The idea that Sidney Crosby is extremely wealthy is so funny to me. This guy? This fucking guy? With his old ass jock strap and his hat that looks like it’s covered in cum stains? You do not need to pay Sid to play hockey, he will show up for free. The man just wants to buy pants that fit over his huge ass, bake banana bread, and play hockey because it’s fun :)
"the world belongs to you
they all say you're a light; all I see is a shadow"
warnings: language. mentions of sexual relations. underage relationship. teen pregnancy. abandonment.
summary: you're sure you'll never forgive him for what he did to you, he'll do anything to make it right with you.
request: yes
song: willing and able - noah kahan
word count: 6.2k
a/n: well here's part one!!!!! i hope you guys like it and i hope it makes up for the two month absence :((( i missed you guys and will be back to posting regularly!!! also i won't upload the request for this one yet because it'll spoil the build up and the ending!
part one | next part (soon)
—
You were fifteen when you first thought you experienced love. He was fifteen too, and you both seemed so sure. You'd met at a rink, because of course you did. Cole Harbour wasn't that big, and everyone knew everyone, and Sidney Crosby was already the boy everyone talked about. The one who was going somewhere. The one who was special.
But when you were fifteen, he wasn't Sidney Crosby future NHL superstar. He was just Sid. The boy who held your hand during movies and bought you hot chocolate after his games. The boy who’d talk about hockey for hours if you let him. And you'd let him, because you loved watching him love something that much. You thought maybe one day he'd love you like that too.
Then you were sixteen, and you felt it was love. He'd kiss you goodnight on your parents' porch, and you'd go inside and giggle about him on the phone with your friends like some lovesick idiot. Your friends would tease you about it and you didn't even care. You went to every single one of his games, screamed yourself hoarse in the stands, and he'd find you afterward and pull you into a hug that made everything else just vanish.
Then you were seventeen, and you knew it was love. Because seventeen was the year you were really put to the test. He'd gotten drafted into the QMJHL, was playing for Rimouski, and suddenly there was distance between you. Not just physical distance, but he was chasing something bigger then and sometimes you felt like you were fighting for scraps of his attention. But when he came home, god, when he came home it was like nothing else mattered. He'd show up at your door at odd hours and you'd sneak him up to your room and just lie there with him. He'd tell you about the games, about the pressure, about how scared he was sometimes that he'd mess it all up. And you'd tell him he wouldn't, that he was brilliant, that he was going to do incredible things. You believed it with your whole heart.
You also started having sex that year. Clumsy teenage sex that was so awkward and also so amazing. You tried to be safe, you really did. Condoms most of the time, pulled from his wallet or your bedside drawer with shaking hands. But sometimes you got careless. Sometimes you didn't think, didn't stop, just fell into it like you were drowning and didn't care. And it felt like love, it felt like forever, so what did it matter?
And then you were eighteen, and you knew it was all make believe.
You were barely an adult and fully 100% pregnant. The test sat on the edge of your bathroom sink, those two pink lines unforgiving against the plastic. You'd taken three of them just to be sure and they all said the same thing. Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant. The word didn't even feel real at first.
Sidney was in Ottawa. The draft was happening and you were home staring at a positive pregnancy test. The timing couldn't have been worse. You knew that. You knew you should wait, should tell him in person, should give him time to process before dropping a bomb on him. But you were eighteen and terrified and you needed him. You needed him to tell you it was going to be okay, that you'd figure it out together, that he still loved you.
So you texted him from your clunky little phone. You don't even remember exactly what you said. Something like, "We need to talk. It's important. Call me when you can." And then, because you couldn't help yourself, because the fear was eating you alive, you sent another one. "I'm pregnant."
You watched the draft with your parents that night. They sat on the couch and you curled up in the armchair. You heard Sidney's name called, first overall to the Pittsburgh Penguins, and your dad whooped and your mom clapped and you smiled and said something about how exciting it was. And the whole time, your phone sat silent in your pocket.
He didn't call or text that night. You told yourself he was busy, that it was the biggest night of his life, that of course he couldn't drop everything to call you. But a cruel voice in the back of your head told you that maybe he just didn't want to. That maybe you'd finally asked for too much.
The text came two days later. You were lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the nausea that had been plaguing you all morning. Your phone buzzed, and your heart leapt. Finally. Finally, he was going to call, going to tell you he loved you, that you'd get through this.
But it wasn't a call. It was a text. And it was the meanest thing you'd ever read in your life.
Sid: Do not do this to me.
Sid: I'm not ready to be a dad.
Sid: You need to take care of it.
Sid: Don't contact me again. We're done.
The words didn't make sense. They couldn't make sense, because this wasn't Sidney. This wasn't the boy who held your hand and kissed your forehead and told you he loved you. This was some stranger, some cold unfeeling stranger who didn't give a shit about you or the baby you were carrying.
You tried to call him. Of course you did. But it went straight to voicemail. You called again. And again. And again, until your hands were shaking so badly you could barely hold the phone. Nothing. He didn't pick up. Didn't call back. Didn't send another text.
You tried to convince yourself he was just freaking out. That he was overwhelmed, that the draft and the pressure and everything had gotten to him, and he'd come around. He'd apologize, and you'd probably make him beg for your forgiveness, and then you'd figure it out together. You had to believe that. But the days turned into weeks, and your phone stayed silent.
It was like you'd ceased to exist. Like the last three years, all those nights whispering secrets in the dark, all those promises of forever, had meant absolutely nothing. You knew that it was over. That it should have been over the second he sent you that text. But you were eighteen and heartbroken and you kept hoping. Kept making excuses for him. Maybe his phone was broken. Maybe he lost your number. Maybe someone else had sent that text as a joke. Stupid, desperate thoughts that you clung to. You knew what you'd done was stupid. You knew you should have been more careful, should have used protection every single time, should have been smarter. But you'd thought it was love. You'd thought love was enough.
On the night of September 21st, the night of Sid's first preseason game with Pittsburgh you had this moment of clarity. You were sitting in your room, ten weeks pregnant and entirely alone, and you finally let yourself admit the truth. It was over. He'd left you pregnant and in the dust for his career. He truly cared so little about you that he couldn't even be bothered to call, to check if you were okay, to ask what you'd decided. You were nothing to him. You'd never been anything to him.
You pulled out your phone and read those last messages over and over again until you memorized the words.
Then you took the phone apart, you pried out the SIM card, and destroyed it. You used a hammer from your dad's toolbox, smashing it against your bedroom floor until it was nothing but tiny, unrecognizable pieces. He'd never get in touch with you again. Ever. You'd made sure of it.
Then you gathered up everything. Every single thing he'd ever left in your room. His Rimouski hoodie that you slept in. The stuffed penguin he'd won for you at a carnival. The pictures of the two of you, grinning and happy and so fucking naive. The mixtape he'd made you, full of songs that would probably make you cry now. The phone, then a useless piece of shit. All of it went into a garbage bag that you shoved into the back of your closet where you wouldn't have to look at it.
That was the night you told your parents.
You found them in the living room, your dad reading the paper and listening to the radio coverage of the game, your mom watching some cooking show. They looked up when you came in, and you must have looked like hell because your mom's face immediately shriveled with concern.
"Sweetheart? What's wrong?"
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. The words felt like shards of glass in your throat. "I need to tell you something."
Your dad put down his paper. "Okay."
"I'm pregnant."
Your mom's hand flew to her mouth. Your dad just stared at you. They said nothing to you for what felt like 10 minutes but you could feel how disappointed in you or maybe ashamed of you they were.
"How far along?" your mom asked finally.
"Ten weeks."
"And Sidney?" your dad said, and there was something in his voice you'd never heard before.
You swallowed hard. "He doesn't want anything to do with it. With me. He told me to... to take care of it. And then he blocked my number."
"That goddamn kid," he muttered, and then louder, "I'm going to kill him."
"Dad... Please. It doesn't matter anymore."
"It does matter," your mom said, and she was crying then. "Oh, baby. I'm so sorry. This is... are you keeping it?"
Were you? You hadn't let yourself think that far ahead. But now, with your parents looking at you you realized you didn't have a choice. Not really.
"I um," you said. "I think so."
Your dad was the quietest he'd ever been in your life after that. The radio, the one that had been a constant presence in your house for as long as you could remember, never turned on again. Not for hockey games, not for anything. He shut it off and that was that.
Your mom, on the other hand, was convinced it was all just a big misunderstanding. "Maybe he didn't get your texts," she'd say. "Maybe his phone really is broken. Maybe someone's doing this. You should try to reach out again, sweetie. I'm sure he'd want to know."
But you didn't because deep down, you knew. He knew. He just didn't care.
Those nine months might have been the worst of your life. You were so lonely. So, so lonely. You had no one. Your friends had all left for college, scattering across the country to start their new lives, and you were stuck in Cole Harbour with a growing belly and a broken heart. You didn't go out. You couldn't stand the thought of people seeing you, of them whispering about you, about how Sidney Crosby got you pregnant and left. About how stupid you'd been to think he'd actually stay.
So you stayed home. You did the appointments, the ones your mom drove you to because you didn't trust yourself behind the wheel when the nausea was that bad. You took the prenatal vitamins she handed you every morning with a glass of orange juice. You did all the prenatal fuckery, the classes and the breathing exercises and the reading about what to expect. All of it. No matter how fucking embarrassed and terribly sad you were.
Embarrassed because you were pregnant by the community hero. By the kid everyone in Cole Harbour was so proud of, the one who'd made it, who was living the dream. And he got to continue on his merry way, playing hockey and winning games and being celebrated, while you were stuck, growing his baby and trying not to lose your mind. Embarrassed because you'd thought you meant more to him than you did. You'd thought you were special, that what you had was real. But you were just another girl.
And sad. God, you were so sad. Sad for the college you were supposed to go to, the acceptance letter you'd gotten to that turned into just a piece of paper in a drawer. Sad for all the games you were supposed to root for Sidney in, all the times you'd imagined yourself in the stands, wearing his jersey, cheering him on. Sad for all the calls and texts you were supposed to share, the late night conversations and the "I love yous" and the plans for the future. Sad for the life you were supposed to have, the one where you weren't a teen mom struggling to figure out how to even change a diaper. Sad for the fact that you'd fucked it all up by being a reckless teenager who thought love was enough.
You gave birth on a rainy afternoon in April. Your mom was there, holding your hand and whispering encouragements, and your dad was in the waiting room because he couldn't handle seeing you in pain. The labor was brutal and by the time they placed the baby on your chest, you were so exhausted you could barely keep your eyes open.
"It's a boy," the nurse said, smiling. "Congratulations, mama."
A boy. You had a son. You looked down at him, at his tiny scrunched up face and his dark hair, and the worst part was that it all felt like it was for nothing. You didn't feel the rush of love everyone had promised you. You didn't feel that overwhelming maternal instinct, that immediate connection. You just felt empty. And then guilty for feeling empty.
"Have you thought of a name?" your mom asked, smoothing your hair back from your sweaty forehead.
You had. You'd thought of a hundred names, written them down in a notebook and crossed them all out. But there was one that kept coming back, one that Sidney had thrown out there once. You'd been lying in his bed, his hand on your stomach even though there was no baby there yet, and he'd said, "If we ever have a kid, we should name him Beau. It means handsome in French, right? And he'd be handsome, just like his dad."
You'd laughed and told him he was ridiculous. But now, looking at your son, you couldn't think of him as anything else.
"Beau," you said quietly. "His name is Beau."
Your mom smiled, though her eyes were wet. "That's perfect, sweetheart."
But it didn't feel perfect. Nothing felt perfect. You were a teenager with a baby on your hip, living in your childhood bedroom, and you were so angry all the goddamn time. Angry at Sidney for abandoning you. Angry at yourself for being stupid enough to get pregnant. Angry at Beau, which made you feel like the worst person in the world, but you couldn't help it. You couldn't help resenting this tiny, helpless baby who'd ruined your life.
You couldn't connect with him. You fed him and changed him and rocked him when he cried, but it felt like you were going through the motions. Your mom did most of the work, cooing over Beau and cuddling him and doing all the things you felt like you should be doing but couldn't. Your dad, who'd been so quiet during the pregnancy, came alive around Beau. He'd hold him for hours, talking to him in this soft voice you'd never heard before, and Beau became his best friend.
And you felt like you were drowning. Like you'd dug yourself into this hole and you couldn't claw your way out. You felt like a terrible mother like you were failing at the one thing you were supposed to be good at. You turned nineteen with a baby. Your mom made a cake, your dad sang happy birthday, and Beau slept through the whole thing. You blew out the candles and didn't make a wish, because what was the point?
Those first eleven months of his life were even harder. Harder than the pregnancy, harder than the labor, harder than anything. You were exhausted all the time, running on maybe three hours of sleep a night. Beau cried constantly, and you didn't know how to soothe him. You'd walk him around your room at two in the morning, bouncing him and shushing him and begging him to please, please just sleep. And sometimes you'd cry too because you didn't know what you were doing and you felt so alone.
But then Beau turned one. Your mom threw him a little party, just the four of you, and he sat in his high chair and smashed his face into a cupcake and laughed. And then he looked at you, frosting all over his face, and started babbling. "Mamamama."
It wasn't his first word. He'd been babbling nonsense for weeks. But this was different. This was on purpose. "Mamamama." He reached for you, his chubby little hands opening and closing, and somehow everything made sense.
You picked him up, and he wrapped his arms around your neck and buried his face in your shoulder, and for the first time since he was born, you felt that all consuming love everyone had told you about.
"Hi, baby," you whispered, and your voice broke. "Hi, Beau."
He pulled back and grinned at you and you started crying. Just full on sobbing, holding your son and crying because you'd wasted so much time being angry when you should have been loving him. Because he was perfect. He was so perfect, and he was yours, and he looked at you with this pure adoration that you didn't deserve but were going to spend the rest of your life trying to earn.
That was when you knew you needed to get your life back on track. If not for yourself, then for him. For this little boy who looked at you like you hung the moon, even though you'd spent that first year barely holding it together.
You were twenty when you left Cole Harbour. Your parents were reluctant at first, worried about you being on your own with a toddler, but they did their best to support you. Your dad helped you move into a nice place in Halifax, carrying boxes up three flights of stairs while Beau toddled around getting in the way. Your mom stocked your fridge and your pantry, filling it with more food than two people could possibly eat.
"You call if you need anything," she said, hugging you tight. "Anything at all, okay?"
"I will, Mom. I promise."
And you meant it. But you also meant to prove that you could do this. That you could be a good mom, could build a life for you and Beau that didn't involve hiding in your childhood bedroom and drowning in regret.
Halifax wasn't far. Maybe a twenty minute drive from home, close enough that your parents could visit all the time, but far enough that you felt like your own person. You got a job at a salon, starting as a receptionist and then slowly picking up skills. You watched the other stylists, asked questions, practiced on mannequin heads. You got certified, took the classes and passed the tests, and suddenly you had a career. You were making your own living. A good living, enough to pay rent and buy groceries and put a little aside for savings. You and Beau had your own place that you decorated with secondhand furniture and pictures of the two of you.
By the time you were twenty one, you had it mostly figured out. You had your job, your apartment, your little support system. Beau had his daycare, this bright, cheerful place where he made friends and learned his ABCs and came home covered in paint and glitter. You had your coworkers, who became friends, who invited you out for drinks and listened when you needed to vent. You had your parents, who visited every weekend and spoiled Beau rotten. You had a routine. Drop Beau off at daycare, work your shift at the salon, pick him up, make dinner, give him a bath, read him a story, tuck him in. Wake up and do it all over again. It was exhausting but it was what you made of your life.
Of course, sometimes you had to field questions about Sidney. It was inevitable, growing up in the same community. People would see Beau, this little boy with dark hair and color changing eyes and a smile that was just a little too familiar, and they'd ask. "Is his dad from around here?" Or, "He looks just like Sidney Crosby. Are you two related?"
You learned to lie. It was easier than the truth. "Nope, no relation. Just a coincidence." And you'd smile and change the subject, and most people let it drop. Pretending not to know Sidney was easier than admitting what you truly felt. Easier than explaining that yes, Sidney Crosby was Beau's father, and no, he didn't give a shit.
But Beau. God, Beau didn’t make it easy on you. When he started walking he started picking things up and using them as hockey sticks. Anything long and vaguely stick shaped became a stick. Wooden spoons, brooms, wrapping paper tubes. He'd whack at rolled up socks or balled up pieces of paper, giggling and narrating his own play by play in toddler gibberish.
You couldn't exactly take it away from him. What were you supposed to say? "No, baby, you can't play hockey because your dad's a piece of shit and it makes Mommy sad"? That would make you sound insane. This was Canada. This was a community of little kids who grew up loving hockey, who wore Habs jerseys and dreamed of playing in the NHL one day. You couldn't single your son out because of a grudge, no matter how justified that grudge was.
Your dad fucking hated it. Every time Beau picked up a stick, your dad's jaw would clench and he'd find an excuse to leave the room. But he never said anything, because what could he say? Beau was just a kid. Your mom loved it. She'd cheer Beau on, clapping and telling him what a good job he was doing, and you'd stand there feeling like you might be sick.
By the time Beau was two, he had a real mini stick. Your mom bought it for him and he used it like he'd been born holding one, like it was an extension of his body. He'd spend hours in the living room, slapping a foam puck around and laughing.
When he was three, you put him in skates. You didn't want to. God, you really didn't want to. But all his friends from daycare were starting hockey, and Beau begged. "Please, Mama. Please, I wanna play hockey!"
So you signed him up for a learn to skate class, bought him the smallest pair of skates you could find, and watched him wobble around the rink with the other toddlers. He fell. A lot. But he always got back up, always grinning like it was the best thing in the world.
You were both twenty-one. And while you were raising your son, teaching him to tie his skates and reminding him to wear his helmet, Sidney was living out his wildest dreams. He'd just won the Cup, the youngest captain in NHL history to do it, and the whole country was celebrating. You'd seen it on the news, seen the pictures of him hoisting the trophy over his head, seen the interviews where he talked about how incredible it felt.
You tried not to think about it. You tried not to compare your life to his, tried not to wonder what things would've been like if he'd responded differently to that text. If he'd said, "We'll figure it out," instead of, "I don't want anything to do with it." It was hard not to. Especially when Beau started asking questions. "Mama, who's my dad?" And you'd say, "It's just you and me, buddy. That's all we need." And he'd accept it, for now, but you knew eventually that wouldn't be enough.
~
He was twenty-one and winning the Cup was all he ever wanted. Really. To hold those thirty-five pounds of silver and metal over his head after seasons of heartbreak, after being the youngest captain in league history and feeling the weight of an entire franchise on his shoulders. After the think pieces about how maybe he couldn't do it, that maybe he was too young, too inexperienced. After 08 in Detroit when they'd been so close he could taste it, only to have it ripped away. After making it to Game 7 in Detroit again when everything had felt impossible, when his body ached and his lungs burned and he thought maybe this was it, maybe this was the year they fell short again.
But they hadn't. They'd won. He'd won. He wasn't sure he'd ever be as happy as he was in that moment.
But maybe that wasn't the truth.
Because even in the middle of the celebration, even with the Cup in his hands and his teammates screaming his name and the entire city of Pittsburgh losing their minds, there was something missing. Someone missing.
When his guys kissed their girlfriends and their wives, when little ones were in their fathers' arms and spun around, when fiancées jumped into their partners' arms and caught like they weighed nothing, Sidney felt sick. Not jealous, exactly. Hollow was the word for it. Like there was this gaping hole in his chest that no amount of champagne or celebration could fill.
You never left his mind. Even after nearly four years. 3 years, 10 months, and 13 days to be exact, but who was counting? Even after all this time, all this distance, all the silence between you. You were always in his mind. Always in his heart. Always his, even if you weren't anymore.
He wasn't sure what ever happened between you. That was the worst part, the not knowing. His last memory of the two of you was a happy one. He'd been nervous about the draft, about going to Ottawa, about the pressure and the expectations. But you'd been so happy for him, so excited, your eyes bright and your smile wide. You'd kissed him goodbye at your front door, your hands cupping his face, and you'd promised to watch. To cheer for him. To be proud of him no matter what.
And he'd promised to call you. As soon as it was over, as soon as he knew where he was going, he'd call and tell you everything.
He never even got the chance.
He wasn't ever good with his phone. Even now, his teammates gave him shit for it, for leaving it in his locker or his hotel room or the pocket of his suitcase. But it was worse back then, when he was eighteen. He'd gone to Ottawa with his parents, with his rep, with this whole entourage of people who all wanted something from him. And at some point between the airport and the hotel and the extra stuff afterward, he'd just lost it. He wasn't sure if he'd left it at home, if someone had taken it by mistake, if it had fallen out of his pocket in the car. He just knew he couldn't get in contact with you.
And he was wanted everywhere all at once. Interviews, photoshoots, meetings with the Penguins' front office. His camp had a schedule planned down to the minute, and there was no time for anything else. No time to go back home, no time to find a payphone and call you, no time for himself at all.
He told himself he'd make it up to you. That as soon as things calmed down, as soon as he had a second to breathe, he'd find a way to reach out. You'd understand. You always understood.
But if he was being completely honest maybe his pride was a little hurt too. Because you didn't make the effort either. You didn't call him, didn't leave a message with his parents, didn't show up in Pittsburgh when the season started. And a bitter part of him wondered if maybe you'd decided he wasn't worth it. That the distance, the lifestyle, the constant travel and the media attention, was too much. That you'd realized you could do better than some hockey player who was never going to be home.
He couldn't exactly hold it against you. You were both eighteen, just kids really. What did either of you know about long-distance relationships, about the kind of commitment it would take to make it work when he was living in a different city, playing eighty-two games a season plus playoffs, barely keeping his head above water?
And yet.
All he could remember was your mom asking him not to call again.
It had been before his very first NHL game. October 5, 2005. He'd been a mess of nerves, pacing around the Lemiuex family's house in Pittsburgh, trying to remember everything his coaches had told him, trying not to think about how badly he wanted to prove himself. And all he'd wanted, more than anything, was to hear your voice. To know that you were okay, that you were proud of him, that you still cared.
He'd borrowed the landline, dialed your home number with shaking hands, and waited. One ring. Two. Three. And then your mom had picked up.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Mrs.–" He'd barely gotten the words out before she cut him off.
"Sidney."
Her voice had been cold. Colder than he'd ever heard it. Your mom always liked him, had always welcomed him into your house with a smile and a plate of cookies. But that day, she'd sounded like she hated him.
"I, uh, I was wondering if I could talk to–"
"No."
"I just want to make sure she's okay. I haven't heard from her in a while and I–"
"She's fine, Sidney. I think it's best if you don't call here again."
His stomach had dropped. "What? Why? Did I do something? If I did, I can–"
"Goodbye, Sidney."
And she'd hung up. That was the last time he ever even got close to you. He'd tried a few more times over the next couple of weeks, but your mom always answered, always told him the same thing. Don't call again. And eventually, he stopped trying. Because what else could he do? You clearly didn't want to talk to him. And Sidney had a season to focus on, a team that was counting on him, a city that expected him to be their savior.
So he moved on. Or at least, he tried to.
He still kept a photo of you in his wallet. It was stupid, probably. Pathetic, even. But his mom had given it to him during his first real week in Pittsburgh, when he'd been homesick and ready to quit. She'd thought it might remind him of all the good things he still had at home. Thought it might keep him grounded, keep him connected to the person he was before all of this. Thought it might help when he missed you too much.
The photo was from the summer before the draft. The two of you at the beach, your hair windblown and your smile bright, his arm around your shoulders. You were wearing his t-shirt over your swimsuit, an Océanic one, and you looked so happy. So beautiful. So completely, utterly his. He'd meant to take it out at some point. Meant to move on, to date other girls, to let go of whatever the two of you had been. But he never did. Even after all these years, the photo stayed tucked behind his driver's license, creased and worn from how often he looked at it.
He didn't know what else to do.
It was painful keeping it. That love he had for you never faded, never waned. It should have. Four years was a long time. He should have met someone else, fallen for someone else, built a life with someone who was actually there. But he hadn't because every girl he met, he compared to you. Every date felt like a pale imitation of what he'd had. And none of them measured up.
It made him dream the silliest of dreams for a guy his age. Dreams of a life the two of you had talked about when you were young and dumb and he was dumb enough to hope for. You'd lie in his bed in his parents' house, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm, and you'd talk about the future like it was a guarantee.
"When you make the NHL, I'll come to every home game," you'd said once.
"Just the home games?"
"Okay, fine. Every game. I'll be your biggest fan."
"You already are."
"And we'll get a dog," you'd continued, ignoring him. "A big one. A golden retriever, maybe. Or a husky."
"Can we name it something cool? Not, like, Spot or Buddy."
"We'll name it something ridiculous. Like Mr. Pickles."
He'd laughed so hard he'd almost choked on his spit. "Mr. Pickles?"
"Or we could go the other way. Something tough. Like Killer."
"Killer the golden retriever."
"Exactly."
"I love you," he'd said, and he'd meant it with his whole heart.
"I love you too, Sid."
Now he didn't know anything about you. If you'd gone to school like you'd planned, if you were still in Nova Scotia or if you'd moved somewhere else. If you'd found someone else to love, someone who could actually be there for you, who didn't spend half the year on the road. He mostly hoped that you were happy. That whatever had happened between the two of you, you'd landed on your feet. That you were living the life you deserved.
But selfishly, bringing the Cup home, he maybe hoped that he'd see you somewhere in the crowd of people. He knew it wasn't realistic. Cole Harbour wasn't that small, and you'd probably moved on, probably didn't even think about him anymore. But still.
Like he had this big shiny thing he wanted to show you. Look, he wanted to say. Look what I did. Look what we dreamed about, and I made it happen. Aren't you proud?
And he had his dog, Samantha. Sam. He'd gotten her a couple of years ago, this sweet, goofy yellow lab who went everywhere with him in the off-season. She wasn't Mr. Pickles or Killer, but she was perfect. He thought you'd like her. Thought maybe you'd laugh at the way Sam got excited over nothing, the way she'd bring him her toy and drop it at his feet and lick his knee until he threw it.
Honestly, he had nothing else to offer you but those two things. The Cup and Sam. His entire world, condensed into thirty-five pounds of metal and sixty pounds of dog. It felt like nothing. But it was all he had.
He thought maybe you'd want to hold the Cup. Everyone did. It was tradition, passing it around, letting people drink out of it and take pictures with it. He could see it so clearly in his mind, you standing next to it, your hand on the silver, your smile soft. Maybe you'd want to know what it felt like, to hold something he'd worked his whole life for.
Maybe you'd like how long his hair was now. It was longer than it had been when he was a teenager, curling at the ends, brushing his ears. You'd always liked it a little longer, used to run your fingers through it when you kissed him, tugging gently when he'd kiss down your neck. "Don't cut it too short," you'd say, and he never did.
Maybe you'd surprise him at his parents' house for the get-together. They were throwing this thing for him, inviting half of Cole Harbour, it seemed like. Friends, family, neighbors, people he barely knew but who wanted to celebrate with him. His mom had been planning it for weeks. And Sidney kept thinking that maybe you'd show up. That someone would invite you, or you'd hear about it and decide to come, and he'd turn around and there you'd be.
Maybe you could catch up. He'd ask you about school, about work, about your life. And you'd ask him about Pittsburgh, about the season, about what it felt like to win. And maybe, if he was really lucky, you'd smile at him the way you used to. Like he was the only person in the room. Like he mattered.
Maybe you could make up. He didn't even know what you'd be making up for, what had happened to drive you apart, but he'd apologize anyway. For not calling, for losing his phone, for not trying harder. For whatever he'd done to make you walk away.
Maybe he could just do something. Anything. He’d fix it, he was sure of it.
Stealing sidney crosby's indentitly one piece at a time, first the kid nickname, then the C for team canada, now hes working on stealing the "most recoganizable ass in the NHL" title. Do you think Sid's giving him pointers/workout routines/tip?
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