A Step Too Far
Geno pranks Sid. It...doesn’t go as planned.
For the @sidgeno-fluff-fest prompt: comfort items. Not quite comfort, but it sort of centers around an item, at least? Comes in at about 8k.
tw: bullying (sort of, depending on your POV)
Sid’s still talking.
He’s telling the story of some WWII pilot or something—he’s talking too fast for Geno to catch all of it—and he has been for the past ten minutes. It’s gotten bad enough that everyone other than Jake has started glazing over or has escaped to the bar, and Jake’s only still listening because he still has that hero worship thing going on.
Geno wasn’t paying attention that the beginning, to be honest—he was usually pretty good at figuring out when Sid actually cared if he paid attention or when he just wanted someone to nod as he talked at him—but it’s getting ridiculous. Sid is so intense even about this, talking a mile a minute with his whole face lit up even in the dim light of the bar, his fingers running over his chain like he can’t keep still. It’s at least distracting, watching that—Sid’s fingers and the chain, how the gold slips over his blunt, strong fingers.
Geno blinks. Sid’s still talking. He thinks there are submarines involved now? He’s not sure. Sid’s talking and he’s apparently noticed no one but Jake is really paying attention, because he’s reoriented himself from the table at large to mainly Jake.
“Yes, we get,” Geno breaks in, as Sid takes a breath. He’s taking one for the team, he decides, and that’s backed up by the thankful looks Flower and Tanger give him. “You big nerd, nothing new.” Sid’s head jerks to Geno. Geno smiles at him, all teeth. “Let talk about interesting things now.”
Sid grins, and laughs back. He’s always been able to laugh at himself; it’s one of the things Geno finds most endearing about him. Without that, he’s sometimes thought—usually when Sid was at his most stubborn and irritating—he’d be insufferable. With it, well. It made it easy to tease him. “I’m sorry I like to educate myself,” Sid retorts. He rubs the chain between his thumb and forefinger.
“Educate yourself, fine. Educate all of us…Maybe should quit hockey, be teacher?” Sid makes a face. “Then kids have to listen.”
“You’re free to leave,” Sid retorts.
Geno gestures to wear he’s pinned in by Sid on one side and the wall on the other. “Sorry, ass too big. Got me captured.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Sid snaps, but he’s chuckling as he rolls his eyes. “You want out?”
Geno makes an exaggerated frown. “No use. Trapped here forever.”
“Maybe we can use that on the ice,” Tanger inserts. Geno glances across the table to wear Flower and Tanger are sitting, watching Sid with judgmental eyes. And maybe Geno too, but Geno knows them. Neither of them will miss an opportunity to give Sid shit either. “Trap Giroux in a corner with your ass.”
“Giroux? Think too small, Tanger.” Geno eyes Sid, who’s turning a little red but he’s smiling too, taking it in good sport. “Weber at least. Chara, maybe.”
“Sid wishes he could trap Weber with his ass,” Flower throws in, and Sid goes a bit redder. His fingers have slowed on the chain, now; they’re resting close to his chest, where his shirt is gaping open just a little.
“You guys can all fuck off,” Sid tells them. He’s always the least creative with his chirps. Then his lips curl into a smirk. “Anyway, Shea wishes I would trap him with my ass.”
“Ooh!” Tanger cheers, and Flower toasts Sid with his beer. Jake’s just watching them all with wide eyes, because it always takes a while for rookies to understand that Sid’s actually the dorkiest person ever and isn’t whatever hero they’ve been hearing about since they were born.
Sid’s still smirking. Geno wonders—he knows he and Weber are friends, they were roommates at the Olympics, they still hang out whenever they play each other. Sid…
“Is okay,” Geno says, patting Sid on the head in the way he knows Sid hates because it makes him feel short. Sure enough, Sid glares up at him. “Good to have dreams. Even if Weber, dream little small.”
“Oh?” Sid’s still glaring, but he’s got that tilt to his head that says he’s enjoying it too. His hands are on the chain again, idly stroking it. It’s almost a little obscene. “Isn’t Shea bigger than you?”
“No,” Geno mutters. “I’m definitely taller.”
“We can check,” Tanger suggests, going for his phone. That’s really not necessary, Geno thinks; he’s pretty sure he’s taller than Weber. Or maybe Weber just lied more on his stats.
“No, don’t think so.”
“Yeah, let’s,” Flower agrees, because all French Canadians are equal opportunity shit-stirrers. Geno glares, and Flower gives him his most innocent look. “What? I want to know for next year’s fantasy team.”
“You think you pick me, you crazier than I’m think.”
“Hey, did you see the Habs game last night?” Tanger puts in, still looking at his phone. “Looks like Shea did well.”
“Yeah—it was great,” Sid agrees, leaning in like he always does when hockey comes up. It’s like everything in him just gets a little bit more when hockey is mentioned. It’s another one of those things that should be insufferable but isn’t. “Their penalty kill…”
Geno lets Sid start talking again, even if this time it’s on something that they’re all actually interested in. Apparently all the Habs had a good night; Geno is despite himself drawn into the discussion of the Habs’ prospects, because he likes a good hockey talk as much as the next guy on the team, as long as the next guy isn’t Sid.
He goes to take a sip of his drink, and finds to his surprise it’s empty. That won’t do. They don’t even have practice tomorrow; he needs more. “Sid.” He pushes at Sid’s shoulder. “More beer.”
“Get it yourself,” Sid retorts. “No,” he tells Jake, who had been asking about the points overlay. “It’s—”
“Siiid,” Geno interrupts. “Beer.”
Sid turns his whole body to look at Geno, his eyes drawing together a little. Geno stares back. They both know who’s going to win this, because they’ve been doing this since neither of them could technically get each other beers.
“Fine.” Sid huffs out a breath, but he gets to his feet. He turns to the rest of the table. “Anyone else?”
“So nice of you to ask,” Flower says with a mischievous smile, and Sid rolls his eyes and pretends to listen to whatever ridiculous drink Flower is going to try to make him order.
“You’re all dicks,” Sid announces, and turns to go to the bar. He greets a few of their other teammates on the way, slapping some shoulders and stopping to talk to some others, making his captain rounds. It’s always amazing, Geno thinks, watching him go, that people think he’s a loner; Geno’s never seen anyone who makes friends as thoroughly as Sid, at least on any team he’s ever been on.
He draws his attention back to the table. Tanger’s taken over Sid’s explanation, and apparently for him it requires props, including but not limited to Geno’s empty beer mug, Flower’s hand, and the menu on the table.
It’s amusing to watch and heckle, enough that Geno doesn’t notice that he remains drinkless until it’s over.
Then he does, and he’s not amused. “What take Sid so long?” he asks. Sid’s usually pretty efficient about completing tasks, even if he can be too polite to edge himself up to bars.
Flower looks around, then he laughs. “I think he started to dream bigger,” he chuckles, and waves at a corner of the bar.
Sid’s leaning against the bar, so from the table they can see his face, but he’s not looking at them. He’s looking at the guy next to him at the bar, whose face Geno can’t see but he can see he’s tall and broad and has thick dark hair, and he’s closer to Sid than is normally acceptable. And Geno wouldn’t even need to see that; he can see how Sid’s oriented himself, how he’s looking up at the guy with that look of his that’s half coy and half a challenge and all trademarked Sidney Crosby intensity, how Sid’s playing with his necklace again but this time it’s less like he can’t sit still and more like he wants to draw attention to the chest showing at his collar, to the deftness of his fingers.
“Well damn,” Tanger lets out a low whistle. “Well done, Sid.”
Geno’s beer is sitting next to Sid’s elbow, forgotten. The guy is leaning in, using the inches he has on Sid to loom just enough that Sid’s flushing. Geno knows that lean. This guy’s not that good at it.
Sid’s chain is wrapped around his finger, and then he lets it fall.
“I’m have plan,” he decides, not looking at Sid anymore. “For prank, on Sid.”
“Okay.” Flower perks up.
“No, I don’t—I’m leaving!” Jake shoves back his chair. “Don’t make me part of this.”
Geno considers dragging him into it, because he needs to learn how to do pranks if he’s going to survive in this locker room, but the kid’s clearly a little tipsy and Geno doesn’t really trust him to keep a secret from Sid anyway. “Fine, go,” he allows, waving Jake away. Jake doesn’t wait for Geno to change his mind.
“Anyway,” Geno goes on. “I prank Sid.”
“Okay.” Tanger nods, and gestures for Geno to go on. “Just, don’t fuck with his game.”
“Of course not!” Geno’s not an idiot. “Not anything with routines. I’m think, take necklace.”
Flower’s eyebrows go all the way up, and he glances at Tanger. It’s not the reaction Geno was expecting. He’d thought it was a great idea. Watching Sid run around like a chicken with his head cut off was always funny. Messing with Sid was always funny, because he took it in good sport and recognized that it united the room and raised everyone’s morale when they got one over on the captain.
But, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Flower asks slowly.
“Yes! Will be funny.”
“He really likes his necklace,” Tanger points out. Geno’s noticed. Sid looks like he likes his necklace a lot like now, still doing that idle stroking thing as he talks to the guy.
“Yes, is why it is funny,” Geno explains slowly, in case something’s getting lost in translation. “I take, he look everywhere, I give back.”
They exchange that look again. They’re going to start talking in French soon, Geno can tell.
“You could figure out another prank,” Flower suggests. “I’ve got one I’ve been thinking of, with shaving cream—”
“No, my prank good,” Geno decides. The guy’s even closer now. Sid would just have to turn his hand to touch his chest. Geno’s beer is probably getting warm by now. “Is what he deserve, for forget our drinks.”
Tanger says something to Flower in French. Geno knew it.
“I’m get my own drink,” Geno tells them, and slides out of the booth. If Sid forgot about him, he can get it himself.
He’s at the bar when suddenly Sid is at his side, and Geno nearly jumps. He’d been very pointedly not looking at where Sid was flirting.
“Hey!” Sid grins, and he’s clearly amped from his flirting, flushed and enthusiastic with the attention. “What are you doing?”
Geno raises his eyebrows. “Think you forget about us. Need beer somehow.” Tall guy is still standing where Sid left them, and he’s very obviously watching Sid. Now that Geno can see his face, Geno can admit that he is hot. It’s not like he expected anything else. Sid occasionally does have taste in men, even if not in footwear.
“I was going to come back,” Sid tells him, but then he’s sliding the beer into Geno’s hand, and Flower’s drink at him on the bar. “Here, see?”
“Take you long enough,” Geno mutters, but he glances over Sid’s shoulder at the guy, not trying to be subtle. Sid grins, almost a smirk.
“Yeah, well. Got distracted.”
“Choose boy over teammates?” Geno tsks. “Bros before hos, Sidney. Know that.”
Sid chokes at that. Geno’s always been thankful for Talbo for making sure he learned the right English first. “That’s why I was coming back,” he repeats, and shoves at Geno’s shoulder. He means it, Geno can see. He’s going to come back with Geno, because Sid takes team bonding seriously. Maybe he doesn’t deserve Geno pranking him. It’s not like Geno hasn’t ditched teammates to flirt a little.
“Anyway,” Sid goes on, and he’s smirking again. “I got his number, so.”
No, Sid definitely deserves it. “Of course you get,” Geno tells Sid. “Now come, have to beat Horny in pool.”
“Geno!” Sid complains, but he lets Geno drag him away from the bar. “You know I suck at pool.”
“No, know you aren’t best at pool,” Geno corrects. “Not same thing.”
“Isn’t it?” Sid asks, grinning and Geno grins back. No one’s ever understood him quite like Sid.
///
In the end, it’s not a hard prank to pull off. Sid takes the chain off to shower, so Geno takes a quick shower after practice, gets back to the locker room well before Sidney, and swipes it from his stall. It’s still warm, as Geno puts it carefully in his stall, so he can keep an eye on it while he gets dressed.
Sidney comes in from the showers a few minutes later. Geno’s gotten his pants on, but he’s delaying finishing by chatting with Horny. Horny doesn’t know what’s happening, but he’s on a run about his daughter so Geno can zone out a little, watch over his shoulder as Sid comes in from the shower. He’s laughing with Tanger, his chest flushed from the shower and his smile on from a good practice to lead into the game tomorrow. Tanger says something, then whips a towel at him; Sid snorts and bats the towel away before he goes to his stall.
Geno puts his hand in his pocket, where the necklace is coiled. It feels smooth and warm against his fingers—maybe like it feels for Sid; lighter than his own but still solid.
Sid reaches, like he always does, for the chain—then stops. His eyes narrow. The smile drops from his face, as he looks around the rest of the stall. It makes a little noise; Tanger and Flower look at him, then at Geno with matched skeptical expressions. Geno keeps his face innocent.
“Okay,” Sid suddenly says, loud enough that it cuts through the chatter of the locker room. He’s turned from his stall, and is giving the room his most intimidating captain look. “Does anyone know where my necklace is?”
It gets a number of confused looks. Connor actually looks at his hands, like it might have materialized there.
“Maybe you lose?” Geno suggests, still innocent. Sid’s glare turns to him, but then it skates back to his stall.
“No, I put it right here, like I always do.” Sid gestures at his stall, a choppier movement than he usually uses. “I didn’t lose it.”
“You double check?” Geno suggests.
“Yes, of course I did.” Sid turns back to the stall to triple check, the tension tight in his base shoulders and back. “It’s not there!”
“Sure?” Geno asks again. He’s trying to sound helpful, but he’s much better at bullshitting in Russian.
“I’m—” Sid pauses, then turns to look at Geno. All his muscles are still taut, and his eyes are narrowed into his faceoff stare. “Geno.”
“What?” Geno asks, his most innocent face on. Everyone else seems to be catching on; there are some low murmurs and a few giggles.
“Geno,” Sid repeats evenly. “Give me my necklace.”
“I’m not have!” Geno insists.
Sid’s chest expands with a breath. “Geno,” Sid says one more time, flat. He’s focused everything on Geno; staring at him like the rest of the locker room has dropped away.
Geno lets himself smirk, and he draws his hand out of his pocket, the chain dangling from his fingers as he raises it to chest height. “Oh, you mean this necklace?”
There are a few more snorts, more giggles. Geno waits. This is where Sid rolls his eyes and calls him a fucker and punches him and threatens to get him back, where Sid laughs at how worked up he’d gotten about it, where he makes some joke thanking Geno for keeping it warm for Sid. Where maybe Sid grabs the nearest object to throw at him, and Geno will throw it back and laugh and maybe buy Sid a beer to make up for it so Sid’ll have to spend the next time they’re out at their table, playing with his chain as he rambles on to Geno.
Geno waits, the necklace hanging in front of him. Except—Sid’s staring at the chain, and he’s not smiling, not laughing.
His gaze darts to the side, then to Geno, then back to the chain, and then his chin goes up and he’s got his media face on, his Sidney-Crosby-after-a-bad-game ™ face on. “Thanks,” he says, short and humorless, snatches the necklace from Geno, and turns on his heel to stalk back to his stall.
The room’s silent. The low murmur of amusement is gone, and instead everyone’s either looking or very obviously not looking at Geno, at Sid’s set back as he gets quickly, efficiently changed, packs up his bag, and leaves. Tanger gives Geno a glare to echo Sid’s, then hurries after him.
Geno stares after Sid. Apparently Sid wasn’t in the right mood. Maybe he’ll need to buy him two beers.
He rubs his fingers together, remembering the feel of Sid’s chain between them.
///
Geno doesn’t hear from Sid the rest of the day. That’s not unusual—sometimes they text, sure, but they both do other things too. Geno thinks, vaguely, of texting first—just something so Sid knows that Geno didn’t mean anything by it—but Sid’s never needed that before. He knows that Geno only teases Sid so much because—well, he just always does. Because he likes Sid’s smile when he does, and his goofy laugh. Because Sid has a tendency to take himself too seriously if no one stops him. Because it’s what Geno does. So he doesn’t text first.
The next morning, he gets to morning skate on time for him, which is five minutes late for everyone else. He’s got it down to a science at this point, just how early he needs to get to practice to get on the ice on time. It’s not his fault that he can do it in less time than everyone else.
Everyone’s already there when he gets in, so the locker room is full of the normal bitching about mornings and good-natured challenges. Sid’s already there too, halfway to changed and pulling on his under armor shirt as he chats with Kuni.
Geno drops his bag loudly in his stall, and waits for the shit to start. Sid almost always likes to give him shit about getting in late, because he thinks that just because he drives like a grandpa everyone else does. Geno’s turning to him, ready with his normal retorts on his tongue—but Sid hasn’t looked at him. Sid’s still talking to Kuni, and Tanger’s joined them.
It’s not in itself odd. Sid doesn’t always give him shit for it. But Geno knows Sid too, and he knows the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his head, and he’s not just talking to someone else, he’s not looking at Geno.
“Sid!” Geno says, loud enough that there’s no way he can pretend he didn’t hear. “Make me get up early, not bring coffee?”
Sid straightens, turns. His media face is back on, a smile like he gives to reporters, and nothing like the squinty eyed smile he gives to friends—to Geno. The chain hangs around his neck, barely visible under his shirt. “I couldn’t carry it for everyone, sorry,” he says coolly, and then turns back. Flower says something in French; Tanger laughs and Sid rolls his eyes and giggles like he usually does when anyone teases him.
Okay, so Sid’s mad. Geno’s not an idiot, he can tell that. Sid just needs to work it out. They always come together on the ice, and it’ll be fine.
Except it’s not. Sid spends all practice being perfectly himself with everyone else, chirping everyone and talking too much and being the good captain, and with Geno’s he’s—well, he’s treating Geno like anyone else. He tells Geno when he did well and when he thinks he can improve, he slaps Geno on the shoulder after a particularly nice shot on Flower, their passes connect like they always do.
But he doesn’t smile at Geno like normal, like Geno’s hockey is the best thing he’s ever seen. He doesn’t laugh or joke with Geno at all. He just—plays hockey with him. He’s never just played hockey with Geno, not even when they were kids and Geno didn’t speak any English.
Back in the locker room, Geno thinks about going over—about saying something. Apologizing, maybe? He’s still not sure what he did wrong, why Sid’s doing this. Sid doesn’t even get mad, not really. He gets hockey mad, sure, but unless you’re a Flyer, it doesn’t go more than a few hours off the ice—and he even got over that with Giroux. They’re friends now, Geno knows. Sometimes they text. Geno’s teased him about that too, about how Sidney has some sort of magic Canadian pheromone that makes all hockey players like him if he spends some time in a room with them.
But other than that, off the ice—Sid’s an even-tempered guy. He gets pissed like anyone else, and sometimes it’s easy to set him off if you mess with his routines, but Geno hasn’t, and anyway, this isn’t Sid’s pissy lectures that last for ten minutes then end. This is something else, something colder and harsher.
Geno gets out of his pads, and makes a move to go over to Sid. To do something, so Sid will stop just talking to everyone else and will start talking to him again. But then Sid turns to survey the room, and his eyes slow as they get to Geno—and then keep going, without even a smile.
Geno makes a face, and turns to Horny to start talking about their line. He doesn’t need Sid either. Horny doesn’t even call him on it, just lets him talk about plays until they’re interrupted by Sid, who’s leaving and does his usual captain not-quite-a-speech telling everyone to rest up and eat a good dinner.
“Like spaghetti?” Geno calls, partly before he can stop himself but also because Sid has to look at him then. And he does, his eyes settling on Geno, and Geno smirks back. Maybe—Sid will laugh and say at least he can cook spaghetti, which is a lie because Geno actually can cook but he likes pretending he can’t so Sid will come cook for him, and they both know it.
Except Sid just nods. “Whatever you want,” he says with a shrug. “See you all.”
He leaves. Geno takes a deep breath, and Horny lets out a low whistle. “Someone’s sleeping on the couch tonight,” he observes.
“I sleep in bed, not know what you’re talk about,” Geno retorts, because pretending he doesn’t get an idiom is always a good way to handle a situation where he doesn’t have a response.
///
He goes home, takes his nap, and gets into his game mode. That’s the same no matter what, and the routine is a comfort. Sid might be mad at him, but Geno still sleeps and eats and gets in his car, and the locker room doesn’t feel any different when he gets there from how it normally does. Sid’s set and as intent as he usually is, the beating center of the team as he moves around the room, talking to the guys who like to talk.
Geno usually doesn’t like to talk—he needs to get into the right headspace, and that means not shooting the shit with everyone else. So he’s not surprised when Sid doesn’t say anything to him, just passes him by. It still feels icier.
Sully comes in to say his piece, then they line up. Geno waits, and then it’s just him and Sid, and Sid looks up and their eyes meet for what feels like the first time in twenty-four hours.
For a second, a horrible, interminable second, Geno thinks Sid’s not going to do it. That Sid’s going to leave him hanging like this. That they’ve broken, utterly and completely.
But it’s Sid, and of course he’s not going to do anything to break his routine. Sid reaches out, and Geno’s hand pressed against his chest, then their heads knock together. It’s only for an instant, probably even less time than usual, but it’s contact. It’s still theirs.
And then Sid’s down the tunnel, and Geno after him, and Geno tries to stop thinking about what Sid’s shoulders are telling him. They’ve got a game to play.
///
They win in OT, on Geno’s goal, and Geno’s hit by four other bodies after it goes in. He doesn’t need to look to know who is who; he knows the one at his side is Sid, hugging him hard in celebration. It’s the icing on a game-winner cake, and Geno goes into the locker room smiling.
He comes out—not frowning, but dimmed. Sid hadn’t thawed. Whatever moment there was on the ice—Sid’s grin and the way he’d looked at Geno like he was the best thing there was—was apparently a one time thing, because when he’d tried to tease Sid about the scuffle he got into in the second, Sid had just brushed it away. It’s getting to the point where other guys on the team are starting to look uncomfortable.
They all end up going out, because they won at home and the rookies are into the idea. Geno gets there late, so people are already settled—the young guys are dancing, and so are some of the older ones but most of them are at a table, arguing loudly in different sets because hockey players are incapable of being quiet in groups.
Sid’s at the table, laughing loudly at something Dales had said. His face is scrunched up into his real smile, and he’s wearing one of his black shirts that always manage to look too small around the shoulders, and his hand’s twisted in his necklace again.
Geno orders two beers, and goes over to the table.
Sid’s not quite in the center, so despite the odd looks it’s easy enough to bully his way into the seat next to Sid, ignoring the wary looks assorted French Canadians are giving him. “Here,” he says, shoving the beer at Sid. “For you.”
Sid looks at it, then at Geno. The edges of his laugh are still in his eyes. “Thank you,” he says automatically. Then, less Canadian-polite reflexes, “I already have a drink, though.”
“I know. Get you another one.” Does Sid not understand peace offerings? When Sid still hesitates, Geno glares. “Sid, take.”
Sid’s eyes dart from Geno around the table, at the people watching them, and then he smiles, that perfect too bright media smile. “Okay, thanks.” He slides it towards himself, and takes another drink of what he already has.
Geno sighs, and starts up a conversation with Kuni across the table from him, because it’s better than thinking about how Sid’s inched his chair over so he’s farther from Geno.
He actually gets pretty wrapped up in that conversation, so he doesn’t really notice when things shift on the other side of the table, until he needs Sid to tell Kuni, Flower, and Tanger that he’s right and he turns to him—but he’s not there. Two empty glasses are, including the one Geno got him, which is something at least, but Sid’s not. Sid, Geno sees quickly, is across the bar, playing pool with Schultzy.
The last time they’d gone out, Geno and Sid had played pool together, and they’d lost but Geno had spent the whole time chirping everyone else as Sid leaned against him and tucked his giggles into Geno’s shoulder, and they’d done a parody of a celly when Geno had gotten a particularly good shot, and Geno was sure Sid hadn’t thought about the guy at the bar’s number at all because they’d been having fun.
Now, Sid is leaning over, that terrifyingly intense look on his face he gets when he’s going to win or god help the world, and Geno’s all the way over here.
He turns away from Sid, only to be met with three looks of varying forms of patience and amusement. He debates bullshitting, but these are actually the guys he probably needs to talk to. “Why Sid so mad at me?”
Tanger snorts. “Because you were a dick?”
“I’m always dick,” Geno points out, which gets a snort from Flower and a nod from Kuni. “Usually, Sid like. Think is funny.”
“He didn’t this time,” Flower informs him. Geno rolls his eyes.
“Yes, I’m notice. Why?”
“You should be asking him that,” Kuni puts in. He always makes what he’s suggesting sound so reasonable, Geno actually considers it for a moment before waving it away.
“Would have to get him to talk, first.” Across the bar, Sid’s shoving at Hags, his face set in that expression where he lost and he’s trying to go against all of his nature and be a good sport about it. “Why won’t he talk to me?”
“You were mean,” Flower says, condescendingly patient in that way Geno hates. “He’s allowed to be hurt.”
“I’m not mean!”
“Seems like it.”
“I’m just tease! Is what we do!”
“Does he know that?” Kuni puts in, and Geno glares, outraged.
“Of course!” Of course Sid knows it’s just teasing. Of course Sid knows that Geno would do anything for him. Sometimes it feels like half the words out of Geno’s mouth are talking about how amazing Sid is, and he stands by every one of them. Geno would move mountains for Sid. Geno would—he would do a lot of stupid things for Sid. Even more than the rest of the team would, he thinks, and that’s a lot. None of Geno’s teasing counteracts that. “Of course,” Geno repeats, less sure. Sid has to know.
Tanger says something to Flower in French, and Flower replies in the same language. Geno glares. He knows that move. He’s done that move. That means they’re talking about him. “What?”
Another quick French exchange, then Flower smiles, all teeth. “Just saying, your pigtail pulling was a lot cuter when you were twenty.”
Geno decides not to humor that with a response. He just shoves away from the table. He needs another drink. He needs not to think about Sid and the wall that’s come down and stupid meddling Quebecois.
Across the room, Sid’s leaning over the pool table again. At this angle, his chain’s fallen out of his shirt, and Geno can see the 87, the glitter of the gold like a magnet drawing Geno’s eyes to the strong lines of his neck.
Geno definitely needs more beer. If he doesn’t, he’s going to go over to the pool table and do something stupid like yell, so. More beer.
///
Geno goes home disappointingly sober, though probably that’s good given they have another early practice then a game the next day, and then a roadie. But in that moment, it’s disappointing, because it means Geno can’t stop thinking. Sid has to know. Sid usually likes Geno’s teasing, and how he pushes Sid around a little bit and doesn’t let him get away with anything. It’s been a basic part of their friendship for almost ten years. Taking his necklace wasn’t anything different.
Except Sid had spent the whole evening away from Geno, circling between groups of teammates in a way that wasn’t abnormal except for how whatever group he was with was never the one Geno was with. Usually at bars, Sid’s the base that Geno always comes back to, going out to dance or flirt or drink and then coming back to try to coax Sid into one of those activities or just to talk with Sid, because that was always the best part of any night out—Sid with his cheeks a little flushed with alcohol and laughter giggling at something Geno had said.
Geno had missed that. And if Sid somehow fooled himself into not realizing Geno thought that, he’ll have to convince him of it again.
The next morning, he gets up inhumanly early so he can go half the city out of his way before practice. He actually gets to practice early, which earns him plenty of mock-gasps and a mimed heart attack, but he flips them all off and carefully sets down his acquisition in Sid’s stall, where he’ll find it first thing.
When he satisfies himself with the arrangement, half the locker room is gaping at him. He glares, his best Russian bear impression, and most of them stop.
Flower’s waiting near his stall, and he’s got his shit-talking smile on.
“Don’t start,” Geno warns, and Flower smirks and holds up his hands like he was never going to say anything at all.
Sid comes in a few minutes later. Geno watches him out of the corner of his eye, and he’s definitely not the only one, because no one’s tried to get Sid’s attention yet like they often do.
Sid sets down his back, straightens—and pauses, as he sees the box from his favorite bakery sitting on the shelf. “What?” he asks, leaning forward so he can open it. His eyes go big, then he twists to look at the locker room. The expression on his face is wavering between happiness and wariness. “My birthday’s not til August, guys.”
“Maybe you have a secret admirer!” Connor suggests, his face very carefully innocent. Geno shoots him a look that he hopes communicates just how much he’s going to fine him next time he has half an excuse.
“Maybe someone’s trying to fatten you up,” Tanger adds, pinching at Sid’s side. Sid bats him away.
“Maybe we stop asking about Sid’s present, and go play hockey?” Geno says, louder than he means to. Sid’s gaze flicks to him, holds. Geno wants to squirm. Wants to memorize how it feels, because Sid hasn’t looked at him in what feels like years.
“Oh,” Sid says, his fingers tangling in his chain and his teeth digging into his lower lip. He’s not smiling, but he doesn’t look upset, either. Confused, if anything.
Geno decides to count it as a win, and goes to play some hockey.
///
They lose that night, which is a shitty way to go into a roadie and just compounds the fact that Geno’s offering didn’t immediately clear everything up and Sid didn’t immediately start treating him normally again.
Fine then. Sid’s not a subtle guy; Geno can be more direct, even if it hurts. It’ll be worth it, if Sid’ll smile at him again, and not spend all his time holed up with Flower and Tanger speaking in French so Geno couldn’t understand it even if he wanted to. Sid doesn’t even like French. Tanger and Flower always spend most of their time teasing him about how bad his French is. They’re apparently allowed to do that.
They’re in New York the next day, and the team apparently took the loss yesterday as a fire under them, because they’re playing like a team possessed, Sid most of all. He’s on the sort of tear he gets when someone threw him a challenge, and Geno loves when Sid’s like this, when Sid’s pushing them all forward, pushing Geno to match him, be better. It feels like magic when they’re on the ice together, like it has since they were twenty, and when Sid breaks the tie in the last thirty seconds of regulation off of Geno’s assist with one of those insane shots that make Sid who he is, Geno’s the first one who hits him, grabbing him and spinning him around with his momentum.
“Sid!” he yells, and Sid’s alight with victory and he’s grinning at Geno like nothing else could ever matter.
Then the rest of the guys on the ice are hitting them, and Sid’s accepting the pats from them and Geno lets them in.
He catches Jen’s eye, as they file down the tunnel. She gives him the special exasperated look she saves just for him, but she hangs back to talk. “What?” she asks, sounding harried. “We made a deal, you do—”
“I talk to media today,” he announces, cutting her off. He almost wishes he had a camera to catch her expression.
“Seriously?” then she shakes her head. “Never mind, not looking a gift horse, etc. Okay, you’re on.” She pauses, then raises her eyebrows. “Are you going to do something I should know about?”
Geno thinks about it, but he’s not going to do anything unusual. That’s the whole point. “No,” he tells her. Then, because it was an odd question—he and Jen trust each other generally, and he knows that she never puts his slips down to anything other than language—“Why?”
Her lips press together. “Well, if you were going to make a grand gesture, I’d want to be prepared.”
“Grand gesture?”
She pats his arm, all perfectly poised condescension. “Try flowers,” she suggests. “That’s what my husband does, when he messes up.”
“I’m not—” There were so many things wrong with that sentence, not least of which that Jen knew that something had happened. He hated all his gossipy teammates.
“Okay.” She clearly didn’t mean it, but she let him off the hook. “Be ready for questions.”
“I’m always ready!” he retorts, and she laughs and lets him go.
He gets a lot of confusion when he settles in to let the reporters talk without complaining, both from the team and from the reporters themselves, who basically all know him by now. He catches Sid giving him a sidelong look, that same wary confusion, though, so his plan is working.
He answers all the bullshit questions, the shit they always ask like he’ll say something different, waiting. They always ask him the question when Sid’s had a hot night, he knows it’ll come.
Finally, “So that last goal of Crosby’s was pretty impressive—how do you think it compares to McDavid’s gamewinner that everyone was talking about last week?”
Geno sits up straighter, and glances over to where Sid’s answering questions. They seem to be dying down; he raises his voice as he answers, so hopefully Sid’ll hear him. “I think—Sid best.” Geno shrugs. The reporters are crowding in, because Geno is giving them some great quotes, but it means he can’t see Sid, if Sid heard. “I’m say for years, is still true. New guys, they good, but is no one like Sid. On ice, off ice. Best captain. Best guy. Best player. After me,” he adds, to get the laughs. “But is no comparing. Not to me.”
“Geno—” the reporters start, but they’ve shifted and Geno can see Sid. Can see Sid watching him, his eyes big, before he blinks and goes back to his own media.
Geno gets done first, so he heads to the showers before Jen yells at him for something. Before Sid gets done, maybe, and asks him about it. Before it might not have been enough.
“So,” Tanger says, because he must have been waiting to ambush Geno when he was naked and at his most vulnerable. “That was quite a speech.”
“Not a speech.”
Tanger waves his hand, dismissive. “A gesture, then.” He’s smiling, but his gaze is sharp. “They’re going to get a lot of mileage out of that.”
Geno shrugs again. “Is—if Sid…is worth it.” It’s not like he was lying. Not like it’s anything he hasn’t said before. Everyone knows his position on this.
Tanger’s smile softens, and he claps Geno on the shoulder. “Bon chance, mon ami.”
Geno doesn’t think he needs luck, but he’s not going to say no to it, either, especially not from someone who might be able to push Sid one way or the other.
“Spasibo,” he mutters, and dunks his head under the spray so Tanger can’t talk to him anymore.
///
There’s noise about finding a bar in New York after, but Geno’s tired and he doesn’t feel like getting teased about his sound bite for the whole night, so he begs off. He can’t tell what Sid’s going to do—he’s talking with Flower up by the front of the bus, and Geno’s too far back to figure out what he said. If even after that speech, Sid’s still going to go out—maybe find a guy, in this city where he’s mostly anonymous; maybe even just stand at the bar and flirt with someone, his eyes dark and his fingers teasing at his necklace like a taunt of what else they could do—Geno can’t see it.
He gets back to his room and strips out of his suit, pulls on sweats instead and his laptop, so he can maybe fine something to watch. He’s debating how much distraction he needs when there’s a knock on the door—one of the kids, hoping he’ll go out with them, he bets, and so he’s already saying, “I’m say, I not go—” when he opens the door.
Then he stops. “Hey,” says Sid. He’s changed too, into one of his five million sweats and Pens t-shirt combination, and he’s still a little mussed from the shower, and he’s fiddling nervously with his chain and Geno’s heart thumps painfully. “Can I come in?”
Geno steps back to let him in. Sid pushes past him, getting to the center of the room then turning in a circle, like he’s realizing there’s nowhere really to sit other than the bed. They’ve sat on each other’s beds in hundreds of hotel rooms, but something in Geno’s stomach twists at the thought of Sid on his bed, here and now.
Instead, Sid leans against the desk, half-perching, and crosses his arms over his chest. Geno doesn’t want to sit on the bed, then, and the desk chair is too close to Sid, so he just sort of hoves in the center of the room. What does he usually do with his hands when he talks to Sid? He’s somehow forgotten.
“Um. So…” Sid starts, and it’s so Sid that Geno starts to laugh.
“Sid,” he chuckles, and Sid’s grin flashes, quick and sweet.
“Sorry, this is weird!” he protests. “We’ve never had to do this before.”
He’s not wrong. It’s still so very Sid, and Sid had smiled at him, and it drags something out of Geno that he doesn’t do often. “I’m sorry,” he says. Sid’s eyes immediately go wide, and his eyebrows go up. “For—still not sure why what I did was worse than usual, but am sorry it made you mad.”
“Yeah.” Sid uncrosses his arms so he can run a hand through his hair. “It really—I mean, it was mainly me, and you couldn’t no, so maybe I overreacted, sorry.”
Geno rolls his eyes. His ridiculous Canadian captain. “Can’t apologize for what I’m apologize for, Sid.”
“Apparently I can,” Sid retorts, and Geno relaxes even more. “But, like. I know. I heard you, today. And with the cake. And—it really was—like, it probably wasn’t any worse than the shit we usually give each other.”
Geno sort of wants to drag in Flower and Tanger to make them hear that, so they know he was right. But also, “And?” he prompts. “You take worse, so—why?”
Sid bites at his lip again. “It’s, well. You know how it was for me, when I was a kid? With, well. The locker rooms weren’t always friendly.”
“I know.” Geno has heard the stories. Geno has wanted to go hunt down every kid who ever hurt Sid or made him afraid or said anything cruel and punch them, then shove their face into Sid’s trophy cabinet.
“Yeah, well. Sometimes, they would take shit from my stall—like, normally just little stuff, but it was sometimes my clothes—and they thought it was funny when I freaked out, so.” Sid shrugs, matter of fact. “It just, you doing that…It made me think of you like them.” Sid lifts his head, and his eyes are very very serious, and still just a little hurt. “I know you aren’t, but it still was—that you’d do something like them.”
Geno is going to kill all of those kids, and then he’s going to get someone to punch him in the face.
“Sid, I’m not—I’m not mean—”
“I know.” Sid gives him a weak smile. “I do, and I heard you today, but…”
“I’m not mean,” Geno repeats, because Sid needs to understand this. He crosses the room, so he can grab Sid’s shoulders, make sure he stays here. “Not—not want to laugh at you, or be mean.”
Sid’s gaze is even, but his brow furrows. “Then—what’s the point of the prank?”
“Because—” and here’s the thing Geno’s never really said, never admitted to anyone, even himself, but Sid needs to know he wasn’t like those kids, because he doesn’t want Sid to cut him off again. “Because, I want you to look at me.”
Sid’s eyebrows go up. “G, I look at you all the time.”
Geno shakes his head. He knows he’s going red. “Not like—you at bar, using chain to flirt, and you—want you to look at me always,” he mutters, and lets go of Sid so he can duck his face. He can’t say this and look at Sid. “Not flirt with other guys. Just with me.”
“Oh.” Geno refuses to look at Sid, but he can hear the wonder. “Oh. Geno…”
“Is fine if—I stop, I know, I can be dick about it, and is not—”
“G,” Sid says, and then his hand’s on Geno’s chin, tilting it up so he has to look at Sid. Sid’s smiling—grinning, really, and he’s looking at Geno like the world could fall apart around them and he wouldn’t notice, like all of Sidney Crosby’s famous intensity is focused right on him. “I’m always paying attention to you.” He licks his lips, and Geno can’t help looking, and when he manages to stop Sid’s smirking. “You didn’t have to spend eight years pulling my pigtails—”
“You and Flower, so obsess with pigtails,” Geno retorts, but he’s smiling too, because he knows the look Sid is giving him, and he’d never really thought, but he doesn’t want to be anywhere but here. “You not have enough hair to pull anymore.”
“That’s not really true,” Sid replies, his face even other then his dancing eyes, and Geno chokes. “I mean, unless you don’t think you can—”
“Think you need to shut up,” Geno tells him, and Sid’s laughing even as Geno gets a hand in Sid’s chain to yank him in to kiss him.
///
After, they’re lying on the bed, Geno still has his pants on, but he’s shirtless and Sid’s propped up on one elbow, idly tracing lines on his chest. Sid is naked, though, so Geno thinks he’s getting the better part of this deal, because he can lie back and watch Sid, with his messy hair and swollen lips and the mark on his chest that is definitely going to turn into a bruise, and bask.
Sid drags his finger over Geno’s pec, towards where his own cross is lying against his chest, when he pauses.
“Wait, did you apologize?”
Geno narrows his eyes. “You make me!”
“No, Geno apologized! I’m telling everyone. This is a first.” Sid goes for his phone, and Geno lunges, gets his arms around Sid’s waist to pull him back. It also gets Sid squirming against him, laughing as he stretches. “Come on, I’ve never heard of you actually apologizing before!”
“I say never happened,” Geno warns. “You big liar, everyone knows. Maybe not hear right.”
“Nope.”
Geno tugs, and turns, so Sid’s underneath him, grinning up at him as Geno hovers over him. He’s laughing and his eyes are glinting with it as he looks up at Geno, naked but for the chain on his chest and one sock. “I’m say you apologize first,” Geno decides, and silences Sid’s giggles with a kiss.
