No, it’s my name!” she shot back with a triumphant smile.

“Mommy says it’s our name,” Patrick added matter-of-factly. At six years old, he was both sweet and protective, always keeping an eye on Olivia, who had a knack for getting into trouble.

Sid chuckled. “You’re right, Pat. It is our name. Where’s Mommy?” He glanced around the stands, searching for you.

“She said she was going to talk to someone,” Olivia answered, twisting around as if she might spot you.

As much as the kids had Sidney wrapped around their fingers, they were undeniably Mommy’s little angels. Patrick was a full-on mama’s boy, always seeking your approval, always wanting snuggles. Olivia, on the other hand, was a perfect mix—equal parts Daddy’s girl and Mommy’s shadow. Spending her days at home with you while Patrick was at school, she relished having your attention all to herself.

“Daddy, can Binky come on the ice with me?” Olivia held up her well-loved teddy bear, its fur slightly ragged from years of constant companionship. You and Sidney had been trying to ease her separation anxiety with it, but she clung to Binky as if leaving him behind would be some sort of betrayal.

“I don’t know,” Sid mused, kneeling in front of the glass. “Does he have skates?”

“Livvy, you can’t bring him everywhere,” Patrick interjected, his big-brother instincts kicking in. “What are you gonna do next year when you can’t bring him to school?”

Patrick, now in first grade, took his new role as an older kid very seriously. Though he secretly wished he could still bring his stuffed animals to school, he knew the other boys would never let him hear the end of it. Still, he’d noticed the older kids seemed to give him a lot of attention—especially when his dad was the one dropping him off or picking him up.

“Binky doesn’t need skates,” Olivia declared confidently. “I’ll hold him.”

After retiring from the NHL, Sidney poured his focus into raising his family and working with young players, coaching peewee hockey and leading the Little Penguins program in Cole Harbour. That, of course, included teaching his own kids how to skate.

Patrick took to the ice naturally, skating with confidence and already mastering his stick handling. Olivia, on the other hand, required a bit more persuasion. She loved skating, but only if there was a reward waiting at the end—like a donut from Tim Hortons on the way home.

The buzzer rang, signaling the end of morning practice, which meant one thing: family skate time. As the teenage players exited the ice, Sid spotted you making your way down toward the rink.

“Hi, Mama,” he greeted, stepping off the ice and onto the bench.

“Hi, baby.” You reached up, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. He was still a little sweaty from practice, but you didn’t mind—you’d always loved him like this.

“Is it your turn to skate?” you asked the kids, watching as they practically vibrated with excitement.

They nodded eagerly, and Sidney grinned. “Alright, let’s get you two geared up.”

In the locker room, Patrick was quick to get his gear on by himself, while Sidney helped Olivia with her shin pads and pants. Though Patrick could tie his skates on his own, he still preferred when Sid did it.

“Are you guys ready?” Sid asked, giving both laces a final tug.

Patrick nodded, his brown eyes peering up at you from beneath his helmet’s cage. “Mommy, are you gonna skate with us, too?”

You smiled, stroking his gloved hand. “Mommy’s gonna watch from the bench and take pictures.”

Olivia held out Binky. “Mommy, will you hold him? I don’t want him to get cold.”

“Of course,” you assured her, taking the teddy and cradling it in your lap. “I’ll keep him safe, and we’ll watch you skate with Daddy.”

Before having kids, you’d loved your one-on-one ice time with Sidney. Even though you weren’t the strongest skater, he’d always held your hand, keeping you steady, keeping you safe. Now, your favorite thing in the world was watching your kids skate with him—seeing the pure joy it brought to your husband’s face.

Life had changed so much since becoming parents. Date nights out had turned into quiet nights in once the kids were asleep. Traveling alone had become harder, knowing how much the kids hated seeing you leave. On your last anniversary, Sidney had surprised you with a weekend getaway to Montreal. As much as you’d enjoyed your time together, you’d spent half the trip missing the kids.

“I wonder what they’re doing right now,” Sid had mused, sliding into bed beside you.

“We can’t call them—it’s past their bedtime,” you had sighed, though your eyes betrayed how much you wanted to.

The last time you’d called them while away, they’d both ended up in tears, begging to know when you’d be home. The guilt had been unbearable. That night, you had cried in Sid’s arms, telling him you never wanted to travel without them again. Eventually, you both agreed—short weekend getaways only, and no phone calls unless it was an emergency.

Now, sitting on the bench, you watched as Patrick skated down the ice, expertly maneuvering the puck toward the net. A few feet away, Sid was bent low, skating backwards, his hands stretched out for Olivia to grab if she lost her balance. You smiled to yourself, pulling out your phone to capture the moment. One day, when the kids were older—when they’d rather be with their friends than at the rink with their parents—you knew you’d cherish these memories even more.

After a few minutes, Olivia skated over to the bench, and you lifted her onto your lap, undoing her helmet.

“Daddy says I did so good, he’s gonna get me a Timbit on the way home.”

sidney doesn’t even fucking blink.

you’re sitting on the bathroom counter, pregnancy test in one hand, the other bracing against cold porcelain because your legs feel fucking stupid—too hot, too cold, too everything all at once. your mind is in freefall, already running ahead, thinking about all the ways this could go wrong, how people would talk, how your parents would talk, how sidney’s parents would talk, how the fucking press would talk, how—

“kinda hot,” he says, scratching at his bare stomach, standing in the doorway like this is just another conversation about what to order for breakfast.

your brain seizes, stutters, like an engine choking on bad fuel. “what?”

he snorts, steps in closer, fits himself between your knees without asking because, well, he never fucking asks, just does, and you let him because you always let him. “i said it’s kinda hot. you having my kid.”

your breath punches out of you. “you’re fucking with me.”

sidney looks at you like you just said the dumbest shit in the world. “why would i be?”

“because you’re thirty-seven!” you say, waving the test in his face. “and i’m—i’m fucking not! and i don’t even know if i am yet, and—and we didn’t plan for this, and—”

he shuts you up by sliding his hands up your thighs, big and rough and sure of you, sure in a way you’ve never been about anything in your fucking life. “so what?”

you open and close your mouth, nothing coming out.

he smirks—not in a grinning way, just a lazy little twist at the corner of his mouth like he’s already got the answer and he’s just waiting for you to catch up. “you don’t want my kid?”

your stomach—your everything—drops straight out of you. because that’s the thing, isn’t it? you can’t even say no. you can’t even want to say no, because the idea of it, of a baby his baby, a little thing that would be half you, half him, carried inside you, growing there, making your tits hurt and your hormones go crazy and your belly swell up and—

your mouth snaps shut, your thighs twitching under his hands, your breath quick and shallow. sidney clocks all of it in an instant. of course he does.

his hands tighten. “that’s what i thought.”

and fuck, you hate how easy he makes it, how he doesn’t even have to try to get you worked up. you shove at his chest, half-hearted, and he lets you, taking a step back just so he can watch you slide off the counter, test still clutched in your fingers.

“you’re such a fucking asshole,” you mutter, heading for the door.

He’s standing above you, legs spread wide, Colossus of Rhodes, but twice as tall and thrice as golden from where you kneel in front of him.

His hand, still wet, still sticky, from the champagne that slid down it, crystalline, only minutes before, is running through your hair, moving it, manipulating it any which way he pleases. He can, of course he can; he’s Sidney Crosby, Sidney Crosby who’s just added yet another trophy to his gratuitous spoils of war, who, even after all these years, still proves his dominance. Aging though he may be, it never fails to knock your knees, to put warm honey between your legs at the sight of him so easily evincing his overwhelming ownership of the young men whose pointed hits and on-ice jeers seem to roll off his back, reminding the world of his complete and total domination. Not that you needed a reminder. 

Your hands fiddle with the drawstring at the waist of Sidney’s hockey pants, pawing relentlessly at them, desperate to unearth the reward you know awaits you beneath them, and the jock you so frequently call disgusting (something about it puts that old, familiar ache in your tummy though: the thing is nearly as old as you are, and you throw a pathetic, watery-eyed glance up at Sidney at the thought that he has been this good at what he does longer than you’ve even been alive. He’s already looking when you do.) 

Sidney seems to take pity on you; precious girl, he usually says in moments like these, but tonight – no, he seems to crave your tongue, your mouth, in more ways than one. You pant, watching with a sense of wonder as he makes a show of pulling the string apart with the sort of practiced effortlessness that only comes with his age. He takes both of your wrists in each of his hands, gently, his calluses scratching the supple skin of your inner wrists, perfumed just for him, only for him, leading them to the waistband of his jock, leaving them there. He wants you to do it, and this is a capitulation that does not go unnoticed. Traitorous pride blooms in your chest; that Sid needs you so badly, so wantonly, that his infamous and over-practiced stoicism seems to slip after his big wins flatters you to no end, and it stokes a different, softer emotion in you at the thought that he needs you at all. You nuzzle the newly-exposed skin of his thighs in appreciation of this small surrender as you draw down his jock, inch by torturous inch, either ignorant or tactless to the party which still rages outside. 

It’s a wonder Sid even found the broom closet at all, a private corner in the midst of a monsoon of alcohol, and spit, and sweat. It’s a wonder they’re not missing him yet, but a man has needs, and though he seems to walk on water like a god, Sidney is just that: a man. You know this better than most, you think, but your one-track mind is thrown off-kilter instantaneously: you have finally found your prize. His cock springs free, and it is just as good as you have imagined. 

Sid blushes from the tips of his elven ears to his long, sloping nose to the thick, muscled cord of his neck at your unabashed appreciation of him, of all of him. You are too enthralled to notice he thinks, but, though you are thrown into a sea of awe at the sight of Sid’s cock no matter how many times you’ve seen it, you know he needs it: he’ll never say it out loud, no, never, but in moments like this, he needs you to tell him he’s good, without the need for words, without touch, by sight alone, in regards to more than his performance. 

You run your nose along the column of it, and your giving to him gives into an act of selfish self-gratification at the heady, virile scent of him. Sid’s all man, and he makes you dizzy with it, mouth dropping open and little pink tongue peeking out to whet both your appetite and your lips, preparing for the Herculean task of taking all of Sid into your mouth. But not now – not just yet. No, now, he is all yours, all yours to stake claim over, completely yours in the tiny broom closet he had dragged you into, the need boiling over in those hazel eyes you love so much. Usually, Sidney insists on showering before he takes you all for himself, but you love this, perhaps more than the musky bergamot soap he always uses postgame. 

Your vinous desire finally blots out your stalwart want to simply appreciate him like this, though – you have never been good at resisting Sid, though he might say the same of you (your pride simmers even higher, at this thought.) You give him as his grip tightens in your hair, reeling briefly in the doglike panting that reverberates through the room, permeated with the desperation only you can bring out in him. 

Your tongue peeks out once again, pressing tiny kitten licks to the very base of his shaft, to the very beginning of the impressive length that you swear inspires the pure and uninhibited supremacy he seems to exert over others. You often tease Sid about his big dick energy, drunk off the blush that rises to his stubbled cheeks at your flattery, but it couldn’t be farther from a mere act of adulation. You’re bad with measurements, and he’s never given you a number, but you know it takes half an hour of prep with his fingers, his sinewy tongue to fit it in, that, after your months, years together, the stretch of him still punches a half-gasp, half-grunt from your lungs that no other man has ever inspired. 

“C’mon,” Sid half-pleads. His accent seems to get stronger like this, though he’d object to you calling his tone a whine. This tugs another sigh from you, your eyes caressing the bright red maple leaf that adorns Sid’s chest. He seems to be Odysseus now, returning home from battle, to you, Penelope, his one and only, or you his Cleopatra and he a bloodied Mark Antony. He fights for his country, his pride, and, drenched in sweat, returns to you for the womanly comfort he can only find in you, for his spoils of war. More fluid drips from the hot, damp seam of you, but you ignore it easily. Sid will take care of you – he always does. Later, he will see the red silk, the cherry lace that covers his prize, but for now, the only thing that interests you is pleasing him. 

You oblige him easily – this is what you can give to Sidney, after so long and so much of him giving to you. All at once, he’s in your mouth, and his head is back against the racks of cleaning supplies that will inevitably be completely vacant, if the sounds of Team Canada’s celebrations outside give any clues. 

You run your tongue experimentally along the thick vein which runs all along his shaft, up to the swollen head of him, now bright pink with anticipation in the back of your throat. Slowly, surely though, you draw back, dragging your slick lips along Sid’s length until you reach the very tip. Just as quickly, you sink down to the base, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes at this familiar intrusion, but you only look up at him the way he loves so much. Both of Sid’s hands drop, now, to your cheeks, caressing them, his callused fingertips tracing the shapely, gentle slopes of your face. 

“Beautiful girl.” Sidney sounds wrecked, in the way only you can make him, gentle and tender just for you, even as he dominates you so thoroughly, so completely. He gives you a pointed look, wordless, but so intimate, so intense that you know what it means. Though you try to nod as best you can, he would know, even in the darkness of the cramped broom closet, even from miles and miles away, that you have said yes to him, that you’re enthusiastically giving your mouth to him, the last in a long line of tributes from those the conquered tonight. 

Sidney thrusts those fucking hips with a miniscule fraction of the power you know he’s capable of, the pure, raw energy contained within the corded muscle of his thighs, his hips, and now it’s not just the slight lack of air that’s making you dizzy. He draws back, allowing you a momentary reprieve before his cock once more breaches the damp cavern of you, this time harder, more powerful. 

Eyes half-lidded, you will him to do more – to take from you as much as he pleases. Sid could take from you everything you have, and you’d still offer more on hands and knees, ass in the air, and, though nausea bubbles in his stomach at the thought of taking anything from you, the offer sits implicitly in his hands, a reminder of your complete and utter devotion. To drive this home, you apply the most suction you can manage in your present position to Sidney’s cock, still sitting heavy, impish on your tongue, and this draws a wrecked moan from him – a moan! Your revelry is brief, cut by a slight cough as he buries himself even deeper, the thickets of hair at his base enveloping your nose. 

Sidney doesn’t flinch at the sound – neither do you. He knows your body better than you do, and, even in the throes of his pleasure, he knows you can take more, wills you to do so, already so tender, so brutal. 

He pulls out once more, and you ache for the loss of him, mouth clinging to the scant bit of him that remains in the relentless warmth, the unforgiving smoothness of your mouth. Sidney looks down at you once more, asking for the last time, with the last scraps of his self-control, for what he knows you will give him. 

You offer up your love easily, as easily as breathing comes in sleep, knowing that, even despite his age, his money, his undeniable success, he still needs this, your reassurance, from you – you drag your nails down his thigh, he groans, and begins to thrust the way you know he can. 

The hot, wet drag of Sidney’s cock against your lips, the pleasure-pain of him hitting your gag is intoxicating. He’s outside himself – you’re grateful, foggily, for the volume of the music outside, of they’d hear the desperate grunts, the sound of skin on skin on skin, Sidney’s panting, as the thighs that not thirty minutes ago propelled him across the ice at speeds and velocities unimaginable to you now propel his cock to where he needs it most. 

Time seems to slow, or speed up, drifting into the amorphous, pleasurable fog you float in. You revel, hedonist, in the feeling of his heavy balls against your chin, the force of his thrusting pushing your head back and forth, relentlessly, a tiny buoy bobbing in the unforgiving and complete story that is Sidney Crosby. He holds you fast, though, as he always does, large hands that once rested solely on the plushness of your ruddy cheeks now banded across your face, thick, brawny fingers now digging into the base of your skull, so gentle, so terrible all at once. 

The veins on the underside of him pulse, and you feel them against your lax tongue – you drag it, softly, across the quickened river of blood that sits just underneath the tan skin of him, worshipful. He grunts, appreciative, at this, urges you with the caresses of his calluses against the soft expanse of your skin, your hair, to do it again, and again, and again. You oblige.

Sidney permeates every atom in the tightly-cramped broom closet, too small even for the cleaning supplies contained within it, smaller yet for the heat of two bodies, hardly even flesh, a mess of spit and sweat and sticky, sweet-smelling filth, dripping down your face and landing on the floor with a wet sound. His body is so hot, burning so brightly with the adrenaline typical of wins like these, wins he hasn’t touched with the ruggedness of his fingers in so many months, now within his clutches, now brought under a banner of blood red and snow white, his victory so absolute no one, not in the farthest stretches of obscurity, could deny it. 

The power of him overwhelms you, the scent of him, the feeling of his thighs, spattered with a layer of brown hair and now soaking with saliva, under your palms, a psalm for your taking. The musk of sex is overwhelming – you pity the poor worker who walks in here to clean up after your debauchery (you, briefly, remember the absurdity of your situation: it reads like cheap pulp fiction, at times, you think, that only so many months, years now, he had descended on you, delivered you from the dregs of your monotonous, menial, laborious job and into his arms. You would happily open your mouth, your legs, your arms to him as thanks for this epiphany, but he refuses every time; he says the look in your eyes is enough, the brush of hair and skin and the very thought of your shared bed far too much for him already.) 

But you can smell him, feel him all over, a woman possessed – Sid gives as much as he takes, like this, though he doesn’t know it. You hope he doesn’t notice the way you grind yourself against your heel, the red silk already so soaked through with arousal now completely ruined, only a memory of your decadence in the broom closet. Surely, he would insist that you climb on top of him, to let him run his tongue over the folds of you until you scream and pound at his chest, screaming mercy, mercy, mercy, as he’s so fond of doing, but you’re happy, perfectly happy, like this, serving him. He hates to hear it, makes him feel his age, the power imbalance that infrequently, but profoundly, informs small bouts of jealousy or solitude. But you like to serve him, yes, especially when he’s like this. 

Sid’s so utterly debauched, so lost in himself that even if one of his teammates were to enter, they would hardly recognize their usually so measured captain, completely drowned in the throes of his own pleasure. Sidney’s cheeks, already prone to the kind of ruddiness that inspires poetry or paintings, are flushed a bright cherry red, dotted with sweat and the remnants of champagne, dripping down the long, curved line of his nose (you’d like to lick it off, to suck the liquid from his skin and revel in the salt and the musk of his sweat, the bitterness, then the sweetness of the champagne. But alas, your mouth is occupied.) His salt-and-pepper hair is mussed up in a manner only Caravaggio could imagine, every curl so perfectly askew, which seems to be a habit of your boyfriend’s and one that, admittedly, inspires bouts of desire similar to Sidney’s in you, all over him in the dusk when he comes home, or in the early morning before he leaves. The plush pinkness of his bottom lip is worried to pleasantly between his bottom teeth and the top ones and, had you been more lucid, you would have been able to identify the ones he pointed out to you as implants, replacements for the ones that had been knocked out by one Flyer or another while you were still learning your alphabet. 

Sidney’s thrusts are ragged now, are getting deeper, faster, more desperate, his grip on your head that much more intentional, maneuvering your face the way he wants you. He makes you wonderfully lightheaded like this – so completely and thoroughly possessed. You love being his toy, like this, to sit on your knees and please him, almost as much as you like for him to do the same, to press a worshipful mouth to your ankles, your calves, your thighs, then the part of you he loves very most, apart from your eyes, maybe your laugh or the shape of your teeth, the feeling of your smile; if not what he loves the very most, the one he serves – the one thing that puts ‘Captain Canada’ himself on his knees. This is a secret pride of yours, one that you tell no one, one that is kept safe in the depths of you until Sidney is away on a roadie and his side of the bed, still smelling of that bergamot and musk, is getting cold. 

But he’s close – you know, you know, and you resist smiling around the heady, intoxicating weight of him. You know him so intimately, you think, you could know his orgasm even if blindfolded with your hands behind your back. You like to think you could coax one from Sidney the same way, but you’ll have to wait, to bide your time. Your ears ring with it, watching the way Sid’s crows’ feet bloom across his cheeks, disturbing the stubble there, the way that, when he grimaces like this, teetering on the edge, his dimples pop out, digging graves in his cheeks. 

Sidney’s fingers are doubly hot against your scalp now, dangerously lecherous as they clutch the base of your skull tighter still, pulling you even deeper into him, your nose buried in the wiry brown hair at the base of him. On the precipice of ecstasy, he misses the way your eyes roll back, the way your mouth vibrates at the smell of him, all sweat and manhood, the way you like him, completely in control, yet so entirely under your thumb. You hear a familiar hymn on Sid’s tongue, vaguely, and wonder if he’s been talking this entire time, if you’ve just been so enthralled in the scent of him, the wires of his thighs under your hands, that you missed the oh fuck baby oh fuck yes yes take it fuck yeses. He’s teetering, desperate, flailing for it, grasping at straws as he thrusts deeper still. 

You want him to come, want him to give the reward of his spend so badly that you’re suffocating on it. You’re grinding on your own foot so hard it’s almost painful, desire controlling every movement, every gyration of your hips against your heel, pushing into the floor rolling your swollen clit with the daftness you’ve realized is inherent with orgasms not provided to you by Sidney. You won’t cum like this, certainly, but you don’t need it, no, not when you have him like this. 

You slide the viscous hot pleasure of your tongue along the vein on his underside and he breaks. 

Sidney tenses, your hair now taut between his fingers, pulled to its limits, your face pushed as far into his pelvis as it can go, now suffocated in the truest sense of the word in the man who stands above you, so powerful and so destroyed all at once. His pink mouth is dropped open, completely lax, and you can see the edges of his teeth, where they meet the softnesses of his own mouth, the pink tongue, the reddish gums, the pale pink roof of it, and his eyes have screwed shut, now only two tiny, puckered hints of eyelash and supple, thin skin, barely covering the dark bags which have accumulated under his eyes. Stress, you think, maybe sleep, but, then again, no, he’s always good about that. No worry. You have your ways of keeping him in bed when you need to, of keeping him exhausted in all the ways he wants the very most. He gives smaller, tiny thrusts as the heat of him spills down your throat, and you hum at the taste. Sidney eats well, so virile, so fecund, that he tastes good, strong, heady, and a base, animal part of you revels in the smaller thrusts, the taste of him, pines the loss of his cum; he could be thrusting like that in you, keeping his spend inside of you, where it belonged, where it’d carry on his progeny better than TNT or ESPN could. 

Sidney eases, taut muscles now weak, so spent you swear you can see his legs shake. It’s an illusion, you know, knowing that his legs, so well accomplished, can hold his weight under much more pressure than any orgasm. But you stroke your pride this way, like to think that you can make him weak, can make him strong whenever you please. His hands slips from your hair, returning to your cheeks, where he turns your head back up from where you hadn’t realized it had slumped. The amber of his eyes is so soft, looks so brown in this light, rather than the greenish they look in the bright lights of the media room or the fluorescence of the rink, so much like pools of dark water, undiscovered, unthinkable to anyone but you.

“Swallow for me.” Sidney is so soft like this, so disparate from the man who can level men twice his size without a second thought on the ice. He could crush you between his thumb and his finger, so easy, like this, but he doesn’t. 

You listen, swallow him the way he likes you to, so you keep some of him in you until the next time he can have you. 

“Good girl. My best girl.” Sidney says, so quiet anyone else wouldn't have been able to hear it, said for your ears only. He brushes his hands once more over your cheeks, wiping away sweat, stray tears that may have fallen with the tenderness only he’s capable of. “C’mere, give me a kiss.” 

You oblige him easily, but act as if it’s a chore – you shrug, roll your eyes as you rise uneasily from your feet, steadied into Sidney’s arms at the first sign of unsteadiness, huff a little for dramatic effect. 

every evening at 6 pm he takes a walk. he changes the route every now and then, but he still walks 3 miles. retirement has given him new chances to get out into the world in a different way. he isn't on such a tight schedule anymore, he's not too constricted with his time. he's discovered that he's really enjoyed being out in nature, not just when fishing or hunting.

anyway- he's taken this walk at least 4 times a week for the last three weeks. it's been over 80+ degrees and he's never seen her before. but she has his attention, all of it. he finds a bench to sit on in the park, keeping his airpods in and sunglasses on while he pulls out his phone.

no. no, i can't do that.

he stares at her through the dark shades, with his phone tight in his hand. watching the sun hit her skin making it shine like gold. studying how the bright red bikini looks on her body, matching her skin tone perfectly. she's sunbathing, skin shiny from sunscreen.

no- that's fucking creepy.

he checks his surroundings once, hoping nobody is watching him stare at this young girl. he doesn't even know who she is. he doesn't even know how old she is. his vision is also getting bad, he can't even tell if she's with anyone from this far away.

fuck it.

after making sure there wasn't anyone around, the faint sounds from the gated off pool just a couple hundred feet in front of him, he pulls out his phone and opens the camera. he's never done anything like this before. at first he feels gross. turns it off, but then turns it back on again after he sees the girl prop her chair up a little bit more to get more sun on her chest.

shit.

he zooms in, all the way to 16x then stops. he's got a good view of the creases in the bikini, how it curves around her body so tight and perfect. now his mind is racing- what does her skin feel like? does she smell like the cheap or expensive sunscreen? does her hair smell like chlorine or did she even get her hair wet and it's still soft?

he moves his phone up a little more, and zooms in to 19x. from this far away he sees the top of her swimsuit making dips into her breasts. and if he pays attention he can see that just barely her nipple is slightly peeking out. click.

fuck. her body is perfect, tight too. i want her in my bed, my couch, my house. i bet she feels like heaven and tastes like it too.

he nearly crawls out of his skin when she sits up and moves the back of the chair to adjust to her new position. he glares as she adjusts the straps and cups on her bikini, watching her play with her tits has him hard as a rock in these walking shorts.

i'm gonna have to sit here a while, i can't walk back home looking like this.

she picks up her book and flips it open- but she spreads her legs. she spreads her fucking legs like she's in the privacy of her own home and not out in broad daylight. he zooms a little further in, and because of the thin fabric he gets a perfect little outline of what her pussy must look like. he can see the mound, where her clit would be, where her tight little hole would be.

he almost cums in his pants when he notices the small damp spot on the fabric.

shit, i gotta leave.

he snaps a few more pictures, then he stands up. he almost faints when he sees her get up too. she packs her bag back up, stuffing inside her book, phone, towel. she puts on her shoes and starts to walk out of the gates of the barricaded area.

she's fucking walking home?

sidney contemplates for a moment. taking the longer way home, walking off this erection he has, but then decides...why not. why not walk behind her, get a good look at a perfect tight ass. with his luck she would just be a couple houses down and he would be able to walk the two more blocks before walking in his front door.

he had no luck today.

and he especially had no luck when he saw that her bikini strap was coming undone, just like he was about to. but he was a decent man- well maybe not after taking pictures of this woman he saw at the pool and decided to take inappropriate pictures- but he wasn't going to let her walk home and have her top fall off.

"'scuse me, ma'am," he said loudly as he was still a ways behind her. she stopped in her tracks turning around, giving him a kind smile. "yes?"

"i really don't want to sound like a creep- but you're swim top is untied in the back," yeah but you are a fucking creep.

her cheeks got a few shades darker and her eyes went wide, hand covering her mouth. "omg, thank you for telling me! how embarrassing- can you tie it back for me?"

you've gotta be kidding me.

"y-yeah, i can do that." she turns around and holds up her hair. he sees a tattoo on the back of her neck and he takes a small sigh of relief. at least she's over eighteen. "too tight?" he asked, pulling the thin strings. she shakes her head, and he ties the string into a bow for her.

"there ya go, should be able to get you home." she turns around and gives him a smile, holding her bag tight. he does a quick glance down to her chest, but then up to look back at her eyes. they're gorgeous. "where is home for you? i'll walk you."

she purses her lips, "oh, no you don't have to. besides it's kinda...far." he looks her up and down.

"nah, lemme walk you. it's almost dark, don't want anything to happen to you." she nervously laughs and he can tell she's uncomfortable. "i promise i'm not weird or anything," you're such a liar, "but i just want to make sure you get home safe. how old are you anyway? 18?"

something about his demeanor and his tone made her feel at ease. she felt comfortable when she saw his soft smile and hazel eyes.

"well um, don't get mad or anything, but i actually don't live in this neighborhood. my ex boyfriends family does and i still know the code to the pool," he laughs, "gotta work on my tan y'know? and i'm actually 21, i just have a baby face."

they start to walk down the sidewalk together, "let's do this- i'll walk you to my house. just around the corner, and i'll drive you home. s'that okay?"

she bites her lip and walks next to him- really closely. "yeah, that's good. um, what's your name? i'm y/n." she gives him the sweetest smile.

"sidney, nice to meet you."

in just a few short minutes they make it to sidney's house. a beautiful two story house, green lawn, and a front porch. what looks to be a home meant for a family, is a home for a single man in his early forties. he thought by now he'd have at least a wife, but he's too much of a homebody he keeps telling himself.

"i'm gonna go to the bathroom, can i get you anything before we leave?" she shakes her head no before sitting on his couch. she looks around his house and it's clear just who he is.

she didn't recognize him at first, her eyes were a little hazy from being in the sun for three hours straight, and plus he's changed a bit since his playing days ended. she feels this sudden wave of confidence wash over her when he walks out.

"um, sidney, can i ask a question?" she steps closer to him, leaving her bag on the couch behind her. he perks up, humming in response putting his hands on her hips. she takes a deep breath.

"were you, taking pics of me in the park?"

immediately his cheeks turned rose red. he bites his lip, "i don't care. i know, i've got the type of body men like, but," she reaches behind her without breaking eye contact.

he feels like he's in some porno movie.

she takes her hair out of her clip, and pulling at the strings he previously tied for her, "i was wondering if you'd wanna see the real thing?" she lets the top fall off her chest and onto the floor.

fuck me.

—

The hotel room in Boston was the same as every other road trip suite: sterile, functional, with that faint scent of industrial cleaner clinging to the air. Sidney sat on the edge of the bed, the crisp white sheets still tucked in military style from housekeeping, his laptop open on the duvet beside him. The screen glowed with paused game footage from tonight's matchup against the Bruins: a 4-3 loss that stung more than it should have. Not a blowout, but sloppy, missed plays on defense, a power play that went nowhere, and him, the captain, feeling every ounce of it in his shoulders. He was supposed to be reviewing this, breaking it down frame by frame, noting the little things like zone entries and forecheck pressure. That's what he did after games. Routine. Discipline. The stuff that kept him at the top.

But his mind wasn't on the ice anymore. The clock on the nightstand read 11:47 PM, and the city lights filtered through the half-drawn curtains. The guys were probably out grabbing late dinners or crashing early for the flight home tomorrow. Him? He was here, in gray sweatpants and a black Penguins hoodie, one sock on, the other tossed somewhere near his duffel bag. He'd showered twice already, once in the locker room to wash off the sweat and frustration, once here to try and reset. Stretching was next on the list: some light yoga poses on the floor, maybe foam rolling his quads, anything to unwind the tension knotted in his muscles. He reached for the remote, thinking about flipping on some mindless TV to drown out the replay in his head.

His phone buzzed on the charger, lighting up with your name. A small smile tugged at his lips despite everything. You were in Montreal, a world away in some ways, but close enough that these texts had become his secret lifeline on nights like this. It had started simple, a chance meeting at an event in Toronto last season, your laugh cutting through the formal chatter, his number in your phone by the end of the night. Now it was this: a long-distance fling, no strings, just heat and timing when the schedule allowed. But lately, the texts had been lingering longer, the pull stronger.

You: Tough game tonight. Saw the highlights. You looked good out there, though. That assist in the second? Chef's kiss.

He leaned back against the headboard, grabbing the phone and typing back quickly.

Sid: Thanks. Felt like shit, honestly. Could've done more. What are you up to?

You: Just at home. Glass of wine, bingeing some trash TV. Wishing I had better company. 

He chuckled softly, the sound echoing a little in the empty room. The tension in his chest eased just a bit. He set the phone down for a second, standing to stretch his arms over his head, feeling the pull in his back from that awkward hit in the third period. His reflection in the mirror across the room showed the usual post-game wear: a faint bruise blooming on his jaw, hair tousled from the helmet, eyes tired but sharp. He paced a little, shaking out his legs, before dropping back onto the bed.

Buzz.

You: What about you? Hotel life treating you okay? Or are you already in bed like an old man?

Sid: Haha, not yet. Supposed to be watching film. Stretching. The exciting stuff.

You: Sounds riveting. Bet you'd rather be doing something else to unwind...

There it was…that subtle shift. He could feel it coming, the way your texts always danced on the edge before tipping over. His pulse picked up, a familiar warmth stirring low in his gut. He glanced at the laptop, the frozen frame of him on the ice mocking him. Fuck the film. He closed it with a click, pushing it aside.

Sid: Depends. What'd you have in mind?

You: Oh, I don't know. Maybe tell me what you're wearing first. Set the scene.

He raised an eyebrow, a grin spreading as he typed.

Sid: Sweatpants. Hoodie. Nothing exciting.

You: Mmm. Take the hoodie off. It's probably too warm in there anyway.

His breath hitched. Bossy already. He liked that about you, the way you took over without hesitation, even over text. He tugged the hoodie over his head, tossing it onto the chair by the window, leaving him in just the sweatpants and a thin white tee that clung a little from the residual shower dampness. The room's AC hummed softly, cooling his skin.

Sid: Done. Your turn.

You: Fair. I'm in that black tank top you like. The one that barely covers anything. And shorts. Tiny ones.

Fuck. He could picture it, picture you, lounging on your couch in that Montreal apartment, legs stretched out, the fabric riding up your thighs. You’d hooked up there twice before, stolen weekends when he had a day off nearby. The memory hit him like a body check: your skin under his hands, the way you arched when he—

Buzz. A photo this time.

He opened it, and his mouth went dry. It was you, from the chest up, the black tank top dipping low enough to tease the curve of your breasts, your hair tousled like you'd just run your hands through it. Your lips were parted in a sly smile, eyes locked on the camera like you were looking right at him.

You: See? Told you.

Sid: Jesus. You're killing me here.

You: Good. That's the point. What are you doing now?

He shifted on the bed, the sweatpants suddenly feeling tighter. His hand drifted down instinctively, palming himself lightly through the fabric, but he stopped. Not yet. He wanted to draw this out, let you lead.

Sid: Thinking about you. That tank top would look better on the floor.

You: Bold. Maybe if you were here, you'd get to take it off.

Another buzz. Another photo, this one from a lower angle, your hand tugging at the hem of the tank, lifting it just enough to show a sliver of bare stomach, the waistband of those tiny shorts peeking into frame.

His heart rate climbed. The room felt smaller, the city noise outside fading to a dull hum. He stood again, pacing to the window, looking out at the Boston skyline but his mind was 300 miles north. In Montreal. With you.

Sid: Send more.

You: Demanding tonight, huh? After that loss? Okay, captain. But only because you asked nicely.

The next photo came seconds later: you on your bed now, the tank top hiked up higher, exposing the underside of your breasts, nipples just barely hidden by the fabric. Your free hand was splayed across your thigh, fingers dipping toward the edge of the shorts.

Sid: Fuck. You're so hot.

He was hard now, aching against the confines of his sweatpants. He sat back down, leaning against the pillows, one hand slipping under the waistband to adjust himself. The private folder on his phone called to him, the one buried deep in his photos app, password-protected, full of the evidence of your fling. Nudes you'd sent on other nights like this, quick snaps from hotel bathrooms or your bedroom mirror. And the videos. God, the videos.

You: What are you doing to unwind now, Sid? Tell.

Sid: Looking at old pics of you. The ones from last time.

You: Which ones?

Sid: The video. From Toronto.

That had been a wild night, after a win against the Leafs, he'd snuck you into his hotel room, and things had escalated fast. You'd filmed it on his phone, your idea, whispering filthy encouragements as he thrust into you from behind, the mirror capturing every angle.

Buzz.

You: Show me you're thinking about it.

He hesitated for a second, team rules about this shit were strict, but fuck it, it was you. He pushed his sweatpants down just enough, snapping a quick photo of his hand wrapped around his cock, hard and leaking at the tip.

Sid: Like this.

You: Good boy. Stroke it for me. Imagine it's my hand.

He did, slow at first, eyes glued to the phone as he opened the private folder. Thumbnails popped up: you in lingerie from a New York meet, ass up in a mirror selfie; a close-up of your lips around him, eyes watering; and the videos, short clips, 30 seconds to a minute, audio low but your moans clear as day.

He hit play on one, the sound off at first, watching as the screen filled with you riding him in your apartment last month. The way your hips rolled, tits bouncing, head thrown back. He turned the volume up just a notch, your whispered "Sid, fuck, harder" filling the quiet room.

His hand moved faster, grip tightening, but it wasn't enough. The friction was good, the memories better, but it felt hollow. Clinical. He needed the real thing, your heat, your scent, the way you'd clench around him, nails digging into his back. Jerking off to pixels wasn't cutting it tonight. Not after the loss. Not with you teasing him like this.

You: Still there? Or did I break you already?

Sid: Need more than this. Need you.

You: Come get me then.

He stared at the text, breath ragged, hand stilling on his cock. The flight home was tomorrow morning. But Montreal... it was close. A quick commercial hop. He could slip out, catch a red-eye, be there in a few hours, fuck you senseless, and... what? Fly back? It was reckless. Stupid. But the ache in his groin, the frustration from the game, it was all too much.

He opened the browser with shaky fingers. Thumbs fumbled over the keys: "flights Boston to Montreal now." Options popped up: nothing immediate, but a 1:00 AM flight, 1 hour 25 minutes, arriving at 2:25 AM. $172 one way. Last seats available.

He booked it without thinking, credit card details auto-filled, confirmation email pinging seconds later. Heart hammering, he stood, yanking his sweatpants up, cock still throbbing painfully. He shoved clothes into a small backpack, a change of underwear, toothbrush, wallet. Hoodie back on, hood up. He grabbed a baseball cap from his duffel, tugging it low, and sunglasses, ridiculous at night, but better than being recognized. A face mask from his travel kit completed it, pulling it over his nose and mouth.

The hotel hallway was quiet as he slipped out, elevator empty. Lobby had a few late-night stragglers, but he kept his head down, body angled away from the front desk as he pushed through the revolving door. Outside, Boston's chill hit him wind whipping off the harbor, streetlights casting orange glows on the pavement. He got an Uber to the airport, sliding into the back seat with his backpack on his lap, turned toward the window the whole ride. The driver tried small talk—"Late night flight?"—but Sid mumbled a "Yeah" and stared at the passing buildings, mind racing.

Airport security was a blur, mask on, hat low, sunglasses off only for ID check. He kept his shoulders hunched, body language screaming "leave me alone." The gate had only a few business types, a family with sleepy kids. He found a corner seat, back to the wall, legs crossed to hide the lingering tension in his pants. Boarding was quick; he took a window seat in economy, hoodie up, turning his body toward the glass as passengers filed in. The flight attendant gave him a second glance but said nothing.

Takeoff was smooth, the plane humming into the night sky. He closed his eyes, but sleep wasn't coming when visions of you danced behind his lids, that last photo burned into his brain. The flight felt eternal, even at under 90 minutes: turbulence over upstate New York, the ding of the seatbelt sign, a crying baby two rows back. He texted you mid-air, WiFi spotty but working.

Sid: On my way. Be there soon.

You: Wait, what? For real?

Sid: Yeah. Couldn't wait.

You: Door's unlocked. Hurry.

Landing was bumpy, wheels screeching on the tarmac at 2:32 AM. He was first off the plane, backpack slung over one shoulder, striding through the empty terminal like a man on a mission. Customs was quick, passport stamp, no questions. Outside, the Montreal air was even colder, stars faint in the sky. He grabbed a cab at the curb, giving your address in a low voice, sinking into the back seat and turning away from the driver again. The city blurred by: dark roads, glowing billboards in French, the faint outline of buildings in the distance. His knee bounced the whole ride, phone clutched in his hand, re-reading your texts.

The cab pulled up to your apartment building He paid in cash, tipping extra, and jogged up the steps, heart pounding harder than after a shift. Door unlocked, as promised. He pushed in quietly, locking it behind him, the familiar scent of your place hitting him: vanilla candles, fresh laundry, you.

You were waiting in the living room, still in that black tank and shorts, wine glass abandoned on the coffee table. Your eyes lit up, surprised but hungry. "Sid? You actually—"

He dropped the backpack, crossing the room in three strides, hands cupping your face as he kissed you hard. Desperate. All the pent-up frustration poured out—teeth clashing, tongues tangling, his body pressing you back toward the bedroom. "Couldn't stay away," he muttered against your lips, hands roaming down to grip your ass, lifting you slightly.

You laughed breathlessly, pulling back just enough to look at him. "You're insane. Flying here at 3 AM?"

"For this?" He kissed your neck, sucking lightly. "Worth it."

You let him guide you to the bedroom, the space dimly lit by a bedside lamp, your bed unmade, sheets rumpled like you'd been restless too. 

The bedroom door clicked shut behind you. Sidney's hands were everywhere immediately,roaming your sides, gripping your hips as he backed you toward the bed, his kisses urgent, almost frantic, like he was trying to make up for every mile he'd flown to get here. His mouth moved against yours with that post-game intensity, tongue sweeping in deep, teeth nipping at your bottom lip just hard enough to draw a gasp from you, sending a shiver racing down your spine.

"God, I've been thinking about this the whole flight," he murmured, voice rough and low, breath hot against your skin as he broke the kiss to trail his lips down your jaw. His hands tugged at the hem of your black tank top, already desperate to feel more of you, his fingers brushing the soft, warm skin of your stomach and making your muscles twitch in response. But you caught his wrists gently, guiding them back to your waist, feeling the rapid pulse thrumming there under his callused palms.

"Slow down, Sid," you whispered, your own heart racing but determined to draw this out. He'd come all this way, impulsive and needy and now it was your turn to make him wait, to build that fire until he was begging for relief, every nerve in his body screaming for the release only you could give. You pushed him lightly, and he let you, stepping back until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed. He sat down heavily.

You stepped between his spread thighs, leaning down to capture his mouth again but this time slower, more deliberate, savoring the way his lips parted eagerly for you. Your fingers threaded into his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp in long, languid drags, and he groaned into the kiss, the sound vibrating through you like a low rumble, making your core clench. His head tilted back slightly under your touch, exposing more of his throat, and you could feel the tension in his muscles easing just a bit before coiling tighter with need. His hands flexed on your hips, squeezing steadily, the pressure sending little sparks of heat through your thin shorts to pool low in your belly.

Pulling back just enough to breathe, you nuzzled against his neck, inhaling the clean scent of him, hotel air and something uniquely Sid, earthy and intoxicating. Your lips brushed the sensitive skin just below his ear, kissing softly at first, feather-light presses that made his breath hitch audibly. Then, parting your lips, you sucked a secret mark into the curve where his neck met his shoulder, slow, deliberate suction that drew the blood to the surface, creating a hidden bloom of purple beneath the skin. It was hidden enough that no one would see it under his collar tomorrow, but deep enough that he'd feel it with every shift of his shirt, a throbbing reminder of this night, of you. He hissed softly, head tipping to give you better access, his fingers digging into your shorts like he was holding on for dear life, the fabric bunching under his grip.

"Fuck, that feels good," he muttered, voice already strained, his head lolling slightly as another shiver ran through him. You smiled against his skin, sucking harder now, teeth grazing just a little in a teasing nip before soothing the spot with your tongue, lapping at the warm, slightly salty flesh. The mark deepened, and his hips shifted restlessly beneath you, the hard outline of his cock pressing insistently against your thigh through his sweatpants, the heat of him radiating through the layers like a promise. You could feel him thickening, pulsing faintly with each pull of your mouth, his body responding to the mix of pleasure and the faint sting.

You scratched at his scalp again, nails dragging in slow, firm lines that made him shiver visibly, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as a low hum escaped his throat. The sensation seemed to travel straight down his spine, making his abs contract under his skin. "You're so tense," you whispered, moving to the other side of his neck, repeating the process: kiss, suck, bite, your tongue swirling in lazy circles to heighten the sensitivity. Another hickey bloomed under your mouth, warm and tender, and his breathing grew shallower, each exhale a little ragged, like he was fighting to keep control.

He nodded, a low hum escaping his throat, but his hands were starting to wander again, sliding up under your tank top to brush the bare skin of your back, fingertips tracing the knobs of your spine, making your skin tingle. The calluses from years of gripping a stick added a rough texture to his touch, scraping lightly and sending goosebumps prickling across your flesh. You let him for a second, arching into the contact, feeling the warmth of his palms spread through you like liquid heat, before pulling away completely. His eyes snapped open, confused and hungry, pupils blown wide with desire.

"Take this off," you said softly, tugging at the hem of his shirt, your fingers lingering to brush the hard planes of his abs beneath. He did it immediately, reaching back to yank it over his head, tossing it aside carelessly. His chest was broad and defined from years of training, muscles shifting under tanned skin with every breath, a faint trail of dark hair leading down from his navel to disappear into his waistband. A fresh bruise from tonight's game was purpling along his ribs, the skin slightly raised and tender-looking, and you traced it lightly with your fingertips, feeling the heat of inflammation there, the subtle give of bruised flesh.

"Does it hurt?" you asked, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the discolored skin, your lips lingering to feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath.

"Not anymore," he rasped, watching you with hooded eyes, his voice thick with arousal.

You scratched down his chest then, nails raking gently over his pecs in slow, deliberate paths, catching on his nipples just enough to make him jolt, a sharp intake of breath escaping him. Red lines bloomed in their wake, faint and temporary, flushing his skin with a rosy hue that made him look even more alive, more desperate.

You kissed down his chest instead of rushing lower, taking your time to build the ache. Your lips followed the path your nails had taken, soft, open-mouthed kisses over his collarbone, pressing wet heat to the fading red lines; down his sternum, where you could feel the steady thrum of his heart practically beating out of his chest. His hands twitched at his sides, wanting to touch, but he held back, knuckles whitening as he gripped the sheets.

"Y/N..." His voice was a warning, needy and low, laced with frustration, but you just hummed in response, the vibration buzzing against his skin as you continued your slow descent. You nipped at the ridge of muscle along his abs, tongue darting out to trace the soft lines, dipping into the valleys between them. His stomach contracted under your mouth, the muscles jumping, and you could smell the faint musk of his arousal now, heady and intoxicating, as you got closer to his waistband.

You knelt between his legs now, fully on the floor, your hands sliding up his thighs to the waistband of his sweatpants. The fabric was soft, worn from travel, but strained tight over his cock, the outline clear and tempting. He lifted his hips without you asking, eager, his eyes never leaving yours as you peeled them down slowly revealing the black boxers underneath, tented obscenely, a small dark spot of precome already staining the front. The air between you felt heavier, charged, as you hooked your fingers into the elastic of his boxers next, dragging them down just as deliberately. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed a deep red, veins standing out prominently along the shaft, the tip glistening with a bead of precome that slowly trailed down the head. He was fucking rock hard, curving slightly upward, twitching faintly in the cool air of the room as if seeking your touch.

"Easy," you whispered, your other hand pressing flat to his thigh to hold him still, feeling the tremor running through the muscle. You jerked him off then, your grip tight enough but keeping the pace slow, up and down, twisting slightly at the top to thumb over the sensitive head, spreading the slickness in lazy circles. His head fell back, jaw clenched tight, a vein throbbing in his neck. His skin was hot in your hand, silk over steel, and you watched every reaction, the way his abs flexed with each stroke, the subtle hitch in his breath when you squeezed just right, the way his fingers curled slightly against the bed.

"Jesus, are you—?" He lifted his head after a few minutes, eyes widening as he glanced down your body and realized your free hand had slipped under the waistband of your shorts. Your fingers were circling your clit now, the fabric tenting slightly with the movement, and you were soaked, your wetness coating your thighs, the heat building to an ache that mirrored his. You moaned softly, the sound muffled against his thigh where you'd pressed a kiss, your pace on yourself matching the slow rhythm on him.

"Fuck, that's hot," he groaned, his voice wrecked, eyes glued to the hidden movement of your hand. The sight seemed to push him closer, his cock throbbing harder in your grip, precome leaking steadily now, making each stroke slicker, smoother. But you kept it slow, never speeding up, letting the tension coil tighter in his belly, his balls drawing up slightly as frustration mounted.

You bit your lip, nodding, your own breath coming faster as you felt the slick heat between your legs, your fingers dipping lower to tease your entrance before circling back up. "All because of you," you whispered, pulling your hand free for a moment, fingers glistening, strings of wetness connecting them, and trailing them up his inner thigh, leaving a shiny path on his skin. The cool trail made him shudder, his cock jumping in your other hand.

Shifting lower, you cupped his balls next, rolling them gently in your palm, feeling their heavy weight, the soft, wrinkled skin tightening under your touch. Your thumb pressed lightly against the sensitive spot just behind them, massaging in small circles, and he gasped sharply, a fresh wave of liquid dribbling from his tip. The dual sensation of your hand on his cock, the gentle pressure on his balls had him trembling, his thighs quivering on either side of you, sweat beading along his hairline.

"You're driving me crazy," he panted, one hand finally reaching to thread into your hair but not pulling, just holding, his fingers tangling gently as if needing the anchor. His voice cracked on the words, laced with desperation, his hips rolling subtly despite your hold. "I need—fuck, I need relief. Please, baby. It's been hours... the texts, the flight... I can't take much more."

"Not yet," you murmured, pulling your mouth away from his thigh where you'd been sucking another faint mark. You stood slowly, your knees a little wobbly from kneeling, and hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your shorts. His eyes locked on the movement, breath stalling as you pushed them down, along with your panties. The fabric clung briefly to your damp skin before falling to your ankles, and you stepped out of them, the cool air hitting your exposed core and making you clench around nothing. Gathering the soaked pink lace panties, you tossed them lightly at his face, where they landed on his chest instead, the wet spot pressing against his skin.

He inhaled sharply, grabbing them instinctively, bringing them to his nose for a second and groaning deep in his throat at the scent of you. "Fuck," he muttered, eyes wild as he looked up at you.

You climbed back up his body then, straddling one of his thick thighs, your bare pussy pressing directly against the hard, corded muscle there. The contact was electric, your slick folds spreading against his warm skin, the faint scratch of his leg hair adding a textured friction that made you gasp. You rocked once, grinding slowly, letting him feel every inch of how wet you were, your arousal coating his thigh in a shiny glaze, the heat of you seeping into him.

His eyes rolled back, a deep groan rumbling from his chest as his hands gripped your ass now, fingers digging into the soft flesh, encouraging the movement but not forcing it. The slick slide was intoxicating for both of you, your clit dragging perfectly against the firm ridge of his quad, sending jolts of pleasure up your spine, while he felt the intimate warmth, the slippery evidence of your need. "God, you're soaked. For me?"

"All for you," you whispered, kissing him again as you rolled your hips in slow circles against his thigh. His cock bobbed against his stomach, untouched now but leaking steadily, the head an angry red, veins pulsing with every denied thrust. 

You kept it up, changing the pressure. Sometimes it was light and fluttering, barely there, making him whine; sometimes hard and deep, your full weight bearing down, clit throbbing against him. His hands roamed your back, your ass, squeezing desperately, but he didn't push for more, even as his body screamed for it. Sweat slicked his skin now, making him glisten under the lamp light, every muscle taut like a bowstring ready to snap.

Finally, you shifted higher, straddling his hips properly. Your tank top was still on, but you tugged it up just enough to expose yourself fully, your bare pussy hovering over his cock. Then, with a slow, teasing smile, you lowered just enough to grind directly against him, your folds enveloping his length without taking him in. Skin on skin, hot and wet, your arousal mixing with his precome in a messy, slippery glide that coated both of you.

"Fuck—yes," he hissed, hips bucking up to meet you, the head of his cock catching on your clit with a jolt that made you both gasp. But you pressed down on his chest, holding him still, controlling the pace as you rocked slow, hard, feeling him throb wildly beneath you, his balls tight and drawn up, liquids smearing across your inner thighs.

"I'm gonna—baby, please, I'm about to come," he groaned, voice breaking, his face flushed and contorted with need. "I'm so fucking hard... let me in... I need to be inside you. Please."

You smiled, breathless yourself, grinding one more time. He was ruined, needy, exactly how you wanted him, begging for the relief only you could grant.

But you weren't done teasing yet. Not quite. You leaned forward, your breasts brushing against his chest through the thin fabric of your tank top, nipples hardened and sensitive from the friction of the night. Your mouths met again, softly at first, lips parting with a wet sound, tongues brushing in slow, exploratory strokes that mirrored the lazy grind of your hips. He tasted desperate. His breath mingled with yours in hot, uneven puffs, and you could feel the tremor in his lower lip as he kissed you back, trying to pour all his frustration into the connection.

You kept grinding, your slick folds gliding along his cock in unhurried, deliberate rolls, up and down the full length, from the thick base where his pubic hair tickled your sensitive skin to the swollen head that nudged your clit with every pass. Each grind pressed him deeper into your folds without penetration, the ridge of his cock dragging perfectly against your swollen clit, sending electric sparks shooting up your spine and making your thighs quiver around his hips. You could feel every detail of him, the vein running along the underside pulsing with his heartbeat, the slight curve that made the friction hit just right, the way the head flared and wept more precome with each teasing stroke.

Sid was losing it, genuinely unraveling beneath you. His kisses grew sloppier, more frantic, tongue thrusting deeper into your mouth as if seeking solace there, teeth grazing your lips in accidental nips. His hands, which had been gripping your ass, now wandered restlessly, sliding up your sides with trembling fingers, tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your ribs, before cupping your breasts through your tank top. He squeezed gently at first, thumbs circling your nipples over the fabric, feeling them pebble harder under his touch, but then firmer, like he needed the softness of you to ground him. The sensation made you moan into his mouth, a soft vibration that traveled straight to his cock, making it twitch wildly against you.

"Please," he whispered against your lips, the word breaking on a ragged exhale, his voice hoarse and cracked like he'd been shouting for hours. His eyes which were usually so sharp and focused were now shiny and hazy. They locked onto yours, pleading silently as much as his words, brows furrowed in a mix of agony and adoration. "Baby, I can't—fuck, I can't take it. You're so wet, so hot... I feel you dripping on me. Please, just... let me in. I need to feel you around me. I'll do anything."

You smiled against his mouth, a soft, teasing curve of your lips that he could feel, your breath fanning over his skin in warm puffs. It only seemed to wind him tighter, his hips stuttering up involuntarily beneath you, seeking more, but you pressed your weight down, pinning him with your thighs. "Shh," you murmured, nipping at his bottom lip before soothing it with your tongue, tasting the faint metallic tang where he'd bitten it earlier in restraint. "Not yet. Feel how good this is? How I'm soaking you... making you wait."

He groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours, his hands wandering again in pure desperation, sliding down to grip your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, feeling the muscles flex as you ground against him. Then up to your back, under the tank top now, palms splaying wide against your bare skin, tracing the line of your spine with shaky strokes. He was clutching at you like a lifeline, every touch laced with need, his cock throbbing insistently between your folds, the head catching on your entrance with each grind but never quite slipping in. 

"Sid," you whispered against his ear, your voice breathy and laced with your own building need, "you're shaking. So hard for me... leaking everywhere. Feel how wet you made me? How much I want you too?"

"Yes—fuck, yes," he panted, his head turning to chase your mouth, capturing it in another kiss that was all desperation now, his tongue seeking yours like it was the only thing keeping him sane. His pleas came whispered between kisses, fragmented and raw: "Please... God, please... I need you so bad... inside... can't hold on..." He looked wrecked, his face flushed a deep red, lips swollen and shiny from your kisses, sweat trickling down his temples, chest heaving with labored breaths.

You ground one final time, hard and slow, letting the head of his cock press right against your entrance, the stretch teasing both of you. His whole body tensed, a choked whimper escaping him, his hands clutching your hips so tightly you knew there'd be bruises tomorrow. He was right there, teetering on the edge.

Finally, finally, finally you sank down. The first inch slid in slow, your slick walls parting around him with a wet, sucking heat that made you both gasp. You lowered slowly, inch by torturous inch, feeling every ridge and vein as he filled you stretching you perfectly, the burn of it delicious after all the buildup. He was so thick, so hard, bottoming out with a final, deep thrust that pushed him fully inside, your pelvis flush against his, pubic bones pressing together.

"Holy shit," he breathed, eyes widening in stunned relief, his voice breaking on the words like a prayer. He throbbed inside you, his body adjusting to the overwhelming pleasure after hours of being denied.

You didn't move at first, just sat there, savoring the fullness, the way he stretched you to your limits, the faint twitch of him deep inside hitting that sensitive spot that made stars dance behind your eyelids. Your walls fluttered around him involuntarily, milking him without moving, and he groaned low and long, his head falling back against the bed with a soft thud. "Fuck... you're so tight... so perfect...I—God, I might come just from this."

You shared soft kisses then, your lips brushing his in gentle, unhurried presses. His mouth was pliant under yours, parting easily, tongue meeting yours in slow, sensual dances that built the intimacy higher. One kiss melted into the next, wet and warm, your breaths syncing as you held still, letting him feel the way your juices dripped down around him, coating his balls and the faint contractions of your inner muscles as you adjusted.

"Please," he whispered again between kisses, his voice a wrecked murmur, "move... I need you to move... fuck, this feels too good... I'm so close already."

Only when his pleas turned to whimpers, soft, broken sounds against your shoulder, did you finally start to move, but even then, it was slow, a gentle rock that barely shifted him inside you, just enough to tease.

You lifted your gaze to meet his, locking eyes, his were still hazy, glassy with need, the gold flecks in them catching the light. Yours held his steadily, a mix of tenderness and control, watching the way his brows furrowed deeper with each minuscule rock, his pupils dilating further as the sensation built. It felt so fucking good, the slow drag of him inside you, the way your clit brushed against his pubic bone with every forward tilt, grinding just enough to spark fresh heat in your belly without rushing toward release. His breath hitched in sync with yours, shallow and ragged, and you could see the sweat beading along his forehead, trickling down his temples in slow rivulets, making his skin glisten like he'd been oiled for this torment.

His hands, still wandering in desperation, settled on your ass now but not guiding, not forcing the pace, just holding on with a firm, trembling grip. His fingers dug into the soft flesh there, kneading slightly as he felt the way you moved, the subtle flex and release of your glutes with each rock, the warmth of your skin under his palms, the faint dimples where his thumbs pressed in. It grounded him, or tried to, his touch frantic, like he was memorizing the rhythm, the way your body rolled above him. "Fuck," he whispered, voice barely audible, his eyes never leaving yours.

Leaning down slightly, you brushed your lips against his again, but this time you trailed a hand up his arm, guiding his thumb toward your mouth. His eyes widened fractionally, hazy focus sharpening for a moment as you parted your lips and drew his thumb inside, sucking gently at first, your tongue swirling around the pad, tasting the salt of his skin, the faint callus from gripping his stick. He watched, his breath almost stopping as you hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder now, mimicking what you'd do to his cock if you weren't already fucking on it.

"Oh fuck," he rasped, voice cracking, his hips jerking up involuntarily beneath you in a desperate wish for more. The movement drove him a tad deeper, but you stopped immediately, clenching around him to hold him in place, drawing another whimper from his lips. His thumb popped from your mouth with a wet sound, slick with your saliva, and he dragged it down your chin, leaving a shiny trail. 

You continue riding him, lifting just an inch before sinking back down, the motion so controlled it barely counted as riding but more a torturous roll that kept him on the edge. His hands on your ass squeezed harder now, fingers spreading you slightly, feeling the way your cheeks flexed with each rock. His skin was fever-hot under yours, slick and sliding where your thighs pressed against his hips, and you could feel the faint tremor running through him.

"Feels so good," you whispered against his ear, nipping at the lobe before sucking it into your mouth. He shuddered violently, a full-body quake. "So close, aren't you? But not yet."

He nodded jerkily, swallowing hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as sweat dripped down his neck. "Yeah—fuck, yeah... baby, it's too much. I need to come. Please, let me..." His voice trailed off into a whine, broken and raw, his hands wandering up your back again, clutching at the fabric of your top like it was the only thing keeping him from exploding.

You drew it out even longer, leaning back slightly to change the angle, making him hit deeper with each rock, the head of his cock grinding against your cervix in a way that made you both moan. Sometimes you'd circle your hips instead of rocking, stirring him inside you like a slow whirlpool, feeling him drag against every sensitive inch of your walls. His breaths came in harsh pants now, chest heaving, he whispered, "I can't do it, baby... can't wait anymore." 

His voice was wrecked, barely coherent, and in a surge of desperation, he moved his hands gripping your hips firmly as he rolled you both, flipping you onto your back against the mattress. The sheets were cool against your heated skin, a stark contrast that made you gasp, but he was already settling between your thighs, his weight pressing you down in the best way. He didn't thrust wildly; even in his need, he started slow, pulling out almost to the tip, feeling your walls cling to him, reluctant to let go, before sinking back in with a deep, deliberate push.

He was fucking you now, slow and steady, long, full strokes that bottomed out each time, his cock dragging against your g-spot with every thrust. His hands braced on either side of your head, muscles bulging in his arms, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest. "Fuck—yes," he groaned, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before locking onto your connection, the relief written across his face. His balls slapped softly against you with each thrust, tight and heavy.

He was close, so close, whispers turning to grunts, “Gonna come fuck, baby, gonna fill you…” but he held on a little longer making every second count before the inevitable break. 

Finally, he couldn’t hold back any longer. His eyes, hazy and desperate, locked onto yours, and with a choked, “Fuck, baby—” his hips snapped forward one last time, burying himself fully inside of you as he came. The release hit him like a tidal wave, a deep, guttural groan tearing from his throat as his cock pulsed violently, spilling hot, thick ropes of come deep inside you. 

But he didn’t stop thrusting. Even as his orgasm wracked him, his hips kept moving slower now, but still deep, deliberate, each stroke pushing some of his come out from where your bodies connected. The slickness leaked around his cock, a warm, sticky mix of your arousal and his release dripping down your folds, coating his shaft and matting his pubic hair. The sight of his length glistening with both of you, the creamy white of his come mixing with your juices made you clench around him, drawing a shaky moan from his lips. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was all heat and desperation, his tongue sweeping in deep, tasting you as if he needed to ground himself in the intimacy.

His thrusts grew just a bit harder now not faster like he was chasing your pleasure now, determined to bring you with him. Each drive of his hips ground his pubic bone against your clit, the coarse tickle of his pubic hair brushing your sensitive folds adding a friction that made you gasp into his mouth. His pelvis knocked against your swollen clit, sending jolts of pleasure radiating through your core, the wet slide of his come-slicked cock dragging against your g-spot with every thrust. Your legs tightened around his waist, heels digging into his ass to urge him deeper, your hips grinding up to meet each of his strokes.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough and wrecked, the words punctuated by soft grunts as he kept fucking you through his sensitivity. His hands roamed your body, one sliding under your tank top to cup your breast, thumb rolling your nipple in slow, teasing circles that made you arch into him; the other gripping your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh to pull you closer, guiding your movements to meet his thrusts. 

“Fuck, baby, you’re so tight… so good… come for me, please,” he whispered.

The coil snapped suddenly, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave. You came with a sharp cry, your walls clamping down hard around his cock, contracting in waves that made your thighs shake. Then came the rush, a gush of liquid as you squirted, your release soaking his groin, his hair, the sheets beneath you, the sensation warm and overwhelming, dripping down to pool under your ass. The intensity left you breathless, your vision blurring at the edges, stars dancing behind your eyelids as you clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped marks in his sweat-slicked skin.

“Fuck—yes, that’s it,” he panted, his lips crashing against yours again, kissing you messily, all teeth and tongue, both of you too far gone to try. You were both breathless, groaning and cursing softly into each other’s mouths—“Fuck… God… shit, baby…”—the words muffled, swallowed by the kisses as your bodies trembled together. His cock twitched inside you, oversensitive now but still moving, the wet heat of your release coating him, making every thrust slicker, the friction almost too much.

Finally, he slowed, his hips stilling with one last, deep thrust, staying buried inside you as your bodies pressed flush together. He broke the kiss, forehead resting against yours, both of you panting, chests heaving, sweat and come and arousal connecting you in a sticky mess. “Holy shit, baby,” he whispered, voice hoarse, his eyes searching yours. “I fucking love you.”

The words hung in the air, raw and unguarded, his breath hitching as he realized what he’d said. But you just smiled, too fucked-out to process it fully, and pulled him into another soft kiss, letting the moment linger a little longer.