you know what, fuck it be free, keep reading that bad fan fiction, keep writing that bad fanfiction, keep using y/n, keep staying up to 4 a.m reading x reader, to be cringe is too be free
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.
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.”
Pairing: Sidney Crosby x Hollander!Reader, Quinn Hughes x Ex!Reader
Warnings: Trump mention, US men’s national team, cursing
Summary: I was so prepared to fight a war on your side
Authors Note: anything to distract me from the bigger picture (my 30k word Sidney Crosby Olympic fic)
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ynhollander
liked by quinnhughes ilyarozanov81 and 6,877,155 others
ynhollander my olympic bestie 💋
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user1 “bestie” girl, you kiss that man on the lips
user2 like she’s seen more of that man than god has, that is not just her best friend
user3 so proud of Quinn
user4 so excited to get to see the Hughes brothers in the Olympics!!!
user5 idk why I giggle everytime Yn posts Quinn as if they haven’t been dating for like six years
user6 it’s the fact that we all know Shane and Ilya are in her DMs telling her to dump him
user7 girl get that man out the way I wanna see u
user8 I don’t come to this page to see a man
user9 they’re adorable
user10 kinda the cutest couple OAT
user11 she litteraly has an Oscar but she’s dating a man who plays hockey, this is the representation Canada dreams of
user12 Yn you were so good in one battle after another
quinnhughes ❤️
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user13 I will #notice that her family never comments on posts with Quinn in them
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ynhollander added to their story!
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ynhollander
liked by mackinnon29 evgeni71malkin and 8,611,811 others
ynhollander Pittsburgh film festival I love you!!!
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user13 girl broke up with her boyfriend and moved to….Pittsburgh????
user14 serving
user15 love her so bad
michaelbjordan 🔥
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laila_edwards you’re the cooler Hollander
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teyanataylor I LOVE YOU!!!
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user16 she’s kind of the coolest person ever
user17 so obsessed
zendaya you’re glowing
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user18 she really broke up with Quinn and didn’t look back
ilyarozanov81 the coolest
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yunahollander my sweet girl!!!
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shanehollander24 you need to teach me how to dress
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leonardodicaprio 🌆🌆🌆
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user19 yn’s insta comments kinda the hottest place to be for celebrities im ngl
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ynhollander
📍Canada
liked by evgeni71malkin shanehollander24 and 10,611,511 others
ynhollander moments from this summer
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user20 WHO IS THAT
user21 Yn saw Twitter speculating that she’s dating Sidney Crosby and said “oh, let me confirm that for you”
user22 SIDNEY CROSBYYYYY
ilyarozanov81 😎
user23 my dream date….cute
user24 oh to be an actress model model actress dating Sidney Crosby and having Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander as your brothers
user25 the concept of Sidney Crosby spending his summer with Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander
user26 who remembers the time Ilya fought Sid
user27 and then they started playing for Canada together so everything’s fine
user28 so glad Yn escaped the curse of dating an American
shanehollander24 ☀️☀️☀️
lando 🙌
user29 lando what are you doing here 😭
evgeni71malkin what is this “soft launch”? I have photos of you making out with him
ynhollander Geno.
user30 Yn never replies to comments this is so funny
yunahollander my VOGUE cover girl!!!!!!!
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user31 Sidney Crosby log in your beautiful gf is soft launching you but you don’t have Instagram to post a really vague comment neither confirming nor denying
krisletang 🐧🐧🐧
sabrinacarpenter you’re the hottest
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ynhollander
📍Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
🎵 bloodonmyhands - Tate McRae
liked by ilyarozanov81 shanehollander24 and 16,872,987 others
ynhollander bounced back and found another (and he hates you)
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user32 that soft launch really went out the door
user33 the concept of Sidney Crosby talking shit about Quinn Hughes
ilyarozanov81 I also hate him
shanehollander24 me too 🙋♂️
user34 I love this
yunahollander my favorite couple 🫶
shanehollander24 ?
user35 QUINN HUGHES FIGHT BACK WHERES YOUR ANGER
user36 the mostly cropped pic of Sid omg I’m melting
user37 just the cutest couple ever
evgeni71malkin showed him this post and he wants me to comment “my beautiful girl” do not make me communicate for him ever again this has disgusted me
user38 IM DYINGGGGG
user39 Sidney’s never ending commitment to being a digital nomad will never not make me giggle
user40 how quickly the Hollander-Rozanov’s accepted Sidney actually warms my heart
user41 mind you they NEVER liked Quinn this much
user42 the concept of Yn using a song by her ex boyfriends brothers Canadian girlfriend to shade her ex boyfriend and posting her new Canadian boyfriend….there’s levels to this
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haydenpike I like him! 🇨🇦🇨🇦🇨🇦
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ilyarozanov81
🎵 Free Bird - Lynyrd Skynyrd
liked by ynhollander yunahollander and 21,345,911 others
SUMMARY: A teammate accidentally reveals Sidney and YN’s secret marriage—and their three-year-old son—during a live interview, forcing the family into the public eye sooner than they ever planned.
Requested: Sidney Crosby + A teammate exposes your relationship during an interview
AN: the form with the new prompt list is open!
Sidney had always been protective of his private life.
It wasn’t that he was ashamed of you or the family you had built together. It was the complete opposite. You and Chase were the most precious parts of his life, which was exactly why he kept the two of you far away from cameras, interviews, and strangers who believed they were entitled to know everything about him.
Most people knew Sidney lived a quiet life in Pittsburgh.
They knew he had a house, enjoyed spending time back home in Cole Harbour, and spent most of his free time either training or watching hockey.
What they didn’t know was that he came home every night to his wife and your three-year-old son.
Your marriage had never been publicly announced. There had been no magazine spread, no carefully staged Instagram post, and no wedding photographs released to the media. Sidney wore his wedding band, but he often removed it before games and practices out of habit, so fans had never managed to confirm anything.
There were rumors, of course.
There were always rumors when it came to Sidney Crosby but nobody had ever gotten close enough to discover the truth.
Until Ben Kindel moved into your house.
The decision had been easy for Sidney. Ben was young, adjusting to professional hockey, and suddenly living in a city far away from everything familiar. Sidney remembered what it was like to be that age, stepping into a league filled with grown men while everyone watched and judged every mistake.
So when the organization mentioned that Ben needed somewhere stable to stay, Sidney volunteered your home before the sentence was fully finished.
He had called you immediately afterward “I might’ve offered our guest room to someone,” he’d said cautiously. You had been standing in the kitchen, cutting strawberries into small pieces for Chase “Someone?”
“A teammate.”
“For how long?”
Sidney had paused.
“I’m not completely sure.”
You had laughed because you already knew there was no point pretending you would say no.
A few days later, Ben arrived carrying two suitcases, several hockey bags, and an expression that suggested he was terrified of accidentally breaking something in Sidney Crosby’s house.
The nervousness lasted approximately two days.
By the end of his first week, he was stealing cereal from the pantry, arguing with Sidney over which movie to watch, and allowing Chase to climb all over him like he was playground equipment.
Chase adored him instantly, every morning, your son would toddle down the hallway and knock on Ben’s bedroom door “Benny awake?”
Sometimes Ben wasn’t.
That had never stopped Chase. He would push the door open, climb onto the bed, and begin jumping until Ben finally groaned into his pillow “Why does he have so much energy?”
“Because he’s three,” Sidney would answer from the doorway, already dressed for morning skate.
“And why does he always wake me up?”
“Because you taught him where your room is.”
Ben had quickly become part of the family’s routine. He ate dinner with you, helped clean the kitchen even when you told him he didn’t have to, and played mini sticks with Chase in the basement almost every evening.
He also became frighteningly comfortable around you and Sidney. Which should have warned both of you.
The interview happened after practice.
It wasn’t supposed to be anything important. Just a short, lighthearted segment about Ben’s transition into the organization and what it was like being mentored by one of the greatest players in hockey history.
You were at home when it happened, sitting cross-legged on the living room rug while Chase built an unstable tower out of wooden blocks.
Sidney was still at the rink.
Ben was seated in front of a Penguins backdrop, wearing a team hoodie and smiling politely while the reporter asked him several predictable questions.
“How have you adjusted to living in Pittsburgh?”
“It’s been really good,” Ben answered. “Everyone’s been helping me a lot.”
“And you’re staying with Sidney Crosby, correct?”
Ben nodded “Yeah.”
The reporter smiled. “What is it like living with Sidney? Is he as serious at home as he is at the rink?”
Ben laughed “No, not really. I mean, he’s still Sid, but he’s pretty normal at home.”
That answer alone would have been harmless. Unfortunately, Ben continued “His wife is amazing. She makes dinner most nights, and she’s helped me with everything since I moved in and I love playing with Chase. He’s three, so he has way more energy than all of us.”
The reporter froze, Ben kept smiling.
Somebody behind the camera made a strangled sound.
There was a full three seconds of silence before the realization began to settle across Ben’s face. His smile slowly disappeared, the reporter blinked at him “Sidney’s…wife?”
Ben’s eyes widened “Oh.”
“And Chase is—”
“Oh, no.”
“His son?”
Ben looked directly toward someone off-camera, silently begging them to help him. Nobody did “I think I’ve said something I wasn’t supposed to say.”
The clip ended there. Unfortunately, the internet did not.
By the time Sidney walked into the house that afternoon, the video had already been viewed millions of times. You were standing in the kitchen with your phone in your hand, watching the interview for what had to be the sixth time.
Ben was sitting at the island with his head buried in his arms, Chase sat beside him eating crackers, completely unaware that his existence had just become international hockey news.
Sidney stopped in the doorway, he looked at you, then at Ben, then at Chase “What happened?”
Ben slowly lifted his head “I ruined your life.”
Sidney’s eyebrows pulled together. “What?”
You held your phone out to him “Watch.”
Sidney took it and pressed play. You watched his expression closely as Ben revealed your marriage, complimented your cooking, and told the entire world about Chase in less than fifteen seconds.
Sidney remained silent when the video finished.
Ben looked ready to throw up “I’m so sorry,” he rushed out. “I didn’t even think. They asked what it was like living here, and I just started talking, and then I mentioned YN, and then Chase, and I know you don’t talk about them publicly, and I swear I wasn’t trying to—”
“Ben,” Sidney interrupted.
“I’ll move out.”
“You’re not moving out.”
“I can pack tonight.”
“You’re still not moving out.”
“I can apologize publicly.”
Sidney set your phone on the counter “That would probably make it worse.”
Ben dropped his head again “I’m an idiot.” Chase looked over at him “You’re not idiot, Benny.”
Ben turned toward him sadly. “Thank you, buddy.”
“You bad at hockey sometimes.” you covered your mouth to hide your laugh, Sidney failed to hide his. Ben stared at Chase “That was unnecessary.”
Chase offered him a cracker, Ben accepted it anyway. Sidney walked around the island and placed a hand on Ben’s shoulder “You made a mistake.”
“A massive mistake.”
“A mistake,” Sidney repeated. “You weren’t trying to expose anything. You were talking about your life.”
“My life includes your secret wife and child.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Secret wife sounds a little dramatic.”
That was true, Chase was getting older. Soon he would start preschool, make friends, and talk about his father to anyone willing to listen. Hiding your family permanently had never been realistic.
You had simply hoped to control how the information became public.
You had imagined a quiet statement, maybe a carefully chosen photograph, something that allowed Chase to remain protected. You hadn’t imagined Ben casually revealing everything during a post-practice interview.
Sidney glanced at you “Are you okay?”
You considered the question, your phone hadn’t stopped buzzing for nearly an hour. Friends had sent messages, your family had called, and reporters had already started attempting to identify you.
But when you looked across the kitchen, you didn’t see Sidney Crosby, hockey superstar.
You saw your husband.
His hair was still damp from his post-practice shower. His wedding band was back on his finger. His concern was completely focused on you and Chase “I’m overwhelmed,” you admitted. “But I’m okay.”
Sidney stepped closer “We’ll handle it.”
Ben looked between you “You’re both being way too calm about this.”
You smiled slightly. “Would you prefer that we yell?”
“No.”
“Then stop trying to convince us.”
Chase reached toward Sidney “Daddy, up.” Sidney immediately lifted him from the stool, Chase wrapped both arms around his neck and pressed his face into Sidney’s shoulder.
Ben watched them for a moment before groaning “I also said I loved playing with him.”
“You do love playing with him,” you said.
“I do, but now everyone knows.” Sidney glanced down at his son “There are worse things for people to know.”
The Penguins’ communications team called less than ten minutes later.
They offered to have the interview removed, although copies had already spread across every social media platform imaginable. They also offered to release a statement denying that Ben had meant the comments literally.
Sidney rejected that idea immediately.
He wasn’t going to deny you, he wasn’t going to pretend Chase didn’t exist simply because the public had learned about him earlier than planned. Instead, after a long conversation between the two of you, Sidney agreed to release a short statement.
No interviews, no questions, no photographs of Chase’s face.
Just the truth.
That evening, Sidney sat beside you on the couch while you drafted it together. Chase had fallen asleep across his chest, one tiny hand gripping the fabric of Sidney’s shirt. Ben sat on the opposite couch, unusually quiet.
Sidney read the statement once more “‘My family has always been the most important part of my life. YN and I have chosen to keep our marriage and our son private so Chase can grow up away from unnecessary attention. We understand that people will be curious, but we ask that our family’s privacy continues to be respected.’”
You nodded.
“It’s good.”
Sidney looked down at Chase “Should we mention Ben?” from across the room, Ben shook his head violently “No.”
You laughed, Sidney’s mouth twitched “We could say our teammate accidentally shared the news.”
“Please don’t.”
“We could thank him for making the announcement for us.”
“Sid.” Sidney finally laughed, and some of the guilt disappeared from Ben’s face.
The statement was posted several minutes later, the response was overwhelming, but mostly kind.
Fans congratulated Sidney. Former teammates sent messages teasing him for keeping such an enormous part of his life hidden. People clipped together every moment from previous interviews where Sidney had smiled mysteriously when asked about his personal life.
There were also hundreds of comments about Ben, most people found the reveal hilarious.
Someone edited dramatic music over the exact moment he realized what he had done. Another person froze the video on his horrified expression and added the caption:
When you accidentally expose your captain’s entire secret family.
Ben refused to look at his phone for the rest of the night, at dinner, he barely spoke, you placed an extra serving of pasta on his plate “You need to eat.”
“I don’t deserve your cooking.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“I told the entire world you existed.”
“You also said I was amazing.”
Ben looked up “You are.”
Sidney pointed his fork toward him “That’s probably the only reason she’s forgiven you.”
You smiled. “It helped.” Chase, seated in his booster chair, looked at Ben seriously “Benny made mistake.”
Ben sighed. “Yes, Chase. Benny made a mistake.”
“Daddy makes mistakes.”
Sidney looked offended. “I do?”
Chase nodded “You forget blue cup.” you leaned back in your chair, laughing. Ben stared at Sidney “You forgot the blue cup?”
“It was one time.”
“He cried,” you explained.
“It was a serious situation,” Ben said solemnly.
Chase nodded in agreement.
The tension finally broke, Ben laughed, Sidney shook his head, and dinner returned to normal. Later that night, after Chase was asleep and Ben had gone upstairs, you found Sidney standing in the kitchen scrolling through his phone.
You wrapped your arms around his waist from behind “How bad is it?”
He placed his phone face down on the counter “Not as bad as I expected.” you rested your cheek against his back “Are you upset?”
Sidney turned in your arms “About people knowing?” you nodded, he thought about it “I’m upset that we didn’t get to decide how it happened.”
“Me too.”
“But I’m not upset that they know I have you.” his hands settled on your waist “I’ve never wanted to hide you.”
“I know.”
“I just wanted to protect this.” he glanced toward the staircase, where Chase slept and Ben was likely still replaying the interview in his head “Our home. Our family.”
You reached up and touched his cheek “We still have that.”
Sidney leaned into your hand “Tomorrow might be difficult.”
“There might be cameras.”
“I’ll make sure security handles it.”
“And Chase?”
“No one gets near him.”
The certainty in his voice made you smile.
Sidney had always been quiet, but he had never been passive when it came to the people he loved, you kissed him softly “We’ll be okay.”
He kissed you again, slower this time.
“Yeah.”
A floorboard creaked upstairs, then Ben’s voice floated down the hallway “Are you guys talking about me?”
Sidney closed his eyes “Go to sleep, Ben.”
“I’m still sorry!”
“We know!”
You pressed your face into Sidney’s chest, laughing.
The following morning, the three of them left for the rink together, Sidney carried Chase on one hip because your son had insisted on going to practice, while Ben followed behind them carrying Sidney’s coffee and Chase’s tiny Penguins backpack.
Several reporters waited outside.
Cameras lifted the moment Sidney appeared, he paused briefly, adjusting Chase so his face remained tucked safely against his shoulder. Ben looked nervous beside him, Sidney glanced at the younger playe “Relax.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“You’re the one who gave the interview.”
Ben groaned.
One reporter called out, “Sid, any comment about yesterday’s news?”
Sidney continued walking.
Another shouted, “Ben, how does it feel being the one who revealed Sidney Crosby’s secret family?”
Ben looked straight ahead “Worst interview of my life.”
Sidney laughed despite himself, Chase lifted his head from Sidney’s shoulder “Benny made mistake!”
The reporters burst into laughter.
Ben stopped walking “Chase.”
Sidney continued toward the entrance, his shoulders shaking “You taught him that sentence,” Ben accused.
“I didn’t have to.”
Chase waved at the cameras “My daddy plays hockey!” Sidney kissed the side of his head. For years, he had kept his greatest happiness hidden from the world, Now the secret was out.
And although it hadn’t happened the way either of you planned, Sidney discovered that he didn’t mind people knowing he was a husband and a father.
He only cared that when the interviews ended and the arena emptied, he still got to come home to you. As for Ben, he was never allowed to complete another interview without a member of the communications team standing directly beside him.
And every time a reporter asked what it was like living with Sidney Crosby, his response became painfully simple “It’s great.”
Nothing more, nothing less.
Especially nothing about Sidney’s amazing wife or the three-year-old waiting at home to challenge him to another game of mini sticks.
╰ Synopsis You’ve always called Macklin cute, thinking it’s sweet and harmless, but it drives him crazy because he thinks you don’t want him in the way he wants you.
tags/contains Macklin Celebrini x fem!bsf!reader. Fluff, slight angst, friends to lovers, mutual pining, kind of slow burn, shy Macklin, count how many time the word cute is mentioned, use of y/n, 1.9k words, requested.
➺ from Sera, to you📨. The pic I’m talking about in the fic is the one from Olympics because genuinely that’s the cutest picture I’ve ever seen, so yes in this fic they make up during the Olympics.
masterlist ᥫ᭡ please reblog this fic if you enjoyed it!
If there was one thing in the world that Macklin hated, it was the way you always called him cute.
Well, hate was a strong word.
Macklin didn’t absolutely hate it when you called him cute. There were times it felt nice, like when you’d scroll through old baby photos his mom had texted you, and you’d coo, “Look at baby Mack, so cute!” He’d duck his head, cheeks burning, but the shyness came with warmth because it was harmless.
Back then, he was still figuring out how to fill out his frame, still the kid everyone babied a little. But now it kind of felt annoying.
He was 19, standing 6’0, carrying 190 pounds of solid muscle that came from endless hours in the weight room and on the ice. He’d bulked up noticeably since his rookie year; broader shoulders, thicker legs, the kind of build that let him drive the net without getting shoved off.
In the 25-26 season, he was already at 29 goals and 54 assists, a Sharks team that finally looked like it had a future because of him. Alternate captain some nights.
He wasn’t a puppy anymore. He was a man who could bench his own bodyweight, who absorbed hits from guys twice his age and still finished checks. He wanted you to see that, and to treat him like the big guy he actually was.
But instead, you kept saying cute.
And the worst part? You said it about everything small and sweet. A puppy trotting by on the sidewalk during your daily walks together? “Aww, so cute!” A kid in a tiny Sharks hat waving at him after a game? “Look how cute that little guy is!” It wasn’t jealousy exactly, he wasn’t competing with dogs or toddlers but it lumped him in with them.
Another worst thing was that you weren’t even dating. If you had been boyfriend, girlfriend, something with labels and night kisses and mornings tangled in sheets; maybe the “cute” thing wouldn’t have landed like a slap every time.
Maybe he could’ve laughed it off, tugged you closer by the waist, murmured something cocky like, “Yeah? Wait ’til you see what else I can do that’s cute,” before proving exactly how not-cute he could be. In that version of things, “cute” would’ve been foreplay, a tease, a private joke between two people who already knew the heat underneath.
But you weren’t dating. You were just you and him: best friends, the girl who’d been there since forever. The one he could show up to unannounced, bruised and moody, and you’d still open the door without hesitation. The one he thought about way too much when the lights were off and the condo was quiet.
Macklin didn’t remember exactly when the feelings had started. Maybe they’d been there all along. Maybe they’d crept in slow when you laughed too hard at his dumb jokes, every time you patched him up after a fight. Either way, he’d been too stupid to name it until it was too loud to ignore.
In your perspective, it was totally harmless. Calling Macklin cute had always felt like the most natural thing in the world, the same as breathing. You never once thought it could hurt him. You’d noticed the way he sometimes turned his face away when the word slipped out, cheeks going pink, jaw tightening just a bit.
But you’d chalked it up to shyness. Macklin was shy in the sweetest ways, when you complimented his new haircut, when you hugged him too long after games, when you caught him staring at you across the room like he’d forgotten how words worked. That flush, that quick duck of his head made your chest ache in the best way. You loved seeing him like that.
You really did think he was cute. Not in a diminutive way, not like you were patting him on the head and calling it a day. Cute in the way his whole face lit up when he scored and he’d do that little fist pump shrug combo like he was surprised he’d done it again. Cute in the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed, cute in the way he’d sprawl on your couch looking exhausted and impossibly beautiful all at once.
Anytime a new picture of him popped up, you’d stop scrolling and zoom in. His smile, all teeth and triumph, cheeks flushed from adrenaline. Every single one made you melt a little more. There wasn’t a person on the planet who could unravel you like he did. Not with grand gestures, just by being Macklin, by existing in the same space as you, close enough to touch, far enough that you ached with it.
To no one’s surprise, you traveled to Italy with Macklin for the Olympics. He’d known Italy was one of the countries you’d always wanted to visit since high school.
When he made the Team Canada roster, he didn’t hesitate. “Come with us,” he’d said casually. “My family’s going. You can crash in the hotel, I want you there.” His parents had loved the idea; his mom had already booked your room before you could protest.
Tonight was one of those casual evenings. Canada had practice earlier for tomorrow’s quarterfinal; his family had retreated to their rooms after dinner. It was around 7pm, the city lights twinkling outside your window.
You and Macklin were side by side on your hotel bed, backs against the headboard, legs stretched out. He was in gray sweats, scrolling aimlessly on his phone. You had yours open to Pinterest, hunting for new nail inspo for when you got home.
The feed loaded slowly on hotel wifi. Then a photo popped up on your home page: Macklin during warmups, red jersey hugging his shoulders, helmet tilted just so, stick gripped tight. The angle caught the focused set of his jaw, the faint flush on his cheeks from the cold rink, eyes sharp under the visor but with that tiny smile tugging at his mouth.
You gasped out loud. Macklin’s head snapped toward you. “What? Show me.”
“Oh my gosh,” you breathed, already zooming in. “This is the cutest pic I’ve ever seen.”
He leaned over, expecting maybe a photo of kittens or one of those viral baby animal reels you sent him constantly. “Lemme see-”
You turned the screen toward him fully. His eyes landed on the photo of himself, in full Olympic gear, looking every bit the focused sniper who’d been tearing up the tournament. He stared at the screen, then immediately looked back down at his own phone, jaw clenching.
You didn’t notice anything at first. “Mack, that’s such an adorable face expression. Look at your little smile. Like you’re plotting to score the next one.”
He didn’t respond right away, he kept scrolling, thumb moving too fast. “No, it’s not. It’s just another random picture they took of me..”
You nudged his shoulder lightly. “Nooo, it’s my new favorite picture. I’m putting it on one of my home screen widgets.”
“Y/n.” His voice came out low, he didn’t snap; he’d never snap at you but he was annoyed. “Can you just stop?”
You blinked, lowering the phone. “Stop what?”
“Calling it cute. Calling me cute.” He set his phone face down on the bed, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not adorable. It’s just me doing my job.”
“But it is adorable,” you insisted, softer now, confused. “The way your cheeks are pink from the cold, that tiny grin, you look happy. I love it.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose, shoulders tense. “That’s the problem. You love the happy, focused puppy version. Not..” He gestured vaguely at himself. “Not anything else.”
“Mack,” you started gently, “I didn’t mean-”
“I know you didn’t.” He cut you off. “But it’s every time like I’m still the kid you met years ago.” He finally looked at you. “I’m not and I don’t want to be that to you.”
Macklin didn’t know what he expected when he said that out loud but he’d carried the words around for so long, that saying them now felt inevitable. He wanted you and maybe this hotel room in Milan, was finally the right time.
You stared at him, eyes wide. “Okay.”
He exhaled, shoulders dropping. You paused, shifting so your knee brushed his. “Then what do you want to be?”
Macklin shrugged, gaze dropping to the space between you. He couldn’t look at you right now. “I don’t know.”
“Tell me, Mack.” Your voice was gentle, coaxing. You reached out, fingers brushing along his jaw lightly.
He shook his head once, catching your wrist in his hand to pull it away before the touch unraveled him completely. His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist. “This is gonna sound stupid, but.. I just want you to think I’m good looking. Not just cute.” He swallowed. “It makes me think you don’t want me the way I want you. And yeah, maybe I’m being an idiot right now, confessing like this in the middle of the freaking Olympics, but-”
“Mack!”
He stopped rambling, eyes snapping up to yours. “Do you really think I don’t find you attractive?”
He shrugged again. “I don’t know. You never say it like that.”
You let out a soft laugh. “Just because I haven’t exactly said the words doesn’t mean I don’t think it.” You moved closer, turning so you were facing each other fully on the bed. You lifted your free hand, fingers gentle under his chin, tilting his face up until he had no choice but to meet your eyes. “If anything, you’re the most handsome guy I’ve ever seen.”
The compliment landed softly, his cheeks flushed deeper, pink creeping up from his neck but this time it wasn’t embarrassment.
You smiled and started to lean in.
He met you halfway and your mouths brushed together. He deepened the kiss as his hand found the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair; yours slid to his shoulder, gripping the soft fabric of his long sleeve. You sucked lightly on his bottom lip, and he made a quiet sound in the back of his throat that sent heat curling through you both.
When you pulled back, both of you were smiling, stupid and breathless and a little dazed.
Macklin’s voice came out rough. “That.. that was nice to hear from you.” He swallowed, thumb brushing your cheek. “I think the same about you.”
You laughed softly, the sound muffled against his skin as you pressed another quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Took you long enough to say it.”
“Me?” He huffed, but there was no bite in it. “You’re the one who kept calling me something like it was a personality trait.”
“Maybe it is,” you teased, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “But handsome fits better.”
Macklin leaned back against the headboard, pulling you with him so your shoulders pressed together. You both settled in, he took your right hand in his, lacing your fingers without thinking, thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles.
You reached for your phone with your free hand, still open to that photo of him, “You know,” you said, tilting the screen toward him again, “I really might make this my Instagram profile picture.”
He huffed a laugh, glancing at it, then at you. “Yeah, sure. Maybe once we make it official to the public.”
You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Oh?” You say as you leaned your head on his shoulder.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ YOU SEEM PRETTY SAD FOR A GIRL SO INLOVE — MC71
pairing: macklin celebrini x actress!reader
synopsis: macklin celebrini has always had a crush on y/n, the famous young actress, but he can never seem to get with her, all because of her boyfriend. if she’s so in love though, why does she seem so sad?
series masterlist
liked by tatemcrae, mackcelebrini, and 2.3M more
ynuser beautiful life 🧘🏻♀️💓💘
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user1 queen has posted!!
irisapatow love you
tatemcrae get this girl in cinema again!
➥ ynuser on your screens soon 👀
user2 no bf post?
➥ user3 she hasn’t posted him in a while..
user4 girl i saw your bf in a club in LA
➥ user5 no way??
➥ user4 yeah.. he didn’t seem so taken to me
user6 MACK IN THE LIKES?
➥ user7 who’s mack???
➥ user8 macklin celebrini, a hockey player for the san jose sharks!
user9 macklin i see youuu
celebritygossip Actress Y/N L/N seen arguing with her boyfriend during dinner in Milan. The young actress was distraught after, leaving the restaurant in a hurry and seems to be in tears in the car.
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user10 i literally hate her bf
user11 met him irl and can confirm he’s a jerk LOL don’t know why she’s still with him
user12 imagine dating a super pretty famous actress and still not being satisfied. her bf fumbling 🙄
user13 DUMP HIS ASS Y/N
user14 :( i remember when they first got together and he was so sweet, what happened
texts between mack + will
liked by _willsmith2, ynuser, and 534k more
mackcelebrini on and off the ice 🏒
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_willsmith2 basic ass caption
➥ mackcelebrini BRO
user15 perfect pic lineup muah
user16 guys step aside i’ve got this
user17 Y/N LIKED THIS!!
➥ user18 don’t get the big deal behind this? she’s a famous actress his age and they follow each other LOL, she’s gonna like his post if she sees it on her feed
➥ user19 bro chill it’s just crazy watching two worlds collide that’s all
dailydoseofyn Y/N’s 73 Question Interview with Vogue is now up! I’m so incredibly proud of her so here are some of my personal favorite parts of the interview :)
user20 SHE MENTIONED MACKLIN OH MY GOSH
user21 did not expect y/n to be a hockey enthusiast
user22 omg her dealbreaker in dating being not watching her films, sneak diss at her mid bf who never seems to know what films she’s in
Summary: Quinn loves hearing y/n say his name for any reason, because he loves that she needs him so openly and doesn't shy from it. Even if she's mad, he just loves his name in her voice.
Author note: sort of a request for more of the youngest sibling!reader from @lilmoonily03
Themes/warnings: Smut, pretty much brat!reader
Quinn Hughes x youngest sibling!reader
Word count: 1.8k
Quinn steps into the apartment and is almost alarmed by the silence but he only gets one step in.
"Quinn!" Y/n exclaims making him feel like everything is completely correct in the universe. Her whiny tone bringing him more comfort than he'd care to admit.
"What is it baby?" Quinn smiles as she appears pouting, eyes rimmed and puffy which makes him actually worry as he closes the space between them with a bit more speed. "Hey, what's wrong?"
"I tripped over and bit my tongue." Y/n mumbles which quickly returns his smile before he pulls her chin a little to drop her jaw making before she sticks out her tongue.
He can't actually see any damage but he plants a kiss on her tongue anyway making her jump back with a nearly accusing expression.
"Kissing it better, baby." Quinn smiles pulling her closer again. "I got you a gift while I was gone."
"You did?" Y/n gasps perking up, the bitten tongue long forgotten like the "magic" kiss fixed it immediately. Though when Quinn is moving fast enough, y/n begins to poke having given him a whole 5 seconds to move and reveal the gift. So his name is whined out again making her bite back a smile. "Quinn...what did you get me?"
"So impatient." Quinn chuckles as he moves back to his bag and pulls out a few books that he'd spotted while killing time on his way to dinner with some of the team. He'd ended up in a book shop, admittedly to buy some of his own books, but he couldn't help but search for some of the books that contain filth his girlfriend enjoys reading. "I don't think I recognised any of these from your current collection."
"No. I don't think I've seen these before. Thank you, baby." Y/n hums then grinning as she moves and pecks his lips only for his hand to grip onto her waist and she is kept in a deepening kiss. Y/n tries to break it, but Quinn is unwavering. "Quinn-"
"What baby?" Quinn asks moving his lips from her own to the column of her neck, his nose nudging her jaw to force her head back and give him better access.
Y/n whimpers a little when his teeth sink into her skin a little as he pushes her back.
In truth his favourite thing for a welcome home is always going to be sex. But one big part of that is always his biggest turn on and it's hearing his name spill past y/n's lips again and again.
This time he bent her over the arm of the sofa, teasing her as he pressed his tip against her pussy, slipping forward over her clit. Aided by her dripping wetness making her give him the exact thing he wants.
"Quinn." Y/n whines shifting forward and trying to move back hoping to impale herself on him but failing as he slips and knocks her clit again making her snap a little more annoyed this time. "Quinn."
He doesn't bother to reply with anything verbal, only taking the double whine of his name as reason to thrust forward into her. Both their moans reverb around them.
Quinn is thrusting in and out of her with vigour, hands holding her waist and pressing her further into the arm of the sofa to maintain the control he knows she wants to fight him for but he's lost in his own chase for lust.
Y/n gets off on rougher treatment anyway, something about her youngest child brattiness needing some sort of taming. At least that's how Quinn views it, and maybe gets off on it.
When y/n nears her high Quinn's name rings out her mouth like a prayer and as if it actually is possible to wear out his name, each one grow quieter and weaker before she completely loses her voice. Her pussy spasming around him as he holds her hips using her orgasm to milk himself to his finish before slamming into her as he practically inflates her with his cum.
The heat following her and stretching her walls makes her moan his name one final time. He leans over her holding his body over her own for a second before he kisses her back.
"Aright, baby." Quinn sighs with a smile easing out of her and moving back.
He sucks in a breath finding the view of her completely unmoving as his cum leaks back out of her onto the floor.
They could never have carpet with how much cleaning up his returns home require. Rarely do they actually make it to the bedroom.
"Let's get you cleaned up." Quinn chuckles giving her a gently pat on the ass while she whines at him but makes no effort to move.
-
Quinn sighs as he runs his finger up y/n's spine, standing at the bar as she wears a backless dress.
His brothers and himself just had their last game against each other for the season and going out for a last.
"Quinn." Y/n grumbles as she continues to go ignored by the bartender.
They've been here enough times that the bartender seems familiar with Quinn's gentle possessiveness, harsh enough that the bartender won't approach till Quinn turns properly. At the moment his back is leaning against the counter.
"What?" He asks softly knowing exactly what she's whining his name for. But he's like a genie, in his head he's set a new rule that he needs her to say it three times.
"Quinn, we're supposed to be getting drinks for the table and I'm being ignored and you're not helping." Y/n huffs, glaring at him but he just continues to trace up and down her spine, waiting for that last ring of his name. "Quinn." Her tone snappy and sharp as she loses her patience, probably on the edge of climbing on the counter and jumping to make her own drinks.
Quinn finally turns raising his hand and getting attention immediately while y/n huffs from beside him. He orders the drinks with y/n's input as she leaned on the counter.
Quinn takes the drinks for himself and his brothers while y/n picks up her cocktail and frolics over to his brothers.
Y/n spends the night drinking and drinking till she's practically latched onto Quinn, whining his name as the night draws to a close and they leave, parting ways from Jack and Luke.
They get back to his apartment and y/n slides out her dress before Quinn has even got the chance to close the door properly.
"Quinn." Y/n sighs like a siren calling for him to follow her which he does without a second thought, picking up the dress with a small smirk to himself.
By the time he catches up with y/n, she is crawling onto the bed, completely naked, rubbing at her face lazily with a make up remover wipe.
"Quinn, can you finish it?" Y/n pouts holding out the wipe but Quinn moves to get a clean one, taking the dirty one from her and holding it with his other hand as he gently wipes off her face clean of any residue the first wipe didn't get off. "Thank you, Quinny."
He smiles leaning down kissing her softly which she melts into and chases him as he pulls away from her then smiling lazily at him in all her naked glory.
Her hands raise and make a grabby motion, a silent request (or demand) for him to cuddle with her. He undresses and climbs into the bed with her, rearranging her so she's also laid under the sheets and pressed to him.
"You know my name has never sounded as good as when you say it." Quinn states softly as she nuzzles her face into his neck.
"Quinn." Y/n hums before her tongue strays past her lips and she licks up his neck then giggling to herself while Quinn sighs at her drunk antics.
-
It's rare that y/n is genuinely angry at Quinn. She gets snappy or huffy with him. But upset and angry at him? That's so rare he could count the amount of times on one hand.
In her defence, this occasion was justified. Or it certainly was in her head.
"Quinn, you never listen!" Y/n barks, fists balled and face flustered with emotion. Not the good kind, but it fails to have the intended effect on her boyfriend. Instead all he wants is her to keep saying his name. It's practically hypnotic to him.
"It's just shampoo, baby." Quinn states and she withdraws like he's just told her that a dead rat would makes an acceptable loofah.
"It's the wrong shampoo, Quinn." Y/n frowns crossing her arms, still unaware of how much he's loving the sound of his name in her voice.
She'd asked him to get her shampoo on his way home and while he remember the brand and shape of the bottle. He did not remember the exact label, so he got the wrong specific type. A fool's mistake but he made it none the less.
"I'm sorry." He concedes and y/n melts in an instant. "I'll go out and buy the right one. I'll buy a few bottles so you have a few for a while."
Y/n shuffles towards him and he smiles accepting her hug as she slides her arms around his waist and he pulls her tightly to himself.
"I'm sorry...Can I blame mercury in retrograde?" Y/n mumbles, words muffled by her face pressed into his chest.
"You can blame whatever you like."
"Quinn..."
"What...?"
"I'll just use this shampoo then we can buy more. No point in wasting it. That's stupid."
God forbid y/n do something she deems stupid.
"Alright, well I'll still grab some next time I go out at least." Quinn promises and earns no voice of argument for that. "I love you, baby."
"I love you too, Quinn." Y/n hums, practically purring his name with the knowledge of it having such an effect on him.
Y/n flutters her eyes in a way that has been perfect by years of working her parents and anyone else to get her way.
"Quinn..." Y/n sighs softly earning a look. "...Can we please get to the lake house before your brothers this time? I want time alone there without them."
He's certain this is a side effect of being the last child standing when it came to living under her parents roof. She seems to find it a little more overwhelming or overstimulating to be in such a crowded house without being given time to acclimatise to the unfamiliar environment before being thrust into socialising too.
"Yeah, if you want baby. We can do whatever you want." Quinn nods, though he's hyperaware that she knows starting any request with his name is going to be met with agreement to her any demand.
Prompt: a slip in the shower causes you to call your best friend for help, your best friend who you haven’t admitted you’re in love with
requested!
Getting in a heated argument over cereal wasn’t on Mack’s list of things to do for the day. But he learned early on that was life with Will Smith.
“Dude, it tastes the way the box fucking smells. Like cardboard.” Will says, shaking the box of chocolate cereal like he’s trying to get his point across.
“Shut up Smit.” Mack says, content on eating whatever he wants to eat. “Y/N would agree with me, this is one of the best cereals.”
Will was quiet for a second, staring at his best friend with eyebrows raised. “Gee Mack, I wonder why.” Will says sarcastically, tapping his chin like he’s thinking very hard. “Oh I know! Maybe it’s because you two are in love with each other.” Will exclaims, smiling at the way Mack turns red.
“She’s my one of my best friends, I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that.” Mack says, looking down.
“No man.” Will says, teasing aside. “I’m your best friend. She’s the person you’re in love with.”
Call you crazy, but your morning showers with your phone propped up on the shower shelf with New Girl playing is one of your favorite things. The cozy lighting of your bathroom, the way your coffee maker brews in the kitchen, and the way it smells of eucalyptus as soon as you pump out your body wash.
Except this morning, things don’t go as normally planned. They did of course, New Girl is playing as you half watch half scrub your hair. But it’s the clumsiness of you that makes the whole thing horrible.
It’s the glob of shampoo you didn’t realize you dropped, and it’s the foot you just stepped down on, causing you to slip, and slipping in the shower has never proven to be a good thing.
You try to catch yourself, grabbing out for anything, but with everything being slippery tile, it doesn’t work. You go down hard, your ankle twisting painfully, your shoulder hitting the tub, your phone making a mockery out of you as it lands at the bottom of the tub. Thankfully in your shock you at least immediately grab it out of the spray of water still barreling out of the shower head.
The sound of Nick Miller’s voice and the water now hitting your body at the bottom of the tub are the only sounds in the bathroom.
“Fuck!” You exclaim, trying to move but instantly noting how bad of an idea that is. Your ankle screams in pain, and your shoulder throbs a bit too. “Oh my god.” You state, realizing the predicament you’re in.
You’re stuck, your ankle already bigger than normal, your shoulder telling you there’s no way you’re using upper body strength to get yourself out. And the cherry on top? You’re in the shower, naked.
There are two blatantly obvious choices. And you choose option number two, because calling 911 just isn’t in the cards for you today.
Your thumb hovers over your best friend’s number. And before you can talk yourself out of it, you call.
—
Mack and Will are still arguing over cereal when your name and picture flash across Macklin’s phone. The familiar photo of you and Mack in the Toffoli’s backyard capturing his attention.
Mack smiles as he goes to answer, knowing you’ll back him on the cereal debate. But Mack stills as he answers the phone because your voice, normally loud and full of laughter is quiet, it sounds wrong.
“Mack?” You whisper, but it sounds like you’re underwater.
“Y/N?” He asks, his tone instantly making Will drop the argument and freeze. “What’s wrong?”
“I-“ you start to say, and you suck in a breath before continuing. “This is so embarrassing but I don’t know what else to do.” You say into the phone, trying to adjust but the pain makes you suck in a breath.
“Are you hurt?” Mack asks, and he’s already grabbing for his shoes.
“Yea.” You say, and the simple word causes Mack’s brain to become blank.
“Okay, okay. What happened? Where are you? I’ll come and get you.” He stutters out, cursing at his shoes for not slipping immediately on and almost tempted to go without them.
“I slipped in the shower.” You say, the embarrassment evident in your tone. “I can’t move my ankle, and maybe my shoulder? I don’t know I’m kind of just… stuck here.” You say.
“Are you bleeding?” Mack asks, and his eyes are frozen on Will who’s grabbing his phone and wallet.
“I don’t think so, but I’m cold and I can’t reach to turn the water off.” You say, and for the first time your voice slips and the words come out as a sob.
“I’m coming right now okay? I’ll be there in ten minutes sweetheart, I promise.”
But Mack’s words go unanswered, and as he pulls the phone away from his ear he sees the call dropped. He tries again, straight to voicemail.
“Fuck!” Mack exclaims, befitting shoving his phone in his back pocket and eyes are frantically scanning the countertops for his keys. “Where the fuck are my fucking keys?” Mack asks, and Will grabs them from the entryway table and throws them to his best friend.
“Let’s go!” Will says, and Mack books it to the passenger seat, Will knowing it’s not the best idea for Mack to be driving right now.
And as they high tail it to your place, your skin covers itself in goosebumps, and you shiver, but you wait, knowing Macklin is trying like hell to get to you as fast as possible.
—
“Y/N?” You hear your name being called from the front. The familiar voice of your best friend, before a knock comes on the bathroom door.
“Mack!”
“I’m coming in, okay?” He asks, and you say okay, yelling over the sound of the water still spraying.
You hear the bathroom door open, and you can hear movement in the living room, who you can only assume is Will. The curtain is closed, but you can see the giant outline of Mack as he enters the bathroom.
“I’m stuck.” You say, biting your lip because of the pain.
“I’m going to turn the water off.” He says, and you nod even though he can’t see you. But you watch as his hand comes through the edge of the shower curtain, blindly fumbling around until he finds the knob and turns it off.
The silence is thick, and without meaning to you let out a little sob. You aren’t an idiot, you know Mack is going to have to pick you up from the bottom of the tub. And while you’ve been in love with him forever, this wasn’t exactly what you envisioned.
“Okay, where exactly are you hurt?” His voice asks, softly and without its normal expression.
“My ankle is the worst.” You say, not even daring to look. “But my shoulder too, I don’t know what’s wrong with it but it hurts to move.”
The sound of your voice cracking breaks Macklin’s heart.
“Alright, I’m going to help you out.” Mack states, his eyes scanning around for a towel.
“Mack.” You state, and he pauses. “I’m not wearing anything.”
In any other situation Mack’s racing heart wouldn’t be a bad thing. But you’re hurt, you’re scared, and Mack would rather step into traffic than make you uncomfortable.
“Do you trust me?” He asks softly, and your voice answers with a yes. His heart cracks even more as he finds a fluffy green towel in the closet. “Here’s my plan.” He says, standing outside of the curtain. “I’m going to hand this to you, cover yourself as best as you can, I’m going to open the curtain, figure out the best way to pick you up, and then I’m going to close my eyes and set you on the counter until you can wrap the towel around yourself.” He says, surprised he was able to get through all of that without stuttering.
It takes a second for you to respond, but then you whisper back the smallest, “your eyes will be closed when you pick me up?”
“Until you wrap yourself up, I promise.” He says, and you sniffle a bit from the other side.
“Okay.” You say, and Mack nods, before going to put the towel past the curtain, turning his head towards the door just in case. But he feels the towel being pulled from his fingers, and he waits until you say you’re ready.
“I’m covered.” You say, and for the first time since he picked up the phone you let out the tiniest laugh. He feels just a little weight come off of his shoulders at the sound.
“Ready for me to open the curtain?” He asks, wanting to hear your confirmation before anything.
“Yeah.” You state, and he does.
You look pitiful, not that Macklin would ever say it. But he keeps his eyes on yours, only moving them to scan your shoulder and your ankle. The towel is laid over the top of your body, but he knows when he goes to wrap his arms around you he’ll be met with bare skin on your back.
“Fuck, sweetheart.” He says, and your chest gives a jump with the sob you’re holding in.
But Mack doesn’t want to prolong this any longer than he has to, so he bends down, knees on the floor as he looks into your bloodshot eyes.
“Mackie.” You say, wanting nothing more than to launch into him but you can’t.
“I know, I know.” He says, scanning you trying to figure out the best way to lift you without knocking into your shoulder and keeping your foot steady. “I’m going to get you out now, okay? We’ve got to get you out” He says, and you nod, biting your lip.
And before Mack can question himself, he gets his arms into a good position before keeping his word of closing his eyes. One arm of yours, which he can only assume is your good arm, goes around his neck, and he reaches under you. His hands are met by your freezing cold skin, and he has to bite his tongue to not make a sound. One arm slips under your knees, the other wrapping around your back as you’re pulled into his body.
Your head rests against his shoulder as he carries you. Making small steps so he doesn’t trip and make this worse. And you try to force yourself to focus on how good it feels to be in his arms versus the pain of your ankle and shoulder.
Macklin forces his eyes to stay shut, he wants to make sure you’re okay, wants to see your wounds and fix them. But your comfort comes first, so he follows your voice as you lead him to the counter top.
“Okay, I’m situated.” You say after you adjust the towel to go completely around your body. And still, when Mack opens his eyes, he’s looking towards the top of the mirror. “I’m covered.” You whisper, and the sound of your voice makes him look back to you. His eyes focusing in on you. You’re covered, yes, but water still drips from your soaking wet hair down your exposed shoulders. And as he goes to look at your ankle, water also drips down your legs and falls to the tile floor below.
“We’ve got to take you in.” He says to you, his voice so soft, so sweet that new tears appear in your eyes. You just nod your head, a shiver racking through you. “I’m going to go grab you some clothes okay?” He says, and you nod.
“Mack? Can you grab me another towel?” You ask as he’s reaching for the door.
“Yeah, of course.” He says, handing you a second fuzzy green towel.
“Do you think you can-“ you start to ask, but Mack doesn’t need you to finish. He opens the towel up, and like he’s seen you do a million times when you get out of a pool, or the lakes and oceans in the summers, he wraps the towel around your hair, getting it off your shoulders. He twists it, and you laugh lightly as he stands back to eye his work.
“You look beautiful.” He says, his eyes so loving as he looks at you. But he leaves before you can respond, the anxiety of what he just said coursing through his veins.
Mack moves swiftly through your room, finding all the clothes he needs for you to go to the ER. He blindly grabs at for a bra and underwear, like even this he wants to be respectful of. Then he moves to grab you pants, before opting for shorts since they’d be easier to slip around your ankle. Then last, a sweatshirt. But he pauses, before pulling his off of his body, fixing his black t shirt that rides up a bit.
You have a thing for taking Mack’s sweatshirts. Especially ones off his back. And he lets you, no matter where you are, no matter who you’re with. You tell him it’s because they are warm, which is partly true. The other part is that they smell like him. As he makes it back to the bathroom, he sets your things down on the counter top, before realizing this too may be a bigger challenge than he thought.
“Maybe I’ll just go naked?” You ask him, shrugging your good shoulder.
In any other situation this would have Mack laughing, have him looking at you like he always does. Have him so close to cutting the shit and admitting his feelings. And while he does crack a smile, a snort also coming out, Mack shakes his head.
“I can help,” he states, before quickly finishing it with, “if you want.”
You eye him for a second, before nodding. And like before, Macklin’s heart races as his eyes are back to being slammed shut, and he helps you put bottoms on. Your bra, however, is his undoing.
“You’re going to have to clip it.” You say, and Mack’s hands freeze, and he must have been making a face because you let out a pained laugh. “You’ve seen me in bikinis, Mack.” You say, and he nods.
“Yeah, yeah, bikinis.” He says, shaking his head like that is going to help the thoughts of you in a bikini leave his head. The thoughts of your skin golden after spending hours in the sun, the thoughts of your laugh at something stupid he or Will decided to do. And especially the thoughts of that stupid teal bikini you bought insisting on wearing it for ‘Sharks support’.
“Macklin?” The sound of his name pulls him back to the present, and he turns red as he realizes he just completely zoned out while you’re waiting for him to clip your bra.
What the fuck is his life? He thinks as he clears his throat and reaches behind your back. His fingers stumble over the hooks, and apologies spill from his mouth. But he gets it finally, and next holds up his sweatshirt to help over your head.
Your eyes catch on it, noting the fact he came in wearing it, and now he’s not. But that’s the thing about you and Mack. You know each other, maybe too well, but you do. Mack knows how much the small things he does mean to you. Giving you sweatshirts, bringing you coffee, how when he’s with you he’s so invested in you that half the time he forgets anything and anyone else exist.
To Macklin, it’s just you. He wouldn’t notice if the world was ending, so long as you’re breathing the same air as him.
It takes a second to get the sweatshirt on, and you cry out as he bumps your shoulder funny.
“Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He says, and like it it’s nothing, he plants a kiss to your temple.
You turn red, you can feel the heat all throughout your body. But you just rest your head against his chest. Your bad shoulder and arm are sitting loosely under the sweatshirt, with no point in putting your arm in the sleeve to have them take it back out at the hospital.
“Thank you.” You say, your head still tucked against his chest.
“You don’t have to thank me.” He says with a small shrug, you can feel it against your head.
“Yes.” You say, closing your eyes. “Yes I do. You came here and you saw me like this and-“
“I’ll come,” he says, voice softer now. “Every single time. Whether you need me to kill a spider, sit with you in silence, bring you coffee, or pick you up off the bathroom floor. I’ll come as soon as you call.”
“Mack.” You whisper, tears leaking down your cheeks.
His hand is on the side of your face, thumb carefully wiping the falling tears away. His face is flushed, and his hair messy from how fast he runs his hands through it.
“After.” He says, and you lean the side of your head into his palm. “We’ll talk about all of this after, I promise. But please, please I need to get you to the hospital.” He says, and you nod, preparing yourself for the pain of the jostle into his arms. “I’ll go slow.” He says, reaching around you to be able to pick you up.
“I trust you.” You whisper, and you swear you hear a sharp inhale at your words.
But he picks you up, careful to try not to move you so much. You scrunch your face, your eyes shutting tightly in pain.
“God, I’m sorry.” He says, carrying you out to the living room where you can tell Will has been anxiously waiting.
He looks at you, giving you a sad little smile.
“Hey there, disaster.” He says, his normal nickname for you never fit as perfectly as it does now.
“Sorry for ruining your day.” You say, but Will cuts you off before Mack can.
“Absolutely not.” He says, waving his hands in front of him. “Go get fixed up, I’ll take care of everything here.” He says, and Macklin nods his appreciation at his best friend.
“You don’t have to-“
“Too late. I’ll see you guys when you get back.” Will says, already starting to build what looks like a makeshift bed on your couch.
You smile, the overwhelming feeling of love spreading through you as Macklin carries you to the car.
—
The hospital wasn’t as horrible as you thought. You get discharged with a cast on your foot, and a bruised shoulder you’re told not to over extend.
But Macklin was there the whole time. He stayed plastered by the bed, the nurses even told you he wouldn’t stop pacing while you got your x-rays. And as he nodded, listening and asking questions about your recovery, you couldn’t even listen to the doctor. All you could focus on was him.
So when you finally returned home, Will having stocked your entire place with necessities, you look to Mack, and blurt the words you’ve felt since you laid eyes on him for the first time.
“I love you.” You say, and you watch as Mack freezes. His hand stills on the pillow beneath your cast, his shoulders lock, his eyes flick up to yours completely stunned.
But it’s the the silence that follows that is horrible. You let one second pass, then two before you’re back pedaling like mad.
“Oh my god,” you say, panic flooding your chest. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to just say that. I mean, I did, but I didn’t mean to say it like that. Not while I’m in a cast and high on pain meds and you’re just trying to be nice because I fell in the shower like a fucking idiot-“ But your rambling ends as Mack stands.
For one second, you think he’s going to step back. You think he’s going to put space between you or that you’ve ruined everything in the exact way you always feared you would.
“Mack,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I’m sorry.”
But he doesn’t say anything, instead he just leans down. One hand bracing himself on the back of the couch beside your head. The other coming to your face, so slowly and carefully.
And before you could process it, Macklin is kissing you. His lips warm, touch still light but lips firm and steady. And you make the smallest sound and lift your good hand to his hoodie, your fingers curling into the fabric.
That’s all he needs as he kisses you deeper. It’s still gentle, but there’s something underneath it. Relief, want, months and months of almosts and words neither of you were brave enough to say. And as he finally pulls away, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against yours, and his breathing is uneven.
And with his voice barely above a whisper, his cheeks pink and his green eyes glassy he whispers, “I love you too, sweetheart. More than anything in this whole fucking world.” And your best friend leans down to kiss you again.
