sidgeno au where sid is a goalie
"I'm score," Malkin tells him, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. He is missing his mouth guard. Again.
His eyes are bright like a cat in the rink's lights. Sweat soaks the collar of his jersey.
"Your score can go fuck itself," Sidney snaps, unable to stop himself. Malkin laughs in his face as his linemates crash into him, cheering.
—
"Hi Sidney," Malkin grins at him. "Like hair today."
Sidney ignores him as Malkin, all lopping gait and smooth strides, skates into position to take his shootout goal. He can't even see Sidney's hair because Sidney has his helmet on, so whatever the heck that means.
Malkin's long legs eat up the distance between them quickly. Sidney watches the grip of his hands on his stick. Malkin snipes the puck over Sidney's shoulder, who is a fraction of the second too late, and Sidney grits his teeth.
"Bye Sid!" Malkin chirps. He does something weird with one of his hands that takes Sidney a moment to figure out is him attempting to wiggle his fingers in some kind of mock wave, thwarted by the bulk of his hockey glove.
"Bro," PK says after, smirking. They won the game, Sidney saving the other two shootout goals that were not done by Malkin. There is a buzzing under his skin.
"Don't," Sidney tells him. PK just laughs, snapping out his towel to catch the back of Sidney's thighs. He makes a completely unnecessary "wuhh-chuk!" noise with his mouth.
"I am not whipped." So much of Sidney's life would be simpler if he didn't blush as easily, he despairs.
—
Sidney dries his hands off on the small towel hanging beside the sink. He is in Mario Lemieux’s downstairs toilet. His chest feels all tight and weird. He presses his palm against the bone of his sternum as if he can flatten the awkward thing inside of him.
“Woah, easy, where fire?” Sidney hears when he yanks open the bathroom door a little too hard.
Malkin grins down at him.
“Malkin,” Sidney says. Every time he sees the Russian off the ice, he is surprised by how tall he is. Even now, slouched against the opposite wall, hands is his jean pockets, jeez, he really is all leg, Malkin towers over Sidney. It is not even that narrow of a hall. This is ridiculous. What is even the point in being that tall?
“Sidney,” Malkin says, smile widening. Sidney never knows what the joke is that Malkin is laughing at.
He breathes in deeply. They are on the same team now and if there is one thing Sidney understands it is teammates. He takes another look at Malkin’s teasing smile, at how easily he waits for Sidney to make the next move, as if he’d stay there until someone came looking for one of them and then longer too, until, maybe, Sidney is ready to move. He exhales.
Don’t be weird, Sidney tells himself.
“Sorry, man, it’s free now,” he offers, stepping aside.
Malkin shrugs, his whole body seeming to move with it. “It’s fine. Not need.”
“Um.” Sidney blinks. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
Sid finds it somewhat unfair when he decides to do his best not to make things weird and the rest of the universe doesn’t seem to get the email.
“I’m, uh, going to go in now.” He gestures vaguely in the direction of the kitchen. He thinks he can smell garlic and tomato. “Dinner is probably nearly ready.”
“Yes, probably.”
Malkin sweeps his hand out in front of him in a dramatic flourish. Despite how much the media puts them up against each other, it is not often that Sidney looks at Malkin and is reminded of Ovechkin. He is now. He thinks about saying this.
It might finally get Sidney a reaction. Shake away this uncertain feeling that Malkin always seems to bring out of him.
Malkin is still smiling, eyebrows raised. His eyes are all soft.
“I’m not sitting next to you,” Sidney tells him. Malkin laughs behind him, a large hand warm sits between Sidney’s shoulder blades for a second as he follows.
“Ah, Sid, Geno found you then, good.” Mario is topping up drinks at the bar cart. Gonch looks over at them and does something with his face that makes Sidney’s stomach feel all squirmy and hot, like he has just been caught skating when he was supposed to be resting.
Malkin is standing very close behind him and has yet to move away.
Gonch raises his eyes upwards, muttering quietly.
“No need for introductions, I suppose,” Mario continues, holding out a drink to Gonch.
“No, I don’t think so,” Gonch says, dry, taking the glass.
Malkin says something sharp then in Russian, stepping around Sidney. Gonch only smiles, sipping at his drink.
—
"Here, Croz." Flower grins up at him from a window seat and shoves his coat off the seat next to him. Sidney hesitates for a moment. With the Habs, he always flew with an empty seat next to him. One of the boys - PK mostly - might come over and chat for a few minutes, but they took off and landed with no one beside Sidney.
New team, new routine, Sidney's mom had mentioned over the summer, spooning out mashed potatoes. Sidney had stoically ignored the over-exaggerated look of shocked horror on Taylor's face behind their mom's back. Adaptability is a mindset.
He stuffs his bag in the overhead, dropping down into the seat Flower had, apparently, saved for him. "Thanks, bud."
Flower shrugs, throwing a vague thumb over his shoulder. "Eh, I figured from what Price has told me the card game back there wasn't much your scene."
Sidney twists in his seat. The plane is pretty much full by now, and there is a handle of guys clustered together near the rear of the plane. Malkin's hands look big, even from here, where he is brandishing a phone in the air, saying something. Sidney thinks Letang might be smiling a little, maybe, he is not quite sure, amused at what looks like Malkin's usual giving out to those around him. From the look on Jordan's face, he is not happy.
"Ah, no," Sidney says, sitting back down. He stretches out his legs in front of him as much as he can, crossed at the ankles. His back clicks faintly. "Not really. I'll play a little, you know, but yeah. Not much."
Flower is looking at him like he knows exactly why Sidney doesn't play much card games, or any games outside of the rink, with the team. Sidney can only imagine the stories Price has told him. PK has an unnerving knack to get Sidney to do what he wants, and there was nothing he found funnier than whipping out his party trick of How Quick Can We Get Sid Annoyed At Losing Something That Literally No One Else Gives A Shit About. Or something.
"What."
Flower only shrugs again, a chesire's cat smile on his face. Sid squints at him. He refuses to let him play Sidney like PK was always able to.
"Nothing, mon ami. Just thinking that we should get you and G to go a round, maybe, could be fun."
Sidney's face must say exactly what he thinks of that. Flower laughs loudly. "No, no, you'll see, if you poke him enough our fearless captain gets all prickly and annoyed. It's great. Lots of fun. I fear you might be perfect for each other."
"That doesn't sound very fun to me," Sidney says.
Flower waves a hand, eyes sharp. "Would I steer you wrong, Sid?"
“Um. Yes.”
Flower laughs again and this time the skin around his eyes crinkles with it. “Good man,” he says, and settles into his seat.
—
Sidney has never asked Malkin if he remembers Latvia. Or. Well, obviously, Malkin remembers playing in Latvia.
He just doesn’t know if Malkin remembers playing against him in Latvia.
Sidney does.
Geno is broader now, more solid on his feet, and when he yells after scoring, knee raised in the air, the sound of him is deeper. It sinks into Sidney’s stomach the same way. Sidney remembers how Ovechkin tucked himself up under Geno’s arm, remembers the strain in their faces, unlined as they were back then. Geno has always been quiet next to Ovechkin’s Ovechkinness — PK is lowkey compared to Ovechkin — but there was something brash about him on the ice. Bold, maybe. It had made Sidney think of a knight, which made Sidney feel silly even as they won. Geno is annoyingly good at making Sidney feel like that, stupid and fluttery. Geno is Geno now.
—
Geno breaks off a corner of banana bread. Sidney opens his mouth to rib him for not even waiting until it was served. The scolding dies in his throat.
Geno is humming, low and quiet, and licking at his index finger and thumb. Sidney watches the pink of his tongue. His stomach has gone all gooey.
“Not bad, Sidney Crosby.” Geno’s tongue pokes out again. Before this, Sidney thought he was gaining an immunity to the sight of it teasing him but it looks like that plan has been set back at least a few months.
“Uhm.” Sidney clears his throat. There is a crumb on Geno’s bottom lip. Jeez. “Yeah. Thanks, bud. Cool.”
Geno hums again. A grown man should not be able to make that sound, he is not a tiger that can purr. Sidney thinks about putting his ear to the muscle under Geno’s collarbone and getting him to do it again. His ears burn.
“Think, no. Maybe more like sweet, yes, Sid? Is cake.”
The warm bubble in Sidney’s stomach bursts and spreads through him. He rolls his eyes, groaning, "Oh for — it is not cake. It's banana bread."
Geno only grins, moving to bump hips with him.