Will Smith x Macklin Celebrini (18+)
Summary: Will Smith's Type 1 diabetes don't stop him from getting railed by his boyfriend. Until it does.
Warnings: hypoglycemia, chronic illnesses (diabetes), secret relationships, smut
Word count: 1,793
requests open :)
Will Smith had been living with Type 1 diabetes since he was six years old. Twelve years later, he was in the NHL, rocking a Dexcom G7 on the back of his arm and a Tandem t:slim X2 insulin pump taped to his stomach.
He was damn good at managing it.
Most days his numbers stayed clean. But hockey players ran hard, burned through glucose like crazy, and sometimes life — or in this case, Macklin Celebrini — got in the way.
They were at Mack’s apartment again, which had slowly become their place. The lights were low, the bed was a mess, and they’d been going at it for almost twenty minutes.
Mack had Will on his back, legs spread and hooked over Mack’s shoulders. The pace was deep and steady, the kind of fucking that made Will forget everything else. Mack was in control like always, one hand braced beside Will’s head, the other gripping his thigh hard enough to leave marks. Every thrust dragged a broken sound out of Will’s throat.
“Fuck, Mack,” Will gasped, nails digging into Mack’s back. He was rock hard between them, leaking onto his own stomach. Mack leaned down and kissed him messily, hips snapping forward again.
“You feel so good,” Mack muttered against his mouth, voice low and rough. He shifted his angle slightly and hit that spot that made Will’s vision spark white. “Such a good boy for me.”
Will whimpered, back arching. He loved when Mack got possessive like this. He wasn’t a full submissive, but he loved handing over control in bed. Mack did it so well. Dominant without being cruel, steady even when Will got bratty and tried to rush him.
They’d started slow tonight. Neck kisses on the couch while watching YouTube on the TV had turned into grinding, which turned into Will on his knees blowing Mack, which turned into Mack bending him over the bed. Now they were in full swing, skin slapping, sweat building between them. Will’s pump site pulled slightly with every hard thrust, but he didn’t care. The pleasure was too sharp, too good.
Until it wasn’t.
It hit fast. One second Will was lost in the feeling of Mack stretching him open, the next his head felt fuzzy and his hands started tingling. His heart rate, already high from the sex, felt wrong now. Too fast. Too shaky.
“Mack,” Will gasped, voice breaking in a different way. “Mack — one sec. Please.”
Mack stilled instantly. No hesitation. He froze mid-thrust, buried deep inside Will, and pulled back just enough to look at his face. His expression shifted from pleasure to sharp concern in half a second.
“You okay?” Mack asked, voice tight. One hand came up to cup Will’s cheek.
Will swallowed hard. His arms felt heavy. “Think I’m low. Real low.”
“Fuck,” Mack breathed. He pulled out carefully, slow and gentle, even though Will could see how hard he still was. Mack rolled off him immediately and reached for the nightstand drawer where they kept Will's kit.
Will stayed on his back, breathing fast, trying not to panic. He hated this. He hated the sudden switch from feeling amazing to feeling like shit. His cock was still half-hard, twitching against his stomach, but the arousal was fading fast under the hypo.
Mack was back in seconds, glucometer in hand. He grabbed Will’s left hand, wiped the finger quickly with an alcohol swab, and pricked it without asking. Will barely felt the sting. Mack squeezed a drop of blood onto the strip and waited.
He set the meter down and grabbed the tube of orange glucose tablets. He shook out five and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling Will up gently so he was leaning against the headboard.
“Open,” Mack ordered softly.
Will parted his lips. Mack placed the first tablet on his tongue, then two more. Will chewed slowly, the sickly sweet artificial orange taste flooding his mouth. Mack watched him closely, one hand resting on Will’s bare thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles.
“You were doing so good,” Mack murmured. “Taking me so deep.”
“Sorry,” Will mumbled around the tablet.
“Don’t be sorry.” Mack fed him the fourth one, fingers lingering against Will’s lips. “Just breathe. Let it work.”
Will sucked lightly on Mack’s fingertips as he took the last tablet, more out of habit and comfort than anything sexual. Mack’s eyes darkened for a moment, but he stayed focused. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Will’s sweaty forehead.
They sat like that for a few minutes. Mack kept one hand on Will’s leg, the other occasionally checking the Dexcom app on Will’s phone. The room was quiet except for their breathing. Will’s cock had softened completely now, the earlier heat replaced by the foggy exhaustion of a low.
“Sixty-seven and rising,” Mack said after a while, relief clear in his voice. “You’re coming up.”
Will let out a long breath and slumped sideways into Mack’s chest. “I ruined it.”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” Mack said firmly. He wrapped both arms around Will and pulled him closer, skin on skin. “Sex is great. You not having a seizure in my bed is better. Priorities, baby.”
Will huffed a tired laugh. “I’ve never seized from a low. Not once.”
“Doesn’t mean I want to test that theory while I’m inside you,” Mack replied, voice dry. He ran a hand up and down Will’s back, soothing the tension out of his muscles. “How do you feel now?”
“Gross. Sticky. Embarrassed.”
Mack chuckled and kissed the top of his head. “You’re not gross. You’re mine. And you’re safe. That’s what matters.”
They stayed wrapped up together for a long time. Mack eventually reached down and pulled the blanket over them, tucking Will against his side. Will’s head rested on Mack’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. The sexual energy had faded, but something warmer and deeper had replaced it.
“Remember when I told you about getting diagnosed?” Will asked quietly after a while.
“Yeah. You were six. Your mom cried in the hospital.”
Will nodded. “I don’t remember a lot, but I remember being afraid. Everyone was scared. Then I got older and realized if I wanted to really play hockey, I had to be better than everyone else at managing this. So I got good at it. Really good. But sometimes my body just… decides to tank anyway.”
Mack’s arms tightened around him. “You’re allowed to have bad days. Even during sex. Especially during sex. I’d rather stop a hundred times than risk you.”
Will tilted his head up to look at him. “You stopped so fast. Didn’t even hesitate.”
“Of course I didn’t.” Mack brushed damp hair off Will’s forehead. “You said stop. That’s all I need to hear. Ever.”
The words settled warm in Will’s chest. He shifted closer, throwing one leg over Mack’s thigh. Their bodies pressed together again, soft now, comforting instead of sexual. Mack was still half-hard, but he made no move to do anything about it.
“You can keep going if you want,” Will offered quietly. “Once I’m higher.”
Mack shook his head. “Not tonight. We’re done with that. I’m gonna make you some toast with peanut butter, you’re gonna drink some juice, and then we’re gonna watch something stupid until you feel normal again. Then maybe we can pick this up tomorrow when your numbers aren’t playing games.”
Will smiled against Mack’s skin. “You’re so bossy.”
“You like it.”
“I do.”
Mack rolled them gently so he could get up. He pulled on a pair of boxers and tossed Will a clean pair of sweatpants. “Stay there. I’ll be right back.”
While Mack was in the kitchen, Will checked his Dexcom himself. Ninety-eight and steady. The glucose tabs were doing their job. He still felt a little shaky and tired, but the worst of the low had passed.
Mack returned a few minutes later with a plate of toast, a glass of orange juice, and a couple extra glucose tabs just in case. He set everything on the nightstand and climbed back into bed, pulling Will into his lap this time.
“Eat,” Mack said, holding a piece of toast to Will’s mouth.
Will took a bite, chewing slowly. Mack fed him patiently, one hand resting on Will’s lower back. The caretaker side of Mack always hit different after scenes like this. Dominant in bed, protective everywhere else.
“You know,” Will said between bites, “most guys would’ve been pissed about getting blue-balled by diabetes.”
“I’m not most guys.” Mack kissed his shoulder. “And I’m not getting blue-balled. I got to fuck my boyfriend for, like, thirty minutes and then got to take care of him. That’s a good night in my book.”
Will finished the toast and sipped the juice. His energy was slowly coming back. He leaned back against Mack’s chest, feeling warm and safe.
“Love you,” he said quietly.
“Love you too.” Mack nuzzled the side of his neck. “Even when you try to power through sex with a blood sugar of forty-four.”
Will laughed softly. “I wasn’t trying to power through. It just hit fast.”
“I know.” Mack rubbed his side. “Next time you feel even a little off, you tell me sooner. Promise?”
“Promise.”
They stayed like that for over an hour. Mack eventually turned on the TV, some dumb comedy special neither of them were really watching. Will stayed curled in his lap, occasionally stealing more sips of juice. His Dexcom climbed steadily into the safe range.
At one point, Will shifted and felt Mack’s cock twitch against his ass. He smirked.
“You’re still worked up.”
Mack shrugged. “Can’t help it. You’re hot. Even when you’re hypoglycemic and needy.”
“Rude,” Will said, but he was grinning. He turned around in Mack’s lap so they were facing each other and kissed him slowly. It wasn’t urgent or sexual like before, just warm and affectionate.
When they pulled apart, Mack rested their foreheads together. “Tomorrow,” he said firmly. “When you’re fully in range and we’ve done a proper pre-sex check. Then I’m fucking you properly."
“Deal,” Will whispered.
They ended up falling asleep like that — tangled together, half-dressed, the TV still playing quietly in the background. Will’s Dexcom stayed steady through the night. Mack woke up once to check on him, then pulled him closer and went back to sleep.
In the morning, Will woke up to Mack’s mouth on his neck again and a hand sliding down his stomach. His numbers were perfect.
“Round two?” Mack asked, voice still sleepy but full of promise.
Will Smith x Macklin Celebrini (18+)
Summary: Will has been high for hours.
Now it's 3am and he refuses to deal with it.
Warnings: hyperglycemia, secret relationships, mention of an erection for like one second, chronic illnesses (diabetes), mainly just domestic fluff
Word count: 2,121
requests open :)
The apartment was dark except for the irritating glow of Will’s insulin pump and the dim light from his phone screen.
It was a little after 3am. They had gone to bed around eleven, happy and tired after a long day of optional skates, dinner with a few teammates, and then a night full of video games and cuddling.
Will had fallen asleep quickly, tucked against Mack’s side like always. But peace hadn’t lasted.
His T:slim had been relentless.
High BG. 398 mg/dL.
3.3 units insulin on board.
Check ketones.
High BG. 403 mg/dL.
6.2 units insulin on board.
Check ketones.
Will groaned and shoved his face into the pillow, reaching down blindly to silence the latest alert. His mouth was dry. His head felt thick and fuzzy, like someone had packed cotton behind his eyes. He’d bolused extra at midnight and again at 1:30. Nothing was touching it. The high had been hovering above 390 for nearly four hours now, and he was over it.
He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. The pump beeped again, soft but insistent. Will smacked the button harder than necessary.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispered. “Just go down already.”
He knew he should get up. Check ketones. Drink water. Change his site. But the thought of leaving the warm bed, turning on bright lights, and dealing with the whole production made him want to scream. He was exhausted. He was cranky. And worst of all, he felt stupid for not being able to fix it himself. He’d been managing his Type 1 diabetes since he was six years old. He was in the NHL, for fuck’s sake. He was supposed to have this shit on lock.
The pump went off again.
Will let out a frustrated sigh and silenced it. He glanced over at Mack, who was still sleeping peacefully on his stomach, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other stretched toward Will. At least one of them was getting rest.
Another alert. Louder this time.
Mack stirred beside him.
“Will?” Mack’s voice was rough with sleep, deep and gravelly. He shifted closer, sliding an arm across Will’s stomach. “That’s been going off for hours, baby.”
“I know,” Will muttered. He sounded bratty even to his own ears. “It’s fine. Go back to sleep.”
Mack was quiet for a moment, then pushed himself up onto one elbow. The soft light from the window caught on his messy hair and concerned face. “It’s not fine. You’ve been high since before we fell asleep.”
Will turned his head away, jaw tight. “I bolused twice. I’ve got, like, six units on board. It’ll come down eventually. I just want to sleep.”
The pump beeped again. Mack reached over without asking and silenced it himself, then sat up fully. The sheets pooled around his waist, revealing his bare chest. Even in the middle of the night, Mack looked steady. Strong. In control. It made something tight in Will’s chest loosen just a little, even though he wanted to stay annoyed.
“Come here,” Mack said quietly.
“I’m already here,” Will grumbled.
Mack didn’t push. Instead, he reached down and gently tugged Will toward him until Will was half-lying against his chest. Mack’s hand rubbed slow circles on his lower back, right above the waistband of his boxers.
“You’re overwhelmed,” Mack said simply. It wasn’t a question. “Let me take care of it.”
Will wanted to argue. He hated feeling like a burden, especially at 3am. But Mack’s hand felt warm and grounding, and the high was making him feel shaky and emotional. He pressed his face into Mack’s shoulder instead.
“It’s been hours,” Will admitted, voice muffled. “I hate this. I hate when it just… sits there.”
“I know.” Mack kissed the top of his head. “You’ve done everything right. Sometimes you just need a little extra help. Let me change your site.”
Will tensed. “You don’t have to. I can do it in the morning.”
Mack picks up Will's pump, reading Will's trend. "You’re not waiting until morning while 400,” Mack said firmly, but gently. “I'll do it now. You can stay in bed. You don’t even have to get up all the way.”
Will let out a long, dramatic sigh, but he didn’t fight when Mack reached over to the nightstand drawer where they kept Will’s supplies organized. Mack had started keeping everything close months ago, quietly making their shared space safer without making a big deal about it.
Mack moved efficiently but carefully. He turned on the small bedside lamp to its lowest setting, casting a warm, golden glow over them instead of harsh light. Then he shifted so he was kneeling between Will’s legs, gently spreading them so he could reach the old infusion site on Will’s lower abdomen.
“Lift your hips for me, baby,” Mack murmured.
Will obeyed, cheeks warm. Mack peeled off the old site, cleaned the area, and inserted the new one with quick, practiced movements. He taped it down securely and reconnected the tubing. The pump gave a satisfied beep.
Mack leaned down and kissed softly just above the fresh site. “All done.”
Will let out a shaky breath. Despite the frustration and exhaustion, he could feel himself getting half-hard from the casual touches and Mack’s steady presence between his legs. Mack noticed immediately and settled his weight more fully on top of him, pressing their bodies together.
“Should we check ketones?” Will asked quietly, voice small. “It’s been over 400 for hours…”
Mack nodded without hesitation, brushing Will’s hair back from his forehead. “Yeah baby, we should.”
He reached over to the drawer again and pulled out the ketone meter they kept there. Mack pricked Will’s finger with the lancet, collected the small drop of blood, and waited for the reading. All the while, he kept one hand on Will’s thigh, thumb stroking gently.
“0.3,” Mack read aloud. “Not too bad."
He prepped the new infusion set with practiced hands. Will felt the quick pinch as Mack inserted the cannula, but it barely registered. Mack taped everything down securely, then reconnected the tubing to Will’s T:slim. The pump gave a soft confirmation beep.
"Want me to bolus with the new site?" Mack asked, fingers already clicking through screens on the pump.
"Yeah, can you do, um, 2 units, maybe?" Will ran a hand over his face, "No, do 4, actually."
Mack smiled, "Wanna start with 3? You can take more if you're still high. I just don't want you going low."
“You’re good at this,” Will said softly, looking at Mack through tired eyes.
Mack smiled a little. “I’ve had a good teacher.”
A few clicks sounded through the room as Mack confirmed the new bolus of 3 units. “There we go,” Mack said, voice low and warm. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss right above the new site. “All done. No more fighting it.”
Will’s breath caught at the soft press of Mack’s lips. Despite being exhausted and frustrated from the high, warmth pooled low in his stomach. He was half-hard now, cock stirring against the fabric of his boxers. Mack noticed, of course. He always did.
“Really?” Mack teased lightly, settling his weight more fully between Will’s legs. “You’re running 400 and still getting worked up?”
“Shut up,” Will mumbled, cheeks flushing. "I can't help that it's hot when you take care of me."
He reached up and tugged at Mack’s shirt until the other boy shifted up and lowered himself down. Mack’s body covered his completely — warm, heavy, and grounding. Will’s legs parted further on instinct, letting Mack settle between them until their bodies pressed together from chest to hips.
Mack braced himself on his elbows so he wasn’t crushing Will, but kept them close. “Better?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Will admitted. He rolled his hips once, slow and lazy, feeling Mack’s cock start to thicken against his thigh. The friction was comforting more than urgent. “Stay here. Don’t move.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Mack promised. He dipped his head and kissed along Will’s jaw, then down to his neck, sucking lightly. One of his hands slipped under Will’s shirt, palm flat against his stomach, carefully avoiding the fresh site. “You’ve been dealing with this since you were six. You don’t have to do it alone at 3am anymore.”
Will’s eyes stung a little. The high always made him more emotional. “I just hate feeling broken.”
“You’re not broken,” Mack said firmly. He shifted his weight, pressing more deliberately against Will in a slow grind. Not enough to escalate, just enough to keep that warm, safe connection. “You’re strong as hell. But even strong guys get tired. That’s why I’m here.”
They stayed like that for a long time. Mack’s body was a heavy, comforting blanket over Will’s. Every so often he’d roll his hips in a lazy, soothing rhythm, keeping the tension soft and charged without pushing. Will’s hands wandered under Mack’s shirt, tracing the muscles of his back, holding on.
Mack kept checking Will’s Dexcom on his phone every fifteen minutes, showing him the numbers.
“Down to 355,” he said at one point, kissing Will’s temple. “See? It’s moving.”
Will hummed, nuzzling into Mack’s neck. “I have three units on board.”
Mack chuckled, the sound vibrating pleasantly against Will’s chest. “Yeah, yeah. I'm just glad I changed the site.”
Will smiled despite himself. The overwhelming frustration from earlier was slowly draining away, replaced by the steady safety of Mack’s care. He felt small in the best way. Not weak, but looked after.
“You’re too good at this,” Will whispered. “Makes me want to be annoying on purpose sometimes.”
Mack laughed quietly and nipped at his earlobe. “You already do that plenty, brat.” He shifted again, letting their hips press together more firmly for a moment. The slow grind sent a spark through both of them, but Mack kept it gentle. “But I like taking care of you. Even when you’re stubborn at 3am.”
They talked softly in the warm lamplight. Mack asked about how the high had started, listened patiently while Will vented about the stress of the season and how it sometimes messed with his numbers. He kept one hand stroking up and down Will’s side, occasionally pressing kisses to his hair, his forehead, his shoulder.
Around 4:15am, Mack checked again. “298. Nice drop.”
Will let out a long, relieved breath. The fuzzy feeling in his head was starting to clear. “Thank fuck.”
Mack smiled and pulled him closer, rolling them so Will was half-draped on top of his chest. Will tucked his face into Mack’s neck, legs tangled together. The sexual tension was still there, simmering in the slow press of their bodies and the occasional lazy roll of hips, but it was wrapped in so much fluff and care that it felt more like comfort than anything else.
“You should drink some water,” Mack murmured after a while.
“Five more minutes,” Will mumbled sleepily.
Mack didn’t argue. He just reached over to the nightstand, grabbed the water bottle he’d placed there earlier, and held it for Will while he took a few slow sips. Then he set it aside and wrapped both arms around Will again.
“Better?” Mack asked.
“Much better.” Will pressed a soft kiss to Mack’s collarbone. “Love you. Even when you boss me around at 3am.”
Mack’s arms tightened. “Love you more. Even when you’re a stubborn pain in the ass with a 400 blood sugar.”
Will smiled against his skin. The pump stayed quiet now, only lighting up the room softly with an occasional reading as his numbers continued to trend down. Mack kept rubbing his back in slow, soothing strokes, humming quietly under his breath.
They stayed like that until nearly 5am, talking in low voices, exchanging lazy kisses, letting their bodies press together in that warm way that never quite crossed into more. Mack refused to let Will feel alone for even a second.
When Will’s Dexcom finally showed 210 and falling, Mack kissed the top of his head.
“See? All good now. Get some sleep, baby.”
Will hummed contentedly, already drifting off in Mack’s arms. The high was finally breaking. The frustration was gone. All that was left was the steady beat of Mack’s heart under his ear and the safe, warm feeling of being completely taken care of.
Mack stayed awake a little longer, watching the numbers drop and making sure Will was comfortable. His hand never stopped its gentle stroking along Will’s back.
In the quiet of the early morning, with his boyfriend safe and sleeping against him, Mack smiled to himself. This was exactly where he wanted to be.
Will Smith x Macklin Celebrini (18+)
Summary: Will has Type 1 diabetes and usually has his shit on lock. Usually.
Warnings: smut-ish, secret relationships, chronic illnesses (diabetes), hypogycemia, couch sex (sort of), mainly just domestic fluff with a hint of smut.
Word count: 2,008
a/n: this was cross posted on my new ao3 account !!
requests open :)
Will Smith had been living with Type 1 diabetes since he was six years old. Diagnosed young, he’d grown up pricking fingers before school, carrying juice boxes in his hockey bag, and learning the hard way that your body could betray you even when you were doing everything right.
Now, at twenty, playing in the NHL, he had his shit locked down tighter than most people could imagine. Dexcom G7 on his arm, Tandem t:slim X2 insulin pump tucked discreetly against his abdomen, and a routine carved from years of trial and error.
He stayed in range more often than not. He had to. trying to make it in the NHL with Type 1 Diabetes, it was made very clear to him very early on that one bad low during a game or practice could end things fast.
But even with all the tech and discipline, lows still snuck up sometimes.
Especially when he was distracted.
Especially when he was with Mack.
Macklin Celebrini’s apartment was their safe spot. No teammates dropping by unannounced, no media outside, just the two of them.
They’d been secretly together for months now. Stolen moments on roadtrips, late nights after games, quiet afternoons like this one.
Mack was the steady one, the guy who took charge without making it feel like control. Will liked that more than he’d ever admit out loud. He wasn’t exactly a submissive, but he was definitely the brattier, more subby one in their dynamic. Verse when the mood struck, but happy to let Mack lead most of the time.
It was a lazy Thursday afternoon in the early off-season. Practice had ended early, and Will had come straight to Mack’s place instead of going home after their workout. They’d eaten sandwiches on the couch while watching highlights, then gradually shifted until Will was curled up against Mack’s chest, legs tangled together.
“You’re clingy today,” Mack said, his voice low and warm as he ran a hand through Will’s hair.
“Shut up,” Will muttered, but there was no heat in it. He pressed his face into the side of Mack’s neck, breathing in the clean scent of his skin and the faint trace of body wash. His lips brushed there once, then again, slower. He kissed the spot softly, then let his teeth graze it in a light nip.
Mack’s hand slid down to grip Will’s hip. “Brat.”
Will smiled against his neck and did it again, adding a slow lick afterward. He loved the way Mack’s breath would catch every time. They stayed like that for a while. Will nuzzling and teasing Mack’s neck while Mack’s hand stroked up and down his back under his shirt. The touches were easy at first, affectionate. But the longer they lay there, the warmer the room felt.
Eventually Will shifted, swinging one leg over Mack’s lap so he was straddling him. He settled his weight down deliberately, their chests brushing. From this angle he could look down at Mack’s face, see the way his eyes darkened.
“Better,” Will said, rolling his hips once in a slow grind. Their sweatpants did little to hide how they were both starting to get hard. The friction felt good. Warm and teasing.
Mack’s hands settled on Will’s ass, squeezing firmly as he pulled him down tighter. “You sure you wanna start this?” His voice had that edge now, the one that made Will’s stomach flip.
Instead of answering, Will leaned in and suckled lightly at Mack’s neck, grinding down again in a lazy circle. Mack groaned quietly and pushed up to meet him. Their clothed cocks dragged together through thin fabric, building a steady heat between them. Will’s hands slipped under Mack’s shirt, palms sliding over his abs and chest. He could feel Mack getting harder beneath him, matching his own arousal.
Will’s phone started buzzing on the coffee table. He glanced at it once but ignored the notifications, too focused on the way Mack’s grip tightened on his ass, guiding their rhythm.
Mack’s phone vibrated next on the arm of the couch. He reached over without stopping their slow grind and checked the screen. His body tensed slightly under Will.
“Will,” he said, voice sickly sweet. “You’re trending down."
Will made a soft, annoyed sound and kept rolling his hips, pressing down harder. “I feel fine right now,” he whispered against Mack’s throat. He nipped at the skin again, a little bratty. “Don’t wanna stop.”
Mack’s hand came up and fisted lightly in Will’s hair, tugging his head back so their eyes met. The dominant look in Mack’s gaze sent heat straight through Will. “Five minutes,” Mack said firmly. “Then treat it. Promise me.”
Will bit his lip, smirking just a little. “Yes, sir,” he teased, voice soft but challenging. He rolled his hips again, slower and dirtier this time, feeling Mack’s cock twitch against him.
Mack exhaled sharply and didn’t push any further. They kept going. Their mouths found each other in a deep kiss, tongues sliding together as their hips moved in rhythm. Will ground down steadily, chasing the friction while Mack’s hands stayed possessive—one guiding his ass, the other stroking up his back. The heat built between them. Will was fully hard now, cock straining against his sweatpants, pressing insistently against Mack’s matching erection with every roll.
The five minutes passed, then stretched longer. Will lost track of time in the warmth of Mack’s body and the steady grind. He was breathing heavier, making small sounds into Mack’s mouth every time their cocks dragged just right. Mack was hard as hell underneath him, gripping him tighter, clearly just as turned on.
But Mack noticed the shift first.
Will’s movements were getting jerkier, less smooth. His hips twitched instead of rolling cleanly. A thin sheen of sweat broke out across his forehead and down the back of his neck, more than the grinding should cause. His hands trembled slightly where they laced together behind Mack’s neck.
“Will,” Mack said sharply, grabbing his hips to still him. “Stop. Look at me.”
Will whined, trying to keep moving. “Mack, come on… it feels so good. Just a little more—”
“You’re low.” Mack sat up straighter, easily manhandling Will upright in his lap despite Will’s weak protest. His voice stayed steady, in control. “Sit still for me.”
Will’s eyes had that glassy look now, cheeks flushed deeper. He was still hard, still shifting restlessly against Mack like his body hadn’t caught up. Mack reached over to the side table and grabbed the tube of strawberry glucose gummies Will kept stashed there.
He shook three into his palm. “Open your mouth.”
Will hesitated for a second, that bratty streak showing even through the fog. Mack raised an eyebrow, waiting. Finally Will parted his lips. Mack brought two fingers with a gummy between them to Will’s mouth. Will took it, lips wrapping around Mack’s fingers as his tongue slid warmly over them, sucking lightly to get the sugar. It wasn’t on purpose—his coordination was off—but the wet heat and the way his cheeks hollowed made Mack’s cock twitch hard beneath him.
“Good,” Mack murmured, voice low and rough. “Another one.”
He fed him the second gummy the same way. Will’s tongue lingered again, licking and sucking at Mack’s fingertips. The third followed, then the fourth. Each time Will’s mouth stayed on Mack’s fingers a little longer, warm and soft. The sexual tension didn’t disappear; it just mixed with the care. Mack stayed rock hard, breathing steady, but his focus was locked on Will.
After the last gummy, Will slumped forward, pressing his forehead to Mack’s shoulder. He was still straddling him, their bodies close, cocks pressed together through fabric. The heavy, suggestive weight of arousal lingered between them even as the low started to lift.
Mack wrapped one arm around Will’s lower back, rubbing slow circles. His other hand carded gently through Will’s damp hair. “You with me?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah,” Will mumbled against his neck. His voice was still a little thick. He placed a lazy kiss there, then another, softer. “Sorry. I thought I could push through it.”
“You can’t,” Mack said, but there was no anger in it. “Juts let me take care of you before this happens.”
Will hummed, nuzzling closer. He could feel Mack’s erection still firm against him, matching his own. The grinding had stopped, but the intimate press of their bodies kept the charged feeling alive. “Still kinda want you,” he admitted, a little embarrassed.
Mack chuckled softly, the sound rumbling in his chest. He tilted Will’s chin up and kissed him, slow and deep, but careful. “I know. Me too. But we're gonna wait until you’re stable. Then we can pick up where we left off.”
They stayed like that for a few minutes. Mack kept one hand on Will’s hip, holding him in place, while the other continued the soothing strokes along his back. Will’s Dexcom would probably ping again soon with the rise, but for now the apartment was quiet except for their breathing.
“You’ve been dealing with this since you were a kid, right?” Mack asked after a while, voice gentle. He knew the basics but liked hearing Will talk about it.
Will nodded against his shoulder. “Diagnosed at six. I don’t really remember life before it. My parents had to learn everything fast—carb counting, injections at first, then the pump. I got the Dexcom G7 a couple years ago and the Tandem pump after that. It’s made shit so much easier, but I still have to stay on top of it. NHL doesn’t give you much room for error, ya know?”
Mack’s hand squeezed his hip. “You do good. Really good.”
Will smirked faintly. “Yeah. I know.” He shifted slightly in Mack’s lap, the movement still suggestive even if he wasn’t really grinding anymore. “You’re bossy about it though.”
“Bossy keeps you safe,” Mack replied, tugging Will’s hair lightly in that way he knew Will liked. “And you like when I’m bossy.”
Will didn’t deny it. He just kissed Mack’s neck again, slower this time, letting his lips linger. The sexual undercurrent was still there—thick in the air, in the way their bodies stayed pressed together, in the occasional lazy roll of Will’s hips that Mack allowed now that the immediate danger had passed.
After another ten minutes, Will sat up a little straighter. His eyes were clearer. “Check me?” he asked.
Mack reached for Will’s phone, pulling up the Dexcom app. “Eighty-nine and rising. Better.”
Will let out a relieved breath. He leaned in and kissed Mack properly, deeper than before. Their mouths moved together with more intent, the earlier heat starting to simmer back up. Mack’s hands gripped Will’s ass again, pulling him closer, but he kept it controlled.
“Not yet,” Mack said against his lips. “Fifteen more minutes. Then we’ll see how you feel.”
Will groaned but didn’t fight it. “You’re killing me.”
“You’ll live,” Mack said with a smirk. He shifted them so Will was still in his lap but more comfortably tucked against his chest. “Tell me about practice today instead.”
They talked for a while—hockey stuff, teasing each other about line chemistry, Mack giving Will shit for a lazy backcheck in drills. All the while, Will stayed straddling him, their bodies warm and close. Every so often Will would nuzzle back into his neck, kissing and nipping lightly, keeping that suggestive tension alive. Mack let him, one hand always on Will’s hip or lower back, grounding him.
When the fifteen minutes were up and Will’s numbers looked solid, hovering around the 130s, Mack finally loosened his grip.
“Better?” he asked.
“Much,” Will said. He rolled his hips once experimentally, grinning when Mack groaned. “Can we—”
Mack cut him off with a firm kiss, then pulled back. “Bedroom. Now. But slow. I’m not rushing this after what just happened.”
Will’s eyes lit up. He climbed off Mack’s lap on slightly unsteady legs, but the bratty smirk was back. “Yes, sir.”
Nicknames: KK, Kitty (only players on the avalanche are allowed to call him this, despite Kit "hating" it)
Birthday: September 15
Age at Draft: Technically 17 at the draft, turning 18 on the last day of draft eligibility (making him the youngest drafted player)
Birthplace: Szekszárd, Hungary (moved to canada w his parents at 2 years old)
Current Hometown: Lunenburg, Nova Scotia
Nationality: Canadian (kinda Hungarian, but not really anymore)
Position: Defenseman
Shoots: Right
Height: 5'10"
Drafted: 1st Overall, Colorado Avalanche, 2026
Type 1 Diabetes
Kit was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes when he was 11 years old.
For weeks his parents noticed little things.
Drinking water constantly.
Getting up multiple times every night to use the bathroom.
Falling asleep on the couch after school.
Losing weight despite eating like a growing hockey player.
At first everyone blamed hockey because he's practicing five times a week.
He's growing. He's tired. That's normal.
The thing that finally convinced his parents something was wrong was when his mother found him in the kitchen table at 2 a.m. drinking straight from a tap in the sink because he was so thirsty.
A trip to the doctor turned into bloodwork, which turned into an immediate referral to the hospital.
Diagnosis: Type 1 diabetes.
By the time he's drafted, diabetes is basically second nature.
He wears a continuous glucose monitor (Dexcom G7). Most of the time it's on the back of his arm. Sometimes his abdomen.
He checks his numbers dozens of times a day without even thinking about it.
He counts carbs. Carries glucose tabs. Keeps juice boxes in places most people wouldn't think to look. (Equipment bag. Gym bag. Bedroom. Team bus. Locker. Hotel rooms.) Basically everywhere.
He's on an insulin pump (t:slim X2) during most of the year.
On game days he has routines worked out with his medical team and will unclip during games to prevent lows.
Hockey and Diabetes
Kit doesn't hide his diabetes, but he doesn't advertise it either.
If someone asks? He'll answer.
If nobody asks? He's not bringing it up.
It's just part of his life.
A reporter might ask:
"How difficult is it playing in the NHL with diabetes?"
And Kit's answer is usually something like:
"I don't know. I've haven't really played much hockey without it."
His biggest challenge is low blood sugars.
Hockey burns an absurd amount of energy.
Especially for an offensive defenseman who skates as much as Kit does.
So occasionally he'll come off the ice and immediately know.
Not because of some dramatic collapse.
Just little signs.
Hands feel weird.
Legs feel heavy.
Brain feels foggy.
Can't quite find words.
He'll quietly grab a sports drink, some gummies, or glucose tablets.
Wait a few minutes.
Then he's fine.
His teammates (on both his club team and IIHF team) eventually learn the signs too.
Especially Gabe Landeskog (who's kind of like a dad to him during the regular season).
Landy is probably the first guy on the Avalanche who notices, but everyone knows.
The trainers know. The coaching staff knows. Most of the players know.
The only thing that changes is that everyone becomes weirdly protective whenever his blood sugar drops, especially Nathan MacKinnon.
Nathan learns like two things about diabetes and suddenly acts like he has a medical degree.
Kit comes into the room looking slightly tired.
Nate's like "What's your blood sugar?"
Kit will respond "Nathan."
But Nate will just ask again, "What's your blood sugar?"
And after seven years with T1D he's scary accurate at knowing his BG without even checking, so he'd respond "Probably 74." Checks Dexcom?He's 73.
ABOUT THE HUNGARY THING
Kit technically qualifies for both Canada and Hungary internationally.
His parents immigrated when he was two years old, but the reason why he chooses Canada every time and identifies as mainly Canadian is because he remembers absolutely nothing about Hungary.
His relationship with the language is like:
Understands nearly everything his parents say.
Understands relatives speaking at full speed.
Can read simple Hungarian.
But he speaks it awkwardly.
If he has to speak Hungarian, he'll start a sentence in Hungarian and but finish in English.
Gets stuck looking for words.
Has a noticeable Canadian accent.
His mom only speaks Hungarian but Kit answers: "Yeah, okay, I'll do it in five minutes." In English. Every single time.
JUNIOR CAREER
Played in the QMJHL.
He's kinda known as: "The nicest kid in hockey."
Scouts love him.
Teachers love him.
Equipment managers love him.
Fans love him.
Nobody has a bad story about him.
The worst criticism scouts can find is:
"Needs to be meaner."
PLAY STYLE
Cale Makar skating style
Connor McDavid speed
A little less flashy than Makar though
Strengths:
Elite edgework
Offensive instincts
Passing through traffic
Weaknesses:
Sometimes too unselfish, like he passes when he should shoot
Doesn't enjoy confrontation
Gets pushed around a bit
PERSONALITY
The thing people notice first is that he's young.
Like young young.
He made the draft cutoff by literally hours.
When veterans meet him they're always like: "Wait, that's the first overall pick?"
APPEARANCE
Dirty blond hair, maybe very slightly red.
Slight wave to it, but not curly,
Brown doe eyes
Freckles, SO many freckles.
Constantly looks about 16, like he's got the kind of face that makes reporters always call him "kid."
Cale Makar
Cale sees a younger version of himself in Kit and Kit follows him around like a duckling.
He wants to know:
how to study video
how to handle media
how to prepare for games
how to quarterback a power play
So Cale becomes his unofficial older brother.
WORLD JUNIORS
Kit is already friends with:
Macklin Celebrini
Fraser Minten
Matthew Schaefer
Ben Kindel
Because they all played together in World Juniors.
TEAM CANADA
When he makes Team Canada at Worlds his rookie year, he's not ready for meeting only one person:
Sidney Crosby
Kit is absolutely terrified.
Not because Sid is mean.
Because it's Sidney Crosby.
Eventually Sid realizes Kit apologizes for literally everything. One day Kit is like "Sorry."
And Sid is like "For what?"
And Kit says "I don't know."
And Sid just starts laughing.
Mitch Marner
(In this universe, Mitch was never traded from the leafs...)
Instant friendship.
Marner loves teasing him.
Kit falls for every prank. Every time.
Mitch always keeps an eye on him because he knows Kit is a Type One Diabetic and Mitch has experience with watching Type One Diabetics bc of Max Domi
a little random but i am loving the idea of a sidcros!daughter who doesn’t necessarily focus on hockey as her main sport. obviously if he had a child they’d probably be more inclined to play hockey (bc its sidney crosby) but i think its fun to see sidney as a lax dad (like in the pots fic), or soccer, bball, softball, etc. like yeah i really do think he’d be the type to learn all about a sport he’s never payed much attention to before just because his kid was interested in it
sorry i just really wanted to get that out lol
YESS
ok this is just some headcanons I have ab Sports Dad Sid-
Sid absolutely signs you up for “learn to skate” when you’re tiny because in his mind that’s just what kids do. You last maybe three sessions before throwing a fit on the ice and sating “I hate this.”
Instead of forcing hockey, he’s like crouching beside you saying, “Okay. You don’t gotta love hockey just because I do.”
He definitely has a tiny moment of heartbreak the first time you say you’d rather go to lacrosse camp than hockey camp. Not because he’s mad, just because he imagined backyard shinny games for years.
Then two weeks later he’s suddenly researching lacrosse sticks at 1 a.m. like it’s he's watching film before the Stanley Cup Final.
He becomes the MOST intense parent about learning your sport correctly. But not like in a pushy way, more like a “I need to understand every rule so I can support her properly” way.
He’s the kind of sports dad who learns the terminology specifically so you know he cares.
“Big game today?”
“Quarterfinal.”
“Right, quarterfinal. You’re starting at attack again?”
And if someone else gets the terms wrong?
“No, she’s midfield. Different role.” or liek "She plays second home, actually."
He’d LOVE that you love something. Doesn’t matter what it is. Soccer, volleyball, tennis, softball, etc, he just loves seeing you passionate.
Like this man has multiple Olympic gold medals and he’s standing beside a random field at 8 a.m. holding orange slices.
Other dads trying SO hard not to ask hockey questions while Sid is like:
“Yeah anyway her left side passes have been improving a lot.”
If you’re in a sport with hair ribbons/braids/etc he learns how to do them.
Horribly at first.
Like catastrophically bad.
But eventually he’s sitting there at 6 a.m. braiding your hair before tournaments because “your teammates wear braids and you don't wanna be the only one without one,”
If you quit hockey after trying it, he never makes you feel guilty.
Ever.
But every once in awhile he’ll jokingly slide a stick across the basement like:
“You sure?”
and you’re like
“Dad.”
and he grins immediately.
He definitely accidentally becomes a “team dad.”
Half your teammates end up calling him Mr. Crosby and asking him for tape, snacks, Advil, rides home, or help carrying gear.
And he NEVER misses games if he can help it.
Doesn’t matter if it’s a random Tuesday JV lacrosse game with thirty people in the stands.
Because to him it’s not “just” a JV game. It’s your game.
Summary: Lacrosse is your everything, and your coach tries to take that from you.
Warnings: assault, rape, on screen descriptions of sexual assault, manipulation, threats, suicidal thoughts
Word count: 2,877
a/n: this is kinda a heavy one, feel free to sit this one out if you need to, there will be no hard feelings <3
requests open :)
You lived and breathed lacrosse.
Your dad, Sidney Crosby, had known that about you since you were seven years old and small enough that your stick looked too big in your hands.
You had slept with it beside your bed for two weeks after he bought it for you.
You had watched YouTube videos on cradling before you knew how to properly tie your own cleats.
You had cried the first time you missed a game because of a fever.
By sixteen, nothing had changed except the size of your ambition.
Your gear lived by the front door. Your hoodie always smelled faintly like turf, sweat, and the spearmint gum you chewed before games. There were bruises blooming across your shins, your knees, your arms, your thighs, and whenever Sidney winced at the sight of them, you rolled your eyes.
“Dad, it’s lacrosse.”
“I know, but it—”
“You play hockey.”
“And my dad probably hated seeing bruises on me, too.”
You would grin at that, smug and bright, like you had won something.
You were the captain now. Sophomore in high school and already leading the Varsity team.
College coaches had started showing up to games, quiet and watchful near the fence line.
You pretended not to notice, but Sid noticed the way you ran harder when they were there. He noticed the way you checked your email three times after every showcase tournament.
He noticed the way your face lit up when a coach from a D1 program followed your lacrosse account.
You wanted it so badly it scared him sometimes.
Not because he didn’t believe in you.
Because he did.
Because he knew what wanting something that badly could do to a kid.
And last season, your coach had made comments.
Nothing Sidney had heard himself. Nothing you had repeated with alarm. Just little things you had said while shoveling pasta into your mouth after practice.
He said I’m finally filling out like an athlete.”
Sidney had paused with his fork halfway to his mouth.
“He said what?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s weird.”
Another time:
“He said college coaches like girls who look strong but can still wear a dress."
Sidney had frowned then, too, but you had brushed it off so quickly. You had laughed. You had made it sound like annoyance, not fear.
And Sidney, stupidly, had let himself believe you.
This season, it changed.
Not all at once. That was the thing that made it hard to name. It was never one big obvious moment at first. It was his hand on your shoulder for too long when he corrected your stance. It was his fingers tapping your lower back when he told you to drive through your hips. It was him standing too close on the sideline, his voice low enough that no one else heard.
Then he started slapping your ass.
The first time, you froze so hard your whole body locked.
“Good hustle, Cap,” he said.
Everyone else was still running drills. No one noticed. Or maybe someone did and decided not to say anything.
You told yourself coaches did that sometimes. Athletes did that. Teammates did that.
But he wasn’t your teammate.
And he didn’t do it to anyone else.
After a while, you stopped flinching because flinching made him smile.
You started tying your hoodie around your waist after practice. You started being the first one out of the locker room and the last one onto the field.
And you stopped staying late to shoot, even though staying late used to be your favorite part of the day.
Sidney noticed that part.
“You not doing the extra reps anymore?”
You shrugged, opening the fridge.
“Coach says I’m overworking.”
Sidney blinked. “Since when do you listen when someone tells you that?”
You forced a laugh.
He smiled because you laughed, and you hated him for believing it. Then you hated yourself for hating him.
The, what you called 'the quad incident' happened on a Thursday.
You remembered that because it had rained earlier, and the turf smelled wet and rubbery with the weather. You pulled up during sprints, sharp pain grabbing high in your thigh. Not bad enough to scream. Bad enough that you stumbled.
Your coach was on you immediately.
“Inside,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t argue with me.”
The athletic trainer had already gone to cover a soccer game on your school's main field and your assistant coach was out on the practice field with you teammates. You told yourself it was normal that he took you into the exam room. You told yourself it was normal when he closed the door.
He told you to bend over the table.
You did.
He told you he needed to check the muscle.
You hesitated.
He smiled like you were being difficult. Like you were a child. Like you were stupid for not understanding.
“You want to keep playing, don’t you?”
So you did what he said.
And then things became wrong.
Wrong in a way your brain couldn’t hold all at once. Wrong in a way that made the room tilt sideways, made the fluorescent lights too bright, made the paper on the exam table crinkle under your hands while you stared at a poster about hydration on the wall and tried to leave your own body.
He stood too close.
“You can’t tell anyone about this,” he said.
You didn’t answer.
He gripped your arm hard enough that your skin hurt.
“Do you understand me?”
You nodded because you couldn’t make your mouth work.
“If you say anything, you’re done. Captaincy gone. Varsity gone. No D1 program is taking a girl who got kicked off her team for causing drama.”
Your stomach dropped.
He softened his voice then. That was somehow worse.
“You’re smart. Don’t ruin your future over this.”
Your shorts shifted down your thighs.
Not all the way down, but enough that you were exposed.
You squeezed your eyes shut.
You could hear him breathing heavy behind you and the rustle of fabric as he undid his zipper.
"I've never— I don't want—" you whispered out, but he cut you off by pushing in with no warning.
Your hands gripped the vinyl of the exam table under you.
You'd never done anything before. Not with anyone. Not even by yourself. Your entire life was sports and workouts and nutrition and your dad, and that was it.
"Ow, Coach T. Ow, the really hurts."
The friction from his thrusts burned. "Shhhh. Just relax or it'll hurt worse."
You were 5 foot 3 on a good day, and your coach was 6 foot 2. If you tried to push him off, he'd overpower you easily. And you couldn't run because he was in between you and the door.
So you did your best to relax and stay as quiet as possible and just wait until it was all over.
You went home that night and took a shower so hot your skin turned red.
Sidney knocked on the bathroom door after forty minutes.
“You alive in there?”
You stared down at the water swirling around the drain.
“Yeah.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
You weren’t.
After that, it became regular.
Not every day. Not predictably enough for you to plan around. Just enough that you never felt safe. Just enough that your body started reacting before your mind could catch up. His hand on your shoulder made you nauseous. His voice behind you made your skin crawl. The smell of the exam room disinfectant made you lightheaded.
And still, you played.
You played because lacrosse was the only thing you had that still felt like yours.
You played because if you quit, people would ask why.
You played because he had made you believe silence was the price of keeping your dream.
As the season continued, you grades started slipping.
Not a lot at first. Just enough that Sidney noticed when you reread the same page of your textbook three times.
You stopped blasting music in your room. You stopped eating your usual snacks after practice. You flinched when anyone came up behind you in the kitchen and then immediately apologized like you had done something wrong.
One night, he made chicken and rice because it was one of the few meals you usually ate without complaint.
You sat across from him at the table in one of his old Penguins hoodies, sleeves pulled over your hands. Your hair was wet from a shower. Your eyes looked hollow.
Sidney watched you push rice around your plate.
“You sore?”
You shrugged.
“Practice rough?”
Another shrug.
He set his fork down.
“Hey.”
You didn’t look up.
“Talk to me.”
Your throat moved.
For a second, Sidney thought you were going to cry.
Instead, you asked, “What would you do if I killed myself?”
The room went silent.
Not normal silent. Not quiet-dinner silent.
The kind of silence that split Sidney’s life into before and after.
His face changed slowly, like your words had to travel through him before they landed.
“What?”
You pushed more rice around on your plate.
“I’m just asking.”
“No.” His voice cracked on the word. “No, that’s not—” He stopped, swallowed hard, and tried again. Softer. “Baby, look at me.”
You didn’t.
He moved around the table carefully, like sudden movement might scare you away. He crouched beside your chair.
“I don’t know what I’d do,” he said, and his voice was rough now. Honest in a way that hurt. “I think part of me would die with you.”
Your face crumpled.
Sidney put one hand on the edge of the table to steady himself.
“Why?” he asked. “Are you thinking about..." his voice trailed off as he cleared his throat.
"Are you think about doing that?”
You shrugged.
That shrug nearly killed him.
Not a no.
Not a joke.
Not teenage dramatics.
Just a tiny, exhausted lift of your shoulders, like you didn’t have enough energy to lie anymore.
Sidney’s eyes filled immediately, but he blinked it back because this was not about him. He took a breath, slow and shaky.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. Thank you for telling me.”
You let out a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh and wasn’t quite a sob.
“I didn’t tell you anything.”
“You did.” His voice stayed gentle. “You told me you’re not safe in your own head right now.”
Your lower lip trembled.
He reached for your hand, slow enough that you could pull away.
You didn’t.
His fingers closed around yours.
“Did something happen?”
You set your fork down squeezed your eyes shut, leaning your forehead on your free hand.
Sidney felt his entire body go cold.
“Did someone hurt you?”
Your breathing changed.
Fast. Shallow.
He knew that answer before you said anything.
“Sweetheart.”
“I can’t tell you,” you whispered.
“You can.”
“I can’t.”
“You can tell me anything.”
“No, I can’t.” Your voice broke, sharp and terrified. “I can’t, Dad, I can’t.”
Sidney moved closer, walking around to you side of the table, where he crouched, still holding your hand like it was the only thing keeping him anchored to you.
“Okay. Okay, you don’t have to say it right now.”
You covered your mouth with your sleeve.
“He said I’d lose captain.”
Sidney stopped breathing.
His face went white.
“Who said that?”
You shook your head violently.
“Please don’t make me say it.”
“I won’t make you.” His voice was shaking too now, but he kept it low. “I won’t make you do anything. But I need to know if you’re in danger.”
You started crying then.
Not loud at first. Just tears spilling over, silent and awful.
Sidney stood and pulled you gently out of the chair. You folded into him like your bones had disappeared.
“I feel dirty,” you sobbed into his hoodie. “I feel disgusting. I can’t make it stop. I shower and shower and shower and it doesn’t—”
Sidney’s arms tightened around you.
His face twisted with horror over the top of your head.
“Did someone touch you?”
You sobbed harder.
That was answer enough.
Sidney shut his eyes.
For one terrible second, he was not Sidney Crosby. Not calm, not controlled, not careful. He was a father holding his child while the world burned down around him.
Then you whispered, “It was Coach T.”
And whatever was left of the world went with that.
Sidney pulled back just enough to look at you.
Your face was blotchy. Your eyes were terrified. You looked sixteen and six all at once.
“I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to stop it.”
“No.” His voice broke clean in half. “No, baby. No. You do not apologize to me.”
“He said it was my fault.”
“It was not.”
“I let it happen.”
“No.”
“He said—”
Sidney cupped your face with both hands.
“Stop talking and listen to me. Listen to me very carefully.” His eyes were wet now. He didn’t care. “You did not cause this. You did not ask for this. You did not ruin anything. He did this. He is the adult. He is your coach. He had power over you, and he used it to hurt you.”
You shook so hard your teeth chattered.
“I don’t want to go back.”
“You are never going back to him.”
“But lacrosse—”
“We will figure out lacrosse. You can play somewhere else.”
“No, you don’t understand—”
“I do understand.” His voice sharpened for the first time, not at you, never at you, but at the nightmare sitting between you. “No sport, no captaincy, no scholarship, no school is worth you being hurt. Nothing is worth that. Nothing.”
You collapsed against him again.
Sidney held you while you cried yourself hoarse.
Dinner sat untouched on the table.
Eventually, he eased you toward the living room couch. He sat down first and pulled you close, tucking a blanket around your shoulders even though the house wasn’t cold.
“Are you going to call the police?” you whispered.
Sidney went still.
“I think we need help tonight,” he said carefully. “Maybe medical help. Crisis help. Maybe the authorities. We just need people who know how to protect you and how to handle this the right way.”
You panicked instantly.
“No, no, no—”
“Not because you’re in trouble,” he said quickly. “You are not in trouble. But you asked me what I would do if you killed yourself. I can’t ignore that. I love you too much to pretend this can wait.”
You cried harder, but you didn’t pull away.
He kissed the top of your head.
“I’m going to stay with you the whole time.”
“I don’t want everyone to know.”
“They won’t. We will only tell the people who need to know to keep you safe.”
“He’ll ruin everything.”
Sidney’s jaw tightened.
“He doesn’t get to threaten you anymore.”
You looked up at him then, eyes red and wrecked.
“What if nobody believes me?”
Sidney looked devastated.
“I believe you.”
“But what if—”
“I believe you,” he repeated. “Before anything else, before any report, before any phone call, before anyone asks you a single question. I believe you.”
Your face twisted.
“Dad.”
“I’ve got you.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to die,” you whispered, and the words sounded like they were dragged out of somewhere deep and bruised. “I just don’t want to feel like this anymore.”
Sidney broke then.
Just a little.
A tear slipped down his cheek as he pulled you into him again.
“Then we’re going to get you through tonight,” he said. “Just tonight. You don’t have to solve your whole life right now. You don’t have to decide about lacrosse. You don’t have to be captain. You don’t have to be brave. You just have to stay with me.”
You clutched his hoodie in both hands.
“I’m so tired.”
“I know, baby.”
“I didn’t tell because I thought you’d be disappointed.”
Sidney made a wounded sound.
“Never.”
“I thought you’d think I was gross.”
He pulled back, almost startled.
“No. No, look at me.”
You did, barely.
“You are my daughter,” he said. “You are the best thing in my life. Nothing someone did to you could ever make me love you less. Nothing could make me see you differently.”
Your mouth trembled.
“I don’t feel like me anymore.”
“I know.” He brushed your hair away from your damp cheeks. “But you’re still in there. And I’m not leaving you alone until you believe that again.”
For the first time all night, you leaned into him on purpose.
Sidney reached for his phone with one hand and kept the other arm wrapped around you.
Before he called anyone, he looked down at you.
“I’m going to say this one more time, okay?”
You nodded weakly.
“This was not your fault.”
Your breath hitched.
“He hurt you. He threatened you. He made you feel trapped. But you are not trapped anymore.”
You closed your eyes.
Sidney held you tighter.
“You told me,” he whispered. “That was the bravest thing you could have done.”
And for the rest of the night, he kept one hand on you.
Ok pls tell me if I'm stupid but like I'm getting kinda nervous bc ppl like my art and trust me I LOVE making my art and want it to get popular on instagram and end up getting commissionsn and stuff (very far away from that rn, but having and end goal and a dream is good lol, like I would LOVE to create poster prints for teams to sell in their rink gift shops or on their online stores!!)
but I don't really want my art to be associated w my smut lol, so I may take it down from here and make a specific Tumblr for my art that matches my Instagram?? Idk I just feel weird about my art and my fanfics being in the same place bc they feel like such different parts of me.
I just feel bad bc so many ppl have reblogged my yaroslav art and said such nice things and I don't want to delete it, but I'm thinking of moving it to another account....
Summary: After getting diagnosed with mono, your dad decides it's the perfect time for an awkward conversation
Warnings: mono/illness, awkward parent conversations, kissing/making out references, overprotective Sidney Crosby, embarrassed teenager, fluff, light hurt/comfort, safe sex talk mentions, growing up
Word Count: 2,356
requests open :)
The worst part about mono was not the fever.
It was not the swollen throat.
It was not the exhaustion that made your entire body feel like wet concrete.
It was not even the fact that your lymph nodes were so swollen you looked vaguely like a chipmunk.
No.
The worst part about mono was your father standing in the kitchen holding a pamphlet from your pediatritian titled:
INFECTIOUS MONONUCLEOSIS IN TEENS
with the words commonly spread through saliva highlighted in yellow.
You were going to die.
Actually die.
And not even from the mono, but from humiliation.
“Dad,” you said weakly from your spot on the couch, wrapped in two blankets and wearing one of his hoodies. “Put that away.”
Sidney looked up from the paper.
His expression was deeply serious in a way that made everything worse.
“It says here,” he started carefully, “that mono is commonly transmitted through kissing.”
“Oh my god.”
“Is that accurate?”
You pulled the blanket over your face.
“Kid.”
You groaned loudly into the fabric.
“Hey.” His voice softened slightly. “I’m not mad.”
“That somehow makes this worse.”
He folded the pamphlet once and sat down in the armchair across from the couch. There was a bottle of Gatorade on the coffee table, along with Tylenol, throat lozenges, soup you had barely touched, and your phone charging beside you.
You had been sick for almost a week.
At first everyone thought it was just a cold. Then you spiked a fever, started sleeping sixteen hours a day, and nearly cried trying to swallow toast. Sidney finally hauled you to urgent care after you fell asleep sitting upright at the kitchen counter.
Now here you were.
Diagnosed with mono.
And unfortunately, Sidney Crosby could read.
“I just want to understand,” he said cautiously.
You stared at him over the blanket. “No you don’t.”
“Yes I do.”
“No, you absolutely do not.”
“I’m trying to be responsible.”
“You’re trying to interrogate me.”
“I am not interrogating you.”
“You’re using your media voice.”
“I have a media voice?”
“You literally do.”
He looked mildly offended. “I do not.”
“You sound like you’re about to ask me if the power play needs more zone time.”
Despite himself, his mouth twitched.
Then his face got serious again.
“Was there a boy?”
You made a noise somewhere between a scream and a cough.
“Oh my god.”
“That’s not a no.”
“Dad.”
“Was there?”
You threw your blanket over your entire head.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “That’s a yes.”
You wanted the couch to swallow you whole.
From under the blanket, you mumbled, “I hate this family.”
“I think you’re being dramatic.”
“I HAVE MONO.”
“And?”
“And now my dad is trying to investigate my romantic life like he’s the FBI.”
“I’m not trying to investigate.”
“You highlighted the pamphlet!”
“It came highlighted.”
“That is such a lie.”
Silence.
Then, reluctantly:
“…I highlighted one part.”
You yanked the blanket down. “WHY?”
“Because I wanted to ask about it.”
“You could’ve just ASKED.”
“I am asking.”
“With evidence.”
“It’s not evidence.”
“You literally prepared documents.”
Sidney sighed through his nose, trying very hard not to laugh.
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re weird!”
“I’m your father.”
“That’s not an explanation.”
“It kind of is.”
You flopped back dramatically against the couch cushions.
Everything hurt. Your throat hurt. Your head hurt. Your pride hurt most of all.
Your dad rubbed one hand over his jaw, looking uncomfortable in a way you almost never saw.
That should have made you feel powerful.
Instead it made you nervous.
Because Sidney Crosby only looked this awkward in exactly two situations:
Media interviews where they asked him about emotions.
Conversations involving you growing up.
“Okay,” he started carefully. “I just want to make sure of something.”
You narrowed your eyes immediately.
“What?”
His gaze flicked away for half a second before returning to you.
“You weren’t pressured into anything, right?”
You blinked.
Then blinked again.
“…What?”
“With this boy.”
Your face heated instantly.
“Dad.”
“I’m serious.”
“No, I know, but like. Oh my god.”
“I just want to know.”
“Nobody pressured me into making out with someone!”
He relaxed maybe five percent.
“Okay.”
“I wanted to.”
His face did something deeply strange.
Like his brain had hit an invisible wall.
“You wanted to,” he repeated faintly.
“Yes.”
“With a boy.”
“THAT IS HOW IT WORKS.”
“You’re sixteen.”
“Yes.”
“That’s very young.”
“It is not.”
“It feels young.”
You stared at him.
Then realization hit.
“Oh my god,” you whispered. “You thought I got mono against my will.”
His ears turned slightly pink.
“I didn’t know.”
“Dad.”
“You’re my kid.”
“And?”
“And I worry.”
“I voluntarily kissed him.”
Sidney looked like he desperately wished to be anywhere else on earth.
“Okay.”
“And more than once, considering I literally have mono.”
“Okay.”
“And I liked it.”
“Okay,” he repeated, more strained this time.
You sat up slowly, blanket still around your shoulders like a cape.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“You know teenagers kiss each other, right?”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re acting like I confessed to tax fraud.”
“You are still a child to me.”
“I drive.”
“Poorly.”
“I drive fine.”
“You hit the garbage can last month.”
“That was weather related.”
“It was sunny with no wind.”
“Okay, well. Whatever.”
He crossed his arms, still looking troubled.
And honestly?
That annoyed you a little.
Not because he cared. You knew he cared. Your dad loved you so much it was practically embarrassing. But there was something weirdly frustrating about the fact that he looked genuinely shaken by the idea of you wanting someone romantically.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“I’m growing up.”
His expression immediately changed.
Not angry. Not upset exactly.
Just… sad.
Tiny bit sad.
Like you had said something he already knew but didn’t want spoken out loud.
“I know,” he said quietly.
The irritation in your chest softened almost instantly.
“Oh,” you said.
He leaned back in the chair with a sigh.
“It’s not that I think you shouldn’t like boys.”
“You kind of looked like you were about to call the police.”
“I was processing.”
“You processed dramatically.”
“That’s fair.”
You curled your legs under yourself carefully. Even moving too fast made you tired right now.
“It’s just weird,” he admitted.
“What is?”
“You being old enough for this stuff.”
You snorted.
“Dad, I’m sixteen. Not six.”
“I know.”
“You know most people my age have had relationships already, right?”
“I actively try not to think about that.”
“That sounds unhealthy.”
“It probably is.”
You laughed despite your sore throat, immediately regretting it when you started coughing.
Sidney was up instantly.
“There you go.” He handed you water before you even asked. “Slow down.”
You drank carefully while he hovered nearby.
“You know,” you croaked afterward, “this is why I didn’t tell you.”
His eyebrows lifted. “You didn’t tell me because I brought you water while you were coughing?”
“No, because you’re weird about me growing up.”
“I am not weird.”
“You highlighted a mono pamphlet.”
“That’s one mistake.”
“You interrogated me like I was in a crime documentary.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“You asked if there was a boy in the same tone detectives use before commercial breaks.”
He covered his face briefly with one hand.
“Okay. Maybe I handled this badly.”
“Maybe?”
“I’m trying here.”
“I know.”
He sat back down slowly.
There was a pause.
Then:
“Do I know him?”
You burst out laughing.
“Oh my god, THERE it is.”
“What?”
“The actual question.”
“That was not the actual question.”
“You don’t care about mono anymore. You want intel.”
“I care about both.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m not insane.”
“You’re literally Sidney Crosby.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense.”
He pointed at you. “Avoiding the question.”
“You do not know him.”
“Good.”
You stared.
“Dad!”
“What?”
“You can’t say ‘good’!”
“I just mean-”
“You absolutely did not mean anything normal by that.”
He looked entirely unapologetic now.
“You’re sixteen.”
“You’ve said that like twelve times.”
“You have your whole life ahead of you.”
“Oh my god.”
“What?”
“You’re doing dad philosophy.”
“I am not.”
“You are literally one sentence away from saying boys are distractions.”
“They can be.”
“DAD.”
He finally laughed for real then, head tipping back slightly.
“There she is.”
“What?”
“You’re feeling better. You’re yelling at me again.”
You rolled your eyes but smiled a little anyway.
He watched you carefully for a second.
“You really liked him?”
Your face warmed.
You shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“We just hang out.”
“And make out.”
You pointed at him accusingly. “See? You make everything sound illegal.”
“I did not say it weird.”
“You did.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“You sounded like a youth pastor.”
That got another reluctant laugh out of him.
“Okay. Fine. Maybe I’m not good at this.”
“At what?”
“This stage.”
You softened a little again.
Because underneath the awkwardness and overprotectiveness and weird questioning, you could tell what this actually was.
Your dad was panicking.
Not angry panicking.
Emotional panicking.
Because somewhere in his brain, you were still tiny.
Still sitting on the kitchen counter in pajamas while he made pancakes. Still asking him to tie your skates. Still crawling into his bed after nightmares. Still small enough to carry asleep from the car.
And now you were sixteen and making out with boys at school and getting mono from it.
Which, admittedly, did sound horrifying from a parental perspective.
You sighed dramatically and flopped sideways against the couch cushions.
“You know I’m not gonna suddenly become a completely different person, right?”
“I know.”
“I still need you.”
“I know.”
“You’re looking at me like I’m moving out tomorrow.”
“You did your own laundry yesterday.”
“That’s because you kept shrinking my hoodies.”
“I did not shrink them.”
“You absolutely did.”
“You’re taller.”
“That feels fake.”
“You’ve grown two inches this year.”
“I rebuke that information.”
His smile softened.
Then, after a second:
“You really weren’t pressured?”
You groaned loudly.
“Dad.”
“I just need to hear it clearly.”
You sat up enough to look him directly in the eyes.
“I was not pressured. He asked if he could kiss me. I said yes. I wanted him to. Surprise, I have a sex drive.”
Sidney looked deeply unhappy hearing that sentence.
But he nodded.
“Okay.”
“And before you ask, no, we didn’t have sex.”
His entire body froze.
“I was not going to ask that.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was absolutely not.”
“You literally just stopped breathing.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
He pointed toward the hallway. “You need more medicine.”
“That’s not even related.”
“You sound congested.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“I’m parenting.”
“You’re panicking.”
“That too.”
You laughed again, then immediately curled into yourself with another cough.
Sidney was back beside you before it even fully started, hand rubbing your back automatically.
“You okay?”
“Mhm.”
“You’re warm again.”
“I know.”
“You should probably sleep.”
“I’ve slept like eighteen hours today.”
“You have mono.”
“I’m becoming one with the couch.”
“You’ve already become one with the couch.”
You leaned against him while he adjusted the blanket around your shoulders.
“You know what the worst part is?” you muttered.
“What?”
“I got mono from the most average boy ever.”
He looked offended on your behalf immediately.
“Average?”
“Yes.”
“Then why were you kissing him?”
“Because he’s nice!”
“That’s the standard now?”
“Yes!”
He shook his head slowly. “Your generation confuses me.”
“Dad, you played junior hockey. You absolutely cannot judge my generation.”
“That’s different.”
“It is NOT.”
“Yes it is.”
“You literally had frosted tips at one point.”
“That was one time.”
“It was a dark period.”
“It was the early 2000s.”
“Exactly.”
He sighed heavily like you were the difficult one here.
You rested your head against his shoulder, suddenly exhausted again.
“You’re not mad?” you asked quietly.
His expression softened immediately.
“No.”
“Even though I was making out with boys.”
He winced a little at the phrasing.
“Please never say it like that again.”
You grinned weakly. “Making out with bo-”
“Absolutely not.”
You laughed.
Then you yawned so hard your eyes watered.
Sidney’s entire demeanor shifted instantly back into dad mode.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“You’re crashing again.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve said that before every bad thing this week.”
“That feels targeted.”
“Because it is.”
He stood and held out a hand.
“Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Bed.”
“I can walk myself.”
“I know.”
You still took his hand.
Your legs felt shaky from being sick for days straight, and honestly, leaning on your dad was easier. He kept one hand lightly on your shoulder as you walked down the hallway.
At your bedroom door, you stopped suddenly.
“What?”
You looked up at him suspiciously.
“You’re not gonna make this weird forever, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like. Every time I mention a boy you’re gonna stare into the distance remembering the mono conversation.”
He looked thoughtful.
“I can’t promise I’ll ever recover from the phrase ‘I have a sex drive.’”
Your face flamed instantly.
“Oh my GOD.”
“You said it!”
“Because you were acting like I’m a nun!”
“You are sixteen!”
“That is old enough to have hormones!”
“I don’t like hearing about your hormones!”
“You literally asked!”
“I regret asking!”
You laughed so hard you started coughing again.
“Okay, okay,” he said, trying not to laugh too. “Go to bed before you collapse.”
Then his expression softened again as he reached over and brushed hair away from your forehead.
“You know you can tell me stuff, right?”
You looked at him.
“Even if it’s awkward,” he added. “I’d rather know than have you scared to talk to me.”
Your chest hurt a little in that emotional way.
“I know.”
“I might panic a little.”
“A little?”
“A medium amount.”
You smiled.
“But I’m trying.”
“I know.”
He kissed the top of your head gently.
“Get some sleep, bug.”
You started into your room, then paused.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“You know mono isn’t technically an STD, right?”
He looked horrified all over again.
“Goodnight.”
You nearly collapsed laughing as he shut your bedroom door while muttering something about how he was “absolutely not equipped for this conversation.”
Hey could you do something maybe like Sidney Crosby x daughter and like she faints in front of him please.
YES!
i actually have something already done for this, it's not read through or editted so if there's misspellings or grammar mistakes pls let me know!!
Click here! to read about sidney crosby x daughter reader with undiagnosed POTS
Summary:You have undiagnosed POTS and after ignoring it for long enough, you go down in front of your dad
Warnings: fainting, undiagnosed POTS symptoms, medical discussions, hospitals/doctors, anxiety, worried/protective Sidney Crosby, emotional hurt/comfort
Word Count: 4,489
a/n: this is not read through or edited, but I know I really needed to upload something, so if there's misspellings or grammar mistakes pls let me know!!
requests open :)
You had been dizzy all morning.
Not enough to worry you, at least not at first. Just enough to annoy you.
It started when you got out of bed and the room tilted hard to the left. You grabbed the edge of your nightstand, blinked a few times, and waited for the black spots to clear from the corners of your vision. It happened sometimes. You stood up too fast, your body felt a little weird, and then it passed.
So you ignored it.
You ignored it when you walked into the kitchen and had to lean against the island while your dad made his coffee. You ignored it when your hands shook a little pouring cereal. You ignored it when your dad glanced at you over his mug and frowned.
“You okay, kiddo?”
“Yeah,” you said too fast. “Just tired.”
He kept looking at you.
You knew that look. It was the same one he used when he was trying not to be too much. The dad look. The captain look. The 'I noticed something and now I’m deciding how hard to push' look.
“You sleep?”
“Yeah.”
“How much?”
You shrugged and grabbed a spoon. “Enough.”
“That’s not a number.”
“Dad.”
“What?”
“I’m fine.”
He lifted both hands a little, backing off, but his eyes stayed on you for another second.
“Okay,” he said. “Eat, then.”
You did eat. Sort of. Half the bowl. A few bites of banana. Then you felt weirdly full and kind of nauseous, so you pushed it around until he was distracted enough for you to dump the rest.
He was not distracted enough.
“I saw that.”
You froze at the sink. “Saw what?”
He gave you a flat look.
You smiled, guilty. “I’m not hungry.”
“You have practice later.”
“It’s not even a hard practice.”
“You play lacrosse and you've got an off season work out today. It's always a hard practice. You need food.”
“I’ll eat after.”
He sighed through his nose, not mad, just tired in that dad way. “You always say that.”
You rinsed the bowl and set it in the dishwasher. “Because I always do.”
“You eat three fries and half a smoothie.”
“That is food.”
“Barely.”
You rolled your eyes, but it made your head throb. You tried not to show it. You really did. You had gotten good at hiding little things because little things turned into conversations, and conversations turned into your dad hovering, and your dad hovering made you feel like a baby.
You were fifteen. You could be dizzy without it becoming a national emergency.
By the afternoon, you had convinced yourself it was gone.
It was not gone.
It followed you to the rink.
It sat in the passenger seat while Sidney drove, humming quietly along to the radio, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift. He asked you about school. You answered. He asked if your math test was still bothering you. You said no, even though it was. He asked if you had your water bottle.
“Yes.”
“Electrolytes?”
“Dad.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Yes. I put the stupid packet in.”
“Good.”
“It tastes like salty lemonade.”
He smiled a little. “That’s kind of the point.”
“It’s disgusting.”
“It's good for you. Drink it anyway.”
You made a face and leaned your head against the window. Outside, Pittsburgh moved past in gray winter pieces. Slush at the curb. Bare trees. People hunched in jackets. Your reflection stared back at you in the glass, looking paler than usual.
You pinched your cheeks while your dad checked his blindspot while merging lanes.
But he still noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“You sure you’re feeling okay?”
You dropped your hand. “Yes.”
“You look a little washed out.”
“I’m always pale.”
“Not like this.”
“Maybe your car lighting is bad.”
“My car lighting?”
“Yeah.”
He huffed out a laugh. “That’s what we’re blaming?”
“Yep.”
He did not laugh for long. “Bug.”
You looked at him. “I’m okay.”
He was quiet for a few seconds.
“Promise?”
You hated when he asked it like that. Soft. Not accusing. Just asking you to be honest because he trusted you and expected you to trust him back.
You looked out the window again.
“I’m just tired,” you said.
That was not exactly a lie.
At the rink, the cold air helped for about ten minutes.
You liked the smell of the place, even when you pretended not to.
It smelled like ice, rubber mats, coffee, and the sharp clean bite of the rink itself. You had grown up around it.
Some kids had playgrounds. You had locker room hallways and vending machines and adults who said, “Oh my god, you’re so big now,” every time they saw you.
Your dad had a short appearance thing before your practice. Nothing huge, just a small youth hockey clinic and a few photos, and then he was going to watch you from the stands after.
You were used to people staring at him, and you were used to people staring at you because of him. Usually, you handled it fine.
Today, every sound felt too loud.
Skates on rubber. A kid laughing. Someone dropping a stick. The buzz of the lights. A door slamming somewhere down the hall.
You stood beside your dad near the boards while he talked to one of the staff members. You had your gear bag at your feet and your water bottle tucked under your arm. You were supposed to go change in a few minutes.
You shifted your weight from one foot to the other.
Your heart was beating too fast.
Your heart was beating too fast.
That was stupid because you were just standing there.
You took a drink from your bottle. Salty lemonade. Gross. You swallowed it anyway.
Your dad looked over mid-conversation. His eyes narrowed slightly.
You pretended not to see.
The rink seemed to stretch longer than it should. The far wall looked too far away. The overhead lights had little halos around them. You blinked hard, annoyed with yourself.
Not here, you thought.
Not in front of him. Not in front of random people. Not where someone might make a thing of it.
You locked your knees without realizing it.
Your dad’s hand touched your shoulder.
“Hey,” he said quietly, breaking away from the conversation. “You need to sit?”
You blinked and shook your head, but the motion made your stomach flip.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re swaying.”
“No I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m just standing.”
“Sit down for a second.”
“I don’t need to sit.”
His face changed. Not panic yet, but closer. Focused.
“Come here.”
He guided you gently toward the bench by the wall. You made it two steps before the floor dipped under your feet.
Everything narrowed.
The noise went muffled, like someone had shoved your head underwater. Your vision went gray at the edges, then darker, like a curtain pulling in from both sides. You heard your dad say your name once, sharp and close.
Then your legs went.
You didn't feel yourself hit the ground, and you came back in pieces.
Cold against your cheek.
A hand under your head.
Your dad’s voice.
“Hey. Hey, baby, look at me. You’re okay. You’re okay.”
You blinked, confused by the ceiling. It was too bright. Your ears rang. Your body felt heavy and far away, like you were waking up from a nap you had not meant to take when it was light out and now suddenly everything is dark and George Lopez is on the TV.
You tried to move.
Sid’s hand pressed gently at your shoulder. “Don’t sit up yet.”
“Wha-what're you doing?” you mumbled.
“You fainted.”
That woke you up a little.
Your eyes found his face. He was crouched on the floor beside you, one knee down, one hand cradling the back of your head like he was afraid you would disappear if he stopped touching you.
He looked calm in the way he always looked calm when things were bad, which meant his eyes were terrified.
“I didn’t,” you said.
His mouth twitched, but not like he thought it was funny. “You did.”
“No.”
“Y/N, you dropped right in front of me.”
Your face got hot.
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Get embarrassed before we know if you’re okay.”
“I’m on the floor.”
“I know.”
“In front of people.”
“I do not care about people right now.”
You became aware of other voices. Someone asking if they should call EMS. A staff member hovering nearby. A couple kids watching with wide eyes until an adult ushered them away.
Your dad looked up, voice steady. “Can someone grab her bag and give us a little space, please?”
Then he looked back at you.
“Can you tell me your name?”
You stared at him. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.”
“You know my name.”
“I do. I want to know if you know your name.”
You groaned. “Dad.”
“Humor me.”
"Y/N."
“Good. Birthday?”
You answered.
“Do you know where you are?”
“At the rink, unfortunately.”
He breathed out, almost a laugh this time. “Good.”
“I’m fine.”
“You fainted.”
“I’m fine now.”
“You don’t get to decide that ten seconds after waking up.”
“It’s been more than ten seconds.”
“It has not.”
You closed your eyes. That was a mistake. The floor tilted again even though you were lying down.
Your dad noticed immediately.
“Eyes open, honey.”
“I’m dizzy.”
“Okay, just keep looking at me.”
You did.
His hand moved from your shoulder to your wrist, two fingers pressing gently where your pulse jumped. His brow furrowed.
“Your heart’s racing.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know, but it’s fast.”
“Dad, you’re making me more scared.”
His face softened at once. “Sorry. I’m sorry. You’re okay. Just breathe with me.”
“I don’t want everyone looking.”
“They’re not.”
“They are.”
He looked over his shoulder. “They're giving us space.”
That was partly true. People were pretending not to look, which was worse.
You swallowed. “Can we go home?”
“Yeah,” he said. “We’re going to. But we’re going to take a minute first.”
“I don’t want an ambulance.”
“I didn’t say ambulance.”
“Someone did.”
“I know.”
“I don’t need one.”
“Maybe not. But if you faint again, hit your head, have chest pain, trouble breathing, or don’t come around right, I’m calling. No argument.”
“I didn’t hit my head.”
“Because I caught you.”
That made you quiet.
You looked at him again. “You caught me?”
His eyes flicked over your face like he was checking for injuries he had already checked for three times.
“Mostly,” he said. “Scared the hell out of me.”
You felt guilty immediately.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.” His voice got firmer. “No, do not apologize for fainting.”
“But I told you I was fine.”
“That part we’ll talk about.”
You winced.
“Not like that,” he said, softer. “I’m not mad.”
“You sound mad.”
“I’m scared. There’s a difference.”
One of the rink staff brought over a bottle of water and your gear bag. Sidney thanked them, then asked if there was somewhere quieter you could sit. A few minutes later, after he helped you sit up slowly, and then waited through another wave of dizziness, he got you into a small office near the front.
He did not let go of you the entire walk.
It was embarrassing and comforting at the same time.
You sat in a chair with your knees pulled up while he crouched in front of you. Your gear bag sat untouched in the corner. Practice had started without you. You could faintly hear whistles through the wall.
Your dad opened a granola bar and handed it to you.
You made a face.
“Eat.”
“I’m nauseous.”
“One bite.”
“Dad.”
“One bite, then we’ll reassess.”
You took a tiny bite because arguing took too much energy.
He watched like you were a bomb he was trying to defuse.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“I’m trying.”
“No you’re not.”
“I’m trying a little.”
You chewed slowly. “You’re freaking me out.”
He leaned back on his heels and rubbed both hands over his face. For a second, he looked less like Sidney Crosby and more like just your dad. Tired. Worried. Human.
“I watched you go pale, and then your eyes rolled back, and then you dropped,” he said quietly. “So yeah. I’m a little freaked out, too.”
You looked down at the granola bar.
“I didn’t feel good this morning.”
“I know.”
“Not like bad bad. Just dizzy.”
“How often does that happen?”
You hesitated.
His expression changed again. “How often?”
“I don’t know.”
“That means often.”
“No, it means I don’t count.”
“Try.”
You picked at the wrapper. “Sometimes when I stand up.”
“How many times a week?”
“Dad.”
“How many?”
You shrugged. “Most days, maybe.”
He went very still.
You rushed to explain. “But it’s normal. Like when you stand too fast and your vision goes weird. Everyone gets that.”
“Most days?”
“I guess.”
“Do you ever feel like your heart is racing when you’re just standing?”
You did not answer fast enough.
He exhaled. “Kid.”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you get dizzy in hot showers?”
You looked up.
He saw the answer on your face.
“Yeah,” you admitted.
“After stairs?”
“Sometimes.”
“Standing in lines?”
You shifted uncomfortably. “I hate lines.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Yes.”
He sat back, jaw tight.
“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” you said.
“I know.”
“I thought I was out of shape or dehydrated or anxious or something.”
“You play lacrosse. You skate. You train. You are not out of shape.”
“Then maybe anxious.”
“Maybe. But anxiety doesn’t mean we ignore the physical stuff.”
You swallowed hard. “Am I in trouble?”
His face broke a little.
“No, baby.” He reached for your hand. “No. You’re not in trouble.”
“You look upset.”
“I am upset. Not at you.”
You stared at your shoes. “I didn’t want you to worry.”
“I’m your dad. Worrying is literally part of the job.”
“You already have enough stuff.”
He squeezed your hand. “You are not stuff.”
Your throat tightened, and you hated that too. You did not want to cry after fainting in public. That felt dramatic. You blinked fast and focused on the edge of the desk.
He noticed, because he noticed everything.
“Come here.”
“I’m too old for that.”
“For what?”
“For you to do the dad voice and make me cry.”
His mouth softened. “I can’t help the dad voice.”
“It’s manipulative.”
“It is not.”
“It is when I’m already emotionally fragile.”
That got a real laugh out of him, small but there.
“Emotionally fragile, huh?”
“I fainted. I’m allowed.”
“You are.”
You let him pull you forward until your forehead rested against his shoulder. He smelled like coffee and cold air and the laundry detergent he always bought even though you told him there were better ones.
His hand moved carefully over your hair.
“You scared me,” he murmured.
“I know.”
“We’re going to get you checked.”
You groaned into his hoodie. “Today?”
“Yes.”
“Like urgent care?”
“I’m calling your doctor first. If they say ER, we go ER. If they say urgent care is fine, we can do that. instead But we’re not just going home and pretending it didn’t happen.”
“I hate doctors.”
“I know.”
“They always ask weird questions.”
“I’ll be there.”
“That makes it more embarrassing.”
“I can step out for anything you want me to step out for.”
You considered that.
“Can you not tell them I’m dramatic?”
“I have never told a doctor you’re dramatic.”
“You implied it when I had the flu.”
“You told the nurse you were seeing the light.”
“I had a fever.”
“You had a 100.4 fever.”
“I was suffering.”
“You were eating popsicles and accusing me of medical neglect.”
“You wouldn’t let me have a third popsicle.”
“Because you threw up the second one.”
You smiled despite yourself.
He kissed the top of your head.
A few minutes passed. He made the call to the team doctor right there, one hand still holding yours. You listened to him explain in his calm voice that his fifteen-year-old daughter had passed out, had been dizzy on standing for a while, had a racing heart rate after, no known head trauma because he caught you on the way down, currently awake and oriented but still lightheaded.
You hated how serious it sounded.
You also hated that it felt kind of good to have him take over.
The doctor’s office told him to bring you in if you were stable, and to go to the ER if symptoms worsened. Sidney repeated everything back, thanked them, then hung up.
“Okay,” he said. “We’re going in.”
“Do I have to wear my practice clothes?”
He looked at your hoodie and leggings. “You’re fine.”
“My hair looks bad.”
“You fainted. Nobody cares about your hair.”
“I care about my hair.”
He stood and grabbed your bag. “Then we’ll fix it in the car.”
“You don’t know how.”
“I know how to make a ponytail.”
“You know how to make a crime scene.”
“That’s hurtful.” He said as he helped you stand slowly. This time, he made you sit back down after ten seconds just to see how you did. You got lightheaded again, but not as bad.
“Annoying,” you muttered.
“Very,” he agreed.
The car ride to the doctor was quieter.
You had one knee pulled to your chest and the granola bar in your lap, half eaten by force. Your dad kept the heat lower than usual for the weather because you said you felt hot . Every few minutes, he glanced over.
“I’m still alive,” you said after the fifth time.
“Great. Planning to keep it that way.”
You looked out the window. “Do you think it’s, like, something bad?”
“I don’t know.”
That was the thing about your dad. He did not usually lie to make you feel better. Sometimes you wished he would, but mostly you trusted him because of it.
“But,” he added, “fainting can happen for a lot of reasons. Dehydration, not eating enough, low blood sugar, blood pressure stuff, heart rhythm stuff, all kinds of things. We just need to figure out which.”
You picked at the granola bar again.
“What if they think I’m making it up?”
His head turned sharply. “Why would they think that?”
“I don’t know. Because it’s weird. Because it’s not like I’m sick sick.”
“You passed out in front of me.”
“Yeah, but before that.”
“Before that, you were having symptoms.”
“Symptoms,” you repeated, making a face.
“Yes.”
“That makes me sound like an old person.”
“You are very elderly.”
“I’m fifteen.”
“Yeah, one foot in the grave.”
You smiled faintly.
At the doctor’s office, you got asked a million questions.
When did it start? Had you eaten? Were your periods heavy? Any chest pain? Any shortness of breath? Any palpitations? Did you feel warm before fainting? Did your vision tunnel? Did you remember falling? Did anyone see shaking? Did you bite your tongue? Had it happened before?
You hated some of the questions, but your dad kept his promise. He stayed for most of it, then stepped out when you gave him a look during the more personal stuff. When he came back in, he did not ask what you said. He just sat beside you and handed you your water bottle.
The nurse checked your blood pressure and heart rate lying down, sitting, and standing.
That was when things got interesting.
Lying down, you felt mostly normal.
Sitting up, your head buzzed.
Standing, your heart kicked up so hard you could feel it in your throat.
The nurse watched the monitor. “How are you feeling?”
“Dizzy,” you admitted.
Your dad, standing nearby with his arms crossed, looked like he wanted to physically fight the monitor.
The doctor came in later and explained that it could be something called orthostatic intolerance, possibly POTS, but that you would need follow-up, maybe labs, maybe an EKG, possibly cardiology, and that for now the plan was fluids, salt, regular meals, slow position changes, and no practice until cleared.
“No practice?” you repeated.
Your dad gave you a look.
You ignored him. “Like, none?”
“For now,” the doctor said. “Not until we have a better sense of what’s going on.”
“I have a game Saturday.”
"Y/N."
“What?”
“You fainted today.”
“I know, but today is Tuesday. Saturday is Saturday.”
He stared at you.
You stared back.
The doctor, clearly used to teenagers, smiled politely. “Saturday is not impossible forever. But it is off the table until we know you’re safe.”
You slumped back in the chair.
Your dad put a hand on your shoulder. You didn't shrug it off.
By the time you got home, you were exhausted in a way that felt unfair. You had done almost nothing. You had fainted, sat in an office, answered questions, stood up for a nurse, and somehow your body acted like you had run suicides for an hour.
You went straight to the couch.
Sidney followed with water, pretzels, and a blanket.
“I don’t need all that.”
He set everything on the coffee table. “Great. It’s here anyway.”
“You’re going to be so annoying now.”
“Probably.”
“Like, hovering.”
“Definitely.”
“Dad.”
He sat on the edge of the couch near your legs. “I’m going to try not to smother you. But I’m also not going to ignore this.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
You pulled the blanket up to your chin. “Yes.”
He studied you. His face was softer now, less emergency mode and more aftermath. That almost made it worse.
You felt like you had to explain yourself, “I thought if I told you I was dizzy, you’d make me skip practice.”
“I might have.”
“That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
“At least you’re honest.”
You made a small sound, half laugh, half groan.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Listen to me for a second.”
You looked at him.
“I need you to tell me when something feels wrong. Even if you think it’s dumb. Even if you think I’ll overreact. Even if you’re worried I’ll say no to something.”
“You will say no to things.”
“Maybe.”
“That’s not helping your case.”
“I’m your parent, not your publicist.”
“You’re both, actually.”
He smiled a little. “Fair.”
You looked at your hands. “I just hate feeling like I’m fragile.”
His expression softened.
“You’re not fragile because your body needs help with something.”
“It feels like it.”
“I know.”
“And it’s embarrassing.”
“I know that too.”
“You don’t, though.”
He tilted his head slightly.
You swallowed. “You’re Sidney Crosby. Your body does what you tell it to.”
He was quiet for a second.
Then he laughed once, not because it was funny, but because it hurt a little.
“No, it does not.”
You looked at him.
“My body has betrayed me plenty,” he said. “Concussions. Injuries. Pain that doesn’t go away when I want it to. Not being able to play. Not knowing when I’ll feel normal again.”
You picked at the blanket.
“That’s different.”
“Maybe. But I know what it’s like to be angry at your body.”
Your eyes burned again.
He reached out, palm up, giving you the choice. You put your hand in his.
“I don’t want something to be wrong with me,” you whispered.
His thumb brushed over your knuckles.
“I know.”
“What if it doesn’t go away?”
“Then we learn how to manage it.”
“What if I can’t play?”
“We don’t know that.”
“But what if?”
His jaw moved. He did not answer immediately. You appreciated that, even though the silence scared you.
“Then,” he said carefully, “we deal with that too. But we are not jumping there tonight.”
You nodded, but your face crumpled anyway.
“Oh, honey.”
“I’m not crying.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not.”
“I believe you.”
You were absolutely crying.
He shifted closer and pulled you into his side. You let him. For once, you did not complain that you were too old or that he was being embarrassing. You pressed your face into his shoulder and cried quietly while he held the back of your head.
“I hate this,” you said.
“I know.”
“And I hate salty lemonade.”
That startled a laugh out of him. “We’ll find a better flavor.”
“There isn’t one.”
“There might be.”
“No. They all taste like medical Gatorade.”
“Medical Gatorade might be your future.”
You groaned. “That’s so bleak.”
He kissed your hair. “We’ll get through it.”
You stayed like that for a while, tucked against him on the couch while the house got darker around you. He turned on a game with the volume low, not because either of you cared about watching it, but because the familiar sound made things feel normal.
Eventually, he nudged the pretzels toward you.
“Eat a few.”
“You’re obsessed.”
“Yup.”
You ate one. Then another. Then, because your body apparently wanted to humiliate you further, you realized you were actually hungry.
He noticed but did not comment.
Smart man.
After a few minutes, you said, “Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“If it is POTS, am I going to faint all the time?”
“Not necessarily.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No. But we’ll learn. We’ll ask people who do know.”
“Will you come with me?”
“To appointments?”
You nodded.
His arm tightened around you.
“Every one you want me at.”
“Even if I’m grumpy?”
“Especially then.”
“Even if I yell at you?”
“I prefer you don’t.”
“No promises.”
“I figured.”
You leaned heavier against him, suddenly too tired to keep your eyes open.
“Can you not tell everyone?” you asked.
“I won’t.”
“Not the team.”
“No.”
“Not media.”
He pulled back enough to look at you, offended. “You think I’d tell media?”
“No, but like, if someone asks why I’m not at stuff.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“How?”
“By saying it’s private.”
You nodded.
“And your coaches will need to know enough to keep you safe,” he added.
You groaned.
“Enough,” he repeated. “Not everything.”
“Fine.”
He brushed hair away from your face. “You’re still pale.”
“You keep saying romantic things like that.”
“I’m known for my charm.”
“You’re known for hockey.”
“That too.”
You smiled, eyes half closed.
He watched you for a moment, then said quietly, “I’m really glad I caught you.”
You opened your eyes.
His expression was serious again, but not scary this time. Just honest.
“Me too,” you said.
The words came out smaller than you meant them to.
He kissed your forehead.
“You’re okay,” he said. “We’re going to figure it out.”
For once, you did not argue.
You just curled into him, pretzels on the blanket, water bottle on the table, his arm steady around your shoulders. Your body still felt weird. Your head still buzzed when you moved too fast. There were appointments coming, and tests, and probably more salty lemonade in your future.
