Hi could I request a Sidney Crosby fic where the reader is a nurse and his wife and watches him get hurt on the ice and instantly runs down to the bench telling everyone to move out of her way? Thank you 🥰
Pairing: Sidney Crosby x Reader
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The sound leaves your body before you even realize you’re making it.
One second, you’re standing near the tunnel with your credential clipped to your coat, half-watching the play and half-answering a text from one of your coworkers who wanted to know if you’d finally convinced your husband to take an actual day off.
The next, Sidney goes down hard.
Your head snaps up so fast it makes your neck ache.
The arena noise changes all at once. It stops sounding like hockey and starts sounding wrong,sharp gasps, the rise of voices, the ugly scrape of skates circling around a body that isn’t getting up fast enough.
Sid’s on one knee, then both hands, hunched over in a way you know immediately is bad.
Your training takes over before your fear does.
You’re moving before your brain catches up, shoving your phone into your pocket and hurrying down the steps toward the restricted gate. An arena staffer starts to say your name, probably something about waiting, but one look at your face shuts him up.
By the time Sid makes it to the bench with help, pale and tight-jawed, you’re there too,cutting through the cluster of trainers, assistants, and players like a knife.
“I said move out of my way.”
One of the assistant trainers lifts both hands. “Y/N,”
The bench clears in a wave of startled silence. Even the players closest to Sid step back, eyes wide. You hear somebody mutter, “Jesus,” under their breath, but you don’t look up to see who.
Your attention locks on Sid.
His face is pinched with pain, one glove off, the other hand braced against the boards. He looks up when you kneel in front of him, and the second he sees you, something in his expression shifts,not calmer exactly, but steadier.
“Hey,” he says, voice rough.
“Don’t ‘hey’ me,” you say immediately. “Where?”
He gives a humorless little huff that might have been a laugh on another day. “Hi to you too.”
“Shoulder. Maybe ribs. I don’t know.”
You put your hands lightly on him, careful, clinical even while your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest. “Talk me through it.”
He inhales carefully and winces. “Hit from the left. Went into the boards weird.”
“Could you feel your arm after?”
“That wasn’t a good answer.”
“I’m sure it does.” You glance up at the team doctor. “How long’s he been like this?”
“Maybe thirty seconds on the bench,” the doctor says. “We were just about to,”
“I know what you were about to do.” Your voice is clipped, but not unkind. You’re scared, and everybody here knows it. “Let me check him.”
Sid’s mouth twitches despite the pain. “You’re terrifying when you do that.”
You look back at him. “Good.”
A couple of the guys nearby actually laugh, nervous and short.
You carefully touch along his shoulder, watching his face more than your hands. “Tell me when it spikes.”
You press a little lower. He sucks in a breath through his teeth.
Your hand moves to the side of his ribcage. “And here?”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “There too.”
You close your eyes for half a second. “Okay.”
One of the trainers crouches beside you. “We should get him down the tunnel.”
“Yes,” you say. “On his feet if he can do it without getting dizzy.”
“I’m not dizzy,” Sid says.
You shoot him a look. “I didn’t ask.”
He actually smiles at that, faint and crooked. “There’s my wife.”
“You’re lucky I like you.”
You stand and point at two staff members. “You and you, with me. Slowly. Nobody crowds him.”
Then to the rest of them: “And seriously, move.”
As soon as Sid gets carefully to his skates, you’re at his uninjured side, one hand hovering near his back, the other ready in case he stumbles.
The tunnel feels too long.
The sounds of the game behind you fade into a muffled roar, swallowed by concrete and fluorescent lighting. Somewhere beside you, a camera operator tries to angle in for a better shot, and you turn your head so fast he practically recoils.
“Don’t even think about it.”
“Sorry,” he mutters, backing off.
Sid lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh and a wince at the same time. “You just threatened a cameraman.”
“I’ll threaten another one,” you say. “Keep walking.”
“You’re hot when you’re bossy.”
He shrugs as much as he can with one good shoulder. “Pain management.”
“Your coping skills are embarrassing.”
“My wife still married me.”
“Against my better judgment.”
The second you get him into the medical room, the door shuts behind you, cutting off the rest of the world.
One of the trainers starts reaching for his gear, and you take over automatically, gentler than your voice has been for anyone else. “Easy. Don’t help me.”
“I know how to take off hockey gear,” Sid says.
“And I know you’re injured. Sit still.”
The trainer looks between the two of you like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or leave. The doctor clears his throat. “We’ll need a better range-of-motion assessment.”
“You’ll get one,” you say. “Once he’s out of this shoulder pad.”
Sid watches you while you work, his face pale but calmer now, his breathing evening out a little as the adrenaline settles. You hate that you know all his pain tells. The tight mouth. The stillness. The way he tries to make himself smaller around the hurt.
“Talk to me,” you say quietly.
“No, I mean really talk to me. Headache?”
You pause, then look up. “Truthfully.”
His eyes soften. “Truthfully, no.”
You nod and ease the damaged side of the equipment away. He sucks in a sharp breath.
“I know.” You set the gear aside. “Still sorry.”
For a second, the room goes quieter.
The doctor steps in, checking what you’ve already checked, and you let him. You know this dance. You know when to be wife and when to be nurse and when those two things blur so badly it feels impossible to breathe.
“Looks like we’re dealing with a shoulder injury and likely bruised ribs,” the doctor says after a minute. “Possibly more, but we’ll need imaging.”
“Hospital,” you say immediately.
The doctor agrees. “Yes.”
You fold your arms. “Good.”
He leans back carefully and looks at you. “You okay?”
That almost makes you laugh.
“I’m sorry, are you asking if I’m okay?”
“You got driven into the boards in front of an entire arena.”
“And you had to watch it.”
The room goes still again.
That’s the thing about Sid. Even hurt, even trying not to show it, he still finds the center of what matters and says it plainly.
Your expression softens despite yourself.
“That wasn’t fun,” you admit.
His gaze stays on yours. “I know.”
“Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “I’m sorry.”
You step closer until you’re right in front of him, resting a hand carefully against the good side of his jaw. “Don’t apologize for getting hurt.”
“I hate when you look like that.”
“Like you’re trying to stay calm for me.”
You let out a breath. “I am calm.”
“Mostly calm,” you correct.
You smile faintly. “You’re impossible.”
The trainer returns with what’s needed for transport, and the room picks up its pace again. But before they can start moving him, Sid reaches for your wrist lightly.
You give him a look like the question itself is ridiculous. “Obviously.”
His shoulders loosen a fraction. “Okay.”
One of the younger staff members, still looking a little shell-shocked from your bench entrance, says, “I’ve never seen everybody move that fast before.”
You glance over. “They should’ve moved faster.”
Sid laughs, then instantly regrets it, wincing.
“Don’t laugh,” you scold.
He looks up at you, tired and hurting and warm in that way that still manages to hit you square in the chest every single time.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I really do.”
You lean down and kiss his forehead, careful and brief.
“Good,” you murmur. “Now let’s get you taken care of.”
As the staff starts guiding him toward the door, you stay at his side, one hand steady at his back, daring anyone in the hallway to slow you down.
