I’m so excited you’re writing for Geno (Evgeni) no one does , any chance in writing for Tánger ?(Kris Letang)
Between Periods
Pairing: Kris Letang x Reader
Word Count: 838
Request open!
Sidney Crosby Masterlist | Hockey Masterlist
The hallway outside the locker room always smells like cold air and adrenaline. You’ve learned that in the months you’ve been part of the Penguins’ media team,how the arena exhales between periods, how the noise dulls to a hum, how players pass you like storms in motion.
You’re flipping through notes on your tablet when you feel it before you see it: the shift in the air, the familiar presence.
“Hey,” a voice says quietly.
You look up. Kris Letang stands a few feet away, helmet still on, hair damp, eyes sharper than usual. There’s a red mark along his jaw, already blooming.
“You’re early,” you say.
He shrugs. “Didn’t feel like sitting in there.”
“Bad period?”
He lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh but isn’t. “You saw it.”
“I did,” you admit. “You still blocked three shots.”
“And missed the one that mattered.”
You tilt your head. “That’s not what the stats will say.”
“I don’t care about the stats.”
There it is. The reason he comes to you instead of the coaches, instead of the noise. You don’t argue. You just lean back against the wall, giving him space to do the same.
“They’ll want you for an interview,” you say gently.
“Five minutes,” he replies. “Please.”
You nod. “Five.”
He takes off his helmet, sets it on the bench beside you. His shoulders sag almost imperceptibly.
“Why do you always find me?” you ask, quieter now.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “You don’t talk unless I want you to.”
“That’s my job.”
“No,” he says. “That’s… you.”
The buzzer sounds in the distance, muffled through concrete. He doesn’t move.
“You okay?” you ask.
He rubs a hand over his face. “I’m tired.”
“Tired like ‘long season,’ or tired like,”
“Tired like I can’t turn it off,” he finishes. “Like even when I’m sitting down, my head’s still out there.”
You study him for a moment. “You don’t have to be on right now.”
He looks at you then, really looks. “That’s why I come here.”
The third period is worse. A turnover. A goal against. The crowd’s disappointment crashes down in waves. By the time the final horn sounds, the loss feels heavy, personal.
You’re packing up when someone touches your elbow.
“Kris is looking for you,” a staffer says.
You don’t hesitate.
The locker room is loud at first,sticks clattering, voices overlapping,but you spot him instantly, sitting at his stall, jersey half-unlaced, staring at the floor.
You approach carefully. “Hey.”
He looks up, eyes dark. “Can you,” He gestures vaguely. “Can you stay?”
“I can,” you say. “They already did the scrums.”
He nods, swallowing. “Good.”
The room empties slowly, until it’s just the two of you and the quiet hiss of the showers down the hall.
“You were hard on yourself out there,” you say.
“I let them down.”
“You didn’t.”
He scoffs. “You don’t have to protect me.”
“I’m not,” you reply. “I’m being honest.”
He leans back, presses his head against the lockers. “I hate losing like this.”
“I know.”
“I hate that I still care this much.”
You step closer, lowering your voice. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because it hurts,” he says simply. “Every time.”
Something in his tone makes your chest tighten.
“Kris,” you say, “you’re allowed to hurt.”
He laughs softly, humorless. “That’s not what people want to see.”
“People aren’t here,” you say. “I am.”
He goes quiet. For a long moment, he says nothing at all.
“Do you ever get scared?” he asks suddenly.
You blink. “About?”
“All of it,” he says. “One bad hit. One wrong move. And that’s it.”
You choose your words carefully. “Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” you say. “But I still show up.”
He watches you like he’s memorizing your face. “You’re good at this.”
“At what?”
“At making it quiet.”
He exhales, shoulders dropping for the first time that night.
“Come here,” you say before you can overthink it.
He hesitates,just a second,then stands. He doesn’t touch you at first, just rests his forehead against yours.
“You don’t have to be strong with me,” you whisper.
His hands find your waist, tentative. “I don’t know how to not be.”
“You’re doing it right now.”
He lets out a shaky breath. “I hate that you see me like this.”
“I don’t,” you say. “I see you.”
That’s when he breaks,not loudly, not dramatically. Just a quiet exhale that turns into something heavier. He pulls you closer, arms firm, grounding.
“Don’t go,” he murmurs into your hair.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise?”
You smile against his shoulder. “Promise.”
Eventually, he pulls back, brushing his thumb under your eye like he’s checking for tears that aren’t there.
“You should go,” he says reluctantly. “Before someone sees.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You worried about the media?”
He snorts. “Only when it’s you.”
You laugh softly. “Get some rest, Letang.”
He watches you walk away, then calls after you, “Hey.”
You turn.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “Same place?”
You nod. “Between periods.”
He smiles,small, real.
