ali 🫧 @strawberryfanaticccc - Tumblr Blog

Sidney Crosby x Social Media Admin!reader

Word count: 13.4k

NHL Masterlist

A/N: I had like 5 different requests for this, I made it HELLA long and I hope I did you all justice!! also ive been editing a bunch of stuff so a Nate and sid spam is either happening tonight or tomorrow idk yet

The first thing people assumed about your job was that it was easy.

They saw the finished posts, the polished thirty-second clips, the chirpy captions with orange and black emojis, the little behind-the-scenes moments that made players seem more human and fans feel like they were in on something special. They saw the smiling headshots, the goofy locker room trivia videos, the pregame tunnel fits, the rapid-fire questions on the bench during morning skate, and they thought your work mostly consisted of pointing a camera at attractive hockey players and hitting upload.

What they never saw was you sprinting through the Wells Fargo Center with two cameras hanging off one shoulder, a backup battery clenched between your teeth, and your phone buzzing so violently in your back pocket you were half convinced it was about to catch fire.

What they never saw was the planning.

The color-coded spreadsheets, the weekly content calendars, the caption drafts, the sponsor approvals, the last-minute changes from PR, the constant balancing act between what was fun, what was safe, what the players would actually agree to do, and what would make the internet collectively lose its mind in the most useful way possible. Your job was creativity, yes, but it was also speed and instinct and relationship-building. It was knowing which rookie would happily do a dumb little “who’s most likely to” video five minutes before warmups and which veteran would stare at you like you had personally offended his bloodline for even asking.

You loved it anyway.

Maybe because you were good at it. Maybe because you liked chaos more than you had any business admitting. Maybe because there was something addictive about catching tiny, unscripted moments before they disappeared—a laugh in the hallway, a teasing shove at practice, a muttered one-liner that ended up becoming the clip fans quoted for weeks.

By your late twenties, you had already worked for two smaller sports media teams, one college athletics department, and a brief, soul-withering stint at a lifestyle marketing agency where someone in a blazer had once asked you to “make the brand voice more aesthetic.” You’d escaped that disaster on purpose. When the Philadelphia Flyers hired you to help lead social content, you’d thrown yourself into the role with enough energy to make up for every terrible office job you’d hated before it.

Now, a little over two seasons in, you were one of the people the players actually liked seeing coming.

That had taken time.

The first few months, most of them had treated you with the polite suspicion reserved for cameras, dentists, and reporters asking stupid questions after losses. But you’d learned them. Learned who liked to joke, who needed warming up, who pretended to hate attention but secretly loved it when fans ate up a clip, who only agreed to interviews if you kept it short and painless. You figured out how to make content feel less like an obligation and more like a bit. Once the guys realized you weren’t there to embarrass them—unless it was lightly, lovingly, and with their approval—they started relaxing.

That was how you ended up standing outside the Flyers’ locker room on a cold January afternoon with a handheld mic, a tiny camera rig, and three players arguing over whether cereal counted as soup.

“It’s in a bowl,” Travis insisted, already grinning because he knew he sounded ridiculous. “Liquid base. Spoon. That’s soup.”

“It is literally breakfast,” Noah said flatly, tugging one glove tighter under his arm as he headed toward the tunnel. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

You walked backward in front of them, camera trained on their faces, laughing. “So your final answer is yes? Cereal is soup?”

Travis leaned toward the lens like he was making a formal announcement to the nation. “My final answer is that some of you are too closed-minded for culinary innovation.”

Noah made a face. “That sentence alone should get you scratched.”

You snorted, nearly clipping your shoulder against the concrete wall before regaining your balance. “Perfect. That’s the clip.”

“Absolutely not,” Noah said, but he was smiling now.

“Yes, absolutely,” you shot back. “The people deserve to know where you stand on major societal issues.”

The social intern trailing behind you nearly ran into the back of Travis because she was trying so hard not to laugh. You gave her a quick look over your shoulder, silently checking that she was still with you, still getting behind-the-scenes footage on her phone for stories. She nodded, breathless, and you turned back just in time to avoid walking straight into a cart stacked with towels.

Game days were a blur built from instinct. You could have navigated them in your sleep by now. Pregame skate content. Tunnel arrivals. Quick sponsor spot. Warmup footage. Bench-side reaction clip if you were lucky. A little trivia video if someone had enough energy. Then into the media room, then back out, then scrambling for second intermission edits while your laptop fan whined in protest.

There was rhythm to it. A weird kind of music. You were good at hearing where the beat changed.

“Hey.”

You turned at the voice and saw Olivia from PR leaning against the wall, holding a laminated credential and a coffee like both were keeping her alive through sheer force of habit.

“You get the pregame fit walk?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“Did Cam finally stop trying to speed-walk through frame like he’s avoiding taxes?”

You looked at her blankly for half a second. “No. In fact, he somehow got worse.”

Olivia sighed toward the ceiling. “Tragic.”

You grinned. “I’ll send you the clip later.”

“Please do. Also”—she tipped her coffee in the direction of the locker room doors—“Danny wants to talk to you when you have a second.”

Your brows lifted. “About?”

She shrugged. “No idea. He had the face on.”

You immediately frowned. “What face?”

“The operations face.”

“That means literally nothing.”

“It means he looked annoying and managerial.”

“That narrows it down even less.”

Olivia laughed and pushed off the wall. “Good luck.”

You watched her go, suspicion already crawling up your spine. Danny, the team’s director of digital content, only ever wanted to “talk for a second” when something complicated was about to be added to your workload. He was perfectly nice. You even liked him. But he had an almost supernatural ability to appear right before your busiest stretch of the week and say things like, “Quick question,” which were never quick and never questions.

You finished the segment with the players, handed the camera card off to your editor for ingestion, and found Danny near the media workroom ten minutes later.

He was standing at one of the high tables with his laptop open, scrolling through what looked like next week’s schedule. He glanced up when you approached, then gave you the kind of smile bosses used when they were trying to make extra work seem flattering.

Immediately suspicious.

“No,” you said before he could speak.

Danny blinked. “I haven’t even said anything yet.”

“You’ve got the face.”

“The face?”

“The one people make when they’re about to ruin my life professionally.”

He laughed under his breath. “Dramatic.”

“Efficient. Saves time.”

He tipped his head toward the hallway. “Walk with me.”

That was never a good sign either. You fell into step beside him, weaving around arena staff and equipment managers moving with practiced urgency. “So?”

“So,” he said, in the carefully casual tone of someone absolutely not being casual, “you know we’ve been trying to push more personality-driven road content.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds suspiciously like a setup.”

“It’s not a setup.”

“It’s always a setup when a sentence starts with ‘you know.’”

Danny ignored that. “Numbers are good at home. Strong engagement, especially on the short interview stuff you do. But road content still isn’t where we want it to be.”

You crossed your arms around the camera tucked to your chest. “Okay.”

“And,” he continued, “our travel content has been pretty bare lately because we’ve been stretched thin.”

There it was.

You let out a long breath. “Danny.”

“Hear me out.”

“No.”

“You haven’t heard it.”

“I can feel it.”

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, like he was already preparing for resistance. “We want to send you on the next trip.”

You stared at him.

He kept talking like you hadn’t. “Not the whole swing. Just the Pittsburgh game to start. Maybe more later if it goes well. But definitely Pittsburgh.”

For a second, the hallway noise seemed to dull around the edges. It wasn’t that the request itself was shocking. You had done road content before, just not much with the Flyers at the NHL level. Short travel assignments, prospect camp coverage, one development tournament in the offseason. But NHL regular season road coverage was a different beast. More logistics. Tighter timelines. Less room for mistakes.

Still, underneath the immediate panic, something bright sparked.

Pittsburgh.

Flyers versus Penguins.

One of the rivalry matchups that always drew extra eyes, extra engagement, extra heat.

You shifted the camera against your hip. “You want me to go to Pittsburgh?”

Danny nodded. “You, one shooter, and probably Mason for editing support remotely unless I can get budget approval to send him too.”

“That’s in, like, a week.”

“Six days.”

“That’s basically a week.”

He smiled despite himself. “I’m aware.”

You looked away, thinking fast. Travel. Content capture on the road. Access limitations. Opposing arena rules. A rivalry game meant fans would devour anything even remotely interesting. The potential for numbers was huge. So was the pressure.

“You’re serious,” you said.

“Very.”

You huffed out a laugh that was half nerves. “That’s a terrible idea.”

“Why?”

“Because road content is a logistical nightmare, the game will be chaos, and if anyone asks me to get one more ‘day in the life’ clip at baggage claim, I might simply walk into traffic.”

Danny gave you a long look. “So that’s a yes?”

You pressed your lips together, fighting the smile threatening to break loose. He knew you too well.

“It’s not a yes,” you said. “It’s an extremely reluctant, professionally burdened, heavily conditional maybe.”

“That’s basically the same thing.”

“It absolutely is not.”

But it kind of was.

The rest of the day moved around you in fragments. The game. The content queue. A quick postgame locker room clip. A last-minute graphics swap. By the time you finally sat at your desk upstairs with your laptop open and your hair half-falling out of the clip that had been pretending to hold it together since noon, the building had shifted into that postgame exhale you always liked best. The loudest part was over. What remained was the hum—wheels rolling over concrete, muted voices, a vending machine clunking somewhere down the hall, the scratch of your own fingertips against keys.

You should have been finishing the recap package. Instead, you were staring at the team schedule.

Philadelphia at Pittsburgh. A Saturday game.

National eyes, rivalry traffic, a whole audience beyond your usual followers waiting for anything remotely compelling to latch onto. Good road content there could hit hard. Especially if you handled it right. Especially if you found the balance between funny and polished and just candid enough to feel intimate.

Your phone buzzed on the desk.

Olivia: Heard you might be going to pittsburgh

You smiled and typed back.

Y/N: rumors are dangerous

Olivia: omg you ARE

Y/N: i said rumors are dangerous

Olivia: bring me back something from the gift shop

Y/N: absolutely not

Olivia: fake friend

You tossed the phone aside and tried to focus.

Once you got home to your apartment and kicked your shoes off by the door, you found yourself opening notes on your phone and drafting ideas before you had even changed out of your work clothes.

Travel day fit check. Plane card game content if players were willing.

“Who on this team would survive a zombie apocalypse?”

“Most likely to forget their passport?”

A rivalry edition of quick-fire questions. Maybe a “describe Pittsburgh in one word” bit. Maybe something with playlists.

Maybe something a little more cinematic too—city shots, loading into the arena, skates on concrete, gloves being tightened, the kind of moody footage people ate up before big divisional games.

You sank onto your couch and stared at the ceiling, phone balanced on your stomach. You reached for your laptop again and started building a rough Pittsburgh shot list before common sense could stop you.

By the next morning, you had three separate content concepts, a proposed travel schedule, and a color-coded document titled PIT ROAD GAME POSSIBILITIES, which was probably either deeply impressive or slightly unwell.

Danny responded to the email in six minutes.

“This is exactly why I’m sending you.”

—

By Thursday, your travel had been confirmed.

You would leave with the team the day before the game, shoot arrival content, get a small window after the team meal if players were available, then film morning skate and pregame pieces in Pittsburgh. You’d have limited access in the visiting arena compared to home, but enough to make something good if you moved fast. You spent half the day charging batteries, labeling equipment, checking storage space, and making sure your portable hard drives weren’t about to betray you at the worst possible moment.

At some point in the middle of all that, you caught your reflection in the black computer screen at your desk and laughed quietly to yourself.

You looked exactly like what you were: tired, busy, slightly over-caffeinated, and deeply in your element.

—

Friday came fast.

Travel day always made the whole organization feel looser around the edges. More duffel bags. More movement. More scattered conversations in hallways. You arrived before sunrise, coffee in one hand and gear slung over both shoulders, and found the loading area already alive with staff and players filtering in.

The air outside bit at your cheeks. Philadelphia in winter had a way of feeling gray all the way down to the bones.

The team bus to the airport was exactly the kind of controlled disorder you expected—players half awake, headphones already on, staff juggling bags and coffee, somebody in the back loudly insisting they were not playing cards on the plane this time because last time someone cheated and “everyone knows it.”

You boarded with the social shooter assigned to travel with you, a quiet but incredibly competent freelancer named Sam, and slid into one of the front seats reserved for staff. Your camera case went by your feet. Your phone was already open to notes.

You watched players in reflections more than directly. The familiar shapes of them. Hoodies, ball caps, long legs wedged awkwardly into seats clearly not built for hockey players. A few nodded hello to you. One immediately asked whether you were filming anything yet, with the air of a man hoping the answer was no.

The airport transfer, the private terminal, the boarding—it all happened in the quick, well-practiced blur of team travel. You caught what you could without being annoying. Bags getting loaded. Players stepping off the bus into the brittle morning air. A few clean shots of travel fits. Nothing intrusive. Just atmosphere.

On the plane, things settled.

This was where you had to read the room better than ever. Travel content could be great, but only if it didn’t feel invasive. Some guys wanted to disappear into sleep or music or whatever ritual got them ready for the weekend. Others got restless and started chirping each other fifteen minutes into the flight.

You got lucky.

About halfway through, a loose cluster of players toward the back started a card game. Someone else was already recording little clips on a phone. The mood had tipped toward playful. You looked at Sam, tipped your head toward the aisle, and the two of you moved quietly.

—

Pittsburgh greeted you with cold air, low clouds, and the sharp, practical rhythm of road arrival. From the airport to the hotel, from the hotel to check-in, from check-in to quick room drop and back downstairs again. The city outside the bus window looked steel-gray and river-cut, winter light catching on glass and bridges in a way that felt a little cinematic if you were in the right mood.

You were in the right mood.

Not because it was Pittsburgh, specifically. Though even you had to admit the rivalry of it all gave the trip extra charge. More because this was new enough to feel exciting and familiar enough not to be terrifying. You could do something with that combination.

The hotel content went smoothly. Arrival footage. A few lobby shots. One player who tried to duck the camera and got caught smiling anyway. Another who fully posed despite claiming thirty seconds earlier that he hated being filmed. You collected moments the way some people collected receipts—evidence that the day had happened, evidence that the mood was real.

By evening, after the team meal, you had a small window to grab optional content from the lounge space the players were filtering through. Nothing intense. Just quick stuff if anyone felt up for it.

Tomorrow would be the game day.

Tomorrow, you’d be in the visiting arena, working in tighter spaces, moving faster, trying to get content good enough to justify why they’d sent you at all. You should have felt overwhelmed. Maybe you did, a little. But stronger than that was the hum you always got before good work. The anticipation.

—

You were up before your alarm.

Not by much, but enough to make it annoying.

For one disorienting second, you didn’t know where you were. The hotel curtains were still mostly drawn, leaving the room dim and gray-blue, the kind of early morning light that made everything feel a little unreal. Then the shape of the unfamiliar armchair by the window registered. The hard-shell camera case near the desk. The laminated credential hanging from the lamp. Pittsburgh.

Right.

Game day.

You let out a long breath and rolled onto your back, staring up at the ceiling for a moment while the day arranged itself in your head. Morning skate content. Arrival shots if the bus timing worked. A few interviews, maybe. Practice-day atmosphere, even though “practice day” was never really what morning skates were—it was lighter, sharper, more controlled, the kind of routine that looked casual if you didn’t know enough hockey to see all the tension underneath it.

By the time you made it to the hotel lobby, you had your hair pulled back, your credential clipped on, and enough energy to pass for a functional adult. Olivia was already there, somehow looking more awake than anyone had a right to at that hour, one hand around her coffee and the other scrolling through emails on her phone like she was personally at war with them.

“You look tired,” she said.

“You look judgmental.”

“I am judgmental.”

“I know.”

She handed you the second coffee without argument, and the warmth of it seeped into your fingers in a way that felt briefly life-saving. Around you, the hotel lobby had that strange, muted hum team hotels always seemed to have on travel mornings. Staff moving with purpose. Players filtering in with headphones on and hoods up, looking half asleep and six feet taller than the furniture around them. Equipment personnel wheeling cases through the polished floor space like they owned the building. Everything quiet, but not relaxed. There was always a pulse under game day.

You and Olivia took seats near the windows while you waited for bus call.

“Did you sleep?” she asked.

“Enough.”

“That answer means no.”

“It means I had content ideas at one in the morning and had to write them down or risk becoming unbearable.”

She took a sip of coffee. “You were already unbearable.”

“You’re so supportive.”

“I’m consistent.”

You smiled into your cup and looked down at your phone again, skimming the day’s rough plan. Nothing too ambitious. Capture the guys arriving at the rink. Some clean morning skate visuals. Maybe a few quick questions if the mood was right and the team staff didn’t need everyone moving too fast. A little atmosphere, a little personality. Enough to feed the game-day machine without getting in the way.

It should have felt routine.

Instead, your nerves were just a little louder than usual.

Not in a bad way. Not panicked. Just alert. Like your brain knew this day mattered a little more than most. Rivalry game. Bigger audience. Road environment. More eyeballs on every post. Even the smallest clip could overperform if it caught the right energy. You were already thinking in edits, already hearing caption ideas in the back of your mind, already sorting through what might look good in vertical and what might need to be held for later.

Across the lobby, one of the players noticed your camera bag and grimaced theatrically.

“No weird questions today,” he said as he approached.

You looked up at him. “Good morning to you too.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He pointed a finger at you like that would strengthen his case. “No ‘who’s most likely to cry during a movie’ or any of that.”

“That one is actually excellent, thank you.”

He made a betrayed sound and kept walking toward the elevators, and Olivia leaned closer to you, lowering her voice.

“You know you’ve won when they start pre-complaining before you’ve even asked anything.”

“I prefer to think of it as trust.”

“That is not what that is.”

But it kind of was.

The bus ride to the arena was quieter than the day before. More inward. Less chirping. Guys looked at their phones or out the window or nowhere at all, wrapped in their own routines. You took a couple of skyline clips through the glass, though the morning was overcast enough that the city looked all steel and river and pale winter haze. Still good, though. Especially for moody transitional footage.

Pittsburgh had a way of looking cinematic even when it wasn’t trying. Maybe it was the bridges. Maybe the water. Maybe the fact that hockey cities always seemed a little sharper around the edges in the cold.

When the bus pulled into the arena, everyone’s energy shifted without anyone saying anything. That was one of those details you only noticed after years around teams. The invisible click. Public space to work space. Hotel mode to rink mode. Whatever looseness had existed ten minutes earlier tightened into something more focused.

You and Sam got off with the rest of the traveling staff, the air outside crisp enough to sting the inside of your nose. You adjusted the strap of your camera bag and fell into your usual rhythm almost immediately. Arrival shots first. Players stepping off the bus. A couple of clean walking clips. Gloves tucked under arms, headphones still around necks, coffee cups, garment bags, the endless repetition of duffels. You moved fast, careful not to clog any pathways, stepping sideways around rolling equipment trunks and arena staff with the practiced awareness of someone who had spent years learning how to be present without being in the way.

Once inside, visiting access was exactly what you expected: tighter than at home, more controlled, more narrow in its freedom. Still workable. You got a few warmup-room atmosphere shots, some skates being laced, sticks lined along a wall, a trainer adjusting gear on a table. Nothing too intrusive. Mostly details. It would cut together beautifully later if you had enough coverage.

“Looks good,” Sam murmured, checking playback on one clip as the two of you stepped back into the hallway.

“Keep grabbing texture stuff if you see it,” you said. “Tape, gloves, hallway skates, anything that feels like road routine.”

He nodded. “Got it.”

You checked your phone and frowned at the battery percentage.

Fifty-one.

That wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t great either considering how early it still was and how much you relied on the social phone throughout the day. The team-issued phone was where quick vertical clips lived before they got sent off, where stories got posted in real time, where you could review what you had and keep track of platform needs without juggling too many devices at once. It also had the unfortunate tendency to drain like it had a personal grievance against electricity.

You tucked that concern away for later and headed toward the rink entrance for morning skate.

Practice-day shooting was always a balancing act between rhythm and patience. Morning skate didn’t have the dramatic frenzy of game warmups, but it had its own kind of clean energy. Less noise. More glide. Coaches in conversation near the boards. Players taking one-timers with sleepy precision, stretching against the glass, leaning on sticks in small clusters between drills. The ice still looked fresh in a way it never did later in the day, bright and untouched beneath the lights.

You loved filming on ice days like this.

There was room to breathe in the footage. Room for the little things. The scrape of edges. The casual toss of a puck from glove to glove. A goalie rolling his shoulders before dropping into the net. You and Sam split the workload without even needing to talk much about it by that point. He covered a wider angle from one corner while you worked your way along the permitted area, switching between the main camera and the social phone depending on what the moment called for.

A player tapped the glass in front of your lens in mock offense after you caught him missing a shot.

“Oh, that’s going up,” you called back.

He shook his head immediately. “No chance.”

“You can’t stop me.”

“Watch me.”

“You’d have to catch me first.”

He laughed and pushed off toward the faceoff dot again.

That was the nice thing about practice-day content. Lower stakes. Enough time to get human moments without anyone feeling too scrutinized. A few of the players leaned into it more than usual, maybe because the rivalry game had everyone a little keyed up and this was the last easy breath before it all tightened. You got one fantastic clip of two teammates mock-arguing over who had the better tape job. Another of someone trying—and failing—to chirp a coach who shut him down so efficiently that even you almost laughed out loud behind the phone.

Perfect social stuff. Easy, real, useful. By the time the skate wrapped and players started filing off the ice, your social phone battery had dropped to eighteen percent. You stared at the screen for a beat, offended.

“No, actually, that’s insane,” you muttered under your breath.

Sam looked up from packing one of the lenses. “What?”

“This stupid phone is dying.”

He checked the time. “Already?”

“Yes. It’s acting like I’ve committed some personal offense.”

“You have a charger?”

“In my bag. I think.”

That was the problem. You had multiple bags, multiple cases, and at least three places the charger could be depending on which version of yourself had packed the night before. Wonderful.

You glanced toward the hallway leading back toward the visitors’ room. Media flow had loosened a little now that morning skate was done and there was a short window before the next scheduled obligation. If you moved fast, you could run back, find the charger, plug the phone in for a bit, maybe dump a couple clips, and get back before anyone needed you elsewhere.

“I’m gonna go grab the charger,” you told Sam. “Can you stay here for like five?”

“Yeah.”

“If anyone asks where I am, tell them I’m being held hostage by battery percentage.”

He snorted. “Will do.”

You slung the social phone into your jacket pocket, adjusted your credential, and headed down the corridor at a brisk pace.

The visiting route through unfamiliar arenas always felt vaguely like navigating a dream someone else had designed. Too many similar hallways. Too many gray doors. Too many turns that looked like they should lead somewhere obvious and instead dumped you out beside a storage alcove or a security checkpoint or a staircase you definitely weren’t supposed to be near.

At first, you thought you were fine.

You retraced what you were pretty sure had been your route in. Past the equipment carts. Left at the corner with the framed arena signage. Straight down a narrower hallway. Then another turn. Then—you slowed.

This didn’t look right.

There was a long concrete corridor ahead with darker flooring than the one you remembered, and the wall signage here was for home locker facilities, not visiting. You stopped walking entirely and stared for a second, willing the arena to reorganize itself into something more familiar.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself. “Cool. Love that.”

You turned back the way you came, only to realize the last two turns had blurred together in your head. Great. Amazing. Perfect even. You had been in the building less than three hours and were already lost in enemy territory because a phone battery had personally betrayed you.

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it. There were worse problems. Plenty worse. But there was something uniquely irritating about being a grown adult with multiple credentials clipped to your jacket and still somehow wandering around a professional sports arena like a confused substitute teacher on a field trip.

You started walking again, this time slower, checking each sign as you passed.

Hallway. Training room. Staff access. Another hallway. A corner. A staircase. None of it looked familiar.

You dug the phone out of your pocket to maybe text Olivia or Sam for help, only to see the battery flash red at eleven percent.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered.

You were too busy looking down at it while turning the next corner to notice someone coming from the opposite direction until it was too late.

One second you were stepping around the bend with your attention split between the dying phone and your rapidly diminishing patience, and the next you nearly walked straight into a broad chest in a dark team-issued quarter zip.

You startled hard enough that your sneaker skidded against the floor.

Everything happened fast after that. A clipped breath. A flash of instinctive panic. The sick little drop in your stomach as your balance tilted the wrong way. The phone slipping in your hand.

And then a hand caught your arm. Another at your elbow, steady and firm and immediate.

You didn’t hit the ground. Didn’t even come particularly close once the hold settled you. But the surprise of it still sent your pulse jumping.

“Whoa,” a low voice said. “Easy.”

You blinked up and for one profoundly humiliating second, your brain supplied absolutely nothing useful, because standing in front of you, one hand still loosely braced at your arm like he was making sure you were actually steady, was Sidney Crosby.

Not on a screen.

Not in a media scrum.

Not from a distance while you were working a game and trying to stay neutral because that was your job.

Here. Right here. In a concrete arena hallway in Pittsburgh while you were lost, annoyed, and probably making the dumbest expression of your life. His brows lifted slightly, somewhere between checking that you were okay and maybe suppressing a laugh.

“You good?”

You became aware of several things all at once.

One: you were still half-leaning into the recovery of your balance.

Two: your phone was somehow still in your hand, miracle of miracles.

Three: you needed to speak immediately before your silence turned this into the single most embarrassing moment of your career.

“Yep,” you said, much too quickly. “Yes. I’m good. Totally good.”

His mouth twitched. Cool. Great. He thought you were an idiot. Understandable.

You straightened fully, smoothing one hand against your jacket like that could restore dignity. “Sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“That much I figured.”

The delivery was dry enough that it took you half a beat to realize he was teasing.

You looked at him again properly then, which maybe was a mistake because now your brain had time to register details. Taller up close than people always swore he was, even though everyone knew his listed height and apparently still liked making it a whole conversation. Broad shoulders. Practice hair still slightly damp around the temples. That familiar face that hockey fans had spent nearly two decades reading like weather. Calm, watchful, a little amused now.

You swallowed back the first eight weirdly fangirl things that tried to rise up.

Because no.

Absolutely not.

You worked for the Flyers.

You were currently wearing team gear.

You had professional self-respect, at least in theory.

“Sorry,” you said again, more normally this time. “I’m just trying to find my way back to the visitors’ room and apparently your arena is built like a maze.”

That earned you a small, immediate smile.

“Our arena?”

You folded your arms, clutching the dying phone against your side. “Yes. Yours.”

“So you’ve already decided it’s not user error.”

“Oh, it is definitely user error,” you said. “But I’m choosing to blame the building.”

He glanced down the corridor you’d just come from, then back at you. “Visitors’ room’s the other way.”

“See?” you said. “Maze.”

He made a soft sound that might have been a laugh. “You took, like, three wrong turns.”

“That feels excessive to point out in my time of need.”

“You seem okay.”

“Physically, sure. Emotionally, I’m being humbled.”

That got a real laugh out of him, brief but unmistakable, and something in your chest gave an irritating little flip in response.

Unhelpful.

Very unhelpful.

You cleared your throat. “Thanks for catching me, though. That would’ve been a really tragic way to go.”

His expression went lightly skeptical. “Tragic?”

“Yes. Imagine the paperwork. ‘Local social media employee taken out by poor directional instincts in rival arena.’ Horrible look for everyone.”

He folded his arms now too, posture easy. “I think we could’ve spun that.”

“You think the Penguins PR team could’ve spun me eating it in the hallway?”

“Oh, for sure.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s evil.”

He shrugged one shoulder, still looking amused. “Occupational hazard.”

There was something unfairly disarming about how casual he seemed. Not guarded exactly, but measured in that way some athletes were after years of being observed. Still, there was warmth there too, and curiosity, and just enough playfulness to keep the whole moment from tipping awkward. It helped you relax by degrees.

A little.

Not much.

Your phone buzzed weakly in your hand and flashed the red battery indicator again, like it wanted attention.

You looked down at it in betrayal.

“Let me guess,” he said, following your glance. “Dead phone?”

“Dying phone,” you corrected. “Which is somehow more irritating.”

“That’s why you’re lost?”

“I was going to grab my charger.”

“And got sidetracked.”

“I got aggressively sidetracked.”

He tipped his head. “Who do you work for?”

You held up the credential clipped to your jacket instead of answering, because if he hadn’t seen the Flyers logo by now that would’ve been impressive.

His eyes dropped to it, then lifted again with clearer recognition.

“Social?”

“Yeah.”

“For Philly.”

You gave him a look. “I feel like the logo’s doing a lot of the heavy lifting there.”

He smiled again, slower this time. “Just making sure.”

“Well, yes. Flyers social.”

That seemed to amuse him for reasons you couldn’t entirely read. Maybe just the situation. Maybe the irony of running into the opposing team’s social media admin while she was lost in his hallway. Fair enough, honestly.

“You’re the one always doing those pregame questions?” he asked.

That caught you off guard enough that your brows lifted. “You’ve seen those?”

Now it was his turn to look faintly caught.

“Some of them,” he said.

You stared at him for a beat. “That feels a little traitorous, actually.”

His smile widened. “Traitorous?”

“You’re the captain of the Penguins.”

“And?”

“And you’re apparently watching Flyers socials.”

“I didn’t say I watch all of it.”

“That is not a denial.”

“It’s research.”

You let out a surprised laugh. “Research.”

“Division rival.”

“That sounds fake.”

“Probably.”

The back-and-forth was coming easier now, helped by the fact that he seemed perfectly willing to keep it going. There was something surreal about it, enough that a small part of you felt like you’d blacked out and wandered into a fanfiction prompt written by a particularly unhinged version of yourself. But mostly, standing there in the hallway, you just felt alert in that bright, sharpened way that happened when someone unexpected met you at your own level.

You shifted the phone in your hand. “Well, for the record, I’m only here in a deeply professional capacity. Any alleged admiration for your team’s facilities is false.”

“Our facilities?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“You’re the one insulting the building.”

“Because it deserves it.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It absolutely does. This place has the directional logic of an escape room.”

He chuckled under his breath, then nodded down the hall. “You need to go left at the next corner, then through the double doors. Visitors’ side is back there.”

You looked where he indicated, trying to map it mentally. “Left. Double doors. And if I somehow end up in, like, the Zamboni garage?”

“Then you took more than one wrong turn.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“It’s accurate.”

You huffed a laugh.

There was a beat after that—small, not awkward exactly, but noticeable. The sort of pause where either one of you could have ended the conversation cleanly and moved on. You probably should have. You had a charger to find, a phone on its deathbed, a job to do, and just enough self-awareness to know lingering in a hallway with Sidney Crosby while wearing Flyers gear was maybe not the most professionally neutral thing in the world.

Instead, because apparently your survival instinct had left the building long before your sense of direction, you said, “So what exactly does your research on Flyers social involve?”

His eyes flicked back to yours, amusement returning instantly. “Looking for weaknesses.”

“Through rapid-fire snack preference videos?”

“You’d be surprised what people reveal.”

“That’s a terrifying thing to say.”

“It’s true.”

“You sound like a spy.”

“Maybe I am.”

You angled your head. “That would honestly explain a lot.”

“Like what?”

“The mystery. The overly calm energy. The fact that half the hockey world talks about you like you materialize out of fog whenever Team Canada needs saving.”

That one made him laugh properly, shoulders shifting with it, and the sound of it cracked something lighter through the whole strange situation.

“Out of fog?” he repeated.

“You heard me.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“I work in media. It’s an occupational risk.”

He glanced down at your credential again, then back at your face. “So are you actually a Flyers fan, or are you just paid to be one?”

It was a good question. Better than most people realized, actually. Working for a team changed the shape of fandom. You couldn’t engage with it the same way anymore—not fully, not without blurring lines you needed to keep clean. But there was still pride there. Investment. Protection, maybe. The sort of loyalty that came less from childhood posters and more from proximity, from labor, from knowing the people behind the logo.

You smiled a little. “I work for them. That kind of answers itself.”

“That’s not exactly what I asked.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Are you trying to get me to defect in the hallway?”

“Depends how convincing you are.”

He nodded like he was considering it. “Fair.”

You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, mostly to do something with your hands. “For the record, I’m not saying anything nice about the Penguins.”

“You already blamed the building. I think I can live with that.”

“Good.”

Another beat.

It was ridiculous, the ease of it. Not because he was Sidney Crosby, though that part of it remained surreal enough to sit in the back of your skull like a blinking sign. More because the conversation itself felt natural. Quick. Dry. That clean little verbal tennis match where each return came easy. You hadn’t expected that. If you’d expected anything at all, it would’ve been polite distance. A nod, maybe. Directions. End scene.

Not this.

Your phone buzzed again and this time the screen dimmed so aggressively that you sighed aloud.

“Okay, wow,” you said to it. “You’re being a diva.”

He looked at the screen. “You should probably rescue that.”

“I know.”

“You need the charger that badly?”

“It’s the social phone. So yes. If this thing dies, I basically lose the ability to post half my day in real time, and then my boss starts using phrases like ‘workflow disruption’ and I have to pretend not to find that threatening.”

He smiled. “Sounds serious.”

“It is serious. This tiny rectangle owns my life.”

“Brutal.”

“The worst part is I probably packed the charger in the dumbest possible pocket and now I have to dig through three bags like I’m on some kind of scavenger hunt.”

“I can walk you back.”

The offer was simple, easy, like it hadn’t occurred to him it might land with the weight it did.

You blinked. “You absolutely do not need to do that.”

He shrugged. “I’m going that way.”

“You are not.”

“Eventually.”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “That’s not a real argument.”

“It’s enough of one.”

“It really isn’t.”

He tipped his head, patient in a way that somehow made the whole thing worse. “You said it yourself. Maze.”

You looked down the hall, then back at him, suspicious mostly because accepting help from Sidney Crosby in the middle of a rivalry-game morning felt like exactly the sort of thing that would one day sound fake when retold.

And yet.

Your phone was at six percent.

You were absolutely capable of getting lost again.

And he was already turning slightly, as if this had been decided.

“Fine,” you said. “But if I end up on Penguins propaganda by accident, I’m blaming you.”

“I think we can avoid that.”

“That sounds like something propaganda would say.”

He gave you a dry look and started walking, and because apparently this was your life now, you fell into step beside him.

The hallway felt even more surreal in motion. Your sneakers on concrete. His stride easy, unhurried beside you. The two of you passing arena doors and equipment cases and bits of signage while your brain screamed intermittently about the sheer absurdity of the moment.

You kept your face composed anyway.

Professional. More or less.

“So,” he said after a few steps, “what kind of stuff are you getting today?”

You glanced at him. “For socials?”

He nodded.

“Mostly morning skate atmosphere. A couple funny clips if I can get them. Road-routine stuff. Probably some game-day content later. Depends what the guys give me.”

“What they give you?”

“Yeah.” You lifted one shoulder. “Some days they’re chatty. Some days they look at the camera like I’ve ruined their lives.”

“That sounds familiar.”

“You get that too?”

He gave you a look. “Media’s media.”

“Fair.”

You passed a staff entrance, turned left at a junction you definitely would have missed on your own, and continued down a corridor lined with framed photos from various eras of Penguins history. You caught sight of one from early in his career and looked away before it seemed too obvious you’d noticed.

“You’re pretty good at it,” he said after a second.

You looked back at him. “At getting lost?”

“At the content.”

That stopped you for half a step.

The compliment was delivered easily, casually, but not thoughtlessly. There was no joking edge to it this time. Just straightforward observation.

You recovered quickly enough, but still. “Thanks.”

He shrugged. “You get guys to answer stuff without making it look forced.”

“That is maybe the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my work.”

“It’s true.”

A weird warmth spread through your chest, deeply inconvenient and entirely out of proportion to the situation. You swallowed it down.

“Well,” you said, aiming for lighter, “I appreciate the cross-divisional validation.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

That pulled another smile from him.

By the time he led you through the double doors and into a more familiar stretch of visiting-side hallway, relief washed through you so fast it was almost embarrassing.

“Oh, thank God,” you said. “I know where I am.”

“So you’re safe now.”

“Debatable, but closer.”

He slowed to a stop near the point where your routes would obviously split, one way toward the visitors’ room and another back toward whatever part of the building he’d actually meant to be in before your near-collision rerouted his morning.

You looked at the door, then back at him.

“Well,” you said, tightening your grip on the dying phone, “thanks. For the directions. And the catching.”

“No problem.”

“I’m serious. That could’ve been deeply humiliating.”

“I think you would’ve recovered.”

“That’s generous.”

He seemed like he might say something else, then only nodded once. “Good luck today.”

The words were simple enough. Generic, almost. Something anyone might say.

Still, the way he said them landed a little differently.

You smiled before you could stop yourself. “You too. I mean—” You caught yourself and narrowed your eyes. “Not, like, too much luck.”

His expression shifted instantly. “There it is.”

“There what is?”

“The Flyers fan.”

You lifted your chin. “Obviously.”

He laughed softly. “Right.”

“Right.”

For half a second neither of you moved. Then your phone screen went black. You stared at it in horror. Pressed the side button. Nothing.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

He looked at the dead screen and then at your face, openly amused now. “That seems bad.”

“It is bad.”

“You should probably find that charger.”

You pointed at him with the dead phone. “This is partially your fault.”

“How?”

“You distracted me.”

His brows lifted. “I gave you directions.”

“You also participated in banter.”

“That sounds voluntary on your end.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again because annoyingly, he was right.

“That’s not the point,” you said.

“It kind of is.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m not the one who got lost.”

You laughed despite yourself, full and helpless and a little disbelieving, because really—what else were you supposed to do with this? With him? With the fact that ten minutes ago you’d been cursing a hallway and now you were standing there trying not to smile too obviously at Sidney Crosby while your work phone lay dead in your hand like a tiny casualty of circumstance.

“Okay,” you said, backing a step toward the visitors’ room. “I have to go save my career.”

“That seems wise.”

“And just so we’re clear,” you added, “if the Flyers win tonight, I’m blaming this whole interaction for throwing off your routine.”

His smile sharpened at the edges. “That how that works?”

“Yes.”

“Convenient.”

“I believe in accountability.”

He nodded once, like he was accepting the terms of a deal. “Then if we win, I’m blaming the building for confusing you.”

You pointed at him again. “See? You do admit the building’s confusing.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It basically is.”

“It really isn’t.”

You were already grinning when you turned away.

“Bye,” you called over your shoulder.

“See you.”

The words followed you down the short stretch toward the visitors’ room, and the stupidest, warmest little thrill went through you at the sound of them.

Absolutely not, you told yourself.

Nope.

Hard no.

You pushed through the door and immediately got hit by the familiar bustle of your own team’s space again—staff talking, gear shifting, someone asking where an extra roll of tape had gone, another player halfway through changing out of practice gear. The normalcy of it was almost jarring after the surreal quiet of the hallway.

Sam looked up from near the equipment table. “There you are. Did you find it?”

You held up the dead phone. “Technically no.”

He frowned. “What happened?”

“I got lost.”

“For that long?”

“I was very committed to getting lost.”

He stared at you for a second. “Are you okay?”

“Yep.”

—

By the time game time rolled around, the whole arena felt alive in a way that had almost nothing to do with sound alone.

It was in the air first.

In the tightness of it.

The current running under every hallway and stairwell and concrete corridor. The way even regular movement seemed sharper somehow. Faster. More deliberate. Rivalry games always had a different kind of charge to them, but the Battle of Pennsylvania carried its own particular electricity. It was old, deeply felt, and impossible to fake. Orange and black scattered like sparks through pockets of the crowd, drowned out but never erased by the black and gold surrounding them. Every Flyers jersey in the lower bowl looked defiant just by existing. Every Penguins fan seemed half a second away from either starting a chant or a fight.

From your spot near the glass, camera in hand and credential swinging lightly against your jacket, you could feel all of it pressing in from every angle. This was why sports content hit differently on rivalry nights.

Even through a screen, people could sense it. The tension. The noise. The immediacy. The way every check landed harder in the building than it ever could in a replay clip. The way a routine save drew a reaction that felt almost disproportionate, because in games like this nothing was routine, not really. Every shift meant a little more. Every goal meant a lot more.

You were already working before warmups had even properly settled in.

Quick vertical clips of the Flyers coming onto the ice. A pan of the crowd as boos rained down at the first hint of orange and black. A close-up of skates carving through fresh shavings near the boards. The way the lights caught helmets, visors, breath. You kept moving, adjusting angles, crouching lower by the glass to get cleaner shots, then rising again to catch a wider sweep of the rink.

Your replacement social phone—freshly resurrected after the morning disaster—was finally fully charged and clipped to your side with a portable battery attached like a life support system. You were not taking chances today.

A few rows up, the fans were already loud enough to rattle the glass every time a Flyer drifted too close. Someone behind you yelled, “Crosby sucks,” with enough passion that you almost admired the commitment. Another voice shouted back something about the Flyers that you definitely weren’t repeating in a work environment.

You stayed focused on the ice.

That was easier during warmups.

Warmups had structure. Purpose. Players moved through familiar arcs and patterns, taking shots, stretching, joking lightly when they could. It gave you something to work with. Game time itself was harder because you were always balancing. Capture enough to feel present without becoming a distraction. Keep your angles clean. Stay aware of pucks, players, officials, staff, and the hundred small variables that could turn one second of inattention into a disaster.

Still, your mind kept drifting.

Not too far.

Not dangerously.

Just enough that when the Penguins took the ice and the crowd volume swelled again, your eyes found Sidney without meaning to.

It happened instantly and involuntarily, like your brain had marked him as a point of recognition now whether you liked it or not. He glided through warmups with that same contained energy he always seemed to carry, not showy, not overstated, but impossible not to notice once you were looking. He exchanged a few words with a teammate near the blue line, then turned toward center and joined a passing drill, movements crisp and economical in a way that somehow made everything else on the ice look slightly louder by comparison.

You should not have been aware of him this much.

It was deeply inconvenient.

The worse part was that you couldn’t even fully blame yourself, because he had, in fact, walked you back from getting lost that morning, and then somehow managed to be funny and disarming and entirely too easy to talk to in the process. Since then, every time you remembered the conversation, some embarrassing little warmth lit under your ribs all over again.

Unhelpful.

Wildly unhelpful.

You crouched lower at the glass and focused your lens on the Flyers instead. That was your team.

Your job.

Your side of the content feed, literally and metaphorically, everything else was noise and for a while, once the game actually started, it was easy to let the action take over.

The first period was chaos in exactly the way good rivalry hockey should be. Fast, ugly, sharp-edged, loud. Every hit got a rise. Every whistle got opinions. The crowd swelled and dipped like a living thing, and the benches looked keyed up enough that even line changes carried a little extra bite. You bounced between camera angles and social clips, filming where you could from your designated space near the glass, catching quick reaction shots after scrums, the Flyers bench leaning forward after a near chance, the raw rhythm of the game in fragments.

You didn’t have time to think too much.

That was good.

The Flyers struck first midway through the opening period, and the tiny islands of orange in the arena erupted like someone had set off flares. You caught the celebration from the far side as cleanly as you could, then whipped toward the bench to get the players slamming gloves and yelling. Your phone buzzed immediately with internal messages—clip that, send that, story that now, great angle, need replay if you have it. Normal game-day chaos. You moved with it, fingers flying, adrenaline already steady in your bloodstream.

Pittsburgh answered before the end of the first.

Of course they did.

The building detonated around you, black and gold suddenly in motion everywhere at once, and you instinctively kept filming even as the noise punched through your chest. That was your job too. Not cheering. Not reacting. Capturing. Documenting. It didn’t matter that it was the wrong celebration for your feed. You still needed the atmosphere. The scale. The emotional contrast. Rivalry content only worked if it felt real.

By intermission, your notes app looked like a battlefield.

Post later: crowd shots

Use bench reaction after Flyers goal

Need moody b-roll from end boards

Possible caption: hostile environment etc etc

Olivia leaned over your shoulder while you were sending a few quick selects to Mason. “You look like you’re fighting for your life.”

“I am.”

“Great. That means it’s going well.”

You shot her a flat look. “I hate the way you phrase things.”

She smiled. “You love it.”

The second period somehow came out even hotter than the first.

That happened sometimes in rivalry games. Everyone spent the opening frame pretending it was still just hockey, and then by the second the game remembered what it actually was. Checks got heavier. Whistles got meaner. Every net-front battle turned into a negotiation with violence hovering just beneath the surface.

You moved lower along the glass during a stoppage, re-centering yourself for a better angle on the Penguins’ zone if the play came your way. The arena was so loud now that individual sounds were harder to isolate. Everything blended—music, chanting, glass rattling, skates cutting, the raw roar that rose every time the puck got near either crease.

The score was tied 2–2 when it happened.

The Penguins broke through neutral ice fast off a turnover, the kind of sudden transition that made everyone around you rise half out of their seats before the play had even fully formed. You were already tracking the rush with your camera, instinct taking over. Pass up the wing. Quick give-and-go. A lane opening just long enough to matter.

Sidney took the return feed near the circle and snapped the puck past the goalie before anyone in orange could close the gap.

The goal light flashed.

The building exploded.

Your camera kept rolling.

He curved away from the net in celebration as the arena came apart, teammates converging, gloves lifting, the glass around you vibrating beneath the force of thousands of people losing their minds all at once. You got the shot—clean enough, steady enough, electric in that live-wire way only raw game footage ever was. He peeled past your side of the ice during the celebration route, close enough to the boards that for one disorienting second it felt less like watching and more like being caught in the same current.

And then he turned his head slightly.

Toward you.

Just enough.

His mouthguard shifted at the edge of a grin, and over the roar—faint but clear enough that you knew you hadn’t imagined it—he threw out, “You get that for social media?”

You stared. It was absurd. Ridiculous. So specific you nearly laughed on instinct.

But before you could even process the fact that Sidney Crosby had just chirped—or maybe teased, or maybe whatever the hell that had been—your social media job in the middle of a live rivalry game, two Flyers on the ice clearly noticed.

One of them snapped his head in Sidney’s direction immediately. The other skated over with the kind of offended energy that suggested whatever he thought he’d seen or heard, he had interpreted it in the most aggressively loyal way possible.

“Oh my God,” you muttered under your breath.

The next shift was ugly.

Not out-of-control ugly, not yet, but the tone had changed. The Flyers were already physical when they got angry; now there was something personal layered into it. A harder finish on checks. More shoving after whistles. One of the defensemen jawing visibly every time he passed the Penguins’ captain near the boards. You didn’t need to hear it to guess the general message.

Your stomach sank.

No.

No, absolutely not.

There was no way they thought—But then during the next stoppage, one of the Flyers skated near enough to the glass to throw you a quick, heated look that all but confirmed it.

Message received.

They thought Sidney had chirped you. Not in the ordinary rivalry sense, either. Not generic nonsense. Specifically you. Their social media admin. One of theirs.

Your grip tightened on the camera. “Guys,” you muttered uselessly to the glass. “No. That is not what happened.”

The glass, shockingly, did not respond.

The period went on, and with every shift your discomfort grew teeth.

Because now you were trapped in the worst possible position—aware of something maybe no one else had caught correctly, unable to do anything about it, and watching the consequences play out in real time on the ice while thousands of people screamed around you. Every heavy hit involving Sidney made your pulse tick up. Every scrum near the boards made your shoulders tense. Once, during a commercial timeout, two Flyers near the bench said something to each other and then glanced your way, and the guilt hit so hard and fast it made your throat feel tight.

This is stupid, you told yourself.

You did not cause this.

These are professional hockey players in a rivalry game. They do not need a personal excuse to go after each other.

And logically, you knew that was true.

Emotionally, though, every time one of your guys took a run at him after that hallway memory of his laugh and his easy, “Good luck today,” your chest squeezed in a way that felt awful.

Late in the second, it got worse.

The puck got rimmed deep into the Penguins’ zone, and Sidney went back to play it near the boards on your side. One of the Flyers forwards—the same one who had looked ready to commit emotional arson on your behalf earlier—came charging in on the forecheck.

You saw it before it happened. That was the horrible part. The angle. The speed. The line of contact. Enough time to know it was going to be hard and absolutely no time to stop it.

The hit slammed Sidney into the boards with a crack that echoed even through the arena noise. The crowd sound warped instantly—part outrage, part excitement, part that sick jolt every building gets when something tips from aggressive to dangerous. Players converged at once. Gloves in faces. Officials rushing in. The Flyers bench up and yelling. The Penguins bench exploding right back.

And Sidney—Sidney stayed down for one beat too long.

Then two.

Your breath caught.

He pushed up eventually, but not cleanly. One hand braced awkwardly against the boards, the other tucked in too close to his body, and even from where you stood you could see it in the line of him immediately—something was wrong. Not dramatic enough to collapse the whole game, but wrong enough that your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

The officials were still sorting bodies when he turned, escorted by staff toward the tunnel.

And as he passed your side of the glass, he looked at you.

Not for long.

Just a second.

But long enough for it to register. Long enough that the guilt already clawing through you sharpened into something meaner.

Then he went down the tunnel.

You forgot to breathe again.

The Flyers bench was still loud behind you, players leaning over the boards in the aftermath, adrenaline high and tempers higher. You shifted automatically toward them to grab some post-sequence atmosphere because that was still your job, but before you even lifted the phone properly, you heard one of them say, “Serves him right for chirping our social media admin.”

Another voice answered, “Yeah, keep her name outta your mouth.”

Your whole body went cold.

For half a second the arena seemed to tilt. They really had thought that.

Not abstractly. Not as a joke.

Actually thought Sidney had been taking a shot at you and now he was hurt. Your skin flushed hot and cold all at once, shame and panic tangling so tightly you almost couldn’t separate them. You lowered the camera immediately, the sounds of the game around you suddenly muffled and wrong.

It wasn’t your fault.

You knew that.

You knew that in the rational, objective, adult way.

But it felt like your fault anyway.

If you hadn’t talked to him that morning. If he hadn’t skated by. If he hadn’t said anything. If the players hadn’t seen. If, if, if—

“Hey,” Olivia said, appearing at your side with a hand lightly against your elbow. “You okay?”

You swallowed hard and nodded too fast. “Yeah.”

She looked unconvinced. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine.”

That was a lie so obvious it barely qualified as language.

The rest of the second period passed in a blur you only half inhabited. You still filmed when you had to. Still moved when needed. Still sent off a couple clips because muscle memory and duty overrode whatever was happening in your head. But inside, all you could think about was the tunnel. The line of his shoulders as he’d left. The look he’d given you. The bench comments. The sinking, impossible feeling that somehow a stupid, playful line about social media had turned into a body check hard enough to send him out of the game.

By the time the horn sounded to end the period, your nerves were shredded.

The Flyers headed off in a cluster of agitation and momentum, still talking, still keyed up. The Penguins disappeared more quickly on the other side. Staff moved. Arena music crashed in over the break. Fans surged toward concourses. The usual intermission chaos.

You stood still for maybe three seconds, then made a decision. It was probably a terrible decision. Possibly insane, and definitely not in your job description.

But once it landed in your brain, it became impossible to ignore.

You turned to Olivia. “I need, like, five minutes.”

She stared. “For what?”

“I just need five.”

“That is not an answer.”

“I know.”

She studied your face once, saw enough there to stop pushing, and only said, “Be smart.”

You gave her a look that probably did not inspire confidence and hurried off anyway.

The back hallways were even busier during intermission, but you moved through them on pure nervous momentum. You ducked into a quieter side corridor first and looked around until you spotted a discarded Penguins warmup jacket hanging on a rolling rack near a laundry cart—probably left by some support staff in the rush of the period break. You hesitated for exactly one second.

Then grabbed it. “This is insane,” you whispered to yourself as you shoved your arms into it over your own clothes.

The black and gold swallowed your Flyers gear just enough to pass at a glance, especially with your credential flipped inward against your chest. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t remotely official. But it was better than walking toward the Penguins’ medical area in orange and black like some kind of cartoon villain.

You moved fast before you could talk yourself out of it.

The training and medical area outside the home room was guarded loosely by staff who were too busy and too accustomed to people moving in and out during intermission to scrutinize every face with equal intensity. You kept your head down, your pace purposeful, and clutched the phone and small camera to your chest like you belonged there for work.

One of the staffers near the door glanced at you. “Need something?”

Your mouth went dry.

Think.

“I was asked to check if media’s getting any update,” you said, pitching your voice into that bland, competent tone that made people ask fewer questions. “Just for internal.”

He looked tired enough not to care. “Trainer’s with him. Make it quick.”

Relief hit so hard you nearly swayed.

“Yep. Quick.”

You slipped inside before anyone could reconsider.

The room beyond was quieter than the arena, quieter than intermission, quieter than your heartbeat deserved. Not silent—there were low voices, a cabinet door closing somewhere, the rustle of medical tape—but contained in a way that felt almost intimate after the violence of the game outside.

You spotted him near the far side, seated on the edge of a training table while one of the medical staff finished checking something at his shoulder. No pads now. No gloves. Just black baselayer gear half peeled down and a towel draped nearby. He looked up at the movement of the door opening.

And saw you.

For one impossible second, neither of you said anything.

Then the trainer stepped back. “Try not to move it too much. We’ll re-check between periods if you’re staying out.”

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

The trainer turned, noticed you lingering, and frowned faintly. “You needed something?”

Your courage nearly failed on the spot.

But Sidney answered before you could.

“She’s with me.”

You blinked.

The trainer, apparently deciding that was enough explanation for now, gave a distracted nod and moved off toward a supply cabinet.

That left you standing there in a stolen Penguins jacket, looking at the captain of the Pittsburgh Penguins like you had not lost your mind but had in fact come here for a totally normal reason.

He glanced once at the jacket, then back at your face.

A smile touched the corner of his mouth despite the situation.

“Well,” he said. “That’s a look.”

Your throat tightened with something painfully close to embarrassment and relief all at once. “I panicked.”

“I can see that.”

“I didn’t want anyone to stop me.”

“So you stole a jacket?”

“I borrowed a jacket.”

“That’s generous.”

You took two steps closer, then stopped, suddenly aware of how absurd and vulnerable and real this all was. Up close, he looked a little paler than before, jaw tighter around the edges. Not wrecked. Not catastrophic. But sore. Pulled somewhere between adrenaline and pain. Your guilt surged all over again.

“I’m sorry,” you said immediately.

His brows knit. “For what?”

“For—” You broke off and gestured helplessly. “For all of this. They thought you were chirping me. I heard them on the bench. They thought you were being a dick to the social media admin and now you’re hurt and I know it’s not exactly rational but it feels like this is somehow my fault and I just—I’m sorry.”

The whole thing came out too fast, tangled and breathless and humiliatingly sincere.

He stared at you for a second.

Then, very gently, “Hey.”

You stopped.

“It’s not your fault.”

“But—”

“It’s not,” he repeated, firmer now.

You looked at him, trying to argue, and found absolutely no room in his expression for the idea.

“They didn’t hit me because of you,” he said. “It’s a rivalry game. Guys get worked up. Stuff happens.”

“They literally said—”

“I know what you’re saying.” His voice softened again. “Still not your fault.”

You let out a shaky breath, folding your arms like you could hold the anxiety in place physically. “I feel insane.”

“You look a little insane.”

That startled a laugh out of you before you could stop it.

He smiled, quieter this time. “There you go.”

You shook your head. “You’re injured and you’re still making fun of me.”

“I’m not making fun of you.”

“You are a little.”

“Maybe a little.”

Your eyes dropped involuntarily to the shoulder he’d been favoring. “How bad is it?”

“Not too bad.”

“That sounds suspicious.”

“It’s hockey.”

“That is somehow even more suspicious.”

He gave a small shrug with the uninjured side. “Banged up.”

You pressed your lips together. “I’m still sorry.”

He leaned back slightly against the table, studying you with that same steady, unreadable-open look he’d had in the hallway. “You really came back here just to apologize?”

When he said it like that, it sounded far more unhinged than it had in your own head.

You glanced down at the black and gold jacket around your shoulders and winced. “In my defense, I did realize halfway here that this was a terrible idea.”

“And you kept going.”

“Obviously.”

“Why?”

Because I felt awful. Because you looked at me when you left. Because this stupid little thing between us stopped feeling little about ten minutes after you caught me in the hallway.

You did not say any of that.

Instead, you said, “Because I wanted to make sure you knew that wasn’t what happened. This morning. At the glass. Any of it.”

Something shifted in his face then—small, but unmistakable. A warmth maybe. Or satisfaction. Or just the confirmation of something he’d already suspected.

“I knew,” he said.

“You did?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

He looked faintly amused by the question. “You don’t exactly seem subtle when you’re panicking.”

You stared at him. “That’s rude.”

“It’s observant.”

“That is the same thing said by a meaner person.”

He laughed softly, then tipped his head toward your borrowed disguise. “Still, I gotta say…”

You narrowed your eyes preemptively. “What?”

“I like you in black and gold.”

Your breath caught so stupidly hard that you were grateful no one else in the room was close enough to hear it.

He had said it lightly.

Maybe even teasingly.

But not empty. Not casual in the way casual comments usually were. There was something in his expression when he said it that made the whole line land low and warm and dangerous.

You recovered just enough to say, “That’s actually a deeply offensive thing to say to someone in Flyers employment.”

His mouth curved. “And yet.”

“And yet nothing.”

“The jacket looks good.”

You folded your arms tighter, painfully aware of the heat in your face. “I am literally stealing from your organization.”

“Borrowing.”

“Don’t use my words against me.”

“I think I will.”

You laughed again, quieter this time, the tension finally starting to leak out of your shoulders in pieces. The room still felt strange and hidden and too close somehow, like time had narrowed just around the two of you while the rest of the game continued somewhere else entirely.

Outside, the period break would be ticking down. You knew that. You should probably go. Should probably hand back the jacket, slip out, get your head back in the game, pretend none of this had happened until you had the privacy of your hotel room to lose your mind properly.

Instead you stayed.

And he let you.

“You really watch the Flyers’ socials?” you asked after a moment.

He looked unbothered by being caught on that again. “Some.”

“Why?”

“I told you. Research.”

“That answer gets less convincing every time.”

He smiled but didn’t argue.

You shifted your weight. “So what, you score and decide to chirp me personally from the ice?”

“I wasn’t chirping you.”

“You absolutely were.”

“I was asking a legitimate media question.”

You stared. “A legitimate media question.”

“Yeah.”

“You want me to believe that in the middle of scoring a goal in a rivalry game, you were concerned with my content strategy?”

He looked you dead in the eye. “Maybe.”

You laughed helplessly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Says the one who broke into the medical room in disguise.”

“Okay, first of all, that is a wildly dramatic way to describe what happened.”

“You stole a jacket.”

“Borrowed.”

“And came back here during intermission.”

“When you say it like that, it sounds weird.”

“It is weird.”

You exhaled through a smile, then shook your head at yourself. “I cannot believe I’m in here.”

“I can.”

“Why?”

He looked at you for one steady beat too long.

“Because you wanted to see me.”

The words landed softly. Not smug. Not joking. Just clear.

And because there was no easy way around that kind of honesty, all you could do for a second was look back at him and feel your pulse leap right into your throat.

“Maybe,” you said, which was not a denial at all.

His expression warmed into something that made the whole room feel smaller.

“Maybe?” he repeated.

You lifted one shoulder. “You did save me from eating it in the hallway.”

“So this is gratitude.”

“Partially.”

“Only partially?”

“Don’t push it.”

He smiled again, then glanced toward the closed doorway before looking back at you. “You know, most people wait longer than a day before sneaking into the back hallways to flirt.”

You blinked. “I was not sneaking in here to flirt.”

His brows lifted.

You held his gaze for a second and then sighed. “Okay, maybe a little.”

“That’s honest.”

“That’s humiliating.”

“Not really.”

“It is from where I’m standing.”

“From where I’m standing,” he said, voice lower now, “I’m glad you came back.”

The warmth that moved through you then was so immediate it was almost dizzying.

You looked down, just for a second, collecting yourself. When you looked back up, he was still watching you with that maddeningly calm focus, like none of this felt strange to him at all. Or maybe it did feel strange and he just wasn’t running from it.

Either way, it made it very hard to think.

“You should probably be focusing on not being injured,” you said weakly.

“I can do both.”

“That sounds arrogant.”

“It’s efficient.”

You laughed under your breath. “That was my line.”

“I know.”

Of course he knew.

You were in trouble.

The realization arrived fully formed and weirdly peaceful. Not dramatic, not catastrophic. Just true. Whatever this was, whatever had sparked in one hallway and somehow carried itself all the way here, it was real enough that neither of you was pretending otherwise now.

A noise outside the room shifted—footsteps, a voice, the beginning of movement that meant intermission was thinning. Reality, returning.

You straightened slightly. “I should go.”

“Probably.”

Neither of you moved right away.

Then he tipped his head toward the jacket again. “You can keep that, you know.”

You looked down at it. “Absolutely not. I think this is already ethically murky.”

“It’d suit you.”

“There you go again.”

“I’m just saying.”

You slid one arm out of the sleeve. “You are impossible.”

He watched you shrug off the jacket, amusement still sitting easy at the edge of his mouth. When you stepped forward to hand it back, he took it with his good arm, fingers brushing yours for half a second longer than they needed to.

It was such a small thing.

It still sent a spark straight up your spine.

You cleared your throat. “Well. Glad you’re okay.”

“I’m okay.”

“And for the record”—you tilted your head, fighting a smile—“I still hate your arena.”

He laughed softly. “I figured.”

You started to step back.

Then he said, “Wait.”

You stopped.

His expression changed, just enough to tell you this next part mattered.

“When this trip’s over,” he said, “let me take you out.”

Your heart kicked hard.

The room went very still around the words.

Not as a joke. Not hidden in banter. Not softened into something you could politely dodge if you wanted to. Just there. Honest and direct and impossible to misunderstand.

You stared at him for maybe a second too long.

“A real date?” you asked, because apparently your brain had decided clarification was the best it could do under pressure.

His smile came back, slower this time. “Yeah. A real date.”

“With a Flyers employee.”

“That seems dangerous for your reputation.”

“I think I can handle it.”

You felt your own smile break loose before you could stop it, bright and helpless and probably giving away far too much.

“Okay,” you said.

His eyes stayed on yours.

“Okay?” he repeated.

“Yes,” you said, laughing lightly now because the happiness of it was suddenly too big to hold quietly. “Yes. I’ll go out with you.”

Something in his face softened then in a way you knew you would remember later. After the game. After the trip. After all of this. The kind of look that settled into memory before the moment had even ended.

“Good,” he said.

“Good?”

“Good.”

You shook your head, still smiling. “Very smooth.”

“I’m injured. Give me some credit.”

“You know what, fair.”

A voice called from outside the room, something about timing, something about updates. The spell of the moment loosened just enough to let the rest of the world back in.

You took one more step backward toward the door.

“I should really go now,” you said.

He nodded once. “I’ll text you.”

You blinked. “You don’t have my number.”

His mouth curved. “I’ll get it.”

“Very confident.”

“Usually works out.”

You laughed under your breath and reached for the door. “Bye, Crosby.”

“Bye.”

You slipped back into the hallway with your pulse still racing and your face warm and your whole body humming with the kind of adrenaline that had absolutely nothing to do with hockey anymore.

The sounds of intermission flooded back in all at once—staff voices, skate blades clicking somewhere nearby, the deeper thud of arena life resetting for the third period. You leaned briefly against the wall just outside the door and covered your face with one hand.

This was insane.

Actually insane.

You had started the day filming rivalry content at the glass and ended the second period accepting a date from Sidney Crosby in the Penguins’ medical area while disguised in stolen team gear.

No one on earth could know.

No one.

You pushed off the wall, fixed your credential, and headed back toward your side before anyone started asking where you’d gone. By the time you reappeared near the Flyers media lane, Olivia took one look at your face and narrowed her eyes.

“What happened?”

You forced your expression into something that you hoped read as normal and not like your entire internal life had just been rearranged. “Nothing.”

“That is the least believable thing you’ve ever said.”

“Please,” you said, lifting your camera back into position as the teams prepared to return, “out of respect for our friendship, don’t ask me anything right now.”

Her stare sharpened with immediate interest. “Oh my God.”

You looked determinedly toward the ice. “Olivia.”

She made a tiny, delighted noise of horror. “Oh my God.”

The third period was about to begin, the arena roaring back to life, the rivalry still burning hot all around you.

And somehow, against all reason and all timing and all professional logic, all you could think as you lifted your camera toward the ice again was this:

Later.

After the game.

There was a real date waiting for you on the other side of all this.

And for the first time all night, the electric feeling in the building no longer belonged only to the rivalry.

It belonged to you, too.