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The Salt King - coming Nov. 23

The wind off the water is sharp and cold, slipping like a blade over his exposed skin. He doesn’t move beyond tugging his thick wool scarf more securely around his neck, despite the weakness in his legs and the deep, persistent ache in his lungs from the chill and the damp and his careful clamber over the rocks. He's sick, the sea is choppy with the changing weather, and Maire’s boys will have things to say about him coming out here, when one of them just so happens to make their way out to him today.

There's an ache that runs deeper than the weakness in his chest, though—that's fed by it, in fact, growing stronger and more desperate with every labored breath he draws. It’s the feeling of time slipping away too fast, despite how hard he's trying to hold on. That’s what keeps him rooted to the spot, pain building in his feet and knees and hips from his stance on the uneven ground, in boots with too-thin soles, pressure building tight and sore in his knuckles where he's gripping the cane that Paddy made him. He stands still, staring at the whitecaps building on the waves, the crash of spray down below, and knows that it's too soon to hope.

Too soon, but still too late.

Sidney jerks awake, bleary and disoriented, with his mouth open on words already forgotten and a tightness in his chest that he knows is loss and longing.

He's not sure at first why he's even awake—the windows are just barely light and he doesn't have anything to do until noon, certainly nothing to justify the flood of adrenaline that's shouting, late, late, overslept—but another shout from downstairs and the clatter of footsteps on the stairs answers that question in short order. It's Wednesday morning, and the kids are getting ready for school in their characteristically loud yet mournful fashion.

It's Wednesday morning, he's in the attic of the Lemieux house in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and this afternoon he's flying home.

He eases the covers back and steps gingerly out of bed, still moving in deference to the phantom pains that haven't quite faded yet, the certainty that his legs are too weak to support him if he tries to move too fast.

They're not, though; battered and bruised he may be, post-playoffs, but he's still as strong and more or less whole as he is at the end of any season. He’s walking normally by the time he makes it to the bathroom to relieve the pressure in his bladder, and he chases the last of the lingering dream-stiffness away with a few quick shoulder rolls as he loads up his toothbrush.

None of which explains the wave of shock that slams into him when he catches sight of his face in the mirror, gone again in the space of a breath and leaving him shaky with a bolt of unexpected adrenaline.

There's nothing surprising about the image staring back at him. Still, he stands for a moment with his toothbrush hanging loosely out of the corner of his mouth and foam flecked over his lips before he shakes himself out of it. He glances down at his hands, and they’re the same as they've always been, instead of—

thin skin, patchy and spotted with age, stretched over bones gone knobby and crooked, the arthritis is always worst this time of year—

—his breath stalls in his chest for a moment before he blinks, the image fading. He shakes his head and grabs his toothbrush again, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his reflection—his solid, steady, absolutely normal reflection—until he bends to spit into the sink and rinse the last of the toothpaste foam out of his mouth. By the time he straightens again, the last dregs of the dream have faded away—all but the gnawing emptiness behind his ribs, the longing for something he knows is just too far out of reach.

It's not the first time he's had this dream, or at least ones similar enough he can't tell the difference. The sea, the cold, the aching yearning that takes most of the day to fade away. He isn't sure that it will, this time around.

It's mid-May, and the Penguins are already knocked out of the playoffs. Sidney's sure that's what brought this particular dream back to him again: a predictable response to an increase in stress, according to everything he's read, and the familiarity of the sense of loss still swamping him seems to bear that out. It's the same thing he's been feeling for days, since the final moments of game seven when there was no more denying exactly how things were going to end.

The Pens are out of the playoffs, and Sidney's flying home before summer even starts. It sucks, but that's the way it is.

“Sid!” Alexa jumps up from the breakfast table to crash into him at full force as soon as he steps into the kitchen, knocking a laugh out of him as her arms wrap tightly around his waist. “Mom said we probably wouldn't see you again before you left,” she tells him, the words muffled against his shirt.

“I thought you might be a little indisposed this morning,” Nathalie says, carrying a plate with a hockey-player-sized serving of eggs, bacon, and toast over to the table. “I heard you up earlier,” she adds, setting the food at his usual spot and nodding to the chair. “Have some breakfast. Alexa, let him go and come finish your cereal.”

“I can't believe you're leaving on a Wednesday,” Stephanie complains when he sits down next to her. “Couldn't you at least stay until Friday? Or Saturday! We could have a party.”

“We had a party yesterday,” Sidney reminds her, tucking into his food. He needs to ask what Nathalie's secret is before he goes, he reminds himself, because the egg whites he makes for himself are never anywhere close to this good.

“What's indisposed mean?” Austin pipes up.

“It means Geno's a bad influence,” Sidney says dryly. “Not last night, though,” he allows. “I didn't want to have a headache during the flight to Nova Scotia, so I cut out early.”

“He let you get away with that?” Lauren asks in obvious surprise. Even Alexa has her eyebrows raised in disbelief, which is ridiculous. “Didn’t he get all sentimental and weird last year?”

“He has plenty of other stuff to focus on.” He means it to be quelling, but no one looks particularly impressed. He loads up a forkful of eggs and tries to keep his shoulders from hunching upwards towards his ears. “I told him I'd meet him for lunch before I go to the airport,” he finally says, unable to keep from rolling his eyes at the knowing nods he catches in his peripheral vision.

“Well, you be sure to give him our best,” Nathalie says, making Sidney frown a little at the laughter he's pretty sure he can hear threading through her voice, but she claps her hands together before he can say anything. “Everybody finish up; the Mom Shuttle Service is leaving at the top of the hour,” she says loudly, sending the kids scurrying into motion. “Anybody not in the car in five minutes is walking.”

There's a flurry of dishes being rinsed, books and bags being gathered, and three more hugs for Sidney as the kids make a speedy retreat to the garage.

“I'll see you soon,” he tells Lauren as she steps away. “You can use my SUV while I'm gone, if you need to.”

“If,” Nathalie says firmly, “your father and I give you permission.”

“But what if it's an emergency and you're not here?”

“Lauren—”

“What if the house is on fire, Mom?” she asks wide-eyed, hitching her backpack onto her shoulders as she backs towards the garage. “What if there's a psycho-killer?”

“Fine,” she sighs, doing a marginally better job than Sidney's sad attempt at keeping a straight face. “If you're running from a psycho-killer, you can use the car.”

“Okay, but what if—”

“There's not a psycho-killer now,” Sidney points out with a significant glance at the clock, and she dashes for the door.

“Bring back maple candy!” she shouts over her shoulder as she goes. “Tell Geno hi from me!”

“Tell him hello from all of us,” Nathalie reminds him, drawing him into one last hug. “I have errands to run all morning, so I won't see you again before you leave, either. If you'll get the skillet soaking, you can just leave it in the sink.”

“Okay,” he says, even though they both know that he's not going to do any such thing. His mom would be horrified if he let Nathalie come home to a dirty kitchen, and even though there’s no way for her to find out, Sidney can’t shake the feeling that she’s know somehow anyway. “Thanks for breakfast.” He hugs Nathalie a little tighter, just for a second. “Thanks for everything.”

“Oh, Sidney.” She leans back and lifts a hand to cup his face, something fond and sympathetic turning up the corner of her mouth. “Would it help any to hear the 'you did your best' speech?” she asks.

“No,” he admits, letting himself smile, and she laughs softly. “I appreciate the offer, though.”

“Well, you have a safe flight,” she tells him, stepping away to grab her purse from the counter. “You can text us when you land, you know.”

“I will,” he promises.

“And try to have a good time at lunch,” she adds, the curve of her lips closer to a smirk now, eyes twinkling in a way that leaves Sidney fighting back an inexplicable blush. “I'm sure you will.”

Sidney spends the next few hours cleaning up the mess from breakfast, making sure the last of his things are packed, and trying to forget the knowing look on Nathalie's face. He's had a fair amount of practice—chirping him for the time he spends hanging out with Geno has, bafflingly, become one of Mario and Nathalie's favorite pastimes over the years. He decided a long time ago not to think too deeply about what’s behind it, beyond the friendly sort of dickishness that's an inevitable byproduct of a life spent in and around the NHL. Anything else is too humiliating to contemplate, which means he just . . . doesn't.

So he doesn't let himself really consider the possibility that it might have anything to do with the smile that spreads across his face when he sees Geno hovering under the awning outside the restaurant, conspicuous in his sunglasses and avoidance of direct sunlight. He doesn't let himself link it to Geno's answering smile, or the way the persistent ache inside of him eases just a bit when Geno reels him into a hug like it's been weeks since they've seen each other instead of hours.

“How are you feeling?” he asks instead, easing back after a socially acceptable few seconds. Geno shrugs, and lets him.

“Been worse. Be better after food.” He nods towards the door. “Put our name in already, should have table ready soon.”

“Inside?” Sidney glances around at the bright, late-spring sunshine, then back at his reflection in Geno's shades. “Inside,” he decides.

“Don't have to,” Geno protests, which Sidney really should've seen coming. He might be looking a little green around the gills and shrinking back from the sunlight like a vampire, but now that he’s said his hangover isn’t too bad, his pride is bound to make him go to any lengths necessary to stick to his claim. “Can sit outside if you want,” he insists.

Normally, Sidney would be ready enough to capitulate, not really up for an argument he’d be likely to lose anyway when Geno digs his heels in. Something makes him pause this time, though, and really consider it, and suddenly the sun feels even brighter, like a spotlight he knows he won't be able to escape.

“I think I'd rather sit inside, if you don’t mind,” he finally says. “Somewhere we’re a little less likely to . . .”

He trails off, unwilling to finish what sounds like an ungrateful sentiment before the words are even out of his mouth. Their team's fans are the best in the world—Sidney genuinely believes that, and it isn't their fault that all he really wants to do right now is hide.

Geno, thank goodness, seems to hear everything that he isn't saying, because even when he doesn't understand English, he always understands Sidney. He doesn’t argue, though he can’t seem to stop himself from chiding Sid a little once they've settled at a little table tucked into the back corner of the restaurant, the waitress come and gone again with their orders.

“Should feel good,” he tells Sidney. “Not best season, maybe, but good year for you.” It's the closest either of them has gotten to mentioning the Olympics since they got back to Pittsburgh, and Sidney looks down at the crawly snake he's made out of his straw wrapper. He hadn't even realized he was doing it.

“I know.”

“Don't have to be perfect all times,” Geno adds, the words too exasperated to qualify as gentle, leaving Sidney huffing out an exaggerated sigh as he tries to hide a smile.

“People get so annoying when I'm not, though.” He's trying for long-suffering, and even though he's pretty sure it comes out closer to whiny, it still makes Geno bark out a laugh.

“So hard to be you,” he says mournfully.

It is, sometimes—the pressure on him is greater, the expectations higher. Geno gets that, though, and Sidney knows it, knows that he's one of the few people who really ever could. His teasing just makes Sidey smile instead of getting defensive or withdrawn, even if he kicks at Geno's foot a little under the table on basic principle.

“I guess not all of us can have the kind of cool under pressure that you do, eh?” he smirks. Geno kicks him back, harder than Sidney thinks is strictly necessary, which really just proves his point anyway.

“Still suck for leave so early,” Geno complains. “Who else is gonna go fish with me?”

“Yeah.” Sidney drips a careful drop of water onto his straw wrapper, sending it crawling its way towards the center of the table. “I haven't gotten out to the links with Mario, either,” he says, ignoring the face that Geno makes with the ease of long practice. “Pre-season, though, we'll definitely make it out to the lake.”

Geno looks slightly mollified at that, and it's on the tip of Sidney's tongue to . . . what? Invite him up to Nova Scotia? Sidney has a boat of his own up there—a couple, admittedly, one for the lake and one he keeps at the harbor; nothing fancy, either one, but both of them sturdy and seaworthy—and enough saltwater fishing gear that he should probably feel vaguely embarrassed about it. He's not exactly set up for any deep-sea excursions, but he thinks Geno would still enjoy it.

It's a ridiculous idea, for so many reasons. Geno has his own stuff to do over the summer; he might not be flying out as early as Sidney is, but he never waits too long before heading back to Russia. His family's there, obviously, and friends he doesn’t get to see outside of the off-season, and a million other little pieces of his life that Sidney can only guess at. He swallows back the invitation before it can make it past his lips.

“It was a rough series,” he says instead, “but it's over now. I just need it to be over. If I stay here I'm gonna end up stuck, you know? Watching the rest of the games, listening to everyone talk about them, reliving every bad bounce we had and trying to figure out how we could've pulled it out.”

“Make sense,” Geno nods. Their food arrives and Sidney tries not to pay too much attention to the slow, appreciative smile that Geno gives the waitress, or the way he loses a moment to watching her walk away again. “Want to take some time, not think about hockey little bit, is good idea,” he says after a moment, squeezing out a huge puddle of ketchup next to his fries entirely for the pleasure of watching Sidney squirm.

“Exactly.” Sidney picks up his sandwich, fighting what is, as always, a losing battle to keep half of the overstuffed contents from falling out immediately. “Get my mind off of things for a while.”

“Smart.” Geno snatches up the pickle that's just plopped onto Sidney's plate and tucks it into his own sandwich. “Canada is best place for Sidney Crosby to go during playoffs, for not think about hockey.”

Sidney can't actually vocalize the Fuck off that wants to come out with his mouth full of food, but he glares until Geno gets the idea anyway. His response is just another self-satisfied smirk, because honestly, Sidney has the worst taste in friends.

“You gonna be back before training camp's start?” he asks, as though Sidney doesn't come back at the same time every year.

“Mid-August,” he confirms anyway. “You? If you're back early enough to shake your jet lag before camp we can hit the lake a few times before things start getting busy.”

“Maybe be back.” Geno takes a big bite of his own sandwich, tilting his head back and forth as he chews. “Maybe not.” His smile at Sidney's questioning look is a little softer this time, a little hopeful. “Last few months, I'm talking to Oksana a lot. Thinking maybe we give up too easy last time.”

“Oh.” It's an old story—in between girlfriends in Pittsburgh and occasional hookups, Geno's been on-again off-again with Oksana for as long as Sidney's known him. “You two gonna give it another shot while you're back home?”

“Gonna talk more,” Geno hedges, but the hopeful smile hasn't left his face, and Sidney knows that look well enough by now. Every time he thinks it's definitely over between the two of them, he barely has time to turn around and they're back together again. “See if maybe . . . maybe.”

“Well. Good luck, then.” Sidney turns his attention back to his food, keeping his face as neutral as he can manage. “I hope you guys can work it out.”

“We see,” Geno shrugs.

They keep the conversation light from then on, talking about things far removed the playoffs or anything too personal. Sidney makes noises, as he does every year, about whether or not it might be better to skip his L.A. training for more time in Nova Scotia, and Geno graciously pretends that he believes Sidney might actually do it this time. Geno talks about training with Gonch and Kadar, the drills he's planning to work on to prepare for next season, and his plans to spoil the Gonchar girls as much as he can. He doesn't mention Oksana again, and Sidney doesn't mention his boat or his half-formed intention to extend an invitation.

Maybe next summer. If Geno's free then.

“You want ride to airport?” Geno offers as they're heading for the door. “No plans for today, is no problem.”

Yes. That's kind of the trouble. “I've already got a cab coming,” he lies. “Text me some over the summer, okay?”

“Of course.” Geno draws him in for an easy hug, long arms wrapping loosely around Sidney's back. “Can text me too. Your phone can send text, yes?” he chirps lightly, easing away.

“Ha hah. Yeah, I'll keep in touch.”

“Send picture,” he suggests, laughing when that makes Sidney hesitate. “Upgrade phone, maybe.”

“My phone is fine,” Sidney grumbles, and Geno keeps laughing as he opens the door.

“Have good summer, Sid.” Geno reaches back towards him, scrubbing one big hand over his hair and smirking like an asshole when Sidney jerks away with a scowl. “Try not think too much. Have fun.”

“That's the plan.” Somehow the words are waiting on his tongue again, leaving him almost overwhelmed with the urge to let them out. To ask Geno to come to Nova Scotia, even though there are a hundred different reasons why he shouldn't. “G?”

But Geno's already pushing through the door, and Sidney's throat closes on the offer again for some reason. Geno glances back, still holding the door open, and lifts an eyebrow in silent expectation.

“Have a good summer,” is all Sidney can think to say, leaving Geno looking bemused but not particularly surprised by Sidney's bout of awkwardness.

“You too, Sid.”

It's for the best, Sidney reminds himself as he's making a last pass through his room at the Lemieuxs' to make sure he's remembered everything he can't easily replace or do without. He needs to focus while he's at home, get his head on straight after the season's ups and downs. Training, improving—that's where his attention needs to be, not on some maybe-might-have-been that he doesn't even want to examine.

Now is the time to keep looking forward. To focus on the future, he thinks, zipping his suitcase closed, and leave everything else in the past where it belongs.

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