It Had To Be You
Sidney Crosby x female reader
SERIES MASTERLIST - CHAPTER TWO OF SITTING, WISHING, WAITING
MAIN MASTERLIST
A/N; part twoooooooooo #kill me, i kinda enjoy writing this series since it's basically already planned out, I don't have to plan as I go!! also ignore the fact that chapter 1 flopped pls!!!
chapter summary; Somewhere between spare keys, Sunday mornings, family dinners, and quiet nights studying while Sidney watches game film, the relationship becomes something permanent; or so it seems. But when a prestigious sports medicine institute on the West Coast offers the opportunity of a lifetime, the future they've imagined together begins slipping through their fingers.
wc; 10.3k !!
warnings/genre; angsty af at the end!!! very sorry !!!
NOV 2010; By the time winter settled over Pittsburgh, neither of you could remember exactly when the bench had become yours.
It hadn't happened all at once, there hadn't been a conversation, no agreement, no tradition announced out loud. The first night, you'd sat there for nearly an hour talking about everything and absolutely nothing before finally noticing how late it had gotten.
The second time had happened almost by accident; another home game, another late night cleaning up chart notes after everyone else had gone home.
You'd stepped outside expecting to walk home alone only to find Sid leaning against the brick wall beside the employee entrance, hands shoved into the pockets of his winter coat.
He'd looked up the moment the door opened, "Oh." A smile spread across his face before he'd even realized it, "You're still here."
You couldn't help laughing, "I work here."
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking faintly amused with himself, "I guess I was hoping you weren't done yet." The words settled warmly in your chest, "You waited?" You ask, trying not to smile too wide.
He shrugged one shoulder, "I finished media, then I walked outside, and I figured..." His eyes drifted toward the sidewalk, "...if you were still working, I'd wait." A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "And the bench is on the way."
You looked at him for a long second before smiling, "The bench is definitely not on your way."
You stepped closer, pulling your gloves on against the cold, "So, are you waiting because you didn't want me walking alone..." You tilted your head, pretending to think, "Or because you wanted someone to sit on your bench with?"
He laughed under his breath, "My bench?" His smile widened, the kind that reached all the way to his eyes.
For a brief moment, neither of you moved, snow drifted lazily through the glow of the streetlights, settling across the sidewalks in soft white patches. Somewhere farther downtown, a car horn echoed between the buildings before disappearing into the quiet.
"You hungry?" Sid asked after a moment, you nodded as he gestured down the street, "The sandwich place is still open."
"I thought we were going to the bench." Your eyebrows furrow, shoving your gloved hands into the jacket pocket.
"We are. But I'm learning about you. You don't actually eat enough on game days, and you've had..." He squinted, counting on his fingers, "...three coffees today."
"Four." You correct with a quiet mumble, even though you knew you weren't really proving any point other than his.
He shook his head, already laughing, "I don't know how someone studying medicine can make such questionable nutritional decisions."
"You play hockey for a living." You shoot back, turning slightly to huff out a laugh at him despite your teasing. He opened his mouth, but closed it again. His cheeks flushed ever so slightly beneath the December cold.
You looked away before he could notice the smile threatening to take over your entire face.
The sandwich shop was nearly empty, the woman behind the counter looked up from wiping tables and smiled knowingly at the sight of the two of you, "The usual?" she asked Sid.
He nodded, "Please." Then he glanced toward you, "And the turkey on wheat."
You blinked, "I didn't even order yet. You really do pay attention."
"I try." There wasn't anything flashy about the admission. He didn't flirt the way other people did.
He simply noticed things. Your coffee order, the first time you'd mentioned your younger brother, the exam you had circled on your calendar three weeks ago. Tiny things; things most people forgot.
Sid never seemed to. Sometimes you wondered whether he even realized he was doing it, sometimes you suspected he didn't.
The two of you carried your food back toward the park, boots crunching softly through fresh snow. The bench sat exactly where you'd first seen it, as if waiting. Sid brushed the layer of snow from the wooden seat with the sleeve of his jacket before stepping aside dramatically, "M'lady."
You snorted, shaking your head with an exaggerated wince, "That was terrible, Sid. You are never saying that again." He smiles at you, shrugging slightly, "I got one laugh." He points out.
You stick your hand up, as if to pause him, "A pity laugh." You correct, but you're still smiling, even as you try not to.
He just grins, "I'll take it."
You sat beside him, unwrapping your sandwich as the river shimmered beneath the city lights. For a while, the only sounds were the rustle of paper wrappers and the occasional passing car somewhere beyond the trees.
It should have felt awkward; two people sitting in near silence on a freezing December night. Instead, it felt strangely familiar, as though you'd been doing this for years instead of weeks. Neither of you realized it then, neither of you could have.
But someday, years from now, if someone asked either of you where your relationship had really begun, neither of you would say the first day in the training room, neither of you would say the first sandwich, neither of you would even say the first kiss. You would both think of this bench, because this was where your lives slowly began folding into one another.
One ordinary evening at a time.
Spring arrived quietly.
The piles of snow that had lined Pittsburgh's sidewalks for months slowly disappeared, replaced by patches of stubborn green pushing through thawing ground. The river no longer looked frozen beneath the evening sky, and the little park you'd stumbled upon the previous autumn had begun filling with blooming trees instead of bare branches.
Somehow, without either of you ever saying it out loud, the bench had become part of your routine.
After every home game, win or lose. If you were both in the city, one of you would end up there first. Sometimes it was Sid, sometimes it was you. Neither of you texted, neither of you made plans. You simply showed up, and somehow, so did the other.
"You know," you said one evening, dropping your backpack onto the bench before sitting beside him, "this is getting a little creepy."
Sid looked up from the coffee cup balanced between both hands, a slow smile spreading across his face, "Creepy?"
"You've beaten me here four times this week." You huff, kicking at his foot gently as you sit down next to him. He chuckled, looking back out over the river before answering, "You always finish about twenty minutes after everyone else."
"You've timed me?" You tease knowingly. He shakes his head quickly, defensively, only relaxing slightly when he sees you're joking, "No, I just..." He shrugged, smiling sheepishly. "Noticed."
You laughed quietly, nudging his knee with your own, "You notice everything." You say, pointing out that effortless way he paid attention. Not because he felt obligated, but because he genuinely cared.
You looked at him for a long moment before shaking your head with a smile, "You make people feel important." The words slipped out before you had the chance to overthink them.
His smile faded into something softer, more thoughtful, "I hope so." He says honestly. You leaned back against the bench, looking up through the branches overhead, "It's kind of your superpower." You hum.
He was quiet for a few seconds, and when you glanced over, he was already looking at you. Not intensely, just fondly. He turned slightly toward you, resting one arm along the back of the bench, "I've played hockey my whole life." He starts, "I've had coaches, teammates, trainers..." He smiled to himself, "A lot of people try to tell me how I'm supposed to be. You don't."
The breeze stirred the loose strands of your hair. You tucked them behind your ear, suddenly feeling much warmer than the spring evening should have allowed, "I've never really thought about it."
"I have." His voice was almost lost beneath the rustling leaves, "When I'm around you, " He laughed quietly at himself, like this whole realization amused him, "I don't feel like I have to be Captain."
The confession settled between you, heavy in the gentlest way. "You know," you said after a moment, smiling to hide how deeply the words had affected you, "you're making this really difficult." He frowned, almost curiously, "How?" He asks.
"I was planning on making fun of you for beating me here again, but now you're being all sweet. You've ruined my entire argument." You sigh, like his words didn't make you want to cry.
He laughed, the sound low and genuine,"I'll apologize."
You pretended to think it over, before offering, "I'll accept coffee." You nod, before quickly adding, "And breakfast."
He nodded immediately, "Done." He says. You smile at the automatic response, tilting your head teasingly,"You agreed to that awfully fast." You hum
"I was going to ask anyway." He looked down at his shoes, smiling to himself, "I've been trying to figure out how." Your heart skipped, "So..." you asked carefully, "Is this breakfast as friends?"
He looked back up. There was something different in his expression. Still gentle, still unmistakably Sid, but there was a vulnerability there that you'd never seen before.
"I was hoping," he began, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did whenever he was nervous. "Maybe it could be a date."
Silence followed, not awkward, just suspended. The city seemed to disappear around you. You couldn't hear the traffic anymore, couldn't hear the water; only your heartbeat.
"A date?" you repeated, unable to stop smiling. "I've been waiting for you to ask me for...I don't even know how long."
His eyes widened, and it only made you fonder, "You have? I thought you were just being nice to me." He blinks, like he was genuinely lost.
You stared at him, "Sid, you brought me dinner, you waited outside the arena for me, you memorized my coffee order, you know the names of my parents, and you've spent six months accidentally finding your way into the training room."
He shrugs at your last point, as if it wasn't as convincing as the rest, "That one was mostly an accident." You laughed at his words, and the sound alone made him laugh too, "So," he asked once the laughter settled, his smile impossibly hopeful. "Is that a yes?"
Instead of answering immediately, you reached over and slipped your hand into his. His fingers instinctively intertwined with yours as though they'd always belonged there, "I think," you whispered, "that's a pretty enthusiastic yes."
For a second, neither of you moved, he simply looked at your joined hands, smiling in quiet disbelief, "Can I kiss you?" The question was so earnest it made your chest ache.
You smiled, "I was wondering when you'd ask." You nod once. He closed the distance slowly, giving you every chance to change your mind. When his lips finally met yours, the kiss was gentle; unhurried. It wasn't dramatic or desperate. It was everything the two of you had been building toward for months; soft laughter still lingering between you, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles, your free hand finding the sleeve of his jacket without thinking.
When you finally pulled back, your foreheads rested together naturally. He let out a quiet breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, "I should've done that sooner." He grins, pressing one more quick kiss to your forehead this time.
2011; Dating Sid didn't feel like starting something new, it felt like giving a name to something that had already existed. The bench was still yours, only now, your fingers found each other automatically, coffee became morning coffee together, late night walks ended with a kiss outside your apartment building.
Sometimes he stayed just long enough to watch one episode of whatever show you were halfway through. Sometimes one episode became three, sometimes the clock crept well past midnight, and when the city outside had gone quiet, he'd simply smile, brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and ask softly, "Mind if I stay?"
By morning, one of you was usually making coffee while the other searched the apartment for a missing sock, laughing over whose turn it was to buy groceries before another busy day pulled you both back toward the arena.
Neither of you ever talked about forever, you didn't have to, it was already beginning to look like home.
Weeks turned into months so gradually that neither of you ever found a moment you could point to and say, this is where everything changed. It simply did.
The first toothbrush appeared in Sid's bathroom sometime in May, neither of you remembered who had brought it over. One morning, after rushing out the door for an early practice, you'd realized yours was sitting in the cup beside his sink. You'd laughed, promised to take it home that evening, and somehow forgotten. A week later, it was still there.
By June, there was an extra bottle of shampoo in his shower that wasn't his brand, and by July, one drawer in your dresser had quietly filled with gray Penguins T-shirts that somehow kept making their way back to your apartment after nights spent at his.
Neither of you acknowledged any of it, there didn't seem to be a reason to. It all felt natural, like water finding its level.
The first time you woke up before him, you understood why his teammates always joked that he was impossible to beat to the rink.
The alarm hadn't even gone off yet, the room was still washed in pale blue light from the sunrise creeping through the curtains, and for a long moment, you simply lay there listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing; without the arena, without cameras, without the weight of a captaincy resting on his shoulders.
His hair had fallen into his eyes overnight, stubborn cowlicks sticking up in every direction, one arm draped lazily across your waist as though he'd reached for you sometime in the middle of the night without ever fully waking.
You smiled to yourself, and carefully, trying not to disturb him, you reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead. His eyes stayed closed, "Caught you." A sleepy grin spread across his face before he opened one eye, "You staring at me?"
"I was making sure you were alive." You say defensively, smacking his bare chest for scaring you, "You drool, and you snore."
He laughed softly, the sound rough with sleep, before tugging you a little closer beneath the blankets, "So, not a five star?"
You rolled your eyes dramatically, "Four. Point deducted for kicking me in the side, and hogging the-" He cut you off with a kiss; it was lazy, sleepy. The kind that lingered because neither of you had anywhere you wanted to be just yet.
When he finally pulled back, you couldn't help smiling.
Eventually, mornings developed their own rhythm; you usually wake first, he usually insisted on making coffee, claiming your version somehow tasted "too healthy," despite coffee having very little nutritional variation to begin with.
"You put oat milk in everything," he'd complain one morning, leaning against the kitchen counter while you packed your lunch. By the time the coffee finished brewing, you'd already be searching the apartment for your keys.
"By the couch." Sid says, without even looking away from his shoes as he tied them. You let out a little huff, "Are you assuming I lost my keys?" You mumble, smiling as you follow his direction and pick them up from the side table. He laughed, reaching over to steal a quick kiss before opening the apartment door.
The drive to the arena became one of your favorite parts of the day, some mornings the radio filled the silence, other mornings neither of you spoke at all. Sid would rest one hand loosely on the steering wheel while the other found yours across the center console whenever you stopped at a red light, his thumb absentmindedly tracing circles across your knuckles until traffic started moving again.
It was never a grand gesture, never performative, purely habit, the kind of unconscious affection that only grows after countless ordinary days spent together.
The medical staff caught on almost immediately, and Karen was the first. She looked between the two of you one morning as you walked into the training room carrying coffees from the café across the street.
One cup was exactly how Sid liked it, the other was exactly how you did. She smiled over the top of a patient chart, "So, I was wondering how long you two were planning on pretending." Karen folded her arms, "You've been in love for months."
Sid looked over at you, his expression softening at the almost hysterical way Karen was looking between you two, like she somehow thought she guessed wrong, "I guess we weren't as subtle as we thought."
You reached over, smoothing the front of his hoodie before anyone could tease him for the blush still lingering on his cheeks. "No," you said with a smile, "I don't think we ever were."
He answered by leaning down and pressing a quick kiss to your forehead, so natural and absentminded that it seemed neither of you realized you'd done it until Karen claps her hands together once, letting out a sigh of happiness, "What?" Sid asked, looking genuinely confused.
"I've been waiting for you two to get it over with." She grins. Sid glanced back at you, then laughed, slipping his hand into yours for the briefest moment before another player called his name from across the room, but neither of you let go until the very last second.
Somewhere between toothbrushes left behind, shared morning commutes, late night kisses, and waking up beside each other more often than not, your relationship had stopped feeling new.
It had become wonderfully, beautifully ordinary. And neither of you could imagine a version of life where it wasn't.
By the middle of 2011, your lives no longer fit together in neat little pieces, they overlapped. Some nights you stayed at your apartment, more often than not, though, you woke up in Sid's. Not because either of you had sat down and decided that was how things would work, it just did.
There were mornings when you opened your eyes before the sun had fully climbed over the Pittsburgh skyline, the apartment still wrapped in that quiet stillness that only existed before the rest of the city woke. Those mornings became your favorite.
Sid was almost always asleep on his stomach, one arm stretched across your side of the bed sometime during the night as though, even unconscious, he'd wanted to make sure you hadn't wandered too far away. You'd lie there for a minute or two, studying him the same way he studied game film.
The little scar near his chin, the faint crease between his eyebrows that somehow remained even while he slept, the way his hair refused to cooperate no matter what time of day it was. It still amazed you that the same man who carried the weight of an entire franchise looked so peaceful, so ordinary. As though he belonged exactly where he was, right beside you.
Eventually, you'd slip carefully out of bed, padding barefoot across the hardwood floors toward the kitchen. The coffee machine had become almost as much your routine as his. By the time the first pot finished brewing, you usually heard footsteps shuffling down the hallway. "You left," he'd mumble one morning, his voice still thick with sleep as he wrapped both arms loosely around your waist from behind.
You smiled, leaning back against him while stirring cream into your mug. He rested his chin on top of your head, swaying absentmindedly with you for a second before pressing a sleepy kiss against your temple, "You smell like coffee." He mumbles
You hum, one hand moving to rest over his as it holds your waist, "You smell like you just woke up." He shrugs, looking down at you, "You still like me?" He asks teasingly.
You turned in his arms just enough to look up at him; his hair was sticking up in every conceivable direction, and there was still the faint outline of a pillow crease across one cheek. He looked ridiculous. You reached up, smoothing one stubborn piece of hair back into place. "I think you're very brave asking me that while looking like this."
His mouth fell open in mock offense, and you have to bite back a laugh, "You think I look bad?"
"I think..." You pretended to inspect him thoughtfully, "You look like you lost a fight with your pillow." He smiled, ducking his head just enough to steal a quick kiss before you could finish laughing.
Your laughter softened into a smile as you reached up to straighten the collar of his shirt, "I do still like you." You confirm with a nod. For a moment, neither of you spoke; the coffee continued brewing quietly behind you while dawn slowly painted the kitchen windows gold, Sid's hands settled comfortably against your hips, his forehead resting lightly against yours.
There wasn't any rush, no practice for another hour, no appointments, no meetings. Just the two of you existing together in the little apartment that, somewhere along the way, had begun feeling just as much yours as his, "I love mornings with you," he admitted quietly.
You looked up as he continued, "They're..." He searched for the right word, smiling to himself. "...Easy."
Your chest tightened, "I love any time of day I have with you." You smile.
The apartment became your favorite study spot almost by accident. At first, you'd insisted on staying at the university library, until once you mentioned in passing that the chairs were uncomfortable to sit on. Not out of complaint, more so that you tell him everything.
Three days later, he'd quietly carried one of the spare folding tables out of the hall closet and set it beside the living room window without saying a word.
When you came over that evening, there was a desk lamp waiting, your anatomy textbooks were already stacked neatly in one corner, fresh highlighters sat beside a legal pad, even your favorite blueberry tea had somehow appeared in the cabinet. You stood there blinking for several seconds, "Sid?" He looked up from the couch where he was unlacing his shoes, "Mhm?" You don't say anything, simply glancing at the table.
He followed your gaze toward the makeshift study corner, as though he'd forgotten, "I figured you'd probably concentrate better." He shrugs. You walked over slowly, running your fingertips across the edge of the desk.
You shake your head slightly, in genuine awe at the thoughtfulness of it all, "You didn't have to." You mumble, turning to face him. "You've got film to watch, you'll be distracted."
"I won't." He shakes his head, as if the thought is absurd, already getting the recording of his last game streaming on the TV. That evening became another routine, one that repeated itself dozens of times over the following year.
You sat beneath the window, surrounded by color-coded flashcards, journal articles, and textbooks heavy enough to double as free weights. Across the room, Sid settled into the opposite end of the couch with a remote in one hand and a thick binder of scouting reports in the other.
The television played silently. Every few minutes he'd pause the footage, scribble something in the margins of his notebook, rewind the clip, and watch it again. Without sound, and without complaint.
The only noises in the apartment were the scratch of pens across paper, pages turning, and the occasional sigh whenever one of you hit a particularly frustrating problem.
Hours could pass that way; neither of you saying much, just working. Together. Sometimes, when your eyes grew tired from staring at medical diagrams, you'd glance across the room. More often than not, you'd catch him already looking at you. Not in a way that made you self-conscious, just watching. His notebook forgotten in his lap for a moment, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he realized he'd been caught.
"What?" you'd ask eventually, unable to stop smiling back. He'd blink, almost startled, humming questioningly back at you, "You're staring." You clarify.
"I wasn't. I was thinking." He shrugs, adjusting his position on the couch. He can feel your eyes on him as you wait for him to elaborate, and he looked at you for a long second. Long enough that your smile slowly softened. Then, with all the sincerity in the world, he said quietly, "I still can't believe I get to come home to you."
The room seemed to stand still. You closed your textbook without taking your eyes off him, "Come here." He didn't ask why, he simply stood, crossed the room, and let you wrap your arms around his waist the second he was close enough.
He rested his chin lightly against the top of your head, "You were supposed to be studying," he murmured. You let out a quiet complaint against him, and he laughed under his breath, the vibration rumbling softly through his chest. "I love you."
The words escaped so naturally that neither of you seemed to realize what had happened until a heartbeat later. You leaned back just enough to look up at him. His eyes had gone impossibly wide. He laughed nervously. "I didn't..." His cheeks had turned the faintest shade of pink.
He smiled in that wonderfully bashful way you'd fallen in love with, "I wasn't planning on saying it like that."
You reached up, cupping his face between your hands before kissing him once; slowly, tenderly. When you pulled away, your forehead rested against his, and his smile returned immediately. "I love you too."
He closed his eyes for just a second, letting out the smallest breath as though he'd been carrying those words around for months, then he kissed you again.
Longer this time, unhurried. The textbooks remained open on the table, the game film sat paused on the television, neither of you touched either again that night.
By the fall of 2012, life had settled into something wonderfully predictable.
You'd defended your doctoral research that spring, Sid had attended, sitting quietly in the back row with a coffee balanced between his knees and an expression that looked far more nervous than your own. He'd grinned so widely when the committee chair announced you'd passed that one of your classmates had leaned over afterward and whispered, "I think he was more stressed than you were."
Now came the next step; applications. Far too many applications. Your dining room table disappeared beneath stacks of folders, legal pads filled with deadlines, recommendation letters, and enough sticky notes to cover every flat surface in the apartment.
Some nights, the paperwork spread onto the couch, other nights, it reached the kitchen island. Sid had long since accepted that there would be no reclaiming the apartment until the interview season ended.
"You've officially taken over," he said one Tuesday evening, stepping carefully around a pile of journal articles balanced on the living room floor.
You didn't even look up from your laptop, "I left you half the couch." Nodding in the general direction of said couch.
He narrows his eyes, as if trying to glare at you, but seeing how focused you were only made him smile slightly, even as he complained, "I've had bigger seats on airplanes."
You smiled to yourself as you highlighted another line in your personal statement. "You know," you said, finally looking over the top of your computer, "most people would probably complain less."
"Most people aren't dating someone applying to seventeen fellowships." He huffs, shaking his head as navigates the obstacle course of papers spread practically everywhere.
"Eighteen." You correct quietly, glancing at him as if to make sure he doesn't step on anything important, "I added another one this afternoon."
He shook his head with exaggerated disbelief before crossing the room and dropping onto the tiny sliver of couch you'd graciously left available. "You've been staring at that screen all day. When's the last time you ate?"
"I had lunch, uh," You frowned, trying to recall your defense, "Yesterday?" You mumble, unsure.
He sighed dramatically, "I was afraid you were going to say that." Before you could protest, he disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later, he returned carrying a bowl of pasta and set it directly beside your laptop, "There."
You hum, setting your hands in your lap. "Thank you." You smile as he looks at you expectantly until he witnesses you start to eat, twirling the noodles around your fork before taking a bite.
He smiled as he tucked one leg beneath himself on the couch, reaching for the television remote. The game film began playing silently, exactly as it always did whenever you were working.
You glanced toward him, watching as his brows furrowed in concentration, his lips forming a thin line as he scribbles down notes. You watched him for another second before returning to your laptop.
Across the room, the television flickered silently. Every so often, you'd hear the click of the remote as he rewound a shift or paused to scribble something in the notebook balanced against his knee.
Hours slipped by that way; comfortably familiar. Somewhere around ten-thirty, you leaned back in your chair with a sigh. Sid looked up immediately, "Done?" You let out a groan as you nod, he huffed out a laugh, "Come here."
You didn't hesitate, closing the laptop, you padded across the room before practically collapsing beside him on the couch. He smiled softly as your head found its familiar place against his shoulder.
He reached over, absentmindedly running his fingers through your hair while you closed your eyes, "You know..." He starts, then stops, like he's unsure he even wants or needs to talk about it. "I was looking through your spreadsheet." He says eventually, as he nods toward the dining room table, "I noticed something."
You opened one eye, curiously, "What?" You nudge him slightly with your elbow, as if to tell him to quit the suspense and just tell you.
"There isn't a California application. Why not?" He says eventually, his voice was soft, but curious, like this was something about you he couldn't figure out on his own.
"Because they don't take people like me." You laughed quietly, though it sounded far less convincing than you intended. "They're Stanford."
He frowned immediately, as if your self depreciation hurt him more than you, "So?"
"So they're one of the best sports medicine programs in the country. They get thousands of applications, and they probably interview maybe a dozen. They wouldn't even finish looking through my application before deciding." You shrug, like they were just stats, like the truth didn't sting.
Sid was quiet for a moment, then he reached for your laptop on the coffee table. You don't take it from him, but as if reading his mind, "Sid. I'm not applying."
He looked over at you, not teasing, not smiling, but confused, "You've spent your whole life working toward this. So why would you decide for them?"
You stared at him, "They're going to reject me. And I don't want to waste anyone's time." You shake your head, letting out a quiet sigh,
"It's literally their job to look through applications." He points out, raising an eyebrow teasingly until he sees your barely noticeable frown. He shifted until he was facing you completely, one arm resting across the back of the couch, "I've watched you work harder than anyone I've ever met."
You started to interrupt, but stopped as he gently shook his head, "No." His voice remained calm, "Let me finish." You nodded, as if to tell him you'd listen, "I've watched you study until two in the morning." He smiled softly, "I've watched you miss birthdays because you had exams. I've watched you cry because you thought you weren't good enough."
His thumb brushed lightly across the back of your hand, "And every single time..." He smiled, "You proved yourself wrong." The apartment grew quiet, "So," he continued, "send it." He reached over, taking your hand in his, "We'll do it together."
You laughed weakly. "We? I'm not sure you know enough about medical applications." You tease, as if to try and break the seriousness of the moment.
"I know how to click 'submit.'" He points out, and despite yourself, you smiled. You leaned over, kissing him once before resting your forehead against his, "If they reject me, I'm going to be so dramatic." You hum. "You still think I should send it?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he smiled that quiet, unwavering smile you'd come to trust more than almost anything.
"I think," he said softly, "you deserve the chance to hear yes."
You looked at the laptop sitting on the coffee table, then back at him. For the first time all evening, Stanford didn't feel quite so impossible. Together, you turned the computer back on.
The first email arrived on a rainy Tuesday in February. You almost deleted it. Not because it looked unimportant, but because your inbox had become a battlefield over the last two months; research newsletters, hospital updates, conference invitations, automated acknowledgements.
Every time your phone buzzed, your heart jumped before settling again. Sid had started calling it "the email flinch." "You do it every time," he said one evening, smiling over the rim of his coffee mug as you glanced toward your laptop for what had to be the hundredth time that night.
He laughed softly, stretching one arm across the back of the couch before absentmindedly pulling your legs into his lap. Without interrupting the hockey game playing silently on the television, he began tracing slow circles over your ankle with his thumb, a habit he'd picked up somewhere along the way.
"You'll hear eventually," he said gently, "And worrying won't make them answer faster." You sigh at how logical he sounded, making a good point as he kissed your forehead comfortingly.
The first acceptance came from UPMC. You screamed so loudly that Sid nearly dropped the plate he'd been drying, "What?" He rushed into the living room, dish towel still slung over one shoulder, eyes wide with concern before finding you standing in front of the laptop with both hands covering your mouth, "What happened?"
You turned the screen toward him, "I got one." He blinked, then blinked again. A grin spread across his face so quickly it was almost contagious. You launched yourself across the room before he could say another word, he caught you automatically, laughing as the force of your hug nearly knocked both of you backward, "I knew you would."
Then came Cleveland, two weeks later. Then Philadelphia, then Columbus, then another Pittsburgh program. Five offers; five interviews that had somehow turned into five genuine opportunities.
By the middle of March, the panic that had consumed your apartment for months finally began melting away, for the first time in what felt like forever, your laptop stayed closed through dinner.
Your stack of application folders disappeared from the dining room table, the spreadsheet taped to the refrigerator became less about uncertainty and more about comparison. Salary, research opportunities, clinical rotations, housing, commute.
Sid wandered into the kitchen one Sunday morning carrying two mugs of coffee before stopping in front of the refrigerator. "So..." You looked up from the pancakes sizzling on the stove, eyeing him, he pointed toward the color-coded chart, "We're down to five." He says, before a pause, as if considering even bringing it up, "You crossed out Stanford."
You shrugged, "They've probably already filled the class." You mumble, letting fresh batter pour onto the pan as you carefully watch for bubbles in the batter.
He turned to face you, leaning one hip against the kitchen counter, "You know..." His voice was careful, "You've been acting like getting five incredible offers somehow means you failed."
"I haven't." You defend, shrugging dismissively. You flipped a pancake before answering, "I always knew Stanford was unrealistic."
He watched you quietly, "You still wanted it." He adds, like he could hear your inner monologue. You smiled to yourself, nodding at his words, letting out a quiet hum. "Everybody wants it."
"No." He shook his head, "You wanted it." The distinction made your chest tighten. You slid the finished pancakes onto two plates before carrying them to the table, "UPMC." You change the topic, as if to remind him of the programs you had gotten accepted into. "I wouldn't even have to leave Pittsburgh."
The words hung comfortably between you, not loaded, not yet. You smiled, reaching across the table to lace your fingers with his, "I kind of like that idea." His thumb brushed across your knuckles, "So do I." He agrees.
Somewhere after that, Stanford quietly disappeared from your conversations. Not intentionally; life simply moved on. The acceptance deadline for your other programs crept closer, and interviews were replaced with second visits, phone calls with faculty, and conversations about where you could actually picture yourself.
Sometimes you spread brochures across the living room floor. Sid would sit cross-legged beside you, studying maps as though he were preparing for a playoff series. "Cleveland's only about two hours. We could do weekends. Philadelphia's not terrible either. But, Pittsburgh's obvious."
You smiled, "You're biased." He didn't even pretend otherwise.
"You know..." he said one evening, absentmindedly drawing circles against your hand while the two of you sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch, "If you stay here. We should probably find somewhere bigger."
You looked over, "Oh yeah?" You grin. He nods, looking around the space, "This apartment's getting crowded. You've got anatomy books in the kitchen." He smiled to himself, "I was thinking a second bedroom. You need somewhere to work." His tone was so matter-of-fact that it took a second to register.
"You've thought about this." You stared, then you reached over to cup his face, laughing as he leaned instinctively into your hand, "I love you." He grinned, "I love you too." He says, naturally.
Nearly three weeks passed. You accepted a second-look invitation from UPMC, Cleveland called to answer your research questions, Philadelphia mailed another packet. Stanford remained silent.
Eventually, you forgot about it. Not entirely, but enough. The application became something that had happened months ago. A long shot, a hopeful whim. Nothing more.
Until one Wednesday afternoon; Sid had left for practice just after eight. You stayed behind, determined to finish organizing your notes before your afternoon meeting with one of your mentors.
The apartment was unusually quiet, a load of laundry hummed in the background, sunlight spilled across the kitchen floor through the open blinds.
Your laptop sat open beside a half-finished mug of coffee while you sorted paperwork into neat stacks, until your phone let out a little buzz, that drew your attention away just enough.
You barely looked. Probably another automated message; another reminder to respond to one of the programs you'd already heard from.
You wiped your hands on your sweater before reaching for it anyway. Your inbox opened, one new message. The sender made you stop breathing.
Stanford Sports Medicine Fellowship Program.
You frowned, eyebrows furrowing curiously, your pulse picked up. Maybe it was finally the rejection. Months late, but at least it would close the door.
You clicked it, your eyes skimmed automatically over the greeting, then stopped. Congratulations. You blinked, read it again, but the words didn't stayed the same. Congratulations. No, surely that wasn't right. You started over from the beginning, again, and again; the words refused to change. You laughed, actually laughed. A short, disbelieving sound escaped before either hand could cover your mouth, "No way."
You stood so quickly your chair rolled backward into the wall, your heartbeat pounded in your ears, hands shaking, you grabbed the laptop instead of the phone, convinced somehow that the email would disappear if you looked away. It didn't.
You reached the paragraph describing the fellowship, read it, and read it again. Then another line caught your eye. We are pleased to offer...
Your vision blurred. "Oh my God." The words came out as barely more than a whisper. You laughed again, louder this time, "I got it."
Every late night, every anatomy exam, every research paper, every weekend spent studying while everyone else was out living their lives, every sacrifice, every impossible standard you'd set for yourself. It had all led here.
Tears filled your eyes before you even realized you were crying as you pressed one trembling hand against your mouth, "I actually got in." The sentence dissolved into a sob, a tear slid down your cheek as you sank slowly into the nearest kitchen chair, unable to stop rereading the email.
The words felt unreal, like they belonged to someone else's life. Your dream, the dream, the one you'd been too afraid to even speak out loud. They'd said yes. After months of believing it would never happen, they'd said yes.
Your gaze drifted lower, to the start date, then to the address, to the fellowship location. Palo Alto, California. The smile disappeared; not all at once, but slowly, as if it hadn't processed fully yet.
Your chest tightened. The apartment suddenly felt impossibly still, as you looked around the kitchen, at the coffee mug he'd left in the sink that morning, his jacket hanging over the back of a chair, the spare pair of skate blades sitting by the front door because he'd forgotten to put them back in the car. Pieces of a life; your life. A life you'd both built without ever really talking about it.
Your eyes found the calendar on the refrigerator; practice schedules, dinner with his parents on Sunday, your niece's birthday circled for next month, a grocery list written in his messy handwriting down one side.
You looked back at the email, then around the apartment again, your breathing hitched, "Oh." It wasn't excitement anymore; not entirely. It was something bigger, something heavier, "I have to tell Sid."
The realization hit so suddenly your knees gave out. You slid down the kitchen cabinets until you were sitting on the floor, the laptop still balanced shakily in your lap.
The tears came harder now; happy tears, heartbroken tears, the kind that didn't seem to know which emotion they belonged to.
The sound of Sid's key in the front door came a little after four. You'd been sitting on the kitchen floor for nearly an hour, at some point, you'd managed to stop crying, then you'd started again. The acceptance letter was still open on your laptop, the screen dimming every few minutes before lighting back up when you absentmindedly brushed the trackpad.
You'd thought about calling him, you'd thought about driving to the arena, you'd thought about pretending you hadn't seen the email until after dinner. None of those options had lasted very long.
The lock clicked, the front door opened, "I'm home." His voice carried easily through the apartment, warm and familiar, accompanied by the quiet thud of his gym bag landing by the entryway.
You closed your eyes, and for one impossible second, you wished time would stop. Just for another day, another hour, another minute where the future still looked exactly the way it had that morning.
The apartment fell quiet as you heard him pause, probably noticing that you hadn't answered, "Sweetheart?" His footsteps grew quicker, "You home?"
Another beat of silence. Then; "Oh, angel." The concern in his voice made your throat tighten all over again. A second later, he rounded the corner into the kitchen and immediately dropped to one knee in front of you.
His hockey bag was still slung over one shoulder, his hair was damp from the post-practice shower, there was a faint red mark across the bridge of his nose where his helmet had been. None of those things seemed to matter the moment he looked at your face.
His expression changed instantly; his smile disappeared, his brows pulled together as one hand came up to gently cradle your cheek, "What happened?" You opened your mouth, nothing came out, "Hey." His thumb brushed beneath your eye, wiping away a tear before it could fall, "Talk to me."
You tried again, "I..." Your voice cracked so sharply you stopped.
His concern deepened, "Are your parents okay?" You nodded quickly, "Your brother?" Another nod, "Did something happen at work?" You shook your head, "No?" He searched your face, "What is it?"
You looked down at the laptop balanced across your knees, but you couldn't make yourself say the words. Instead, you quietly turned the screen toward him.
He followed your movement, confusion flickering across his features as he reached for the computer. For several long seconds, he simply read. His eyes moved slowly down the page. You watched every tiny change in his expression, the furrow between his brows, the slight tilt of his head.
Then; he stopped, read one line again and looked up at you, "You got it?" You nodded once, a laugh escaped him before he could stop it, "You got it." He says again, earning another nod. The biggest smile you'd ever seen spread across his face, "Oh my God."
He looked back at the screen as if he needed to make sure it hadn't disappeared, then back at you, "You got it." The words came out louder this time, almost disbelieving, "You actually got it."
Before you could react, he'd set the laptop carefully on the floor beside you and wrapped both arms around your shoulders, he pulled you up so quickly your feet barely found the ground before he was laughing into your hair, "You did it." His voice broke around the words as he held you so tightly it almost hurt. Not because he was trying to, because he couldn't seem to stop smiling.
"I'm so proud of you." He pulled back just enough to cup your face between both hands, tears shining in his own eyes now, "I told you. I told you to apply. I told you they were going to see how good you are." His forehead rested against yours as he let out a shaky laugh, "I knew you were good enough."
You couldn't stop crying; happy tears streamed down your cheeks faster than you could wipe them away. He smiled softly, then he kissed you slowly, tenderly. The kind of kiss that said everything words couldn't.
When he pulled away, he laughed quietly to himself, still shaking his head in disbelief. "My girlfriend..." Another kiss against your forehead, "Got into Stanford."
You smiled through your tears, "I got into Stanford." The two of you stood there for another minute, arms wrapped around each other in the middle of the kitchen, neither willing to be the first to let go.
The apartment felt lighter somehow; filled with laughter, filled with relief, filled with years of hard work finally paying off. Sid leaned back just enough to look at you again, "We have to celebrate."
You laughed, almost shyly. He brushed another tear from your cheek, "You deserve this. I've watched you become the best doctor I've ever met."
You sniffle, smiling at him as you shake your head, "I'm not even a doctor yet." He shrugged as his smile softened as he reached down to grab the laptop again, "I want to read it." He says gently.
You nodded, wiping at your face while he settled beside you on the floor, the two of you leaned shoulder-to-shoulder against the kitchen cabinets, reading the letter together this time.
He smiled through the opening paragraphs, paused to read the faculty names, whistled quietly when he reached the research funding. "Wow, this is..." He looked over at you, pride shining so openly in his eyes that it nearly made you cry again, "It's everything you've wanted."
You nodded, "It is." He kept reading, his finger scrolled farther as the room remained quiet. Until it didn't.
His movement slowed, almost imperceptibly, but you noticed before he said anything. The smile was still there, just smaller now, as his eyes rested on a single line near the bottom of the page.
Location: Palo Alto, California.
The silence settled between you.
Not awkward, not uncomfortable; just heavy. He read the line again, then quietly closed the laptop. Neither of you looked at the other immediately. Outside, a car passed beneath the apartment window, someone laughed somewhere down on the street. Life continued.
Inside; everything had shifted. Finally, Sid let out a slow breath. "So..." His voice remained remarkably steady, "California."
You nodded, "California." Another long silence as you stared at your hands, "I don't know what to do."
He looked at you then, really looked at you. The tears had started again, your shoulders shook despite your obvious attempts to stop them. And without a word, he reached over and took your hand, his thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles, "You have to go."
Your head snapped toward him, "No." The answer came immediately, "So don't say that."
His expression didn't change, he simply squeezed your hand a little tighter, "I watched you spend years getting here. I am not.." His voice caught for the first time as he looked away for a second before finding the words, "I am not going to be the reason you don't take this." Tears spilled freely down your cheeks now. He smiled sadly, "You don't get to give this up."
"What about us?" You whisper, your voice cracking with a new wave of fresh tears. The question hung in the air, raw, terrifying.
Sid closed his eyes briefly before opening them again, and when he looked back at you, there was heartbreak there. But there wasn't hesitation, "There isn't a version of this," he said quietly, "where I could look at you five years from now," His thumb brushed another tear from your cheek, "Knowing you turned down your dream because of me."
"You're my dream too, Sid." The words escaped before you could stop them, and they shattered whatever composure either of you had left.
Sid's eyes filled instantly. He laughed, a small, broken sound, then rested his forehead against yours, "So are you." His voice was barely above a whisper, "So are you."
You stayed like that for a long time. Neither of you trying to solve it, neither of you pretending there was an easy answer. Just holding each other in the quiet kitchen of the apartment that had slowly become your home.
The acceptance letter still sat only a few feet away; the happiest piece of paper either of you had ever seen. And, somehow, the one that had just broken both of your hearts.
The morning of your flight arrived much too quickly. Neither of you had slept very much, but not because you'd spent the night talking. Ironically, you hadn't. You'd simply stayed awake together.
At some point after midnight, the conversation had given way to silence. You'd ended up curled against Sid's side on the living room couch, your packed suitcases waiting neatly by the front door while an old movie neither of you was actually watching played quietly in the background.
Every so often, one of you would glance at the other, smile, reach for a hand, lean in for another kiss. As if neither of you could quite convince yourselves to let go for very long.
Around three in the morning, Sid had quietly turned the television off, letting the apartment settle into darkness, "You awake?" he whispered.
You smiled sadly against his shoulder, "I don't think either of us are going to fall asleep."
He lets out a quiet laugh, "Probably not." Another long silence, then, "Come on. Lets go to the bench."
You glanced toward the clock on the microwave, three-fifteen. A laugh escaped you despite yourself, and you nod, already moving to grab your coat.
The park looked exactly the way it had three years earlier, the trees were taller, the seasons had changed countless times. But the bench was still there. Waiting. Sid brushed a few leaves from the seat before sitting down. You settled beside him automatically, your shoulder finding his as naturally as breathing.
Neither of you spoke for a while; the river drifted quietly past, Pittsburgh was only just beginning to wake. "I was going to ask you something this summer," Sid admitted eventually. He smiled to himself, eyes fixed on the water, "I already had the ring." Your breath caught as he continues, "It was in my dresser."
You stared at him, "You bought a ring?" Your voice shook, letting out a sniffle.
"I wanted to wait until after you chose your fellowship." He looked over then, smiling softly, "I thought we'd celebrate."
Your eyes filled immediately as a broken laugh escaped through your tears before you reached over and wrapped your arms around him as tightly as you could.
He held you just as firmly, neither of you pretending not to cry anymore, "I'm sorry," you whispered into his jacket, "I'm so sorry."
He kissed the top of your head, "You have absolutely nothing to apologize for. I love you." His arms tightened instinctively around you.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, "Then why does this feel so unfair?" He smiled sadly, "Because sometimes it is." He whispers. The words settled between you with a quiet kind of acceptance; not resignation, just truth.
Eventually, the sun began creeping over the river, the first hints of gold spilled across the water. Sid looked at his watch, "We should go." Neither of you moved, not for another minute, maybe two. Finally, you stood, and he reached for your hand without thinking, you let him.
The walk back to the apartment was slow, neither of you spoke much. There wasn't anything left to say that hadn't already been said a hundred different ways over the last few weeks. Every "I love you.", every "I'm proud of you.", every promise that neither of you would regret this. The words hadn't changed the outcome, they'd only made it gentler.
The airport was busy; people hurried past with rolling suitcases and coffee cups, completely unaware that your entire world seemed to exist within the three feet separating you from Sid.
Your boarding group had already been called, and final boarding would begin in minutes. You looked down at the ticket in your hand, then back up at him. Sidney stepped closer, his hands found yours, "I need you to promise me something."
You nodded immediately, "Anything."
"When you get there..." He smiled, "Don't spend one second wondering if you made the wrong decision."
Your bottom lip trembled, "I don't know if I can, Sid. You've been my home."
His eyes glistened, and before he could respond, the announcement echoed through the terminal again. Final boarding.
You looked toward the gate, then back at him. You knew, with absolute certainty, that if you looked at him for much longer, if you stayed standing in front of him for one more minute, that you would walk straight to the ticket counter and tell them you weren't getting on that plane. Not because you didn't want Stanford, because you loved him that much.
Sid must have seen the thought cross your face, he smiled through tears and reached up to cup your cheek, "Go."
You shook your head, "I can't." You sniffle, free hand grabbing at his jacket as you look up at him.
"You can." His voice broke, "And I need you to." You closed the distance between you without another word, your hands slipped beneath the lapels of his jacket, gripping the fabric as though you could somehow keep him with you.
He met you halfway; the kiss wasn't rushed, it wasn't desperate, it was slow, lingering. The kind of kiss that held three years of ordinary mornings, late-night walks, quiet dinners, shared coffee, whispered jokes, game film on mute, anatomy textbooks spread across the living room, and a little wooden bench by the river.
When you finally pulled away, your foreheads remained together, neither of you opened your eyes, "I love you," you whispered.
He smiled faintly, "I love you too." You kissed him once more, just once. Shorter this time, almost like a goodbye.
Then, before you could lose your nerve, you stepped backward. You didn't let yourself look for more than a heartbeat.
Because you knew yourself; you knew that if you memorized the way he was looking at you, the tears in his eyes, the hopeful smile he was forcing for your sake, the man who had spent three years becoming your safest place, you would never get on that plane.
So you offered him one last, trembling smile, and walked toward the gate. You didn't look back; not because you didn't want to, but because you loved him enough to know that if you did, you would stay.
And Sid stood exactly where you'd left him, watching until you disappeared from view, whispering one final time to the empty space between them, "I'm so proud of you."
Neither of you knew it then, but thirteen years later, one of you would be on a familiar bench by the river. Sitting, wishing, waiting.
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