Macklin Celebrini x Crosby!Reader
The first day of Olympic training camp never feels overwhelming to you, even though it probably should. The rink is busy in that familiar way—players arriving, staff moving quickly, voices echoing down long hallways—but you’ve grown up in it. This isn’t new. This is normal. Being Sidney Crosby’s daughter means you’ve spent your whole life in places like this, just on the edge of everything important.
Your dad is already on the ice when you get there, focused, locked in the way he always is at the start of something big. You watch him for a minute from the stands, the same way you have since you were little, before deciding you’ve seen enough for now. He’ll be there for hours. He always is.
You head down into the quieter parts of the arena, moving easily through spaces no one questions you being in. A few players say hi as they pass. Someone jokes with you about how you’ve practically got your own locker at this point. You laugh, shrug it off, keep walking.
That’s when you turn a corner—and run straight into someone.
You both step back at the same time, your phone slipping slightly in your hand before you catch it. You look up, already expecting to recognize him.
Macklin Celebrini looks just as caught off guard for a second before it fades into something more relaxed.
“Yeah,” you cut in, a small smile forming. “I know.”
He lets out a short laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense.”
“Yeah. I wasn’t really looking.”
There’s a pause that lingers a second longer than it should, like neither of you are quite in a rush to end it.
“I didn’t know you were here,” he says.
“I come to stuff like this all the time,” you shrug. “No one really cares anymore.”
He nods slowly, like he’s taking that in. “Guess I’m the only one who didn’t know.”
You can hear the noise of practice down the hall, your dad’s voice carrying faintly through the rink, and for a second it pulls your attention back. That’s what you’re really here for. It always is.
“You heading somewhere?” he asks.
“Not really. Just walking around.”
He hesitates for half a second. “You know where the gym is?”
You raise an eyebrow. “You’ve been here all morning.”
“Yeah, and somehow still don’t know where anything is.”
You smile despite yourself. “That’s kinda concerning.”
“Yeah, I’m figuring that out.”
You turn, gesturing down the hallway. “Come on.”
He falls into step beside you, and it’s quiet at first, just your footsteps echoing lightly. You can feel him glance at you once or twice, like he’s trying to say something but doesn’t know how to start.
“You’re a lot calmer than I expected,” he says finally.
You glance over. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Someone a little more… intense.”
You laugh softly. “That’s him, not me.”
He smiles at that, like it tells him more than you meant it to.
When you reach the gym, you push the door open slightly and step aside. “Here. Try not to get lost again.”
He doesn’t move right away. “Thanks.”
For a second, it feels like there’s something else he could say. Something that might keep you there a little longer.
“See you around,” you say, stepping back.
“Yeah,” he replies, watching you for just a second too long. “I think you will.”
You head back toward the rink, the noise building again as you get closer. Your dad is still on the ice, still focused, still exactly where he’s supposed to be. You take your usual spot, leaning against the glass, watching the rhythm of practice fall into place. That’s what matters. That’s what you’ve always known.
Still… you catch yourself glancing toward the tunnel once or twice.
Over the next few days, things settle into routine. You’re there for your dad—watching practices, sitting in on games, catching quick moments with him between everything when he has time. Those moments are shorter now, more focused, but they matter more because of it. A quick conversation in the hallway, a hand on your shoulder, a quiet “you good?” before he’s pulled away again. It’s always been like this when things get serious.
But somewhere in between all of that, Macklin starts showing up too.
At first, it’s just coincidence. Passing each other, a quick “hey,” a short conversation that doesn’t mean anything.
Soon, it’s not really coincidence anymore.
He finds you after practices sometimes, walking with you for a bit before heading off. You end up sitting in the stands once, talking while your dad’s still on the ice, neither of you in a rush to leave. It’s easy in a way that doesn’t interfere with anything else—doesn’t take away from why you’re there.
And it never replaces it.
Because no matter what, your attention always goes back to the ice.
The Olympics themselves feel different. Bigger. Louder. Everything sharper, more intense. You’re in the stands every game, surrounded by noise, by flags, by expectations—but your focus is the same as it’s always been.
The way he leads, the way he controls the pace, the way the team moves with him. You’ve seen it your whole life, but it still hits differently here, on this stage.
But you notice other things now, too.
Like the way Macklin settles into the games, less nervous than he was at camp, more certain. The way he glances up toward the stands sometimes—not searching blindly, but like he knows exactly where to look.
After games, it becomes routine.
Win or lose, he finds you when he can, even if it’s brief. A hug, a few words, something steady and grounding before he’s pulled into media or meetings or whatever comes next.
“You okay?” he asks you once after a particularly intense game.
It’s simple, but it means everything.
Not in a way that takes away from anything. Not in a way that crosses a line. Just… after. When everything else has settled enough for him to step into that space for a minute.
“You staying for the next one?” he asks one night.
The conversations get a little longer. The pauses a little quieter. The space between you feels less accidental and more like something you’re both aware of.
As the tournament goes on, the pressure builds. You see it in your dad more than anyone—the way he carries it without letting it show, the way everything about him sharpens. It reminds you why this has always come first.
Before the final, you find him alone for a moment.
He gives you a small smile. “Always.”
You nod, stepping a little closer. “You’ve got this.”
He rests a hand on your shoulder for a second, steady and familiar. “So do you.”
You don’t question what he means by that.
The final is everything it’s supposed to be—loud, intense, overwhelming. You’re on your feet half the time, heart in your throat, eyes locked on the ice.
When it’s over, the result doesn’t land the way anyone wanted. Close—but not enough. Silver.
It’s quiet in a way that feels louder than the game.
You wait, like you always do.
It takes longer this time, but eventually, your dad finds you. There’s no big speech. No need for one.
He pulls you into a quick hug, holding on for just a second longer than usual before stepping back. “Proud of you,” he says, like he always has.
He gives a small nod, then he’s gone again, pulled back into everything else.
And then, a few minutes later—
He walks right up to you, stopping close enough that there’s no pretending this is just another passing moment.
“That was…” he starts, then exhales. “Yeah.”
“Yeah,” you agree softly.
A small silence settles, heavier than before, like everything that’s been building finally has space to exist.
For a second, you think about all of it—training camp, the quiet conversations, the way this has stayed just under the surface of everything else.
And how it never took away from why you were here.
It just… became part of it.
He looks at you, more certain now than he’s been this whole time.
“So what happens now?” he asks.
You glance back toward the rink for a second, where everything is still unfolding, where your dad still is, where you know you’ll always go first.
Then you look back at him.
You exhale softly, shifting your weight slightly. “I don’t know,” you admit. “Everything kind of just… ends, I guess.”
He nods a little, like he’s already thought about that. “Yeah.”
“Does it?” he asks after a second.
You tilt your head slightly. “What?”
“End,” he says. “All of this.”
You don’t answer right away.
Because you know what he means. He’s not talking about the Olympics. Not really.
He’s talking about this—whatever this has been, built in small moments and quiet conversations, never fully said out loud but never nothing either.
“It doesn’t have to,” you say finally, quieter now.
Something shifts in his expression at that.
“Okay,” he says, like that was all he needed.
The next few days feel different.
Everything is wrapping up—players leaving at different times, staff packing things away, the constant movement of people coming and going. It’s the kind of ending you’re used to. Temporary spaces disappearing as quickly as they formed.
You spend most of it with your dad.
That part doesn’t change.
You sit with him when you can, walk with him between things, fall back into that rhythm that’s always been yours. Conversations are easy, familiar—nothing about this week changes that. If anything, it makes you appreciate it more.
“Had a good time?” he asks you once, casual but genuine.
“Yeah,” you say. “I always do.”
He nods, satisfied with that answer, and that’s enough.
But in between those moments—
Not constantly. Not in a way that pulls you away from anything else.
A walk outside the hotel one night when everything’s finally quiet. Sitting in the stands again, even though there’s nothing happening on the ice anymore. Conversations that don’t feel rushed now, like there’s finally time to actually have them.
“You always come to stuff like this?” he asks one evening.
“Yeah,” you say. “Since I was little.”
He nods, glancing out at the empty rink. “Kinda crazy.”
He looks at you then. “I think that’s what’s crazy.”
You smile slightly, but don’t argue.
The night before everyone leaves, you find yourselves in the same place you always seem to end up—the stands, quiet, empty, just the two of you.
He’s sitting a little closer than before, elbows resting on his knees, staring out at the ice like he’s trying to hold onto something.
“You going home right away?” he asks.
“You gonna forget about all this?” he asks, not looking at you.
You glance over at him, caught off guard by how direct it is.
“No,” you say honestly. “Are you?”
He shakes his head slightly. “No.”
Another pause settles, heavier this time.
Because now it’s not about what was.
It’s about what comes next.
“I don’t want this to just be like… something that only existed here,” he says finally.
Your chest tightens slightly.
He lets out a breath, like he didn’t realize he was holding it.
“Okay,” he says again, softer this time.
You both know it won’t be simple.
Different cities. Different schedules. Different lives outside of this bubble that made everything feel easier.
But it also doesn’t feel impossible.
The next morning is all movement.
People leaving, bags packed, quick goodbyes that don’t leave much room for anything else. You stick close to your dad, helping where you can, falling into that familiar rhythm again.
The fact that this is the last time you’ll see him here.
You spot him before he sees you.
Standing a little off to the side, talking to someone, but not really focused on the conversation. Like he’s half somewhere else.
You hesitate for a second.
He looks up almost immediately when you get close, like he knew you would.
“So this is it,” you say.
Neither of you moves right away.
Because once you do, it becomes real.
“I’ll see you,” he says after a second, like he’s choosing to believe it.
You nod. “Yeah. You will.”
Then he steps a little closer.
“Can I—” he starts, then stops.
You already know what he’s asking.
And this time, when the space between you disappears—
it doesn’t feel uncertain anymore.
When he pulls back, there’s something different in his expression now. Something steadier.
“I’ll text you,” he says.
Back into everything else.
Later, you’re sitting next to your dad on the plane, the noise of everything finally gone, replaced by something quieter.
You stare out the window for a while before your phone lights up in your hand.
You smile slightly, your thumb hovering over the screen for a second before you type back—
