#sidneycrosby

cw — strangely, a lot of angsty angst; sidney being... sidney (gracie's version); references to a past sexual encounter; not super descriptive smut (pretty tame for me ngl); panty sniffing teehee; voyeurism + f masturbation; kinda sorta exhibitionism/risky location; degradation/name-calling balanced out by some praise; orgasm control + denial, edging then overstim; dacryphila; cameo from two of my fav gentlemen ;)

A newly born fawn can stand within ten to twenty minutes of entering the world and is able to manage walking after several hours—albeit, rather ungracefully. With time, fawns do become more sure-footed and less likely to stumble or fall, usually experiencing pervasive wobbliness and frequent fatigue, which wanes over weeks. In the meantime, however, their weak limbs won't carry them very far. 

A few feet of grass and pavement would be doable. Uncoordinated and slow, though not impossible. 

But you are not a baby deer, regardless of how similar your strides may appear. A resemblance so uncanny that it's the first remark made by each and every party guest you pass on your trek up the driveway. 

Overdid yourself at the gym, you fib with the limp, "Don't worry about it," swipe of your hand through the warm evening air. Either too oblivious or intoxicated, not one bats an eye despite the mountain of evidence piled on your face—and dripping down your inner thighs.

The shameless, self-satisfied sound of Sidney Crosby's amusement slipping through his fingers—ones which still carry a suspiciously tart scent—isn't helping but is just as easily overlooked. 

As you stumble through the party, still bustling as ever, you begin to think he lied when he turned down your parents'—and his—street. When he said the punishment was over, that you'd earned his forgiveness. Just another empty promise strung together with hollow words from his silver tongue. 

He was enjoying your misery too much for it to be accidental. Sidney wasn't overly affectionate or even that warm of an individual. Charming and magnetic, but never sweet or sentimental. It was something you were still grappling with, still trying to make peace with. He wasn't a monster, just cooly indifferent.

Which is why a (stupid) part of you expected some small benevolence after you opened your legs for him—again. 

Like, for instance, returning your panties instead of pocketing them. Or, not making you mingle with half the town with your own shame sliding down past the hem of your skirt—what a concept! 

It could be worse. He did say he planned to hang them from the rearview mirror or stash them in his center console. The chances of someone accidentally stumbling upon the sullied snow-white cotton were significantly lower, with them balled in the back pocket of his well-loved denim, than either alternative. 

Sidney Crosby ruined your night and your mood, but worst of all, several orgasms. All because he didn't "appreciate" the silent treatment. 

Hypocrite. 

"Don't ignore me," said the man who flaked on your father's poker night. 

"Don't ignore me," said the man who hadn't bothered to call, despite going out of his way to ask your mother for your phone number—lead on a job, my ass. 

"Don't ignore me," said the man who brought a date to your parents' anniversary party, then scowled like someone shit in his Cheerios when an acquaintance of yours from high school wanted to walk down memory lane. 

"Don't ignore me," said the man who crashed your attempt to escape his punitive glare of disapproval. 

He was easy enough to ignore even if it was his car you were riding shotgun in. Plenty of buttons to busy yourself with and an endless array of distractions beyond the large tinted window. Sidney Crosby was little more than a gnat buzzing around your head. Unpleasant and obnoxious, but bearable. 

Until the kind, naïve cashier complimented the "adorable couple," and, naturally, asked how long they'd been together. An innocuous question to which the older man scoffed, and promptly corrected her outlandish assumption, leaving her apologetically rosy-cheeked. 

After setting the replenishment of bottles and cans in the backseat, you shut the Range Rover's door a bit too harshly. You weren't surprised to feel his displeasure boring into your temple as the engine hummed to life. 

In no mood for a lecture, you cut off whatever prim, self-righteous bullshit he had to say at the knees, "You're pissed I slammed the door, I'm pissed you were a dick to the teenager who doesn't get paid enough to deal with your awful lack of tact. We're even, alright?" 

"She speaks," was his astute, amused comeback. 

He put the car in reverse and backed out of the spot with his hand braced against your headrest. 

You couldn't stomach his inconsistent ambivalence a second longer. 

Hands thrown up in defeat, frustration burst from your mouth. "Why are you acting like I don't exist? As if...as if—" 

He waited for you to complete your thought, but it's one you'd never finish. You hardly allowed yourself to think it most nights. It shouldn't matter if you matter to him.

But the universe has a sick sense of humor. 

"You're... confusing. I don't—I don't get you." 

Sidney simply sighed, his eyes trained on the vacant road ahead. "You'll understand when you're older." 

"Jesus, what's next?" You couldn't help but snort at the cliché throwaway line. "What I was your age...?' or 'Back in my day...?' I am on the edge of my seat, Mr. Crosby." 

"Quit it. I'm in no mood to deal with your dramatics tonight, kid. I'm already at my limit with you." 

The feeling was very much mutual. 

"Make me." 

A horrible, mocking sound erupted from the driver's side that made you want to curl into yourself and never unravel. The only thing worse than being ghosted, it seemed, was the outright rebuff of your advances. 

For a long while, the only sound was the gentle, steady hum of the AC; Sidney wasn't a "radio person."

Eye-roll. You started to think you weren't a "Sidney person." 

After your fourth or fifth—you'd lost count by now—Sidney looked at you in his periphery. His coal-black stare made you giddy in a way that made you feel equally as silly.

You hated wanting him more than you could ever hate him. 

With an exaggerated sigh of his own, Sidney stuck out his hand. Palm up, directly over the center console. 

"What the hell am I supposed to do with that?" you spat, brows pinched in confusion. 

You felt his growl in your ribs, but that twinge was nothing when compared to what his subsequent command did to your mind and body. 

"Take off whatever excuse for undergarments you put on with in me in mind, and put them in my hand." 

Time froze, and so did you. 

"I won't ask again." 

You don't make him. 

You bunched your skirt up to the creases of your thighs without another peep, and your heart pounded so roughly in your ears that it made your vision blur and blacken around the edges. Nervous fingers trembled as they hooked into the delicate garment and pulled them down your thighs. As you lifted your rear, cold air flooded the intimate place, and you nearly lost your nerve. With the soft cotton stretched impatiently at your knees, your head whipped from side to side to scrutinize your surroundings. Then, with the coast as clear as it would ever be, you surrendered them.  

He chuckled at your paranoia, finding it oddly endearing, and continued to do so even after his prize was secured, bundled safely in his clutches.  

Mr. Crosby brought them to his face. He inhaled deeply, much to your chagrin, and he kept them squarely under his nose for three intersections in spite of your palpable embarrassment. There was more to blame your squirming on than just the chill of the air conditioning. 

"Can you... like, not?" you mumbled as you shrunk into the passenger seat, mortified. 

"What's the matter? Feeling shy?" He laughed into the creamy center of the fabric. 

You swear his tongue slipped out, but it was too dark to know for certain. Your body didn't need confirmation to tremble. Out of discomfort... or fear... 

Arousal? 

"—you weren't five seconds ago when you stripped in my front seat for anyone to see. Or when you let me fuck you with your father on the other side of the door. Me, his best friend. But that's where you draw the line?" 

You, quiet as a mouse, shifted uncomfortably on the cool leather until your gaze couldn't leave the neighborhoods blurring together beyond the dark glass. 

Sidney Crosby wasn't the most delicate with emotions, but this was cruel even for him. You know he can see right through you, and to leverage your... whatever you feel just to belittle you for his own amusement wasn't something you thought to worry about. It wasn't a possibility you considered, but maybe you should've. 

You don't turn at the sound of your name, but you do hum in acknowledgment. 

"I'm not poking fun at you, kid, I promise." 

The sincerity in his low timbre tugged on your heartstrings, and soon, your eyes were back on the opposite side of the SUV. 

He wasn't looking at you, but his attention never split or wavered. "I asked you to do that because I'd been thinking about you—and the way your sweet pussy smelled—since Christmas. Five fucking months... tormented by the memory. I apologize if I took it too far." 

Some emotion, one you could not bear to label, bubbled up your throat as you chewed on his words. Fearful you might be eclipsed by a shadow of doubt, you shoved it right the hell down in favor of your preferred fall-back. 

"Make it up to me?" 

You knew you were offering yourself up on a silver platter. And you did feel unsure about it—the action, the potential consequences, and the plethora of ways you would, more than likely, be hurt. However, when regret crept in, belated and benign, it hadn't mattered. 

"Tempting. Later—if you behave. Right now, I want to watch." 

Your stupid, malleable heart flipped over a cracked door.

Throat clenched, you gulped. "What about... Shouldn't you focus, I don't know, on not killing us?" 

"Shouldn't you focus on the ache between those pretty thighs?" 

One light change. From green to yellow and finally, red—that was all the time you required to heed Sidney's sardonic counsel and cave to your body's needs. That was how quickly you wound up with one knee hiked up and bent, resting against the soft material of the center console. Your eagerness displayed proudly, glittering as it caught in the streetlights that lead back toward reality. 

Sidney Crosby had you halfway to spread-eagle in the passenger seat of a moving vehicle with your hands up the skirt he wanted to burn—and he refused to let you cum. 

Every time you got close, he made you stop. A few times, he even barred you from touching yourself anywhere at all. He would coach you to the brink, pushing you closer and closer each time, but Sidney always stopped you short of the finish line. He repeated this pain-pleasure torture until you were sobbing at his side, a smirk splayed wide across the lower half of his otherwise stoic face. 

"What's wrong?" He asked as if he cared. 

"It's not—I need... I-I need more—need you." 

You hardly recognized your own voice. Too pitchy and distant, you wouldn't have, if not for the way the words scratched your delicate throat as they came up. You choked on your own salty tears. 

He liked making you cry a little more than could be considered healthy. But what he liked even more was how, even with the ability to take pleasure at your own hand, you wouldn't. You couldn't. You needed him—his approval, his permission, his touch. You were useless without him. 

"Tough shit, slut," Sidney replied. 

Free of malice, you would've considered the name affectionate—an endearment, almost—if it came from anyone else. 

"You get what you deserve, and you haven't earned my fingers, let alone my cock. I'm damn sure of it." 

You made a wet, woeful sound that almost made him pity you. Almost. If he hadn't been driving, he might have given in just to squeeze out more pathetic whimpers. 

He was glad to have resisted the urge in the deserted parking lot to bend you over the hood of his car, and he was proud of himself for not jerking the car onto the shoulder to take you in the backseat. Sidney's resolve had dwindled significantly as the drive dragged on, chipped away by your sad eyes and even sadder sounds and the guilt he couldn't stifle. 

Sidney couldn't give you what you wanted, but he could provide a substitute. A poor one, by both your standards, but you'd make do. 

"Alright, alright. Quit your whining. If you want to cum tonight, you'll do the work yourself. Go on, big girl, you wanted to be grown so badly. Take care of the problem like a grown-up." 

You listened, and you stumbled over the edge almost instantly. 

Your fingers were desperate to make the best of a bad situation. A mixed bag, in reality, one you won't bother to sort through until it's unavoidable. And, before long, you were writhing into your own touch, imagining it was his instead like you have every night since he had you in the bathroom at your parents' holiday party. 

Until headlights flashed, bright and commanding like the alarms that failed to sound in your head whenever Sidney Crosby was involved. Three fingers remained knuckle-deep when your body, still reeling from your latest peak, seized up in fear.  

"Did I tell you to stop?" came his strict, no-nonsense censure. 

Your head wagged; he knew your answer without needing to look. 

He offers you the hand that took your panties from you. This time, though, you didn't need further instruction. As you suckled, his thumb massaged your warm tongue. 

"Stop thinking. You don't have to worry about anything ’sides fucking your fingers the way you'd fuck mine, and sucking my thumb the way I know you'd suck my cock." 

When he pulled to a stop at the red light, he took full advantage of the momentary reprieve. Sidney leaned so close, the heat of his lips pressed to your skin without ever truly touching you. It was pure maddens, but his words were worse: "—maybe I'll let you. If you're a good little girl and prove, you're worthy of the honor." 

Tears streamed down your hot cheeks. The salty, silvery rivers glistened in the passing lights of house lights and other cars. Sidney's fingers twitched against the wheel as they resisted the urge to scoop them up and suck them down. 

What a waste. 

His thumb slipped from your mouth as your grip on his wrist and forearm slackened. Sidney braced himself for whatever trivial complaint you meant to voice this time. 

"But... but I—fuck... N-No more... can't—can't do it, can't do another one. P-Please—don't m-make me..." 

If he hadn't been so irritated, he would have found your garbled, sputtering mess of a plea humorous. Instead, he felt it was an inconvenience. Sidney did not understand why you were behaving like an insolent brat when you getting the attention you tugged his sleeve for. 

"First, you beg for it, and now you're whining to stop. Which is it? Make up your mind and use your big girl words." 

You did. 

And you're still wearing the product of your repeated efforts nearly an hour later, your head as fuzzy as ever. Several times, your spaciness has been commented on or lightly joked about, but you lack the energy to give a shit. You're too out of it to even muster up annoyance. 

Deciding to call it a night, you quietly slip away from your parents. They're too wrapped up in playing gracious hosts to notice, accepting overpriced, useless gifts and congratulations like it's their full-time jobs. 

On the way to your bedroom, you're intercepted. 

"There she is, Miss Master's Degree! How've you been, honey? Keeping out of trouble?" 

You allow yourself to be scooped up by the younger of the two brothers huddled in a corner of the family room, and a genuine smile isn't difficult to find. 

"Knock it off, Tommy," Mr. Miller chides after your feet have been returned to the ground. "You of all people should know how, and I quote, fucking lame the Adult World is. I'd be more concerned about her dying of boredom than getting into any trouble." 

"Oh, don't worry. I've found ways to amuse myself," you reply with an easy laugh. 

Neither catches the innuendo, but it reaches the intended audience. 

Hearing the familiar grumble of ire, you politely excuse yourself. "I am so sorry, but I need to lie down. My head is killing me." 

Mr. Miller's warm brown eyes glisten with paternal sympathy. He rubs between your shoulder blades. "Of course, sweetheart. You've had a crazy last couple of months. Stop by when you're feeling better, okay? Sarah and Ellie miss their favorite babysitter." 

You smile and nod an affirmative before stepping away. 

Your spot between the brothers is swiftly filled by two of their endless admirers, eager to chat up the introverted widower with two pre-teen daughters and his flirtatious veteran of a younger brother. You don't blame them. They were as easy on the eyes as they were to talk to, and, in a world of boys, two southern gentlemen were a rare commodity. A hot one, too. 

The younger Miller wouldn't have caused any brows to rise if you brought him to Thanksgiving. 

With your hand coasting over the banister, you find yourself wishing it were Tommy—or even Mr. Miller, you couldn't get off your mind instead of... 

Shaking your head, you trot up the stairs, slipping into the darkness without a second glance. You weren't kidding about the migraine. 

He waits fifteen minutes before disappearing into the same shadows. 

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so like, i see a lot nhl imagines putting reader’s job as a corporate professional/actress/model/something kinda glamorous -  but i can’t help but want to see an nhl imagine where reader is some kind of athlete too, but something unexpected. 

so say like theres some kind of filmed challenge event. eg the penguins on penguins live tv doing a different sport challenge for charity (like those ice hockey vs figure skater or ice hockey vs red bull ice crash challenges) that comes about after ppl on the internet make jokes about all the fist fights and body checks after a particularly rough game. specifically, they point out sidney crosby’s tendency to either 1) grab a player by the back of the neck to push them face down on the ice or 2) do some kind of ridiculous spin throw-esque to literally toss other players right off their feet and into the boards

so twitter is like, hey, since ice hockey is a sport well known for its fights, what if they tried to learn some actual martial arts moves? Who would suck at it? Who would be a beast at it? Would it be funny as hell? Hell yeah. 

cue the penguins meeting y/n, their judo teacher for the day who they meet at her mma gym that she co-runs with an old colleague, and it’s already kinda off to a ridiculous start because, well, geno is 190cm/6’3, sidney is 180cm/5’10, and you’re objectively tiny in comparison, coming in at, what, 5’5? probably? Like, yes Sidney can throw a whole damn adult into the boards, but that’s hockey. And this is, uh, this is definitely not hockey, and you are definitely not a hockey player. 

Y/n is fairly young too - she’s just turned 26 - petite in the graceful way she holds herself, large, dark doe eyes that don’t show a shred of nervousness.  It’s hard for sidney to wrap his head around the fact of you being able to throw adults twice her size over her shoulder on the regular, and to be paid to do it too. 

Sidney’s used to tall, glamorous women with legs that stretch for days, and even when he collaborates with the Women’s hockey leavue from time to time, they’re all wearing bulky hockey gear, built for an entirely different sport. sidney vaguely recalls the details from the PR briefing before about you - black belt judoka, the national women’s champion in your weight category 2 years in a row, and you’ve recently moved to pittsburgh to work with an old colleague at their new martial arts academy. 

he has no idea what he was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t this.  Still though, she is a professional athlete and that means she’s built like one - a brick shithouse of a judoka. y/n’s got a strong set of broad shoulders, legs and arms made of corded muscle hidden under soft skin decorated with a smattering of freckles, face unblemished without a single bruise or scar, paradoxically dainty hands with well weathered calluses and thick, strong joints, and quite frankly the smallest waist and tightest ass Sidney has ever seen. 

you greet everyone with an ease and friendly professionalism that leaves him a bit envious, your handshake firm and smile wide and genuine. Without even realising it himself, he takes note of all the little things that showcase the breadth of your character - the delicate lines of your tattoos, the flex of your forearms when you adjust your gi, the way you quickly braid up your midnight black hair, dyed on the inside with a deep, royal purple that makes you glow. 

sidney is struggling to maintain his professional facade, but it’s hard to do because he’s watching y/n showing geno how to position his hips to execute an osotogari. he can’t help but question how in the hell you’d sweep anyone geno’s size off his feet (and sidney’s not the only one glancing around in quiet disbelief.) 

but the rest of the session goes well since the penguins players are paired up with each other to practise a few of the basic throws you demonstrated with your assistant. 

it’s kinda funny, really fun, and a bit awkward as they’re all trying to throw or trip their teammates on to the crash mats without stumbling themselves. geno gets an exasperated earful from y/n because he keeps defaulting to “hug my opponent and throw him like sack of potatoes, is easy and fastest!” “Mr malkin, hugging requires both arms, and last I checked you usually need both hands on the hockey stick!” 

In the background, the camera pans over to focus on graves and rathbone descend into a goofy wrestling match on the ground. 

Either way, sidney finds himself distracted enough trying to keep his attention on throwing his practice partner correctly, and he eventually finds himself relaxing into the routine of following a pattern. he just manages to snicker out a sorry to karlsson, who goes ass over head when sidney pulls off an elegant ogoshi. 

karlsson rolls over and groans, swatting at sidney’s outstretched hand. 

“no fair, man! of course sidney’s going to be the best at this,”karlsson grumbles in jest, crawling back on his feet. “Now fucking come here, it’s my turn.”

“Judo is all in the core muscles - the stronger your hips, pelvis, abdomen and chest is, the better your technique,” y/n’s voice rings out from across the floor. 

pettersson chirps in from where he is on the floor, “well that’s why sidney’s finding all this the easiest-“ 

“- because he have biggest ass in all NHL! Can see from space, like great wall of china!” geno finishes with a whoop and holler, and everyone finds themselves breaking out into laughter. even y/n giggles, hand coming up cover her mouth too late to hide the snort that escapes. 

sidney grins, ducking his head a little to hide the flush across his face. He’s more than used to chirps about his gigantic caboose now, but for some reason having it pointed out in front of y/n is making him more shy about it than usual. 

y/n glances over at sidney with a trailing chuckle. Her eyes take their time to scan down sidney’s body, taking note of his form with an intense, analytical eye. it makes sidney tense,, his heartbeat thumping jack rabbit hard in his chest. he knows there’s nothing but curiosity in your gaze (he too is an athlete obsessed with numbers and stats and so on’s) but he swears he can feel a spark of heat from where your eyes look over his chest, the dip of his hips, the width of his large thighs, and he doubly swears that he sees your eyebrows quirk up when your eyes linger of his impressive ass. 

he just manages to resist the urge to preen in front of you. 

he loses that battle when you look back up at him, all cheeky with your lopsided grin, “well then, mr crosby, I don’t see a hint of a lie, so I’m expecting great results from you.” 

(He’ll have to bake karlsson a loaf of banana bread as an additional apology after this. is it, as shakira herself has said, the hips do not lie. And he knows he’s unnecessarily flexing his muscles every time he moves, shut up.) 

right at the end though, that’s when the producers make the suggestion for y/n to do the basic throws on some of the nhl players themselves, just so they get a feel for how it’s actually done from an elite professional. 

there’s good ol’ natured groaning from the team, some hollering and chirping - “i wanna see potash, or, or dana-!” 

Geno volunteers, drags a few others in (kessel, letang,) and of course, sidney himself because sidney “is captain, with biggest ass and best throw, haha, of course you need to do!” 

but then you surprise them all by jerking your head at everyone and saying “we can do the whole line. it’ll be quick and easy, promise.” 

is that a challenge? that *sounds* like a challenge, and crosby feels his competitive spirit flare up inside. 

“if you say so, y/n,” he calls back, a little arrogant and cocksure. “Just let us know whenever you need a break from these guys, I’m told that they’re heavy without the momentum of skates on ice.” There’s a little chorus of gasps and oooo’s and laughs in response. 

he takes in the sight of your eyes narrowing at the blatant chirp, going sharp and dark like steel and flint. his tongue darts out to lick his suddenly dry lips when you bite your bottom lip in annoyance.

“That’s very kind of you, Mr Crosby,” y/n says as she prowls (yes, prowls,) over to the crash mat, her eyes never once breaking contact with sidney’s. It feels like being caught in the eyes of an apex predator, a tiger getting ready to circle closer, closer, ever so carefully closer to their prey. 

Too bad for y/n though, because sidney crosby is “sid the kid”, “the next one”, and he’s always had a yawning hunger for victory that has never been satisfied.  

“I’ll make sure to treat my elders just as kindly in return,” you shoot back, your tone aloof and cool. it’s the blatant disregard in your voice, another sign of you stepping out of that distant professional you’ve adorned because of sidney’s actions. Sidney did that, sidney did that to you. It makes his grin morph into something wild and borderline feral, his goddamn teeth itching in response to your attitude. It’s a feeling that he’s only felt on the ice, during a face off, during a power play. 

it makes sidney’s chest pound, and there’s a growing heat in his belly that makes his breath come out a little quicker, a little warmer. you’re not just y/n yl/n anymore: black belt judoka who’s getting in some PR with the pittsburgh penguins for an hour. 

You’re becoming more and more you in sidney’s eyes, and goddamn does he know a brat when he sees one. 

if there’s one thing sidney loves more than anything else, it’s winning. Taming. Dominating. 

You turn away, dismissing him from your mind and you clap your hands to gather everyone’s attention. The team lines up, Geno up first, Sidney bringing up the rear. While the cameras and mics rearrange themselves to best capture this last section, you busy yourself with getting ready yourself. Standing barefoot on the mat, you tighten your belt and take a moment to roll out all your joints and stretch everything out (it gives sidney a prime view of the gorgeous arch of your back. Maybe he bites back a whimper when you drop into the splits, who knows. You certainly don’t pick up on it.) 

Out of habit, your mouthguard pops out, your jaw clenching and unclenching rhythmically around it in concentration. You tongue your mouthguard back in and settle into a soft, wide stance on the mat, ready to do what you do best. 

Unbeknownst to you, Sidney has been watching your every movement, eyes laser focused on your soft, pink lips, all plush and wet when you were adjusting your mouth guard. He has a sudden vision of those lips wrapped around something else, and he audibly swallows. 

“Nervous, Sidney?” Karlsson says, jostling his shoulder lightly. 

Sidney manages a tight, controlled smile as he subtly shifts the waistband of his pants. “Euh, just a little. I’m used to getting thrown around on ice, not so much this, haha.” 

Geno steps on to the mat, grinning wildly down at y/n. You give him a stern look and he jokingly raises his hands up in mercy. 

“No hugging, I promise,” he says. “I am a good student!” You laugh and roll your eyes and now they’re all staring at you, watching you confidently squaring up to a man who’s a whole 6 inches taller than you, and sidney thinks “this can’t end well” as reader grips the collar of his gi tightly and brings her other hand to grip the back of his tricep. 

And you know what? He’s right.

Not even three beats later, geno’s been whipped around off his feet, and all of you hear is the is resounding slap of his back hitting the mat hard, the wind knocked right out of his lungs. y/n is standing cooly and triumphantly over geno, who is just wheezing, eyes wide in shock. 

“you okay there, mr malkin?”

Geno gives a shaky thumbs up and a happy little gasp that sounds like “holy fuck”. y/n nods in response and helps geno to his feet. then, she looks over at the rest of the line and yells “next!” 

kessel goes down equally as hard (“oh jesusssh-!” even though he’s 207 pounds and you can’t be more than 169, 165. letang goes flying, long legs practically cartwheeling through the air (sidney can hear everyone crying with laughter in the background.) Jarry’s next - he too lands with a wounded “ooft!” and again, y/n politely asks if he’s alright before her assistant ushers him off the mat. 

in no time at all, it’s sidney’s turn.  “best one, eh, for last! yes captain! go captain!” Geno eggs on, and sidney is. Well. Being last means he’s had some time to watch and some time to. Hm. Think. 

nhl hockey involves a lot of bodily contact, but not usually so face to face. Plus, hockey has padding, layers, headgear and gloves and all sorts of protection. It also has speed and a team of more than two, opponents of more than two. It’s a team sport, and that means there’s usually plenty of space between players, pucks and sticks. 

Even when they are up and close (in around above on top of each other in scrimmages for the puck) they’re all adult men roughly his height and weight. not…not a tiny, young 20 something year old girl woman that he has to tilt his head down to keep eye contact with. 

“Saving the best till last, Mr Crosby?”

Sidney doesn’t say anything in response, just smirks and shifts to plant his feet firmly and bending his knees slightly. He likes how his non-response has obviously irked you somewhat when he feels more than hears you huff in disbelief. 

You may be a 2 time national champion, but Sidney’s a 3 timer, 10 years your senior, and has absolutely no reason to make this easy for you. He braces himself hard, ready for you to move in tight and grab his lapels. 

however, y/n stands just slightly out of an arm’s reach, her hands gently floating in front of her chest. 

“I thought I might showcase a different throw for our star student and captain,” She cocks her head at the producers. “Would that be alright?” 

“Yes.” 

The producers are surprised at Sidney’s instant response. 

Sidney peers down at y/n and bites the inside of his cheek, trying not to let anymore of his eagerness bleed through. 

“Well then, thank you, Mr Crosby, I’ll definitely make it worth your time.” You smile back, your eyes peering back up at him from underneath your dark lashes. It’s a very cute look on you and Sidney breaths out steadily, ignoring the tightness in his groin. 

God. God. This close up and he can see the lone beauty mark on your neck, just under your chin, the slight sheen of sweat decorating the pale column of your throat. He fights hard against the impulse to just lean in and lap kittenish at your skin, chasing that sweet saltiness, to drag his teeth against the jut of your clavicle and follow it down, down, down underneath the collar of your rashguard, to press his lips and tongue against your bare sternum, to rub his face against your taunt belly, the v lines of your hips, and watch it burn blush pink from his stubble. 

“Please, y/n, call me Sidney.”

And then he’s airborne. 

One second you’re both upright, the next second y/n has ducked forward, grabbed both his arms, twisted, shoved your ass right up against his crotch (oh god, oh god, did she feel his erection? she must have, oh my god-) and sent sidney crosby, captain of the pittsburgh penguins, somersaulting over her shoulders like a wet fucking rag. 

The resulting slam as y/n pulls off a double arm ippon seoi nage on sidney sends everyone leaping to their feet, cheering so wildly and so gleefully that it wouldn’t be remiss to think that he had just scored a hattie. 

he’s breathless - figuratively and literally. all sidney can do is lie there, dazed and winded, staring up at you with pupils so wide and blown from desire that his irises are just a ring of burnished gold-brown. 

 y/n is crouched directly above him. Some of her hair has fallen loose from her braid, framing her face like an oil painting in an art gallery. The shine of the overhead gym lights form an artificial halo. How fitting, Sidney thinks, noting the twinkle in your eye and the smug, self satisfied grin that you know only he can see. 

What a little brat, he thinks viciously, gleefully. 

Y/n leans down close, closer than she has with any of the others until Sidney swears they’ll bump their noses, and he watches as your mouth parts and his mouth mirrors it in return, and you duck your head to the side at the last second, just letting your voice brush the shell of his ear as you murmur to him, so coy and cute he nearly blanks out: 

“You alright there, Mr Sidney fuckin’ Crosby?”