#nhl fluff

[pucksandpower]

Home Ice

Sidney Crosby x MILF!Reader

Summary: you’re at your son’s draft day when the internet decides you’re a “rocket.” Your eighteen-year-old becomes an NHL player overnight. His captain calls to congratulate him. And somehow, between protecting your kid’s dream and learning to have one of your own, you end up in Nova Scotia with calloused hands holding yours and a Hall of Famer asking if you’d like to stay. (The part where your son threatens Sidney Crosby’s career over gnocchi is just a bonus)

The air in the Sphere is thick with a manufactured chill, a feeble attempt to mimic the ice that is the entire reason for this spectacle. It smells like stale popcorn, expensive cologne, and the electric tang of a thousand frayed nerves. Your own are chief among them.

Your son, Colton, sits beside you, a mountain of quiet tension in a suit that cost more than your first car. His leg bounces, a frantic, silent drumbeat against the plush carpet of the riser. He stops only when your hand finds his knee, a gentle, anchoring pressure.

“My entire circulatory system has relocated to my kneecap,” he mutters, his voice a low rumble that still sounds, to your ears, like the one that used to ask for another bedtime story.

You smooth a nonexistent wrinkle on his lapel. “It’s attached. I checked this morning when I straightened your tie.”

“You tied my tie.”

“Details.” You offer a smile you hope looks more confident than you feel. At thirty-six, you’ve mastered the art of projecting calm in the face of absolute chaos. It’s a survival skill honed over eighteen years of single motherhood.

Colton Y/L/N. The analysts have been saying his name for months. “A generational playmaker.” “The most NHL-ready defenseman in the draft.” “A leader on and off the ice.” To you, he’s just Colton. The boy who scraped his knees on the driveway asphalt, who ate cereal for dinner more times than you’d like to admit, who held your hand in the emergency room when you broke your wrist slipping on a patch of black ice after one of his 5 a.m. practices.

On the massive, wrap-around screen, the commissioner is at the podium. “With the tenth pick in the 2025 NHL Entry Draft, the Utah Mammoth are proud to select …”

Colton sucks in a sharp breath. His hand, the one not currently being held captive by your own, clenches into a fist on his thigh. He was projected to go anywhere from eight to twelve. This is the zone. The air crackles.

You lean in, your voice a whisper meant only for him. “Breathe, honey. Just breathe. Whatever happens, happens. You got here. That was the mountain. This is just the view from the top.”

He turns to you, his eyes — your eyes — wide with a swirling storm of hope and fear. “What if they don’t … what if I just sit here?”

“Then you sit here,” you say, your voice firm, unwavering. “You sit here with your head held high, next to your mother who is so ridiculously proud of you it feels like my heart is going to hammer its way out of my chest. And then tomorrow, you go to whatever development camp you’re invited to and you skate circles around the guys they picked instead. But that’s not going to happen.”

The kid from Utah walks across the stage, a blinding smile on his face as he pulls on a jersey in a color combination that seems scientifically engineered to be unappealing. The camera pans across the remaining prospects. It lingers on Colton for a moment. He looks impossibly young, impossibly handsome, a man-child on the precipice of his entire life.

“And now,” the commissioner’s voice booms again, “we go to the Pittsburgh Penguins, drafting from their locker room at PPG Paints Arena.”

The screen splits. On one side is the stage. On the other is a live feed of Kyle Dubas, surrounded by his staff, looking intense under the fluorescent lights of the Penguins’ inner sanctum. A hush falls over your section of the arena. This is it.

Your grip on Colton’s knee tightens. He’s stopped breathing entirely.

Dubas leans into the microphone. There’s no dramatic pause. He’s all business. “With the eleventh overall selection, the Pittsburgh Penguins are proud to select, from the London Knights … defenseman, Colton Y/L/N.”

The world explodes.

Or maybe it just shrinks, collapsing into a single point of brilliant, blinding light. The sound rushes in — a roar from the crowd, a shriek from Colton’s agent, Jon, on his other side, and a choked sob that you realize, with some distant part of your brain, is coming from you.

Colton jolts as if struck by lightning. He turns to you, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated shock. “Mom?”

He says it like he’s five years old again, asking if Santa Claus is real.

You launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck as he stands. He’s six-foot-three now, a solid wall of muscle, but in your arms, he is still the fifty-three pounds of boy you used to carry to bed. He lifts you off the ground in a hug that smells of nervous sweat and expensive fabric, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“You did it,” you whisper, tears streaming freely down your face now, messing up the makeup you so carefully applied. “Oh, my baby, you did it.”

“We did it,” he corrects, his voice thick with emotion. He sets you down, his hands framing your face. He looks at you, really looks at you, and the gratitude in his eyes is a physical force. “We did it.”

Jon is clapping him on the back, pulling him towards the stairs. “Let’s go, kid! Your future is waiting!”

The walk is a blur. Flashing lights from a hundred cameras create a strobing, disorienting effect. The roar of the crowd is a physical pressure against your skin. You watch him descend the stairs, shake the commissioner’s hand, and take the offered jersey.

The iconic skating penguin logo is stretched across his broad back. Y/L/N and the number 25 are printed beneath it. He pulls it on over his dress shirt and tie, and the fit is perfect. It looks like it has always belonged to him. He puts on the hat, turns to the sea of faces, and smiles.

It’s the same smile that once flashed a missing front tooth. The same smile that beamed up at you from the ice after his first goal in peewee hockey.

You stand at the bottom of the stairs, a fixed point in his swirling new universe, and you just watch. You watch him become someone else. Not just your son anymore. He’s the first-round pick of the Pittsburgh Penguins. He belongs to them now, in a way. To the city. To the fans.

The next hour is a whirlwind. He’s pulled from one media station to another. Print journalists, television crews, podcasters. You trail behind, a silent shadow, letting Jon run interference. You answer a few questions yourself when a reporter corners you.

“How does it feel, as a single mom, to see him achieve this dream?”

“It feels,” you say, your voice steadier than you expect, “like watching every single sacrifice pay off in one perfect moment.”

Eventually, the initial frenzy subsides. A team representative, a kind-faced woman named Peggy, leads you and Colton towards a quieter backstage area. “We just need to get some content for socials, and then we have a car waiting to take you to the team dinner,” she explains.

Colton nods, still dazed. He hasn’t let go of the jersey. He clutches it in his hand like a holy relic.

They lead you into a small, curtained-off room. It’s blessedly quiet. For the first time since his name was called, it’s just you, Colton, and Jon.

“Okay,” Jon says, his phone already pressed to his ear. “I’m getting the contract details ironed out. Colton, your phone is going to melt. Don’t even look at it for the next hour.”

Colton just nods, sinking onto a small sofa. He looks at you, a dazed, happy smile playing on his lips. “Penguins, Mom. Pittsburgh.”

“I know, honey. It’s incredible.”

“It’s …” He shakes his head, at a loss for words. “It’s Sid’s team.”

As if on cue, Jon’s eyes go wide. He lowers his phone slightly. “Holy … Colton. You need to take this.”

He hands the phone to Colton, who looks at it, confused. The screen is blank, a private number. “Who is it?”

“Just answer it,” Jon says, his voice uncharacteristically shaky.

Colton swipes to answer, putting it on speaker without thinking. “Hello?”

A voice comes through the speaker. It’s calm, familiar, and carries the unmistakable cadence of a Cole Harbour, Nova Scotia native.

“Hey Colton, Sid Crosby here.”

The air leaves the room.

Colton freezes. His eyes, wide as dinner plates, lock with yours. You feel your own heart skip a beat. Sidney Crosby. The Sidney Crosby is on the phone. Your son’s childhood hero. The reason he wore number 87 through his entire minor hockey career.

Colton swallows hard, his voice coming out as a squeak. “Uh. Hi.”

You want to laugh, you want to cry, you want to tell him to say something, anything, more articulate than ‘hi’.

Sid’s voice is warm, a low chuckle on the other end. “Just wanted to be one of the first to say welcome to Pittsburgh. We’re all really excited to have ya.”

“Th-thank you,” Colton stammers, finally finding a few more words. “Thank you, Mr. Crosby. It’s … wow. It’s an honor.”

“Please, call me Sid,” he says, and the easy-going kindness in his tone is disarming. “Listen, I know your head’s probably spinning right now. Just wanted to say congratulations. You earned it. Watched some of your shifts from the OHL playoffs. You’ve got a hell of a game.”

You watch as a slow blush creeps up Colton’s neck. Praise from the captain. From a living legend. “Thank you, Sid. That … that means a lot, coming from you.”

“Enjoy the night with your family,” Sid continues. “It’s a big moment. Soak it all in. But be ready to get to work when you get to town. We’ve got a lot to do.”

“Yes, sir. I will be. I’m ready.”

“Good to hear. Alright, I’ll let you go. See ya at camp, kid.”

“See you at camp. Thank you.”

The line clicks dead.

Silence.

Colton stares at his phone as if it might spontaneously combust. He slowly lowers it, his hand trembling slightly. He looks up, first at Jon, then at you. His expression is one of pure awe.

“Sidney Crosby,” he whispers, the name a prayer. “He called me ‘kid’.”

Jon is beaming. “That’s your captain, Colton. Welcome to the show.” He claps him on the shoulder again. “I have to go take five more calls. I’ll meet you by the car in ten. Don’t go anywhere.” He strides out of the room, already barking into his phone.

The silence that descends is different this time. It’s heavy with the weight of the moment. The adrenaline is beginning to fade, replaced by a bone-deep sense of accomplishment.

Colton turns to you, the dazed look in his eyes slowly clearing, replaced by an intensity that takes your breath away. He closes the distance between you in two long strides, his brand-new Penguins hat askew on his head.

“Mom.”

His voice is thick again. The phone call, the jersey, the reality of it all, it seems to have finally broken through the wall of shock.

“I’m here, baby.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He just looks at you, his gaze tracing the lines of your face. It feels like he’s seeing all eighteen years at once. The late nights helping with homework after you got home from your waitressing shift. The beat-up station wagon you drove for a decade, the one that always smelled faintly of hockey gear and gasoline. The Christmases where his one big gift was a new pair of skates, and yours was watching him open them. The parent-teacher conferences you attended alone. The tuition for hockey camps you paid for by taking on extra shifts, your feet aching so bad you’d have to soak them in Epsom salts for an hour every night.

He sees it all. You know he does.

“Do you remember,” he starts, his voice cracking, “that tournament in Sault Ste. Marie? When I was twelve?”

You nod, a lump forming in your throat. You remember it perfectly. “The alternator on the car died in the middle of a blizzard, halfway there.”

“Yeah,” he says, a wet sheen in his eyes. “And we were stranded for six hours. And you used all the cash you had for the hotel room to pay the tow truck driver. And we slept in the car, in the freezing cold, so I wouldn’t miss the first game.”

“You had two goals and an assist,” you say softly. “It was worth it.”

“I sat there tonight,” he continues, his voice dropping to a raw whisper, “and all I could think about was that. And the hundred other things like that. You, working two jobs so I could play Triple-A. You, driving me to the rink when you were so tired you were falling asleep at red lights. You, telling me I could do this, even when I didn't believe it myself.”

He reaches out, his large, calloused hands — a hockey player’s hands — gently taking yours.

“I get to play hockey for a living. I get to play for the Pittsburgh Penguins. Sidney Crosby just called my phone,” he says, his voice breaking on the last part. “And none of it, not a single second of it, happens without you.”

The tears are back, hot and fast. You try to blink them away, but it’s a losing battle.

“You’re the one who put in the work, Colton. You skated until your feet bled. You studied, you trained, you did everything right.”

“Because you showed me how,” he insists, squeezing your hands. “You never quit. On anything. On us. So I knew I couldn’t either. Everything I am is because of you. We did this. Don't you ever think it was just me.”

He pulls you into another hug, and this one is different. It’s not the explosive, adrenaline-fueled hug from the stands. This one is quiet, reverent. It’s the hug of a young man who has just realized the full scope of his mother’s love and sacrifice, and the weight of that understanding is both beautiful and crushing.

You hold onto him, burying your face in his chest, inhaling the clean scent of his dress shirt and the faint, lingering smell of the arena. You hold onto your son, the boy you raised against all odds, the man who is about to step into a life that is bigger and brighter than anything you could have ever dreamed for him.

“I’m so proud of you, Colton,” you manage to say, your voice muffled by his suit jacket.

He kisses the top of your head. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you more.”

Peggy peeks her head through the curtain, her smile apologetic. “Sorry to interrupt. The car is ready when you are.”

Colton pulls back, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, a gesture so boyish it makes your heart ache. He gives you a watery smile, straightens his shoulders, and suddenly, he’s not just your son anymore. He’s Colton Y/L/N, property of the Pittsburgh Penguins.

He holds out his arm for you. “Ready to go to dinner?”

You loop your arm through his, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Lead the way.”

As you walk through the sterile backstage corridors, your heels clicking on the polished concrete, you feel the shift. The world has tilted on its axis. The quiet, predictable life you built for the two of you, a fortress of love and routine, has just been spectacularly breached. And as you step out of the arena and into the warm night air, towards the waiting black car, you can’t shake the feeling that everything — absolutely everything — is about to change.

***

The two days following the draft are a hallucinatory blend of champagne headaches, a thousand repetitive text messages, and the surreal experience of seeing your son’s face on ESPN every time you turn on the television. You fly back home to Orlando in a daze, the quiet of your house a startling contrast to the non-stop sensory assault of Las Vegas. The silence is cavernous. It’s the first time in eighteen years you’ve come home to an empty house that is going to stay empty.

Colton is in Pittsburgh for a whirlwind three-day development camp. A meet-and-greet, a tour of the facilities, a light skate. It’s a preview of the life that awaits him, and a preview of the life that awaits you.

You’re unpacking your suitcase when your phone buzzes with a text from your best friend, Brandi.

Brandi: Have you been on Twitter?

You text back, a sense of dread pooling in your stomach. The internet is a place you generally try to avoid.

You: No. Why? Did someone say Colton looks bad in a Penguins hat? Because I will fight them.

A new message from Brandi pops up immediately. It’s not text. It’s a link to a tweet from an account called “Bardown Beauties.” The tweet contains a screenshot from the draft broadcast. It’s a candid shot of you, caught mid-laugh as Colton tells you a joke just before his name is called. Your head is tilted back, your eyes are crinkling at the corners, and the ridiculously expensive dress Brandi forced you to buy looks, you have to admit, pretty good under the arena lights.

The caption above the photo reads: Forget the prospects, the real first-round pick at the 2025 Draft is Colton Y/L/N’s mom. Absolute rocket. #NHLDraft #MILF

You stare at the screen. You read the word. M-I-L-F. You know what it means. You are not, despite Colton’s frequent jokes, a thousand years old. Below the tweet are thousands of likes and a cascade of replies.

She’s only 36! That’s insane.

Smokeshow. Colton got the good genes.

Suddenly I’m a huge Penguins fan.

Your face flushes with a heat that has nothing to do with the Florida humidity. It’s a bizarre cocktail of emotions. There’s a sliver of flattery — it’s certainly nicer than being called old and haggard — but it’s buried under an avalanche of indignation and a profound sense of … violation. This was your moment with your son. A moment of pure, unadulterated pride and love. And these strangers, these anonymous faces on the internet, have twisted it into something cheap. Something about you, and not him.

Your phone rings. It’s Colton. You force a lightness into your voice that you do not feel.

“Hey, superstar! How’s Pittsburgh?”

“It’s awesome, Mom. The rink is … wow. But that’s not why I’m calling.” His voice is tight, clipped. He sounds angry. “You saw it, didn’t you?”

You sink onto the edge of your bed. “Saw what, honey?” You lie, poorly.

“The tweet. The pictures. All of it,” he says, his voice laced with a protective fury that is so profound it makes your heart ache. “Jon sent it to me. I’m so sorry, Mom. It’s disgusting. They’re being so disrespectful. I’m going to tell the team’s PR guy to get them to take it down.”

“Colton, no,” you say, your voice firm. “Don’t do that. You’ll just make it a bigger deal. It’s the internet. It’s stupid and silly and it will be gone by tomorrow when they find something else to obsess over.”

“But they’re talking about my mom,” he says, the emphasis on the word making him sound about twelve years old. “It’s not right.”

“I know, sweetie. And I love you for being angry for me,” you say, your voice softening. “But honestly? I’m a 36-year-old woman. I’ve been called a lot worse than ‘smokeshow’ by men who were actually standing in front of me. I can handle a few anonymous trolls on the internet. This is your time. Don’t let this silliness taint it. Okay?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. You can hear the gears turning in his head, his anger warring with his instinct to listen to you.

“Okay,” he finally sighs, defeated. “But if anyone says anything at camp, I swear …”

“You will be a professional,” you interrupt gently. “You will be the bigger man, the one who doesn’t get rattled by nonsense. You are a Pittsburgh Penguin now. You hold your head high and you ignore it. Promise me.”

“… I promise,” he grumbles.

“Good. Now tell me everything. Does the locker room smell as bad as your old hockey bag?”

He laughs, the tension finally breaking. The conversation shifts to safer territory — to the intimidating size of the veteran players, the crisp, clean feel of the ice, the thrill of seeing the Stanley Cup banners hanging from the rafters. You talk for an hour, and by the time you hang up, the ugly incident has been pushed to the back of your mind.

It’s just the internet, you tell yourself. It will go away.

***

The summer passes in a blur of empty-nester prep. You help Colton pack. You make lists of things he’ll need for his apartment, should he make the team and get to move out of the team hotel. You have a “last supper” at his favorite hometown restaurant. You try, and fail, not to cry when you hug him goodbye as he gets into the car service that will take him to the airport, and to his new life.

“Call me every day,” you say, clutching the front of his shirt.

“Twice a day,” he promises, his own eyes suspiciously bright. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you more.”

And then he’s gone. The house is silent again, but this time, it’s a permanent kind of quiet.

The daily calls become a lifeline. He tells you about the grueling two-a-day practices, the punishing off-ice workouts, the sheer, breathtaking speed of the game at the NHL level. He’s exhausted, sore, and homesick, but beneath it all is a thrum of pure joy. He is living his dream.

You, meanwhile, are living a life you don’t quite recognize. You go to work — your sensible job as an office manager for a dental supply company — and you come home. You cook dinner for one. You watch whatever you want on television without having to fight for the remote. You have friends, you have hobbies, but the central organizing principle of your life for the past eighteen years is now a thousand miles away. You are unmoored.

It’s the third week of September. Main training camp is in full swing. Colton has survived the first round of cuts, the one that sends the junior-eligible kids and long-shot prospects home. He’s now skating with the big club, a minnow in a sea of sharks.

“I shared a line with Sid in a drill today,” he tells you during your nightly FaceTime call. He’s sitting on the edge of his perfectly made hotel bed, a towel slung around his neck, his hair still damp from the shower.

“Really?” You ask, propping your phone up against a pillow on your own bed. “How was that?”

“Terrifying,” he says without hesitation. “He passed me the puck and my hands turned into bricks. I completely fumbled it. It was so embarrassing.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing,” Colton says, shaking his head in disbelief. “He just circled back, picked up the puck, passed it right back to me and said, ‘Let’s try that again.’ Like it was no big deal.”

“He sounds like a good captain.”

“He’s … different,” Colton says, searching for the right word. “He doesn’t talk a lot. But when he does, everyone shuts up and listens. Even Geno. And he sees everything. It’s like he has eyes in the back of his head.”

You smile. “Well, you just keep your head down, work hard, and try not to fumble his passes.”

“That’s the plan,” he laughs. “Gotta go, Mom. Team meeting. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Love you.”

“Love you more.”

He hangs up, and you’re left staring at your own reflection on the dark screen. You feel a pang of loneliness so sharp it takes your breath away. You are proud of him, so proud it hurts. But you miss your boy.

***

The next afternoon, in the sprawling, state-of-the-art locker room at the UPMC Lemieux Sports Complex, the air is thick with the smell of sweat and liniment. Practice was a brutal, up-tempo bag skate, designed to separate the men from the boys. The veterans unwind with the practiced ease of men who have done this a thousand times. The rookies move with a quiet, nervous energy, trying to stay out of the way.

Colton is one of the last ones off the ice, getting in extra work with one of the assistant coaches.

Sidney sits on the stool in front of his stall, methodically untaping his skates. His movements are economical, precise. He’s thirty-eight now, his hair flecked with gray at the temples, but his focus is as sharp as it was when he was a rookie. He listens to the rhythm of the room — the snap of towels, the murmur of conversations, the clatter of sticks being put away. It’s the soundtrack of his life.

A few stalls down, two of the newer prospects are talking. They’re both first-year pros, up from the AHL, cocky in the way that only twenty-year-olds who haven’t been humbled yet can be. Their names are Poulter and Davies.

“Did you see Y/L/N out there today?” Poulter says, peeling off his sweat-soaked shoulder pads. “Kid can actually skate.”

“Yeah, he’s not bad,” Davies agrees. “Hey, random, but my buddy sent me this thing from the draft. A picture of his mom. Dude …”

Sid’s hands pause in their work. His focus doesn’t shift, his eyes remain on his skate laces, but his ears are open. He’s the captain. It’s his job to know the temperature of the room.

Poulter lets out a low whistle. “Oh, I know what you’re talking about. The one that was all over Twitter? She’s a total smokeshow. Unbelievable.”

“Right?” Davies says, his voice a little too loud in the cavernous room. “I saw the broadcast clip. My jaw hit the floor. Can’t believe she’s old enough to have a kid Colton’s age. She looks like she’s thirty, tops.”

“Total rocket,” Poulter confirms with a smug nod. “Y/L/N is one lucky kid. Hope she comes to the family Christmas party.”

A skate drops to the floor.

The sound is not loud, but it’s sharp, and it cuts through the chatter.

Sidney stands up. He doesn’t look angry. He looks worse. He looks disappointed. He turns his head slowly, and his gaze lands on the two young players. The room, which had been humming with low conversation, falls silent. Everyone can feel the shift in pressure.

“What was that?” Sid asks. His voice is quiet. It’s not a yell. It’s a low, cold query that carries more weight than any shout ever could.

Poulter and Davies freeze, their eyes wide. They look like two kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

“Uh, nothing, Sid,” Poulter stammers. “Just … talking.”

Sid takes a slow step towards them. He’s not physically intimidating in the way that some of the bigger players are, but his presence, his aura, fills the space. “No, I heard you. You were talking about Y/L/N’s mother.”

Davies swallows hard. “We were just saying …”

“I know what you were saying,” Sid cuts him off, his voice still level, but with an edge of steel. “That’s his mother you’re talking about. His family. She’s not here to be a topic of conversation for you. She’s not here for you to rank or comment on. She’s not your entertainment.”

The two prospects shrink under his gaze, their faces burning with shame. The silence in the room is absolute. The other veterans are watching, letting the captain handle his business.

“This is a place of work,” Sid continues, his voice unwavering. “And that kid in here,” he gestures vaguely towards the showers, “is trying to earn a spot. The last thing he needs is to hear guys in his own room talking about his mom like she’s some piece of meat.”

He looks from one to the other, letting his words sink in. “Show some respect. For him. For her. For this room. Understand?”

“Yes, Sid,” they both mutter, their eyes glued to the floor. “Sorry, Sid.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” he says, his voice softening just a fraction, the lesson now delivered. He turns and walks back to his stall. The moment has passed. The tension begins to dissipate.

Just then, Evgeni Malkin, who had been silently stretching his giant frame on the floor nearby, gets to his feet. He saunters past Sid’s stall, a towel around his neck and a wide, mischievous grin on his face. He claps a hand on Sid’s shoulder.

“Is captain talk,” Geno says, his Russian accent as thick as ever. “Very serious. Good captain.”

Sid just shakes his head, a small, weary smile touching his lips. “Geno …”

Geno leans in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial rumble that is still audible to half the room. He looks at Sid, then glances over at the thoroughly chastened rookies, and then back to Sid. The grin widens, revealing a missing tooth.

“But …” Geno says, pausing for dramatic effect, “they are not wrong.”

He lets out a booming laugh, a genuine, infectious sound that finally shatters the remaining tension. He gives Sid’s shoulder another hearty slap and continues on his way to the showers, still chuckling to himself.

Sidney watches him go, the weary smile turning into a genuine one. He shakes his head again, a silent acknowledgment of his friend’s incorrigible nature. For over twenty years, Geno has been the one person who could always break through his captain’s intensity with a perfectly timed piece of absurdity.

He sits back down and picks up his other skate. The room slowly returns to its normal rhythm. But something has shifted for Sid. He thinks of the new kid, Y/L/N. A good kid. Works hard, keeps his mouth shut. He’d seen the photo from the draft, of course. It was hard to miss. A quick glance, an acknowledgment that, yes, she was a beautiful woman, and then he’d moved on. He hadn’t given it a second thought.

But now, he sees it differently. He sees the kid, trying to navigate the immense pressure of his first NHL camp. And he thinks of the mother, the one who was now the subject of locker room chatter, the one whose private moment of joy had been turned into public fodder. The one who had, by all accounts, raised this promising young man all on her own.

He makes a mental note. Look out for the kid. It’s his job as captain, but suddenly, it feels a little more personal. It’s about respect. It's about protecting the room, and that includes the families that support it.

Later that evening, you get your call from Colton. He sounds lighter, happier than he has in days.

“You’ll never guess what happened at practice,” he says, his voice buzzing with excitement.

“What?”

“We were doing this breakout drill, and I kept chipping the puck off the glass. It’s faster here, you know? The timing is different. And I was getting so frustrated. And then Sid skated by.”

“Oh?” You say, a smile in your voice. “Did he tell you to try again?”

“Better,” Colton says, practically bouncing. “He pulled me aside after the drill. He actually took five minutes and walked me through it. Showed me how to use my body to shield the puck, to get my head up a fraction of a second sooner. He said … he said I had good instincts and just needed to trust them.”

A warmth spreads through your chest. It’s one thing to be his teammate. It’s another to be his mentor.

“Wow, honey. That’s amazing.”

“I know! It was the coolest thing. He didn’t have to do that, Mom. Especially after I fumbled his pass the other day. I feel like … I don’t know. Like maybe I actually have a shot.”

“You do have a shot,” you say, your voice full of a conviction you feel deep in your bones. “You just keep listening to your captain. He sounds like a good man.”

“He is,” Colton says, his voice full of hero worship. “He really is.”

You hang up the phone that night feeling a sense of peace you haven’t felt since he left. Your son is in good hands. He’s being challenged, he’s being pushed, but he’s also being looked after.

You have no idea, of course, of the conversation that took place in the locker room. You have no idea that Sidney Crosby’s simple act of kindness was born from a moment of quiet, firm defense. A defense of a young player’s dignity, and by extension, a defense of yours. You just know your son sounds happy, and for now, that’s all that matters. You are a thousand miles away, but in a strange way, the orbit of your quiet life in Florida has just edged a little closer to the gravitational pull of a man in Pittsburgh you have never even met.

***

The call comes on a Tuesday afternoon, the kind of sleepy, sun-drenched day in central Florida where the biggest event is the mailman arriving. You’re in your kitchen, humming along to a playlist of 90s rock, chopping vegetables for a salad you will eat alone. When your phone rings, displaying Colton’s name, your heart does its customary little flip.

“Hey, honey,” you answer, wedging the phone between your ear and shoulder as you scrape diced cucumbers into a bowl. “Don’t you have practice?”

“Finished an hour ago,” he says. His voice is flat. Devoid of its usual energy. A cold dread, sharp and immediate, courses through you. You put the knife down on the counter.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, your own voice quiet. “Colton, what happened?”

This is it. The call you’ve been fearing for six weeks. The one where he tells you he’s been cut, that he’s being sent to the AHL affiliate in Wilkes-Barre, or worse, back to his junior team in London.

“I’m not coming home, Mom,” he says, and the words are a punch to the gut. You close your eyes, gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles turn white. You were prepared for this. You told yourself you were. You were lying.

“Oh, baby,” you start, the sympathy thick in your throat. “It’s okay. It’s just one step back. You’ll work hard and …”

“No,” he interrupts, and for the first time, you hear a tremor in his voice. Not sadness. Something else. Something that sounds suspiciously like suppressed joy. “You don’t understand. I’m not coming home because Coach Muse just called me into his office.”

You wait, holding your breath.

“He told me to stop living out of a suitcase,” Colton says, his voice finally cracking, the emotion breaking through like a dam. “He told me to go find an apartment.”

The world stops. The hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of a lawnmower, your own heartbeat — it all fades into a dull roar in your ears. You slide down the kitchen cabinets until you’re sitting on the cool tile of the floor.

“Colton,” you whisper, the name a fragile thing.

“I made the team, Mom,” he sobs, and now he’s not holding back at all. It’s a raw, ragged sound of pure, unadulterated relief. “I actually made it. I’m in the NHL.”

The tears come then, hot and silent. You cry for the exhausted eighteen-year-old on the other end of the phone, and you cry for the determined six-year-old who first stepped onto the ice, his ankles wobbling. You cry for every dollar you saved, every mile you drove, every doubt you pushed aside.

“You did it,” you say, your voice thick with tears. “Oh, my sweet boy. You really, really did it.”

“Get on a plane,” he says, his voice still shaky but now underpinned with a frantic excitement. “The season opener is Tuesday. Against the Rangers. At home. You have to be there.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you promise. “Just tell me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Are you wearing a tie right now?”

He laughs, a wet, hiccupping sound. “No, Mom.”

“Good,” you say, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “Because I’m not there to fix it.”

***

Forty-eight hours later, you are stepping out of a cab into the crisp, alien air of a Pittsburgh autumn. The sky is a brilliant, cloudless blue, and the leaves on the trees are a riot of gold and crimson. You check into a hotel downtown, the city’s iconic black and gold color scheme seemingly imprinted on every street corner.

In your room, you lay the jersey out on the bed. It’s a real one, not a knock-off. Colton had it custom-made and overnighted to you. The iconic penguin crest on the front, and on the back, in bold, white letters: Y/L/N, and beneath it, the number 42. You trace the stitching with your finger. It feels sacred.

Colton meets you in the hotel lobby before he has to head to the rink. He looks exhausted and wired all at once, a human bundle of nervous energy. He hugs you so tightly you can barely breathe.

“I’m going to throw up,” he says into your hair.

“No, you’re not,” you say, pulling back to look at him. “You’re going to go out there and play your game. The same game you’ve been playing your whole life. The ice is the same size. The puck is the same size.”

“Sidney Crosby is not the same size,” he mutters, running a hand through his already messy hair.

You laugh, smoothing down his collar. “Just try not to hit him with a pass in the skates. Here.” You hand him a small, worn photograph from your wallet. It’s a picture of him at age seven, wearing a comically oversized jersey, a gap-toothed grin on his face as he holds up his first-ever trophy. “Put this in your stall. For good luck.”

He takes it, his expression softening. “Thanks, Mom.” He pulls an envelope from his pocket. “Your ticket. Section 104, row F. It’s a good one. You’ll be right by the glass for warmups.”

“I’ll be the one screaming the loudest,” you promise.

He gives you one last, quick hug. “Gotta go. I’ll see you after.”

And then he’s gone, swallowed by the revolving door, leaving you standing in the polished lobby, your heart beating a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

***

The energy inside PPG Paints Arena is a living thing. It thrums through the soles of your shoes, a current of anticipation and civic pride. You find your seat, the jersey feeling both like a costume and a second skin. The sheer number of people, the noise, the dazzling lights — it’s a world away from the cold, quiet rinks of his youth.

The lights go down. A hype video plays on the massive scoreboard. The music thunders. And then, the team emerges from the tunnel, a stream of black and gold skating onto the pristine white ice. You’re on your feet with everyone else, craning your neck, searching.

And then you see him. Number 42.

The team makes their way down the tunnel, and then, as if by some unspoken signal, they all stop, leaving the entire sheet of ice open. All except for Colton. A few players tap his shin pads with their sticks as they pause. He looks up, confused for a second, before the realization dawns on him.

It’s the rookie lap. The tradition. His solo moment in the spotlight.

A roar goes up from the crowd as they recognize the ritual. Colton hesitates for a moment, then a shy smile breaks across his face. He takes off, his skates carving clean, powerful arcs into the fresh ice. For one solitary lap, he is the only one out there, the center of this universe, skating under the bright lights with twenty thousand people cheering for him. For your son.

The tears you’ve been holding back all day finally spill over, hot and fast. You don’t bother to wipe them away. This moment is too beautiful to be blurred.

The game itself is a 60-minute anxiety attack. It’s faster in person, more violent. The sound of a body hitting the boards in front of you is a sickening thud that makes you flinch every time. You watch Colton’s every shift, your muscles tensing whenever he goes into a corner, your breath catching whenever he rushes the puck.

Late in the first period, it happens. Colton corrals a loose puck at his own blue line and makes a smart, simple pass up to his defensive partner, who then threads a long pass to a streaking Bryan Rust. Rust fires a wrist shot that beats the Rangers’ goalie clean. The horn blares, the red light flashes, and the arena explodes.

You’re screaming, hugging the strangers next to you. A minute later, the goal is announced: “PENGUINS GOAL! Scored by #17, Bryan Rust! Assists from #58, Kris Letang, and … #42, Colton Y/L/N!”

His first NHL point.

As the celebration on the ice dies down, you see Rust skate to the net, retrieve the puck, and toss it to the bench, where a trainer catches it. You know, with a certainty that makes your heart swell, that the puck is for Colton.

The game is a back-and-forth affair. It’s tied 2-2 late in the third period. The tension is unbearable. The Penguins are pressing. Colton, seeing an opening, jumps into the play, taking a pass at the top of the faceoff circle. It’s a defenseman taking a chance, a risky move for a rookie.

He doesn’t hesitate. He winds up and fires a slapshot.

Time seems to slow down. You watch the puck leave his stick, a black blur against the white ice. It rises, finding a hole through the tangle of bodies in front of the net. The goalie, screened, reacts a split second too late.

The puck hits the back of the net with a sound that is uniquely distinct. Thwack.

The eruption of noise is volcanic. It’s a physical force that pushes you back in your seat even as you leap to your feet. Colton is mobbed by his teammates, his helmet knocked askew by a joyous head rub from Evgeni Malkin. He’s laughing, screaming, pointing to the sky.

Your scream is lost in the roar of 20,000 others. You’re jumping up and down, tears and laughter mingling on your face. He did it. He scored. His first NHL goal.

As the scrum of players disperses, you watch closely. Sidney skates calmly to the net. He reaches in, picks out the puck, and gives the referee a nod. As he skates back to the bench, he passes Colton, gives him a firm tap on the helmet, and hands the precious souvenir to the trainer. The gesture is quiet, professional, and loaded with significance. It’s the captain, acknowledging the moment. Anointing the rookie.

The Penguins hold on to win 3-2. Colton is named the third star of the game. You watch, beaming, as he skates out one last time to acknowledge the cheering crowd.

***

After the game, you navigate the labyrinthine corridors of the arena to the designated family area, a polished hallway outside the locker room doors. It’s controlled chaos, filled with stylish wives, excited children, and proud parents. You feel a little out of place in your jersey, but you don’t care.

The door opens, and Colton emerges, his face flushed with victory, his hair still wet. He spots you and his face breaks into a grin so wide it looks like it hurts. He closes the distance in three long strides and lifts you into a bone-crushing hug.

“Did you see that?!” He shouts over the din, spinning you around. “Did you actually see it?! It went in! I scored! In the NHL!”

“I saw it!” You laugh, your feet dangling above the floor. “You were amazing! The whole arena was screaming your name!”

He sets you down, his eyes shining. “Okay, okay, check this out.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out two pucks, both encased in clear plastic and wrapped in white athletic tape. On the tape, in neat black marker, are the details.

Colton Y/L/N - First NHL Point - Assist - 10/7/25 vs. NYR

Colton Y/L/N - First NHL Goal - 10/7/25 vs. NYR

He presses them into your hands. They’re heavy. Real.

“They’re for you,” he says, his voice suddenly quiet, serious. “For the mantle. For everything.”

You hold the pucks in your hands. They’re heavy, solid. They feel like everything he’s ever worked for, everything you’ve ever sacrificed for, distilled into two dense circles of vulcanized rubber.

“Colton, they’re yours,” you whisper, your throat tightening.

“Everything I have is yours,” he says simply, and with a sincerity that makes your heart ache. “We did this, remember?”

You pull him into another hug, a tight, fierce one. “I love you more than you’ll ever know.”

“Mom,” he says, his expression shifting slightly. He looks over your shoulder. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

You turn. Walking towards you, looking impossibly larger in person even without his gear, is Sidney Crosby. He’s wearing a team sweatsuit, his hair is damp, and there are the faint, tired lines of competition etched around his eyes. He looks less like a superstar and more like a man who just finished a very hard day at the office.

“Sid, this is my mom,” Colton says, his voice full of reverence. “Mom, this is Sid.”

Sidney offers you a small, genuine smile and extends a hand. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you,” he says, his voice calm and low. “You must be incredibly proud.”

You place your hand in his. His grip is firm, warm, and calloused. You are acutely aware that this is the hand that has hoisted the Stanley Cup three times. “More than you’ll ever know,” you reply, finding your voice. “Thank you. For everything. For looking out for him.”

You gesture with the puck still in your other hand. “And thank you for this. It means the world to him. To us.”

His eyes, a deep, intelligent hazel, meet yours. He holds your gaze for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. There is no hint of the locker room talk, no trace of anything other than sincere respect. 

“He earned it,” Sid says, his gaze shifting to include Colton. “Hell of a shot. It was the first of many.” He gives Colton a nod. “Great game tonight, kid. Keep it up.”

“Thanks, Sid,” Colton breathes, looking star-struck all over again.

With another polite nod to you, Sid moves on, disappearing into the crowd of families. The interaction couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds, but it leaves an electric hum in the air.

“Come on,” Colton says, pulling you from your reverie. “I’m starving. Let’s go get that celebratory dinner.”

As you walk away, arm-in-arm with your triumphant son, you can’t shake the feeling of that handshake, of that direct, unwavering gaze.

***

Sidney stands for a moment, watching you and Colton disappear down the hall. He sees the easy affection between you, the way you laugh at something your son says. It’s a world he is familiar with — the families are the bedrock of the team — but he’s always observed it from a slight distance.

A heavy hand claps him on the shoulder, making him jolt.

“Captain is thinking hard,” Evgeni Malkin rumbles beside him, a wide, knowing grin on his face.

“Just tired, Geno,” Sid says, turning to head back toward the locker room. “Long game.”

“Tired?” Geno says, easily keeping pace. “Or you see pretty mama and now your brain is scrambled egg?”

Sid shoots him a warning look, but there’s no heat behind it. “Don’t start.”

“She is good looking,” Geno continues, ignoring him completely. “I see from bench. Very nice. Young guys are not so stupid, eh?”

Kris Letang falls into step on Sid’s other side, toweling his perfectly coiffed hair. He looks impossibly fresh for someone who just played 25 minutes of hockey.

“He’s not wrong, Sid,” Letang says, his French-Canadian accent smooth as silk. “She’s very elegant. You can see where Colton gets his good manners from.” He winks. “And he’s a good kid. You’d be doing him a favor, really. Being a positive male role model.”

Sid stops, turning to face his two oldest friends, his two longest-tenured teammates. “Are you guys serious? That’s Y/L/N’s mom. He’s my rookie. He’s eighteen. Stop it.”

Geno just laughs, a loud, booming sound. “So? You are old. You need nice woman. She is nice woman. Is simple math.”

“It’s not math, it’s … inappropriate,” Sid insists, feeling a ridiculous flush creep up his neck.

Letang smirks. “Is it? Or are you just scared, Captain?”

Sid throws his hands up in exasperation, a gesture of pure defeat that only Geno and Tanger can elicit from him. He turns and walks away, leaving them laughing in the hallway.

But as he retreats to the quiet of the empty locker room, he can’t brush it off. He thinks of the way your eyes lit up when you talked about your son. He thinks of the strength in your handshake, the genuine gratitude in your voice. He thinks of the easy, unguarded smile you gave Colton as you walked away.

Don’t be ridiculous, he tells himself, pulling off his sweatsuit. She’s Colton’s mom.

But for the first time in a very long time, the ever-sensible, always-focused voice of reason in Sidney’s head sounds a little less convincing than he’d like.

***

The six weeks since the home opener have settled into a new, strange rhythm. Your life in Florida continues its quiet, orderly pace, while Colton’s life in Pittsburgh unfolds in a series of frantic, exhilarating highlights you watch on a screen. You’ve become an expert on the NHL’s streaming package, your evenings now dictated by the Penguins’ schedule. You learn the names of the broadcasters, the tendencies of the referees, and the particular way your son looks when he’s tired versus when he’s frustrated.

It's a strange, disconnected intimacy. You talk on the phone every day, but it’s not the same. You miss the comfortable chaos of having him in the house.

So when he texts you on a Tuesday morning, it’s like a beacon of light.

Colton: Hey Mom. We play the Lightning in Tampa on Saturday night. It’s a quick trip, just in and out. You should come.

Your fingers fly across the screen.

You: I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Already looking up hotels.

Colton: No need. I got you a room at the team hotel. It’s all set. Just drive down Saturday.

The casualness of it, the ease with which he can now provide for you, sends a fresh wave of pride washing over you. For eighteen years, you handled the logistics of his entire life. Now, he’s handling yours.

***

Saturday arrives, and you make the two-hour drive from Orlando to Tampa with the windows down, the warm November air a welcome balm. You check into the gleaming waterfront hotel, your room offering a panoramic view of the bay. It’s a level of luxury you’re still not quite used to.

You meet Colton in the hotel lobby for a quick, pre-game lunch. He looks good, if a little tired. The grind of an 84-game season is starting to set in.

“Are you excited?” He asks, stealing a french fry from your plate.

“Are you kidding? I’m ecstatic,” you say. “I can’t wait to see you play in person again. It’s not the same on TV.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “It’ll be good to have you there. It feels … normal.”

The word hangs in the air between you. Nothing about this life is normal, but having you in the stands, that’s a piece of the past he can hold onto. He gives you your ticket, hugs you tight, and heads off with the team for their pre-game meetings and nap. You’re left with a few hours to kill, your own nerves starting to hum with a familiar, pre-game frequency.

***

In the visitor’s locker room at Amalie Arena, the atmosphere is loose but focused. The Penguins are on a winning streak, and the mood is light. Players are getting their sticks taped, stretching, going through their individual rituals.

Sidney is sitting in his stall, methodically lacing his skates, his mind already running through the game plan. He’s trying to focus, but his two longest-tenured teammates are making it difficult.

“So, Captain,” Geno says, plopping down on the stool next to him with a dramatic sigh. He’s already in his full gear, minus the helmet. “You see rookie’s mom tonight? You say hello? Or you hide in here like scared little boy?”

Sid doesn’t look up from his laces. “I’m focusing on the game, Geno. We’re playing a very good hockey team.”

Kris, stretching his groin against the wall nearby, laughs. “He says that every time. Sid, the universe is giving you a sign. An away game in her backyard. You just have to walk up to her in the family area after the game and say, ‘Would you like to get a drink?’”

“It’s not that simple,” Sid mutters, pulling a lace tight with a sharp tug.

“Is that simple!” Geno insists, gesturing with his massive, gloved hands. “You are Sidney Crosby. She is beautiful woman. You say, ‘You, me, drink.’ What is problem?”

“The problem is that she’s the mother of our eighteen-year-old rookie defenseman who sits three stalls down from me,” Sid says, his voice low and firm. “It’s a line you don’t cross. End of story.”

“Excuses,” Kris says, switching legs. “You’ve been weird since you met her at the home opener. Just finally work up the balls and ask her out.”

“I’m not having this conversation …” Sid starts to say, but his voice trails off.

His eyes have flickered up and landed on the doorway to the trainer’s room. Standing there, holding a freshly sharpened pair of skates, is Colton.

Colton has frozen mid-stride. His eyes are wide. It’s impossible to know how much he heard, but judging by the way the color is draining from his face, he heard enough.

The joking banter in the room dies instantly. The handful of other players who were within earshot suddenly find the tape on their sticks fascinating. The air grows thick with a horrified, awkward silence.

Geno and Kris exchange a wide-eyed, ‘oh shit’ look.

Sid’s heart plummets into his stomach. This is it. This is exactly what he was afraid of. He’s embarrassed his rookie, made him uncomfortable in his own locker room, and shattered the professional boundary he values so highly.

He stands up, his skates still untied, and takes a step towards Colton. His mind is racing. He has to fix this.

“Colton,” he says, his voice low and urgent, full of sincere regret. “Man, I am so sorry you heard that. They’re just messing around, you know how they are. I want you to know, I have the utmost respect for you, and for your mom. I would never, ever cross that line. It was just a stupid locker room joke. It won’t happen again.”

He’s rambling, he knows it, but he can’t stop. He needs to convey how deeply he means it.

Colton just stands there for a second, his expression unreadable. Then he seems to shake himself out of his stupor. He walks past Sid to his own stall, sets his skates down, and begins to untie his shoes. He doesn’t say a word.

Sid follows him, his voice dropping even lower. “Seriously, Colton. I’m mortified. It’s unprofessional and …”

“Sid.”

Colton cuts him off, his voice quiet but firm. He finally looks up from his shoes, and his eyes meet Sid’s. There’s no anger in them. There’s something else. Something thoughtful.

“It’s okay,” Colton says.

Sid blinks, completely thrown. “No, it’s not okay. I put you in a terrible position.”

“No,” Colton says, shaking his head as he pulls off a running shoe. “Just … listen.” He takes a deep breath, and it feels like every other person in that corner of the room is holding theirs.

“My mom,” he begins, his voice steady, “she’s been a mom since she was eighteen years old. That’s it. That’s all she’s ever really gotten to be. Her entire adult life, every single decision she’s made, has been about me.”

Sid, Geno, and Kris are silent, listening with a new, sober attention.

“The jobs she worked — waitressing at night so she could drive me to practice in the morning. Where we lived — always making sure it was in the right school district for the hockey program. What she did on weekends … it was never for her. It was always driving to some tournament in the middle of nowhere, sitting in a freezing cold rink for six hours, just for me.”

He pauses, his gaze becoming distant for a second, lost in a memory. “She never dated. Not really. I remember she went on a few dates when I was in middle school. This one guy was a real jerk, and he made some comment about how much time she spent on my hockey. She came home that night, and I heard her crying in her room.” He swallows hard. “After that, she just … stopped. She told me once she didn’t have time for anyone who wasn’t 100% in on ‘Team Colton’.”

He looks back at Sid, his eyes boring into him with an unnerving intensity. “She deserves to have her own team now. She deserves to go to dinner with someone who isn’t her son. She deserves a good guy.”

He lets that hang in the air for a beat. “And you’re a good guy, Sid. I see how you treat people. The trainers, the staff, the rookies … everyone. You’re the best guy I know.”

Sid is speechless. This conversation has veered into territory he could never have anticipated. He feels a deeper respect for this kid blooming in his chest, so strong it almost knocks him off balance.

Then, Colton’s expression shifts. The softness hardens into something protective, fierce. It’s the look he gets before he’s about to clear the front of the net.

“But,” he says, his voice dropping a little, “I swear to God, if you ever, ever hurt her … you need to understand something.” He takes a half-step closer. He’s no longer a rookie talking to his captain, he’s a son talking about his mother.

“If you make her cry, if you aren’t completely honest with her, if you disrespect her in any way … I know what the deal is. I know you’re Sidney Crosby, and I’m some kid on an entry-level contract who could be on a bus to Wheeling tomorrow. I know you could probably make one phone call and I’d never play in this league again.”

He leans in, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. “But spending the rest of my career playing in the ECHL would be absolutely worth it to me if it meant I got to protect my mom from a broken heart. Are we clear?”

The silence in the locker room is now so absolute you could hear a pin drop. Geno and Kris are staring, their jaws practically on the floor.

Sidney Crosby, a man who has faced down 250-pound defensemen his entire life, who has played through immense pain in the crucible of the Stanley Cup Final, finds himself completely intimidated by an eighteen-year-old kid. And he respects the hell out of him for it.

He can only nod, his throat suddenly dry. “Crystal clear, Colton.”

And just like that, the tension breaks. Colton’s face relaxes into a small, wry smile. The fierce protector vanishes, replaced by the easy-going kid.

“Okay, good,” he says, as if he hadn’t just threatened the career of a living legend. He starts pulling on his hockey socks. “So, after the game … her favorite place is a little Italian spot about twenty minutes from the arena. It’s over in Ybor City. It’s called Bernini of Ybor. She loves their gnocchi.”

He stands up and claps Sid on the shoulder, a shockingly familiar gesture that makes Sid’s eyebrows shoot up.

“I expect her home by midnight, Captain.”

And with that, Colton Y/L/N turns, grabs his helmet, and heads out of the room towards the ice for warmups, leaving his captain, and two of the league’s most seasoned veterans, completely and utterly speechless.

Geno is the first one to move. He lets out a long, slow whistle.

“Wow,” he says, his voice full of awe. “Rookie has, how you say … very big balls.”

Kris is just shaking his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Kid’s got his priorities straight. Damn.” He looks at Sid. “Well, you got the green light, my friend. And a shovel talk from a guy who can’t legally buy you a beer.”

Sid is still processing the whiplash of the last five minutes. He feels like he’s just been through a full-speed collision. The kid’s fierce loyalty, his surprising maturity, his unconditional love for his mom … it’s overwhelming. He’s not just thinking about you anymore. He’s thinking about the incredible young man you raised.

The pre-game buzzer sounds, jarring him back to reality. He has a game to play. But as he finishes tying his skates, his mind is already miles away, replaying Colton’s words.

She deserves a good guy.

The question is no longer if he should ask you out. The question is how he can possibly live up to the impossibly high standard your son just set.

***

The game is a hard-fought, gritty win for the Penguins. A 3-2 victory where Colton plays solid, defensive minutes, finishing the game with a plus-one rating and a handful of blocked shots. You watch from your seat, your heart swelling with a quieter, more sustainable kind of pride. The shock of his first goal has worn off, replaced by the steady joy of watching him belong. He is an NHL defenseman. It’s no longer a dream, it’s his job.

After the final horn, you make your way to the designated family waiting area, a familiar ritual now. The space is smaller and less glamorous than the one in Pittsburgh, but the energy is the same — a low hum of relief and celebration.

The players begin to emerge. Colton spots you immediately, a tired but happy grin on his face. He comes over and gives you a sweaty, all-encompassing hug.

“You play so well tonight, honey,” you say, pulling back to look at him. “That blocked shot in the third was incredible.”

“Thanks, Mom,” he says, his face flushed. “Felt that one in my teeth.” He looks over your shoulder, then back at you, a strange, meaningful glint in his eye. “Hey, can you just wait here for a sec? Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

He says it with a forced casualness that immediately puts you on high alert. Before you can question him, he squeezes your arm and disappears back towards the locker room. You stand there, puzzled, watching the remaining players trickle out.

And then you see him. Sidney emerges from the tunnel, flanked by Geno and Kris. He’s laughing at something Geno said, his face relaxed. He looks up, and his eyes meet yours from across the room. The laughter dies on his lips. He freezes for a split second, a deer caught in the headlights. He gives you a small, hesitant nod of acknowledgment and looks like he’s about to make a sharp right turn and flee.

You watch, fascinated, as an entire silent drama unfolds in the space of three seconds. Geno stops, looks from Sid to you, and then back to Sid with an expression of profound exasperation.

“Sid,” Geno says, his voice a low rumble. “Go now. No excuses.”

Sid shakes his head almost imperceptibly, his eyes pleading. “Geno, I can’t.”

Geno is having none of it. He puts a massive, gloved hand on the middle of Sid’s back. “Yes. You can.”

And then he shoves him.

It’s not a gentle nudge. It’s a full-body, hockey-player push that sends Sidney Crosby — three-time Stanley Cup champion, future Hall of Famer — stumbling forward several steps in your direction. He catches his balance with the practiced grace of a world-class athlete, but his face is a mask of pure mortification. He whips his head around to glare at Geno, who simply beams, gives him a huge, toothy grin, and a double thumbs-up before steering Kris in the opposite direction.

And now, Sidney Crosby is standing five feet in front of you, looking more flustered than you’ve ever seen a human being look. It’s so unexpected, so completely at odds with his public persona, that you can’t help the small smile that touches your lips.

“Uh,” he starts, running a hand through his damp hair. “Hi. Sorry about that.”

“Hi, Sidney,” you say, your voice full of amusement. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Fine,” he says quickly, his eyes darting back towards where Geno disappeared. “He’s … strong.” He clears his throat, his professional composure starting to reassert itself, though his cheeks are still tinged with pink. “It was a great game tonight. Colton played really well. Very responsible in his own end.”

He’s deflecting, you realize. Using hockey talk as a shield.

“He did,” you agree. “I was so proud watching him.”

An awkward silence descends. It stretches for a beat, then two. He’s clearly struggling with something. He takes a deep breath, the kind a person takes before plunging into icy water. His gaze meets yours, direct and sincere now.

“So,” he says, his voice a little shaky. “I know this is … this is probably very forward. And maybe out of line. But Colton happened to mention that you like Italian food.”

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“And I was wondering,” he continues, the words coming out in a slight rush, “if you weren’t too tired, or if you don’t have other plans … if you would let me take you to dinner?”

The question hangs in the air between you, stunning you into silence. Sidney Crosby is asking you out on a date. You feel a thrill, a flutter in your stomach you haven’t felt since you were a teenager yourself. You glance over his shoulder and, as if on cue, Colton peeks out from the locker room doorway. He catches your eye and gives you two enthusiastic, frantic thumbs-up.

The pieces click into place. Colton’s strange behavior, Geno’s shove … it was all a conspiracy. A ridiculous, sweet, high-school-level plot to get the shy captain to talk to the rookie’s mom.

A real, genuine smile breaks across your face, erasing any hesitation.

“I’d love that, Sidney.”

The relief that floods his face is so obvious it’s almost comical. “Yeah? Great. That’s … great.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re sitting across from him in a quiet corner booth at Bernini of Ybor. You’d ridden over in a black car service the team uses, the silence between you filled with the nervous energy of a first date. The restaurant is beautiful, all dark wood and exposed brick, with the low, warm hum of happy diners.

The conversation starts as you expected it would — stilted, polite, and centered around the one thing you have in common: hockey.

“The power play looked good tonight,” you offer, taking a sip of the red wine the waiter recommended.

“Yeah, we’ve been working on the zone entry,” he says, studying his own menu intently. “Getting the puck in with possession is key against a team that pressures like Tampa.”

You talk about Colton’s development, about the team’s schedule, about the different feel of the arenas around the league. It’s nice. It’s safe. But it’s not a date. It’s an interview.

Then, you decide to take a page out of Geno’s book and give things a little push.

“So,” you say, setting your menu down. “What does Sidney Crosby do when he’s not being Sidney Crosby? When the season is over and you can finally breathe. What do you do?”

The question seems to surprise him. He looks up from his menu, his guard dropping for a fraction of a second. “That’s a good question.” He pauses, genuinely considering it. “I go home. To Nova Scotia. I have a place on the lake. It’s quiet.”

“Quiet sounds nice,” you say.

“It is,” he agrees. “It’s the one place I don’t feel like … you know.” He gestures vaguely, a motion that encompasses the restaurant, the fans, the entire world of expectations that surrounds him. “I just fish. See my family. My sister, Taylor. My parents. It’s … normal.”

There’s that word again. The same one Colton used. The longing for normalcy from two people living the most abnormal of lives.

“It must have been a lot,” you say softly. “Being ‘The Next One’ since you were fifteen.”

He gives you a small, wry smile. “It had its moments. It’s a weird way to grow up. Your whole life is scheduled. Hotels, buses, planes, rinks. You miss a lot of stuff. High school dances, proms, just … hanging out.” He shrugs, a gesture of acceptance. “But I got to play hockey for a living. It’s a trade I’d make every single time.”

He leans forward, his elbows on the table, his intensity focused entirely on you now. “What about you? Colton told me … he told me you were eighteen when you had him.”

“I was,” you confirm, your voice steady. “A baby having a baby.”

“You sacrificed a lot for him,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact.

You feel a lump form in your throat, an old, familiar knot of emotion. “They never felt like sacrifices,” you say, and it’s the truest thing you’ve ever said. “When you’re a parent, it’s just … what you do. His dream became my dream. There wasn’t a line between the two.”

“But you must have had your own dreams,” he presses gently.

You find yourself telling him things you haven’t articulated to anyone in years. About your plan to go to college for graphic design. About the part-time jobs that became full-time careers. About the loneliness of parent-teacher conferences and the specific, gut-wrenching fear of your car breaking down when you only have fifty-three dollars in your bank account until payday.

He listens. He doesn’t just hear the words; he actively listens, his eyes full of a deep, quiet empathy. He doesn’t offer platitudes or sympathy. He just nods, creating a safe space for you to speak.

Then, you turn it back on him. “What about you? All those years on the road. It must get lonely.”

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “You’re surrounded by twenty guys all the time, but yeah. It’s a different kind of lonely. Everyone knows the hockey player. Not a lot of people know the person. It’s hard to know who you can trust.”

You talk for two hours. You talk about favorite movies, bad travel experiences, the weirdness of being recognized in public, and the simple joy of a home-cooked meal. You discover he has a dry, understated sense of humor that makes you laugh, a real, deep belly laugh you realize you haven’t done in ages. You feel a connection, a spark of recognition between two people who have lived strangely parallel lives of dedication and sacrifice, albeit in vastly different arenas.

For the first time in as long as you can remember, you are not just “Colton’s mom.” You are you. And the man across from you, he’s not just “Sidney Crosby.” He’s Sid. A kind, funny, surprisingly shy man from Nova Scotia with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

As he pays the bill — insisting over your protests — he smiles. “Colton was right. The gnocchi is amazing.”

“He’s usually right about things like that,” you say, smiling back.

The ride back to the hotel is different. The silence isn’t awkward anymore. It’s comfortable, companionable. He walks you all the way to your hotel room door.

“I had a really, really great time tonight,” he says, his voice sincere. He’s standing a little closer than he needs to.

“Me too, Sid,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

He just nods, his eyes lingering on yours for a long moment before he gives you a small, shy smile and turns to walk down the hall to his own room.

You let yourself into your room, your mind reeling. You lean against the door, a goofy, giddy smile plastered on your face. You feel light, hopeful. You feel like a teenager after a perfect first date.

There’s a soft knock on the adjoining door that connects your room to Colton’s. You open it.

He’s standing there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his expression a comical mixture of a nosy best friend and a worried father.

“Okay,” he says, walking into your room and closing the door behind him. “Full debrief. Now.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up out of pure happiness. “Debrief on what, Mr. Nosy?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Mom,” he says, flopping down onto the edge of your bed. He crosses his arms, trying to look stern and failing miserably. “How was it? Was he a gentleman? Did he make you laugh? Did he say anything stupid? Do I need to go down the hall and kick my captain’s ass?”

“It was wonderful, Colton,” you say, your voice soft. You sink into the armchair opposite the bed. “He was a perfect gentleman. And yes, he made me laugh. A lot.”

The tension drains from Colton’s shoulders, replaced by a genuine, heartfelt relief. “Good,” he says, his voice losing its joking edge. “That’s good. You deserve that.” Then the stern look returns. “Because I meant what I said, you know.”

“I know you did, sweetie,” you say, your heart overflowing with love for this incredible young man you raised. “And that’s one of the million reasons why I love you so much.”

He smiles, a real, happy smile. “I love you too, Mom.” He gets up to leave, then pauses at the adjoining door, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Just one last thing,” he says.

“What’s that?”

“It’s 11:58,” he says, glancing at an imaginary watch on his wrist. “You cut it a little close on curfew.”

You grab the decorative pillow off the armchair and hurl it at him. He dodges it with a laugh, slipping back into his room and closing the door, leaving you alone in the quiet, happy glow of a night that feels, impossibly, like a new beginning.

***

The months that follow your first date in Tampa are a whirlwind of quiet moments stitched together across time zones. The relationship builds not in grand, sweeping gestures, but in the steady accumulation of small, private intimacies.

It’s in the nightly FaceTime calls that become as routine as brushing your teeth. You’ll be curled up on your sofa in Orlando, and he’ll be in a sterile hotel room in Calgary or San Jose, his face tired but his eyes lighting up when he sees you. You talk about everything and nothing — about your day at work, about a funny text Colton sent, about the book you’re reading, about the nagging soreness in his shoulder.

It’s in the dinners when the Penguins are on a home stand in Pittsburgh. He’ll send a car for you, and you’ll fly in for a weekend, staying in a hotel near his home. He introduces you to his favorite sushi place, a tiny, unassuming spot where the owner knows not to make a fuss. He holds your hand under the table, his thumb gently stroking yours, a silent, grounding connection in a world that is always watching him.

Colton, for his part, becomes the wry, supportive gatekeeper of your burgeoning romance. He develops a running joke with his captain.

“Taking my mom out again tonight, Sid?” He’ll ask in the locker room after a morning skate, a twinkle in his eye. “Don’t scratch my car.” The first time he said it, a few of the younger players nearly fainted. Now, it’s just part of the room’s rhythm.

Sid will just shake his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “Not your car, kid. And I’ll have her home by curfew.”

The season grinds on. Colton solidifies his place on the blue line, his confidence growing with every game. The Penguins make a respectable playoff run, battling their way to the second round before being eliminated in a hard-fought six-game series.

The end of the season is always abrupt. One day, there is the singular, all-consuming focus of the Stanley Cup playoffs. The next, there is silence. Boxes to be packed, goodbyes to be said, and the sudden, yawning expanse of the offseason.

You’re in Pittsburgh for the team’s exit meetings, helping Colton pack up the apartment he moved into mid-season. Sid had insisted on taking both of you out for one last dinner before you all scattered for the summer.

You’re at a quiet steakhouse, tucked away in a corner booth. The conversation is easy, comfortable. You’re talking about summer plans. Colton is excited to get home to Florida, to feel the sun, to decompress for a few weeks before his intense training regimen begins.

“What about you, Sid?” Colton asks, polishing off the last of his steak. “Straight back to Nova Scotia?”

“Yeah, that’s the plan,” Sid says, swirling the ice in his water glass. He looks at you, his expression uncharacteristically hesitant. “I was, uh, actually wanting to talk to you both about that.”

You and Colton exchange a curious glance.

“I know the summer is a weird time,” Sid begins, his eyes focused on you. “Everyone scatters. But I go home. To my lake house in Cole Harbour. And it’s … it’s my favorite place in the world. It’s the one place I can just shut everything off.”

He takes a breath. “I was wondering, and I know it’s a lot to ask, and please feel free to say no … but I’d love for you to see it.” He shifts his gaze to include Colton. “I’d love for both of you to come up. For the summer. Or for as long as you want. Colton, you can train with me and Nate. We’ve got a pretty serious setup there. It’ll get you ready for next season.”

Then, his eyes find yours again, and his voice softens. “And you … you can just relax. Read a book by the lake. Go for a walk. Finally have a summer that isn’t about packing up gear and driving to a rink.”

The offer is so full of sincerity, so loaded with unspoken meaning, that it takes your breath away. This isn’t just an invitation for a vacation. This is an invitation into his life. Into his sanctuary.

You look at Colton. His eyes are wide, a slow, incredulous grin spreading across his face. He looks from Sid to you, and he gives the tiniest, almost imperceptible nod.

You turn back to Sid, a warmth spreading through your chest that has nothing to do with the wine.

“Sid,” you say, your voice a little thick. “We’d love to.”

***

Three weeks later, you step off a plane in Halifax, Nova Scotia, and the air is the first thing you notice. It’s clean, cool, and smells of pine and the faint, briny tang of the distant sea. It’s a world away from the thick, humid blanket of a Florida summer.

Sid is there to meet you, looking more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him. He’s in a simple t-shirt, shorts, and a baseball cap. The ever-present tension he carries in his shoulders during the season seems to have melted away. He hugs you, a long, welcoming embrace that feels different here, on his home turf.

The drive to Cole Harbour is beautiful, all rolling green hills and glimpses of the sparkling Atlantic. You eventually turn off the main road and onto a long, winding gravel driveway, trees forming a dense canopy overhead. And then, the woods open up, and you see it.

His house is not the ostentatious mansion you might expect. It’s a beautiful, modern log-and-stone home, nestled perfectly into the landscape, with a wall of windows overlooking a serene, glass-like lake. It’s private, peaceful, and unpretentious. It’s perfectly him.

“Wow,” is all Colton can manage to say from the back seat.

“Yeah,” Sid says, a quiet pride in his voice. “It’s home.”

The summer settles into a rhythm that feels both brand new and deeply familiar. The mornings are for work. Sid and Colton, often joined by a ridiculously energetic Nathan MacKinnon, are gone by 7 a.m. for grueling workouts in Sid’s state-of-the-art home gym, followed by on-ice sessions at a local rink.

You spend your mornings with a cup of coffee and a book on the huge wooden deck that overlooks the lake. You watch the mist burn off the water, listen to the haunting call of the loons, and feel the layers of stress and responsibility you’ve carried for two decades begin to peel away. For the first time in your adult life, your only job is to simply be.

The afternoons are lazy and beautiful. Sometimes the three of you take the boat out, the cool spray a welcome relief in the afternoon sun. Colton learns to waterski, his athletic prowess translating surprisingly well. Other days, you and Sid just sit on the end of the dock, your feet dangling in the shockingly cold water, and talk for hours.

One Sunday, he takes you to his parents’ house for dinner. You’re nervous, but Troy and Trina Crosby welcome you with the easy, unpretentious warmth of Maritime hospitality. They treat you not as a guest, but as family.

Trina pulls you aside in the kitchen as you’re helping her clear the plates. She’s a woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense air you immediately like and respect.

“I haven’t seen Sidney this relaxed, this happy, in years,” she says, her voice quiet as she stacks plates. “Since he was a boy, really. His whole life has been about the pressure. With you, it’s like he can finally just be himself.” She turns to you, her expression full of a mother’s gratitude. “Thank you.”

“He did that himself,” you say, deeply touched. “He’s a wonderful man.”

“Yes,” she agrees, a proud smile on her face. “He is. And he’s got good taste.”

***

One clear, cool night in August, after a long day on the water, you’re all sitting around a crackling fire pit near the edge of the lake. The sky is a deep, star-dusted velvet, the Milky Way a brilliant slash across the darkness.

“I can’t believe we have to leave in two weeks,” Colton says, poking the fire with a long stick. “This has been the best summer of my life.”

“You’ve earned it, kid,” Sid says, his arm resting comfortably around your shoulders. “You put in the work.”

“Thanks to you,” Colton says. “I feel twice as strong as I did last year. I’m ready.” He looks from Sid to you, a deep, mature gratitude in his eyes. He stands up, stretching his long frame. “Alright, I’m beat. I’m heading in. Don’t stay up too late, you two.”

He gives you a kiss on the top of your head and claps Sid on the shoulder before heading up to the house, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, fire-lit dark.

You lean your head on Sid’s shoulder, watching the embers dance. “He’s really grown up this year,” you say softly.

“He’s an incredible young man,” Sid agrees. “You did a hell of a job.”

You sit in comfortable silence for a long time, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the gentle lapping of the lake against the shore.

“A year ago,” you say, your voice barely a whisper, “I was sitting at the draft in Las Vegas. I was so proud, and so terrified. I had no idea what was coming. I was just trying to hold on tight.”

“And I was in the Penguins locker room,” he says, his voice a low rumble next to your ear, “about to draft a kid from the London Knights who was going to completely change my life.”

He shifts, turning to face you. He takes your hand, his fingers lacing through yours.

“I love you,” he says. The words are simple, direct, and hold the weight of a truth he’s been settling into all summer. “I think I’ve been falling in love with you since that first night in Tampa.”

Tears well in your eyes, sparkling in the firelight. “I love you, too, Sid.”

“When I asked you to come here,” he continues, his thumb stroking the back of your hand, “I just hoped you’d like it. I hoped it would be a nice summer. But seeing you here, on the deck in the morning with your coffee, laughing with my mom in the kitchen, sitting right here … it feels like you’ve always been here.”

He brings your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently.

“It feels like home.”

He leans in, and his lips meet yours. It’s not the tentative kiss of a new romance, full of questions and uncertainty. It’s a kiss of deep certainty. It’s a kiss that tastes of woodsmoke and promises, of a shared past and a future you will build together.

You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You look past him, at the dark, peaceful water, at the sturdy, welcoming house, at the brilliant, endless sky. For eighteen years, home was wherever Colton was. It was a person, a responsibility, a fierce and unconditional love.

Now, you realize with a sudden, breathtaking clarity, home has expanded. It’s still the boy, now a man, sleeping soundly in the house behind you. But it’s also the man whose hand you’re holding, the quiet sanctuary he’s built, and the incredible, unexpected love that has filled a part of your heart you didn’t even know was empty. You’re not just Colton’s mom, and he’s not just Sidney Crosby. You’re partners. And you are, finally and completely, home.

***

Three Years Later

The locker room at PPG Paints Arena smells exactly the same. It’s a timeless mixture of sweat, clean laundry, and the sharp, metallic tang of sharpened skates. The energy, however, is different. It’s younger. There’s a new guard, a new rhythm.

Colton Y/L/N, now twenty-two and an alternate captain with a freshly stitched ‘A’ on his jersey, sits on the stool in front of his stall. He’s no longer the wide-eyed rookie trying to stay out of the way. He is the anchor of the defense, a leader in this room, fielding questions from a small cluster of reporters with an easy, practiced calm. The Penguins have just won their season opener, and the mood is buoyant.

“… yeah, I thought the new pairings felt good,” Colton is saying, peeling tape off his shin pads. “Communication was solid. We’ve still got things to clean up, but for the first game, you take the two points and build on it.”

A new voice pipes up from the edge of the scrum. He’s a young reporter from The Athletic, keen to find an angle the veteran journalists might have overlooked.

“Colton,” the reporter begins, “obviously this is the first opening night in a generation without Sidney Crosby being a part of this team. How weird does it feel to start a season without him around?”

Colton stops what he’s doing. He slowly looks up, his expression completely flat. The other, more seasoned reporters around the young man share a subtle, knowing glance. The kid has just stepped on a landmine he doesn’t even know exists.

A long, silent beat passes. Colton just stares, his gaze so incredulous it’s almost comical. Then, a low chuckle escapes his lips. It builds into a full, genuine laugh. He shakes his head, running a hand over his hair.

“Weird to not have him around?” Colton repeats, the question thick with amusement. He picks up his water bottle and takes a long drink, making the reporter wait. “Man, I don’t know,” he says, finally lowering the bottle. “It’s sort of hard to feel that way considering I ate breakfast across from him this morning while he was getting spit up on by my baby sister.”

A stunned silence falls over the scrum. The reporters exchange confused looks. The young journalist who asked the question looks completely lost.

“Your … your baby sister?” He stammers, his pen hovering uselessly over his notepad.

Colton’s expression shifts. He leans forward slightly, adopting the patient, overly-enunciated tone one might use with a small child who can’t grasp a simple concept.

“Yeah,” Colton explains slowly. “Callie. She’s six months old. You know. Little human? Cries, sleeps, spits up on my mom’s husband?”

He lets the words hang in the air, a breadcrumb trail the reporter is still failing to follow. The kid’s face is a perfect mask of incomprehension.

Colton lets out a dramatic, long-suffering sigh.

“Sidney Crosby,” he clarifies, as if explaining 2+2=4. “He’s married to my mom. He’s my stepdad. We live in the same house.”

The collective sound of frantic typing fills the room as the other reporters hammer out their new headlines. The young reporter’s jaw has physically dropped.

Colton grins, the last piece of the puzzle finally clicking into place for the poor kid.

“So, no,” Colton finishes, a triumphant twinkle in his eye. “It’s not weird not having him around.”

He takes another long swig of water, the universal sign for this interview is over. He stands up, stretching his tired frame.

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he says to the stunned group. “I promised I’d pick up diapers on the way home.”

[someonegoood]

THE MACKIE INCIDENT ✫ macklin celebrini

˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ macklin celebrini x athlete!fem!reader. olympic selection, media availability, accidental nickname, mild chaos. wrote this at an unreasonable hour thinking about the olympics. sorry in advance. eng is not my first language!

in which an olympic dream is announced, a nickname slips on live television, and the internet never lets her forget it.

my main masterlist! ❀

The room smells faintly like coffee.

It’s the kind of media room that always looks bigger on TV than it feels in real life. The backdrop behind you is perfectly aligned: your country’s flag, the Olympic rings, the year 2026 printed neatly. You sit centered at the table, hands folded, posture perfect —the posture you’ve been trained into since you were a kid with a dream that felt too big for your body.

Your name flashes on the screen beneath you.

Selected Athlete – Winter Olympic Games 2026.

The words still don’t feel like they belong to you.

“Three, two… we’re live!”

You inhale slowly and lift your head, your smile settling into place with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times: press conferences, post-game interviews and more. Luckily, this is familiar territory.

Camera shutters click immediately.

“First of all, congratulations!,” a reporter says from the front row, her voice warm but sharp. “Can you tell us how you found out? What was the call like when your coach told you the news?”

Your shoulders relax.

“It was… unreal,” you say honestly, eyes bright. “I remember seeing his name on my phone and thinking, why is he calling me this early?” A small laugh slips out. “I honestly thought something was wrong. And then he told me, and I just... I froze. I don’t think I answered him for at least like, thirty seconds.”

Laughter spreads across the room.

“I’ve dreamed about the Olympics since I was little,” you continue. “But hearing it said out loud, knowing it’s real… it’s overwhelming in the best way.”

“Are you proud of yourself?” another journalist asks, leaning forward. “This has been a long journey for you.”

You pause, not because you don’t know the answer, but because the question hits deeper than expected.

“Yes,” you say finally, voice steady. “I am. I think as athletes, we’re always chasing the next goal, the next improvement. But today… yeah. I’m very proud.”

Pens scribble faster.

“And your family?” another voice asks. “How did they take the news?”

Your smile softens instantly, like someone flipped a switch.

“My mom cried,” you say without hesitation. “Full-on tears.” The room chuckles. “Um, my dad tried to stay composed, but he didn’t last very long and my siblings... They just started to jump all over. My family has sacrificed so much for me: the early mornings, long drives, missed holidays. This moment belongs to them just as much as it does to me.”

Everything flows smoothly after that.

Questions about preparation. About pressure. About expectations. You answer them calmly, thoughtfully, your voice steady, your expression open. You feel grounded. Confident.

This is your moment, and you’re handling it perfectly.

Then it happens.

A voice from the back of the room —unfamiliar, a little too eager.

“Have you seen that Macklin Celebrini has also been selected to represent Canada at the Winter Olympics?” the reporter asks. “What are your thoughts on that?”

You blink once.

Ah.

That.

Of course that question was coming.

You’ve seen the headlines. The tweets. The TikToks zooming in on details that were never meant to be clues —a hoodie here, a comment there, you attending to his game, Will Smith posting like he doesn’t understand the concept of subtlety. Your teammates haven’t been much better.

The internet, as usual, has decided it knows everything.

You laugh lightly, shaking your head a little.

“Yes! Mackie—”

The word leaves your mouth so naturally, so casually, that you don’t even realize what you’ve done until the silence crashes down around you.

Mackie.

On live television.

Your stomach drops and your brain short-circuits.

Your smile turns into a fine line.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

You feel heat rush to your face, your ears burning as the realisation sinks in. Somewhere to your left, your agent makes a sound that can only be described as pure panic.

You blink, once. Twice. Force yourself to breathe.

“Macklin,” you correct quickly, voice a little too crisp now, “has been selected, and I think it’s amazing to see how much trust is being placed in younger athletes these days. It really shows how the sport is evolving and—”

It doesn’t matter.

You know it doesn’t.

Because the room isn’t listening anymore.

You hear murmurs, see eyebrows lift, catch the way a few reporters exchange looks. Somewhere, someone is already typing DID YOU HEAR THAT???

Another journalist jumps in immediately, barely containing their excitement.

“Do you call him Mackie… personally?”

Your agent physically twitches.

You stare at the reporter, your brain desperately searching for a safe, diplomatic answer —something smooth, something boring.

Nothing comes.

Before you can say anything, or make it worse, your agent stands.

“Alright people, that’s all we have time for today,” he says quickly, laughing in a way that is absolutely not convincing. “Thank you all. She won’t be taking any more questions.”

The room erupts in overlapping voices as you’re guided away from the table. You keep smiling, because apparently that’s your coping mechanism now, waving politely as flashes go off like fireworks.

The door closes behind you.

The second you’re out of sight, you groan and drop your head back against the wall.

“I said Mackie,” you whisper.

Your agent turns to you slowly.

“You said Mackie.”

“I have never said that on camera. Ever.”

“They’re already clipping it,” your agent says flatly.

As if on cue, your phone starts vibrating violently in your pocket.

Once. Twice. Again.

You pull it out, already knowing who it’s from.

macklin: you call me mackie on live tv now?

You let out a weak laugh, sliding down slightly until your shoulder hits the wall.

“This is going to haunt me forever,” you mutter.

Your phone buzzes again.

macklin: for the record… I kinda like public now.

You close your eyes, smiling despite yourself.

Olympic athlete. National embarrassment. And apparently, very bad at keeping secrets.

God help you.

[uglyducklingofthe2000s]

Fascination - Luke Hughes

Summary: Luke discovers he has a size kink, but it's more of a fascination.

Themes/warnings: Smut, size kink, cockwarming

Word count: 923

Luke is balls deep when he notices. His fast and hard thrusts suddenly pause before he slows them and his eyes are fixated down no her tummy, not that y/n is even paying that much attention until she feels her build up start to slow down.

"Luke?" Y/n moans making him start again but he can't help it as he watches the bulge in her stomach, his increase in thrusts and returning to what it had been.

Y/n's build up picks up again before he presses his hand over her stomach and practically feels her clamp down hard enough to stop blood flow for him. She cries out, spasming around him as she feels him moving still and chasing his own high that comes only a few seconds later.

"What the hell was that?" Y/n breathes while Luke strokes his thumb over her stomach feeling himself twitch over the sensation.

"I never realised I could see myself in you, baby." Luke states not being able to stop himself from being cocky about it.

"Neither did I." Y/n mumbles though she's not surprised. Luke is hardly a small man in any regard, but he's especially well endowed. "I take it you've found your new favourite thing?"

"Oh yeah." Luke grins then kissing her before he rolls them over and shifts her hips so he's still planted as deep as possible in her. "Just a reminder of how tiny you are, baby."

Y/n practically scoffs at him before she kisses him only to be pushed up again and feeling him tracing the line.

"Luke..." Y/n whines wanting to lie down which makes him sigh a little but he doesn't stop her as she leans forward and lies down.

"I love you, baby." Luke smiles as he gently wraps his arms around her.

"I love you too." Y/n laughs lightly before placing a gently kiss on his chest.

-

Y/n groans getting back from pilates, her body aching and stiff. It's not actually a hobby she picked up voluntarily but a couple of other WAGs invited her and she agreed just to get herself out the apartment and really knowing she should workout somehow.

"You look good." Luke smirks seemingly appearing from nowhere as she places her bag down in the bedroom and giving her ass a gentle smack as he passes her, rounding the bed. "Think you could have another work out?"

"Luke." Y/n groans not even liking the idea of being so sweaty and in his vicinity. "I'm all gross."

"I don't think you look gross, you look hot." Luke states making her look at him with a raised eyebrow. "You think I'm lying?"

"No. I think you're being serious." Y/n mumbles since she is absolutely the type of woman who sees her man sweaty and wants to ride him till her stomach aches.

"What if you just sit on me and we just stay like that?" Luke offers as y/n peels of the workout clothes and he smirks sitting down seemingly completely ready for her if the bulge in his shorts is anything.

She doesn't make comment about it as she climbs on the bed, completely naked while Luke's eyes practically fuck her just as she moves towards him. Y/n doesn't waste time as she climbs on him and tugs his shorts down to reveal his length.

"Don't go too fast." Luke warns not wanting y/n to hurt herself as she aligns herself with his tip before sinking down and proving that she was not about the hurt herself because she was already very wet for him. "And we just stay like this."

Y/n smiles feeling Luke's thumbs gently rubbing circles on her thighs before he moves one hand to gently rub over the bulge of himself in her stomach.

"I think I could get used to this." Y/n hums with a gentle sigh while he traces over himself. "How's your day been?"

"Pretty good. Better now." Luke smirks then directing his gaze downwards again. "I think if I could find a way to stay like this forever I would."

"I can tell." Y/n smiles then shifting her hips a little while he watches seeing himself moving inside her. "I never imagined you'd be so fascinated by seeing yourself."

"It's not my fault that you're just so small you can't actually fit me." Luke smirks before realising that even just talking about it makes his dick twitch on the edge of cumming without so much as having to actually move. "Fuck, y/n. You feel so good."

Apparently Luke isn't the only one because y/n is so wet she's dripping down his length onto his stomach and down onto the bed.

"I really don't have it in me to do anything but sleep right now." Y/n warns despite her pussy feeling so completely desperate for more but her body is suffering from pilates. "I could go after a nap."

"I will happily wait for you to nap baby." Luke laughs while y/n finally lies forward and practically passes out on him.

Honestly if she wasn't so tired, then she'd have voiced issue with how sticky her skin is from dried sweat and the fact that Luke is stuffed into her while her pussy is drooling around him. But Luke couldn't care less, so long as he's planted in her to the root he's content to stay like this for as long as humanly possible.

1118

[33forthew1n]

the future is baby blue 👣

a macklin celebrini x teen!mom!reader series

when you find out you're pregnant, your world completely changes. you're eighteen and your boyfriend is an eighteen year-old hockey player.

everyone tells you that this baby is the greatest mistake you two will ever make. you keep it anyway.

along the way you learn about love, trust, heartache, and adulthood. there's nobody but macklin you'd have done this with.

SERIES MASTERLIST

chapter one: normalcy

chapter two: uni life

chapter three: baby scare

chapter four: his

chapter five: her

blurb: showing

chapter six: scan & sister

blurb: baby fever

chapter seven: reactions

smau blurb: public

blurb: protective

chapter eight: a second alone

blurb: just us and baby boy

chapter nine: our home

blurb: leo reid celebrini

chapter ten: baby boy

chapter eleven: ill (without you)

chapter twelve:

chapter thirteen:

etc...

(CURRENTLY TAKING REQUESTS AND SUGGESTIONS)

(in chronological order, NOT posted order!)

comment here to be tagged

[incloudcity]

if ur still looking for connor recs…

connor with the most absurd meet cute you can think of

wrong number | cb98

requests are open | navigation

The call comes in the middle of a perfectly scheduled afternoon.

You’re at your kitchen counter with your laptop open, color-coded calendar pulled up, answering emails between bites of a late lunch. Your life functions on reminders and lists and the quiet satisfaction of things getting done on time.

Your phone buzzes.

Unknown Chicago number.

You almost silence it. You hate unscheduled phone calls.

You answer anyway.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” a woman says, brisk and professional. “Is this the emergency contact for Connor Bedard?”

You frown. “I’m sorry, for who?”

“Connor Bedard. He was brought into Northwestern Memorial about fifteen minutes ago. We’re trying to reach his emergency contact.”

There’s a subtle shift in the air around you. Like something small but heavy has been placed on your chest.

“I think you have the wrong number,” you say carefully. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

A pause. Keyboard clicks.

“This is the only number listed. You’re saved under ICE.”

ICE. In Case of Emergency.

Your brain runs through possibilities the way it does when a plan goes wrong. Wrong digit. Old number. Administrative error.

“That’s not possible,” you say. “I’m not— I don’t know him.”

“He was struck by a vehicle in the middle of an intersection,” she continues, gentler now. “He’s stable. Likely a concussion. We just need someone here.”

Struck by a vehicle.

Your hand tightens around the phone.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, because that’s the rational answer. “I can’t help.”

You hang up.

You stand very still in your kitchen.

Then you look at your calendar.

Then at your front door.

You do not do things like this. You do not abandon your afternoon because of clerical errors involving strangers. You do not insert yourself into messy, unpredictable situations.

You grab your coat anyway.

Northwestern Memorial smells like antiseptic and stale coffee and too many emotions packed into fluorescent lighting.

You approach the front desk like you’re checking into a hotel you didn’t book.

“Hi,” you say. “I got a call earlier. About Connor Bedard?”

The nurse looks up, scanning your face.

“You’re the emergency contact?”

You straighten. “Apparently.”

She nods. “He’s still unconscious. Concussion. Some bruising. You can sit with him.”

You don’t correct her. You don’t know why.

Maybe because you already came this far. Maybe because someone should be there.

He looks younger than you expect.

That’s your first coherent thought when you step into the room.

You know the name now, you googled him in the elevator and nearly dropped your phone when you realized exactly who you accidentally became responsible for. A professional hockey player too young for hospital rooms.

He’s pale against the white pillow. There’s a cut at his temple. His mouth is slightly open in sleep, like his body gave up mid-sentence.

You set your bag down quietly.

His clothes are folded in a plastic bin on the chair. Hoodie. Sweatpants. Sneakers unlaced.

You hesitate.

Then you start organizing.

You smooth the hoodie out properly. Refold it neatly. Line up his shoes. Stack everything so it looks intentional instead of abandoned.

It makes you feel less helpless.

His wallet is in a clear belongings bag. You check his ID, because you need to confirm this is real.

Connor Bedard.

It is.

You exhale slowly.

“Okay,” you murmur to him, even though he can’t hear you. “You’re fine. This is fine.”

You call the towing company listed on the police slip in his pocket. You handle it efficiently. You take notes in your phone. You ask practical questions.

You do not think about the fact that you are essentially cosplaying as someone important in his life.

When you sit down beside him, it’s almost evening.

The room is dimmer. Quieter.

You watch the steady rise and fall of his chest.

You don’t mean to stare.

But you do.

You notice the crease between his eyebrows. The way one hand curls slightly against the blanket. The faint flush under his skin where bruises are forming.

You feel… responsible.

Which is insane.

You don’t know him.

Still, you reach out and adjust the blanket where it’s slipped.

An hour later, his fingers twitch.

You sit up immediately.

“Hey,” you say, too quickly. “Hi. You’re okay.”

His face tightens. He makes a small, confused sound. His eyelids flutter open.

His eyes land on you.

They’re clearer than you expect. Sharp. Assessing.

He stares.

You stare back.

There’s a long silence.

Then, hoarsely, “Are you the lady who hit me with your car?”

Your jaw drops. “What? No.”

His brows draw together. He looks around the room, then back at you.

“Then why are you here?”

You cross your arms instinctively, defensive. “I’m your emergency contact.”

He blinks.

“My what?”

“They called me. You listed my number. ICE.”

“That’s not—” He winces slightly. “That’s not possible.”

“Well, it is,” you say crisply. “And when I told them they had the wrong number, they said I was the only one listed. So.”

“So you came?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I'm painfully aware.”

There’s something almost incredulous in his expression now.

“Then why are you folding my clothes?”

You glance down. You’re still holding his hoodie, smoothing the sleeve without realizing.

Heat creeps up your neck.

“They were wrinkled,” you say, like that explains everything. “And your car was blocking traffic, so I had it towed. It’s at Lakeshore Auto. I didn’t make any medical decisions, don’t worry. I specifically did not authorize anything. I just— took care of a few things.”

He just stares at you.

“You got my car towed?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t know me.”

“No.”

A beat.

“Are you always like this?” he asks slowly.

“Like what?”

“Stressed about strangers.”

“I’m not stressed.”

“You look stressed.”

You absolutely are.

Your shoulders are tight. Your jaw is set. You haven’t stopped scanning him for signs of deterioration since he opened his eyes.

“You were unconscious,” you say sharply. “You were alone. Someone had to make you were okay.”

His gaze softens slightly at that.

“I'm okay.”

“How would you know?” you shoot back.

There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes now. Faint. Disbelieving. He studies you like you’re the strange one here.

You suddenly realize you haven’t offered him anything.

“Do you need water?” you ask abruptly. “Or juice? They said you shouldn’t eat heavy food yet but I can ask about crackers.”

Before he can answer, you’re already standing.

“Wait—” he starts.

“I’ll be right back.”

You escape into the hallway because his eyes are doing something to your composure.

At the vending area, you lean against the wall and breathe.

You don’t know this guy.

He is not your responsibility.

And yet.

You grab water anyway.

When you come back, he’s sitting up a little higher.

He looks more awake now.

More real.

You hand him the cup carefully.

“Small sips,” you say automatically.

He obeys, watching you over the rim.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

You hesitate.

Because suddenly, giving him your name feels like crossing a line.

“I should go,” you say instead. “Your real emergency contact is probably on their way.”

His expression shifts — something between confusion and disappointment.

“You’re just leaving?”

“You’re conscious,” you say. “Mission accomplished.”

“That’s not—”

You step back toward the door.

“Your car’s handled,” you add. “Your stuff’s here. I didn’t steal anything.”

“I didn’t think you—”

“You’d be surprised what concussions do to people.”

A tiny, reluctant smile tugs at his mouth.

You falter for half a second.

Then you’re gone.

Connor stares at the closed door long after you leave.

The room feels noticeably emptier.

He looks at the perfectly folded hoodie on the chair.

At the neat stack of his things.

At the towing receipt placed carefully on the table with a time stamp and location.

“Hey,” he says when the nurse steps in later. “The girl who was in here earlier. The one who… organized everything.”

The nurse smiles knowingly.

“She left.”

“Yeah. I know.” He hesitates. “Do you still have the number she was called from?”

A pause.

“We do.”

He updates his emergency contact properly before discharge.

Carefully.

Correctly.

Then he asks for yours.

Your phone rings the next evening.

You stare at it.

You knew this might happen.

You answer.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” he says. His voice is steadier now. Warmer. “It’s Connor. From the hospital.”

“I assumed.”

A soft laugh. Then a beat.

“I fixed my emergency contact,” he says. “So you won’t get any more dramatic calls about me.”

“Good.”

Another pause.

“I was kind of hoping,” he continues, more tentative now, “that I could buy you coffee.”

You don’t answer immediately.

“Why?” you ask.

“Because you showed up for someone you don’t know,” he says simply. “And you took care of things. And I didn’t even get your name.”

Your chest tightens in a way you don’t like.

“It’s weird,” you warn.

“I know.”

“You thought I hit you with my car.”

“Well, I was concussed.”

You almost smile.

There’s a long second where you could say no. Where you could tuck this into the neat box of strange things that happened once and never again.

Instead—

“…Okay,” you say. “Coffee.”

The relief in his exhale is immediate.

“Okay,” he echoes.

And for the first time since the phone call, your life feels slightly, dangerously unscheduled.

[c9lebrini]

˖⟢ ݁˖ 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐀𝐋 𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐓. mc⁷¹

ⓘ𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒!・flufff!! ・mack's family being too sweet with reader・macklin being such a sweetheart・mentions of future and possible wedding・1.3k words!!!

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 in which… macklin's parents are making their vow renewal and robyn give her "bridal" bouquet to reader.

The atmosphere felt much more romantic than usual. More lively and crisp.  

Macklin’s parents were renewing their vows with a beautiful outdoor celebration. 

The soft pink tones harmonized with the green of nature.  

The setting was simply beautiful, and everything was in perfect harmony. It almost felt like a dream.  

Macklin had been gone for a few minutes—probably finishing up his suit and helping his father.  

I really didn’t expect Robyn and Rick to invite me to their vow renewal.  

Even though I was dating Macklin.  

We’d only been together for 8 months, and even though that was a good amount of time, we hadn’t been together for a year yet, and I really didn’t expect to be so close to Macklin’s family.  

Not the way I am.  

One of Macklin’s younger cousins approaches with a big smile.  

— Y/N! — she calls out to me spontaneously. — Can you play with me for a bit? My brothers are already tired, and I don’t have anyone. —  Her tone sounds more upset than usual, as if not having anyone to play with her really were the biggest problem of her life at that moment. 

The way Macklin’s cousin looked at me, almost as if it were a sin to refuse a request as sweet as that.  

Almost as if her heart would break completely if I turned her down. I couldn’t help it.  

— Okay, we can play for a little while! — I tell her, and she flashes that ear-to-ear smile that automatically warms my heart. 

Macklin’s cousin tugs on my finger, leading me away from the tables so we can play.  

And so I spent 20 minutes laughing with a 6-year-old, and I couldn’t have asked for anything better. 

As time went on, more children joined us, and then we played “Duck, Duck, Goose.” 

I was sitting on a rug that had been laid out on the grass.  

The children ran around everyone, tapping each person on the head in a circle. 

And I was smiling genuinely.  

Until I felt two arms wrap around my waist, someone sitting behind me and placing their legs on either side of my body.  

I recognized the scent and turned around. 

And there he was. So handsome.  

Macklin Celebrini. Wearing a suit and looking even more handsome than usual.  

He looked at me as if I were the only one there, as if I were the only one he would ever have eyes for.  

— Hey. — Macklin whispers softly, with a charming smile.  

— Hi. — I whisper back, completely smitten. 

Our noses touch, and soon we feel a hard slap on our heads, and we laugh heartily at one of Macklin’s cousins who hit Macklin harder than he hit me. It was cute.  

Macklin puts his hand on my head, stroking it as he kisses my forehead.  

I turn completely toward Macklin, who hugs me tightly. At that moment, it felt like only we existed—even with all those kids playing, running, and especially hitting our heads while playing “Duck, Duck, Goose.” 

And I loved those moments when, even with us surrounded by so many people, it always felt like it was just the two of us.  

— Mack! Dad needs you. — Aidan, Macklin’s older brother, appears in our line of sight a little further away, interrupting the few minutes we had together.  

Not that it was anyone’s fault; after all, it was completely understandable. 

It was Macklin’s parents’ wedding; obviously, he would be busy with that.  

Before even thinking about getting up, Macklin ends up planting a few kisses all over my face, making me giggle at the sensation.  

And then he stands up, straightening the suit that made him look even more attractive and casually sweeping his hair back. 

I stay seated on the grass, perhaps hoping that some kind soul might help me up without me having to make the slightest effort.  

And my prayers are almost answered when Macklin’s aunt and Robyn’s sister appears in front of me, offering both her hands to help me up, which I accept gratefully.  

— Could you help me with something really quick? — Macklin’s aunt asks.  

And I just nod my head in agreement before answering.  

— Sure, what do you need? — I ask casually. 

 — Do you think you can zip up Robyn’s wedding dress? We’ve been trying, but the zipper is stuck. — she asks, almost desperate.  

— I don’t think it hurts to try. — I reply, already being dragged into the room where Macklin’s mother was.  

I enter the room, greeted by Robyn’s friends and Charlie, Macklin’s sister, who was trying—and failing—to pull the zipper of the dress, which was indeed stuck fast.  

— So, how’s it going? — I ask Robyn as Charlie makes room with a happy yet gentle smile upon seeing me there.  

— Everything’s almost perfect; it would be perfect if only this zipper would close. — Robyn complains.  

I position myself behind the older girl, pulling the zipper all the way down with some difficulty. 

— Hold the top of the dress. — I instruct Macklin’s mom, who listens to me easily, already following my instructions. I count to three and pull the zipper all the way up with great difficulty. But it closes. 

And everyone in the room seems relieved by this. 

I smile at the blonde woman who is now looking at herself in the mirror, amazed and nostalgic.  

And soon after, she returns my smile as a thank you.  

Minutes later, the couple was finally ready for their vow renewal, and the ceremony was beginning. 

Everything was incredibly moving, and after the ceremony, I could tell my eyes were filled with tears.  

Macklin stayed by the altar the whole time, watching the entire ceremony with affection and admiration, though he kept glancing at me.  

And as the ceremony ended, Robyn wanted nothing more than to toss her bridal bouquet to wish good luck to the next woman to catch it, as is traditional. Most of the women at the party, including those who were already married, positioned themselves to catch the bouquet. 

I stayed up front, along with several other women—friends of Robyn and Rick, or relatives. 

Macklin recalled the whole scene, a silly smile on his face, and just whispered an “I love you” so quiet, yet so full of affection that I could have died of love right then and there. And I simply return the gesture with the same feeling. 

However, I furrow my brow, confused, when Robyn pretends to throw the bouquet and turns around with such a silly smile, walking toward me. 

For a few moments, I didn’t understand what was happening. But it felt almost like a click when Robyn took a step even closer to me.  

I’m speechless for a few moments. 

My eyes well up as the older woman stands in front of me. 

 — I hope so much that the next wedding I attend is yours. — the blonde whispers, almost making me cry right there, as she hands me the bouquet and I accept it with immense gratitude. 

The party guests applauded, especially Rick, while Robyn and I hugged and Macklin just filmed everything, so in love. It all felt like a dream, such a beautiful, vivid dream.  

A little while later, Macklin was already a bit tipsy after several shots of whiskey with his dad. And he was even clingier than usual. 

Not that I’m complaining—after all, it’s really cute. 

 — You know that one day I’m going to marry you, don’t you? — Macklin asks, even though he already knows the answer. — One day it’ll be us celebrating our wedding with a party so big that everyone there will be jealous. — Macklin declares, tipsy. 

 He nestles into the curve of my neck.  

— And I can’t wait for that day. — he finishes, whispering, scattering kisses all over my neck. 

author’s note: i want to thank everyone for all the support on the last work, you'll have no idea how special that was to me!! and english isn't my first language but i hope y'all like it!!! <33

[abbydianereads]

Against the Boards | Macklin Celebrini

prompt: You only wanted to survive the charity skate without falling over—getting checked into the boards was definitely not part of the plan.

pairing: macklin celebrini x girlfriend!reader

content: injury, throwing up, concussion, fluff, protective Macklin, cursing, use of y/n, established relationship

wc: 2.3k

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts for days because I'm not entirely sure I like it, so let me know what you think!

You were not good at hockey. In fact, you’d never once claimed to be. But that didn’t seem to matter, because there you were on the ice, wearing leggings and one of Mack’s jerseys. Macklin had tied your laces tight, and you felt the skates squeezing around your ankles. 

You held your stick with two hands, like Macklin had shown you just before the game, and tried your best to just stay out of the way.

It was a charity skate, something that the Anaheim Ducks and San Jose Sharks were putting on together. Apparently, not enough players had signed up so they began reaching out to the players' partners and family members instead. Which was exactly how you came to be in your current position. 

Now you were in the SAP Center, the arena roaring around you–though it wasn’t nearly as full as it would have been during a normal game. 

You weren’t the only “normal” person on the ice either. Tyler Toffoli’s wife, Cat, was there, as well as some of the Duck’s significant others. The only reason you had agreed to play was that it was supposed to be no contact–no hitting, checking, any of it. Otherwise, you would have happily sat in the stands to watch. 

You scanned the ice, finding Macklin down by the Duck’s goal, handling the puck expertly. He shot, the puck zinging into the net and you cheered, throwing your hands and stick into the air. He circled around the rink, coming back to stand next to you, a smile on your face. 

“You haven’t touched the puck yet,” he said, grinning. 

“Haha,” you laughed sarcastically. “I’m just here to be another body, not to actually play.” 

“How about we make a deal,” he began. You groaned. “I’ll get the puck after the faceoff, and you position yourself next to the goal. I’ll pass it to you and you can shoot it in.” 

“Mack, I don’t need to score, I’m just here because you asked me to be.” 

“But it’ll be fun!” He begged, giving you those damn puppy dog eyes. At that moment, Will Smith, Mack’s best friend, skated up beside the two of you.

“Are we gonna flirt or are we gonna play?” He teased.

“You two can flirt all you want,” you told him, smirking. “I’m playing.”

Both boys ignored your statement. 

“Does that mean I can pass the puck to you?” Mack asked. 

You nodded, finally giving in. Mack pumped his fist in the air, then moved to take the faceoff position. Smitty took his position as well, and you did your best to skate (more like a hobble) into your place. 

Then, the play was live, and you began moving down the ice once Macklin won the faceoff, moving around one of the Ducks flawlessly with the puck. You did your best to keep your eye on him while also looking at your surroundings to ensure you weren’t going to run into anything or fall over. 

Will was to your left, on the other side of the goal, ready to rebound your shot if you missed or if the Ducks’ goalie intercepted it. 

“Ready?” Mack called, and you nodded. Before you knew it, the puck was racing towards you across the ice. It met your stick with a thump.

You were so focused on the puck and taking aim that you didn’t even see the Ducks player racing towards you. 

Someone shouted–maybe Will, maybe Macklin–but it was too late. 

A force rammed into your side, sending you flying backwards and into the boards. Your head cracked against the glass, the air punching out of your lungs.  

For a moment, you were crushed between the boards and the player, pain reverberating up your spine. Then he moved away, and you slid down onto the ice. 

It all happened so fast that you barely even knew what was happening. Suddenly, you had been hit hard, and now you were on the ice, vision swimming before you.

The arena was dead silent.

No one moved. No one cheered. 

For a split second, Macklin didn’t move. But then he saw you crumple to the ice. A range of emotions flew over his face, surprise, fear, panic, anger. 

His gloves hit the ice before the whistle was even blown. He was like a storm, flying across the ice towards the opponent with rage coloring his face. 

“What the hell was that?” He asked sharply, and then his fists were flying. Will and Tyler were suddenly in the middle, trying to pull the two apart. 

“Are you okay?” A voice cut in, and you looked up slowly to see Cat skating over to you, worry all over her face. 

“I think so,” you managed, beginning to push yourself to your feet. You weren’t used to having to stand on ice with skates, and your legs went out from under you. You landed back on the ice with an “oomph” escaping your lips. 

Cat smiled gently and held her hands out for support. Gratefully, you took them and she helped you to your feet. As you stood, your vision spun around you, causing you to lean on the shorter woman and grab the boards for support. 

“I’m just kinda dizzy,” you explained, blinking a couple times to refocus. 

“Let’s get you off the ice,” Cat said, trying to lead you towards the exit. But a sharp yell came from the side, causing you to pause. 

Your eyes moved back to Mack, who was fighting against Toffoli’s hold on him.

“She’s not wearing any padding you fucking idiot!” He yelled, red staining his cheeks. 

“I was in the moment and forgot!” The other player tried to reason, throwing his hands in the air. 

Toff leaned in to Mack, saying something low that you couldn’t make out. Whatever it was, it caused Mack’s head to turn towards you, his eyes searching all over your body. You watched as the anger was replaced with something else. Panic, fear, you weren’t entirely sure. 

Toffoli dropped his arms, releasing Mack and letting him skate over to you. Immediately, Mack grabbed your shoulders gently, pulling you into his chest with a certain intensity, like he needed to make sure that you were there and standing. 

“Are you okay?” He asked, voice low and severe. You nodded into him, relishing in his warmth, in the security of his body. And then it was like a wave of exhaustion hit you, and you wobbled on your feet, blinking. Mack’s arms hardened around you, offering more support as he pulled away to look you in the face. 

“What is it?” He asked, his voice quieter now. His eyes were searching, looking for what could be wrong. You couldn’t focus on his face, and kept blinking rapidly. Everything felt like it was spinning around you. “Hey– hey, look at me,” he said urgently, hands cupping your cheeks. 

“I just need to sit down, I think,” you told him, gripping his forearms tightly. He nodded, and the two of you began moving towards the bench, where a trainer was already waiting. Your steps were choppy, as if you’d forgotten how to skate, but Mack didn’t comment. His jaw only tightened, as if he was clenching his teeth so hard that they might begin cracking in his mouth. 

Once you reached the bench, Macklin lowered you gently, and then the trainer was there, asking questions and shining a flashlight in your eyes. You winced at the onslaught, the light feeling too bright. It sent nausea spiraling in your stomach. 

“Wait-” you warned, but then you were leaning forward, throwing up onto the trainer’s shoes. Mack was immediately at your side, rubbing your back gently as his eyes moved from you, to the trainer, back to you. 

“I’m sorry,” you managed to say weakly to the trainer, but he just shook his head, giving you a smile. 

“Happens all the time,” he reassured, though you knew that was a lie. “Why don’t we get you into the locker room? You definitely have a concussion, but it will be easier to check you out further in a quiet space.” 

You nodded, and Macklin helped you stand. The three of you filed down the hallway and into the locker room, where you sat back down on a bench as soon as possible. 

The trainer resumed his testing, asking questions, telling you to follow his finger with your eyes, the usual. 

The door opened and Cat walked in, lips pursed. 

“I’ll stay with her if you want to get back out there,” she said to Macklin quietly, who was watching from the side, stoic as ever. His arms were crossed over his chest. 

“I don’t want to leave if she might need me,” he whispered back, eyes never leaving you. 

Two hours later, you were laying on the couch in the apartment you shared with Mack. The trainer had told him to take you to the ER to get properly looked at, and after even more doctors flashing lights in your eyes and asking you questions, all you’d wanted to do was go home.

Macklin was finishing something in the kitchen, and once he was done, he sat next to you before pulling you into his lap. He buried his face in your hair, breathing deeply as you rested your head on his shoulder, eyes drifting shut. 

“I’m sorry for ruining the charity game,” you mumbled softly. 

Mack shook his head. “No, you didn’t. That asshole did.” 

You pulled away slightly to look your boyfriend in the eye. “It was an accident.” That was the truth of it. It had been an accident, a slipup. What was supposed to be an easy, contact-free game had been mistakenly turned into something larger. Something scarier. 

“He should have been smarter than that,” Mack pointed out, eyes searching your face. And then, “I was so scared when I saw you hit the ice, y/n.” He shook his head. “You hit the boards and didn’t get up. I thought–” he bit his lip and turned away, jaw clenching. 

Oh.

Oh.

Macklin had always been sweet, loving, protective. He loved hockey, it was his life. But he had never once hesitated before putting you first. 

“I’m okay,” you reassured him. 

“You have a concussion,” he pointed out, smoothing a hand over your hair. You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes briefly at the feeling of comfort. 

“A small one,” you reminded him. The doctor had said it wasn’t anything huge, you shouldn’t have any serious and concerning brain damage. You’d be fine within the next week. 

“You should get some rest.” 

You nodded, laying your head on his shoulder as he held you. 

“Can I sleep here?” The question was moot–your eyes were already drifting shut. 

“Always,” he said softly, kissing the top of your head. 

That's how you stayed for the rest of the day, drifting in and out of sleep in Macklin’s arms. 

Later that evening, your eyes opened sleepily. Your head felt heavy, resting against something hard and warm. You pulled back slightly to see Mack already looking down at you, eyes worried. 

“How’s the head?” He asked, as if trying to hide the emotion in his gaze.

“Still attached,” you joked softly, though it felt as if your brain was pulsing behind your eyes. “So far so good.” 

A small smile flitted across his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. They were still clouded with the same worry that had been there all afternoon.

“I’m okay,” you reminded him. He nodded, quick. You didn’t believe it for a second. “Really, I am.” 

For a moment he just looked at you before leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. 

When he pulled away, you frowned. 

“That’s it?” You asked, pouting. 

His brows lifted. “You have a concussion.

“So?” You asked, trying to lean forward and capture his lips with yours. 

He grinned slightly, pulling away before you could reach him. “So,” he continued patiently. “You have a concussion. I’m not exactly trying to make it worse.” 

You rolled your eyes, a behavior you had taken part in for every day of your life, but this time it sent pain spiking down your neck. You wobbled in his lap, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment. Immediately, Mack’s hands were on your waist, gently squeezing for support. 

“Easy,” he murmured. 

You smiled softly once you opened your eyes. “You’re hovering,” you teased. 

Macklin puffed his chest out slightly, causing a little laugh to escape you. “I’m protecting,” he insisted. You shook your head, a smile playing on your lips. 

His gaze softened, and his shoulders relaxed slightly. Tentatively, he leaned forward, brushing your lips with his, testing the waters, making sure he wouldn’t hurt you. 

It didn’t.

You softened against him, letting one hand move to tangle into his hair. When you leaned closer, tugging eagerly, he pulled away, laughing softly as he rested his forehead against yours. 

“Careful,” he reminded. 

“You started it,” you breathed. 

He grinned, rubbing slow circles into the small of your back. 

“You’re impossible.” 

You smiled cheekily. “Yet you’re still holding me.” 

Mack’s arms tightened, pulling you against his chest. 

“Yeah.” He said softly. “I am.” 

Not long after that, you drifted back to sleep, head on Macklin’s chest. 

Every time you shifted, his arms tightened instinctively around you.

Mack didn’t let go once. 

Not after the hit.

Not at the hospital.

And not for the rest of the night.

divider by @wispyxfae

[andy-15-07]

Jack Third-Wheels

Pairing: Luke Hughes x Reader

Word Count: 1063

Request open!

24 days of Christmas | Hockey Masterlist

You should’ve known something was wrong when Luke texted you:

LUKE: Date night tonight. Just us.

The emphasis on just us should’ve been your first warning sign.

You were ten minutes into the date,ten,when Jack ruined everything.

You and Luke were sitting at a small corner table in a quiet restaurant, the kind with dim lighting and soft music. Luke looked nervous in a way you found painfully cute, fiddling with his napkin, glancing at you like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“This place is nice,” you said, smiling.

Luke relaxed a little. “Yeah? I wanted something calm.”

“Mission accomplished,” you teased.

He grinned. “Good. Because I,”

“LUKE!”

The voice echoed through the restaurant like a fire alarm.

You froze.

Luke physically flinched.

Slowly, both of you turned.

Jack stood at the entrance, hands on his hips, eyes wide like he’d just discovered buried treasure.

“Oh my god,” Jack said loudly. “You are here.”

Luke closed his eyes. “No.”

You blinked. “Is that,”

“Yes,” Luke muttered. “That’s Jack.”

Jack marched over, pulling out the chair opposite you and sitting down without asking. “This is crazy. I was just walking by and thought, ‘Wow, that guy looks like Luke Hughes but less attractive.’ And then I realized,it was Luke Hughes.”

Luke stared at him. “Why are you here.”

Jack shrugged. “I’m hungry.”

“You live ten minutes away.”

“And yet,” Jack said smugly, “here I am.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing.

Luke noticed. “Don’t encourage him.”

Jack leaned toward you. “She likes me. I can tell.”

“She tolerates you,” Luke corrected.

Jack waved him off. “Same thing.”

The waitress arrived, looking confused. “Um… is he joining you?”

“No,” Luke said instantly.

“Yes,” Jack said at the same time.

You smiled politely. “He’s… emotionally joining us.”

Jack snapped his fingers. “Exactly.”

Luke leaned back in his chair, exasperated. “Jack, go away.”

Jack gasped. “Wow. Rude. In front of your girlfriend too.”

You tilted your head. “You third-wheel a lot, don’t you?”

Jack grinned. “It’s a gift.”

Luke groaned. “It’s a curse.”

Jack pointed at Luke. “He pretends he hates it, but if I stopped, he’d miss me.”

Luke shot him a look. “I absolutely would not.”

“Liar,” Jack said. “You’d text me within a week.”

You laughed. Luke turned red. “Okay, this was supposed to be romantic.”

Jack nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah… I sensed that. That’s why I came.”

Luke stared. “You came because of that?”

“Obviously.”

You covered your mouth. “You’re evil.”

Jack beamed. “Thank you.”

Somehow, despite Luke’s best efforts, Jack stayed. He ordered food. He stole fries. He told embarrassing childhood stories. Luke spent most of the dinner glaring at him while you laughed so hard your sides hurt.

By the time you left the restaurant, Luke was halfway to dramatic resignation.

“Okay,” Luke said firmly as you stepped outside. “Jack. We’re going home. Separately.”

Jack blinked. “What? No. I’m bored.”

Luke pointed down the street. “Your apartment is literally that way.”

Jack squinted. “I don’t like that direction.”

You laughed. “Luke, just let him walk with us.”

Luke turned to you, betrayed. “You too?”

“I’m sorry,” you said sweetly. “He’s kind of entertaining.”

Jack fist-pumped. “YES.”

Luke sighed. “I need new brothers.”

You walked a few blocks together, the city lights glowing around you. Luke tried to hold your hand.

Jack immediately wedged himself between you.

“Oh my god,” Luke snapped. “MOVE.”

“What?” Jack said innocently. “I’m just existing.”

“You’re aggressively existing.”

Jack slung an arm around Luke’s shoulders. “See? We’re bonding.”

Luke shoved him off. “You’re ruining the vibe.”

Jack shrugged. “The vibe is overrated.”

You reached around Jack and grabbed Luke’s hand anyway. Luke squeezed back immediately, like he’d been waiting for it.

Jack looked down. “Wow. Disrespectful.”

Luke smirked. “Good.”

You stopped walking suddenly. “Jack.”

He looked at you. “Yeah?”

“Do you do this on purpose?”

Jack considered it. “Yes.”

Luke groaned. “WHY.”

Jack smiled. “Because you’re different with her.”

Luke frowned. “Different how?”

“You’re soft,” Jack said simply. “And it’s annoying.”

You raised your eyebrows. Luke stared at him.

“That’s… not an insult,” Luke said.

Jack shrugged. “Didn’t say it was.”

You smiled. “He’s protective.”

“Disgustingly so,” Jack agreed. “You should see him when she’s late replying.”

Luke turned red. “Stop.”

Jack ignored him. “He paces. Like a dad.”

Luke pointed at him. “You are never telling anyone that.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely telling everyone.”

By the time you reached your apartment, Luke looked exhausted.

“Okay,” Luke said, opening the door. “Jack. This is where you leave.”

Jack stepped inside. “Wow. Cozy.”

Luke froze. “Why are you inside.”

Jack shrugged. “I assumed I was invited.”

“You were not.”

You laughed, toeing off your shoes. “Jack, you want a drink?”

Luke whipped his head toward you. “NO.”

Jack gasped. “She wants me here.”

Luke stared at you, betrayed all over again. “You’re enjoying this.”

You smiled. “Just a little.”

Jack plopped onto the couch. “So. How long have you two been disgustingly in love?”

Luke crossed his arms. “We’re not,”

“Six months,” you said.

Luke blinked. “Why did you answer that.”

Jack nodded. “Knew it.”

Luke ran a hand through his hair. “Jack, please. I just wanted one night. One.”

Jack looked at him, expression softening just slightly. “You’ll get it.”

“When?” Luke asked.

“Eventually,” Jack said. “Probably when I get a girlfriend.”

You tilted your head. “And when will that be?”

Jack shrugged. “Never. I thrive on chaos.”

Luke dropped onto the couch beside you, defeated. “I hate you.”

Jack smiled. “Love you too.”

There was a pause.

Then Jack stood. “Alright. I’ll go.”

Luke looked up. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “I’ve done enough damage for one night.”

You smiled. “Thank you.”

Jack grinned. “Anytime.”

He headed for the door, then paused. “Oh,and Luke?”

Luke sighed. “What.”

“You’re lucky,” Jack said. “Don’t mess it up.”

Luke blinked, caught off guard. “I won’t.”

Jack nodded, satisfied, and left.

The door closed.

Silence.

Luke leaned back, rubbing his face. “I’m so sorry.”

You laughed, turning toward him. “That was the most chaotic date I’ve ever been on.”

“And?”

“And I kind of loved it.”

He smiled weakly. “You’re insane.”

You leaned in, kissing him softly. “But I’m yours.”

Luke melted instantly, hands pulling you closer. “Worth every interruption.”

You rested your forehead against his. “Even Jack?”

He sighed. “Especially Jack.”

And somewhere down the street, Jack sneezed.