And Never Been Kissed
Author: thehoyden; twentysomething
Date: 2014-11-28T05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Completed; Colby Armstrong; Maxime Talbot; FanFiction; Alexander Ovechkin; Voyeurism; Possessive Behavior; Ryan Getzlaf; Crosby Family; Mike Richards; Pining; Evgeni Malkin; Shea Weber; Jeff Carter; Sidney Crosby; Patrice Bergeron; Mario Lemieux; M/M; Sergei Gonchar; Jealousy; Jack Johnson; Epistolary; Lemieux Family (Hockey RPF); First Time
Description: Sid didn’t introduce himself in the hallway, and he certainly doesn’t assume that people know who he is. So it would only be polite to thank Malkin again, this time more personally. He could write him a letter. An email? No, a letter.
Publisher: archiveofourown.org

And Never Been Kissed by thehoyden, twentysomething

Fandoms: Hockey RPF
AO3 Categories: M/M
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Characters: Alexander Ovechkin, Colby Armstrong, Crosby Family, Evgeni Malkin, Jack Johnson, Jeff Carter, Lemieux Family (Hockey RPF), Marc-Andre Fleury, Mario Lemieux, Maxime Talbot, Mike Richards, Patrice Bergeron, Ryan Getzlaf, Sergei Gonchar, Shea Weber, Sidney Crosby
Freeform Tags: Alternate History, Epistolary, First Time, Jealousy, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Underage Drinking, Voyeurism
Status: Completed
Chapters: 6
Words: 167,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2023-03-15 19:16:34
Summary:

Sid didn’t introduce himself in the hallway, and he certainly doesn’t assume that people know who he is. So it would only be polite to thank Malkin again, this time more personally.

He could write him a letter. An email? No, a letter.

I Bookmarked Story: False

1. Chapter 1

Author’s Note:

This is a work of fiction. If you got here by googling yourself or someone you know, the back button is a good idea.

We owe large debts of gratitude to a lot of people: thefourthvine, for being willing to take on both of us for audiencing and betaing, even when we made her read about international competition; le_russe_satan, for invaluable Russian culture and language assistance; emphasisonthehomo, for Russian as a second language assistance; Moonklutz, for the Canada pick. Thanks for everything — we couldn’t have done it without you!

Helsinki is not Rimouski, and neither place is home.

Sid sits on a bench after the semi-finals, and he should be happy that they trounced the Czech Republic — but it’s January 3rd, and he wishes he were in Cole Harbour with his family, eating contraband leftover Christmas cookies and letting Taylor play goalie in the backyard with their dad’s old glove and blocker. But even if he were back in Canada, he’d be with his billet family, and most likely he’d be staring at the wall in his bedroom and running through plays.

He’s out of his pads but sitting there in his Under Armour, soaked with sweat. He needs a shower. He needs to go back to the hotel and think about the gold medal game in two days. He’s heard since he was fourteen about his responsibilities to his team and to Canada, but he thinks he can be a little selfish for five minutes. Just five minutes to himself, to stare at the painted concrete wall while sweat cools on the back of his neck and ache for what he’s given up to be here.

He feels the bench shift under him as someone sits next to him. He looks over, and it’s a skinny boy in a Team Russia tracksuit. He says something to Sid, a soft purr of consonants, and it sounds — nice. Sid doesn’t understand a word, but the boy has gentle eyes, so Sid musters up a smile and says, “Hi.”

“Hi,” the boy says back, flashing Sid a smile in return. Russia was out in the quarterfinals, earlier than they should have been — it’s not that Sid doesn’t want to play the Americans, because they’ve gotten this far and Sid wants to play the best. But some part of Canada will always long to test itself against their beloved Russian rivals, and Sid expected it, imagined it.

“You played well,” Sid tells him. He points at the boy, mimes shooting the puck, and gives him his best encouraging smile.

It earns him a torrent of Russian that sounds happy and excited, along with a flurry of gestures that Sid doesn’t quite understand, but he knows a recap when he hears one. If the boy cares that the only language they share is hockey, he doesn’t show it.

“I guess you’re going home soon,” Sid says. “I wonder if you’ll stay for the last game.” He briefly considers whether he’ll be happy to go home after their last game. He’s not sure; he doesn’t really feel at home anywhere, right now.

Maybe some of the lonely, middle-of-the-night-thoughts rattling around in his head are there to see, no translation or pantomime required, because the boy reaches over and squeezes Sid’s shoulder. He’s startled into making a noise; Sid thinks it might be the first time anyone’s touched him outside the context of hockey in months. Neither of them can understand each other beyond the action of an invisible slapshot, so Sid can say anything. It can mean anything.

“Thank you,” Sid says, because he thinks it was kind — it felt kind.

The boy’s face lights up, and that must be another phrase he knows, along with “hi,” because he smiles widely.

“You welcome,” he says, slow and careful on “welcome.”

Sid jerks around at the locker room door opening down the hallway, conversation spilling out. “Crosby!” someone — Carter? — calls.

The boy is still clasping Sid’s shoulder with one hand when Sid jerks a thumb back at the locker room. “Gotta go,” he says apologetically. “I’ll…see you, I guess. Next year.”

He stands and the boy stands with him, and Sid looks at him and his kind eyes one last time, because he wants to remember this. “Bye,” Sid says softly.

Before he can turn to leave, the boy seizes him in a hug, and Sid flails, uncertain where his hands should go or what he should even do. His hands gradually settle on the boy’s shoulders, before he hugs back, as tight as he can. His mom always told him that it takes two people to hug — maybe this boy needs it as much as Sid does, if he won’t let go.

“Next year,” Sid says into the boy’s shoulder. “I’ll see you next year for sure, at the gold medal game, okay?”

There’s a spill of Russian in Sid’s ear, and then the boy draws back, only to poke a finger at Sid’s chest, right where a medal will rest in two days, no matter what happens.

“I’ll do my best,” Sid promises, because he will, he always does.

“Crosby!” Carter calls again.

Sid looks at the boy for another long moment, and then he waves, and the boy waves back. It doesn’t occur to him until he’s showered and dressed that he never got a name.

***

The obvious, if embarrassing, course of action is to ask one of the coaches. They’re sure to have a picture of the Russian team, dossiers — something he can use to figure out who the boy was. Sid thinks that if he’d seen the boy skate, he could probably have picked him out a line-up, but out of pads, on solid ground, Sid’s at a total loss.

He doesn’t want to ask before the game, doesn’t want to seem distracted or like he’s not fully committed, but he can’t help but wonder anyway. Maybe it would be better to just ask — then at least he wouldn’t be thinking about easy smiles and soft, flowing words he didn’t understand. But hockey comes first, has always come first, will always come first, so Sid waits.

The game is frustrating, heartbreaking. The lead slips away from them in the third, the Americans tying, then pulling ahead even after Fleury pokes it free, slipping in on an unlucky bounce off of Coburn. The last five minutes are torture, trying so hard to pull even and failing.

As little as Sid is looking forward to getting back to Quebec, he’s counting down the minutes until they leave Helsinki, ready to put the game as far behind him as possible. If he’s eager for anything, it’s finding out who the Russian boy was, and he’s at least thought of a plausible reason for asking, though it takes him two of the eight hours from Helsinki to New York to get up the nerve to do it.

“Hey, Coach.” Sid is crouched in the aisle whispering, and the plane is mostly silent save for some snoring and quiet talking.

“What?” Coach Durocher groans, closing the book he was apparently sleeping over. “Crosby?”

“Uh, hi,” Sid says, his face already flushing in anticipation of telling a half-truth. “So, I was thinking ahead to next year, wanted to get a leg up on the competition. I know they went out early this year, but what can you tell me about the Russian team?”

Durocher looks at him like he’s crazy, which is an expression Sid is fairly used to. “Kid, the game is an entire year away.”

“Um,” Sid says, stalling for time, because he honestly didn’t think past the first question.

He gets an eye roll, but Durocher sighs and says, “Bag in the overhead, there’s a binder labeled Group A, take it and leave me alone.”

“Thanks,” Sid says, too excited to be appropriately apologetic. He basically takes it and runs back to his seat, trying not to jostle Getzlaf with his elbow when he opens the binder. There are tabs marking each team’s section and there’s even a team picture, but it’s too small to be useful. But then he flips the page and there are names he’s familiar with from watching one of their games on an off day, from draft buzz. There’s a little picture next to each name, and two pages later, there he is — Evgeni Malkin.

Sid actually knows who Malkin is — on the ice, anyway: physical, a strong centre, with skating that Sid would be hard pressed to forget. It’s difficult to put that together with the skinny, friendly boy who hugged him so tightly. If it’s possible, Sid actually feels more anxious now that he has a name to put to the face. He wants to get back to Rimouski and find a way to get all the tape he can on Malkin; he’s already trying to think of an excuse to do so.

It just feels — unfinished. Like getting interrupted wasn’t part of the plan, like it doesn’t make sense for that to have been it. They had a one-sided conversation for maybe all of five minutes, but Sid can’t shake the feeling that it happened for a reason.

And he knows he said next year, promised it, but 2005 is impossibly far away, with too many variables between now and then — the draft, the season. What if one of them gets injured, or doesn’t play?

Sid looks down at the open binder again, at Malkin’s slightly lopsided smile.

He didn’t introduce himself in the hallway, and he certainly doesn’t assume that people know who he is. So it would only be polite to thank Malkin again, this time more personally.

He could write him a letter. An email? No, a letter. If he’s thanking Malkin, maybe a card? A hug isn’t a present, exactly, but Sid appreciated it all the same.

He falls asleep with the binder on his lap, his fingers marking the page.

***

He means to ask Pat Brisson, his agent how he might send something to Malkin, but there’s hockey to play, and more hockey to play, and he’s racking up points so fast that people are already talking about the Jean Béliveau Trophy. If he’s not playing hockey, he’s cramming in schoolwork or he’s staring at the walls of his bedroom in his billet family’s house, going over plays in his head until he falls asleep.

He thinks his French is getting better. He hopes so, anyway. More and more people want to talk to him, and he just wants to play hockey, but he knows this is part of what comes with it.

He thinks of Malkin at odd times, like when he’s using a sweatshirt as a pillow on the bus or when he’s raiding the fridge in the middle of the night because he’s just so hungry. But it isn’t until the season is over and he’s sitting on the couch with Taylor to watch the draft that he realizes that Malkin is draft eligible, that Malkin is coming to North America way before the next World Juniors.

Evgeni Malkin is going to play in the NHL in a few months — Sid is sure of it. And he’s excited, and envious, and—

And he’s being stupid. He barely knows Malkin, he reminds himself. They talked for five minutes after a game, and Sid never did send that card. Malkin probably doesn’t even remember him.

“You’re being weird,” Taylor says matter-of-factly.

“I just want to know who’s going first overall,” Sid says. Everyone says it’ll be the other Russian — Alexander Ovechkin. But Sid looks at Malkin in his grey suit and his too-long tie, and he wonders.

In the end, Malkin goes second overall, to Pittsburgh. To Mario Lemieux and his Penguins. He looks so dazed and overjoyed that Sid can’t be envious anymore. He wants, more than anything, to say congratulations, and to wish Malkin luck.

It’s enough to make him get off the couch and find the phone to call Brisson.

***

Sid doesn’t get a reply in July. Or in August. In September, there’s training camp for Sid and terrible rumours of an NHL lockout, and still no response. His mom promised to send any letters from Russia to him in Rimouski, although when she asked Sid who he was expecting a letter from, Sid felt his face flood with colour for no reason and he stared at his shoes until his mom said, “Okay, honey.”

He’s back in his bare-bones bedroom in Rimouski and wondering if it’s stupid to send a second letter. Maybe the first one never got there. Maybe Malkin never saw it. Maybe Malkin did see it but never bothered to answer.

Sid presses his face into his pillow and tries not to think about it. Not too much, anyway.

In October, there’s a big envelope from his mom, and Sid’s brow furrows when his billet mom hands it to him. His birthday was two months ago, and it’s not like his mom never sends him stuff, but she usually sends care packages with new socks and underwear and other things that make Sid want to die of embarrassment. He opens the envelope and sees a rainbow of stamps with Cyrillic words, and immediately beats a hasty retreat to his bedroom.

Considering their conversation at World Juniors, Sid is a little surprised to open the envelope and see English. He feels a little prick of guilt, wondering if he shouldn’t have tried to use some Russian in his letter, but he’s too excited to worry about it.

Dear Sidney Crosby,

Of course I remember you! Sorry about the game, but you played very well. My teammate, Sergei Gonchar, helped me write you. I am sorry it took so long to write back, but I could not translate your letter. I am working on my English, and Sergei helps me. I have to practice many times to get it right.

Your letter is very nice! I want to tell you how well you play in Helsinki, I watched all your games after. I borrowed them from Coach. Next time Russia will win, but you will still be very good!! I am very sad about the lockout. I am very excited to be drafted and for NHL hockey. Next year you will be drafted too? When everyone is done arguing, I will see you in NHL. Maybe you will come to Pittsburgh. That would be great! We would be good teammates!

Please write me again!

Evgeni Malkin

He reads the letter maybe four or five times before he makes himself put it down on the desk. Sid immediately looks for paper so he can write back, but the only thing he can find is notebook paper and a pair of blank Christmas cards. He can run out after practice in the afternoon though. His eye catches on the carefully, carefully formed letters on the page and he wonders if the bookstore would have a beginner’s guide to Russian.

***

Sid finds a decent looking Russian phrasebook and a textbook easily enough. Marc-Antoine patiently looks at magazines while Sid stares at the stationary for ten minutes before choosing a simple cream-coloured sheet that feels nice. He’s not sure how anything is supposed to sound, but he figures it doesn’t matter so much, as long as the Cyrillic he’s copying out looks decent. He fills page after page of a plain notebook with practice attempts at simple greetings.

The original draft of his return letter is three pages long and Sid knows it’s crazy. The second draft isn’t much better, but when he takes out the part about international ice size, it’s not so bad. He doesn’t want to take too long and have Malkin think he’s not going to write back, so he commits to the nice paper and focuses on writing as clearly as possible. He allows himself one impulsive postscript — I think we would be good teammates too — before firmly sealing it and putting on the international postage.

The season is in full swing, so there’s not a lot of time to wonder when — if — when a reply will come, but every time Sid comes home from an away game, he sorts through his mail and hopes for another envelope with Russian stamps. It’s mid-November when a letter arrives, delivered straight to his billet family’s house. Sid’s heart beats faster when he takes it quickly from his billet mother’s hand and shuts himself in his bedroom.

Dear Sidney, it starts, and Sid has to sit down on his bed and smooth the paper carefully.

Thank you for your letter! Who is teaching you Russian? You are very good for a beginner! Maybe next time I see you we can talk in Russian too. I will work on my English too so we can talk a lot. The letter goes on about his progress in learning English, including practicing on his teammate’s two-year-old daughter. We are about the same, it’s nice to have someone at my level.

Sid can’t help but giggle at that, thinking about Taylor’s rapt attention at that age, paired with Malkin’s gangly height and kind face. Sid wonders if he should buy some conversation tapes, too.

The rest of the letter is musings on traveling with his team, no longer a rookie but still feeling new. Sid can sympathize, even if the Russian Superleague is very different in general and on another level entirely than the QMJHL. Sid’s not the youngest on the team anymore, but he still feels a little bit new himself. He’s sort of amazed at the similarity of their situations, how perfectly Malkin described exactly what he’s feeling too. Then his attention is grabbed by the closing of the letter: We will see each other soon! World Juniors is close! Even though we will be on different teams, I am excited to see you and become better friends!

It’s signed Your friend, Evgeni and Sid stares at it for a few minutes before reading the whole thing again. He goes to put it away with the first letter he received, but instead ends up taking that first one out and reading it again, then reading the second right after.

He hasn’t really thought about WJC, more preoccupied with setting up Océanic for a deep run in the playoffs, but he has a plane ticket for Christmas Eve night from Halifax to North Dakota. And now at the other end of that flight, it’s not just international competition and the pressure to perform, it’s Evgeni. He’s not sure how he feels about it — excited, obviously, but there’s a strangely tense energy curled up in the pit of his stomach, too.

Sid probably forgets to mention lots of things in his return letter, but he does remember to add his email address before signing it Your friend, Sidney.

***

He feels a little bad about the stationery going to waste in his desk drawer, but when he sends an email and gets a response in hours instead of weeks, Sid can’t bring himself to regret anything.

The first email he receives is short and doesn’t make a tremendous amount of sense. It also has a lot of emoticons, and Sid doesn’t even know what most of them mean. But he gets the gist of it — Evgeni is playing hard and he’s happy Sid gave him his email address. Clearly Evgeni availed himself of Babelfish instead of Sergei Gonchar, because the last line says, see you in January best. Sid wrinkles his nose; he’s not entirely sure what that means, but he thinks Evgeni is talking about hockey? But it ends with your friend, Evgeni and Sid hits reply right away.

There’s the problem of time differences and internet access — Sid doesn’t like to tie up his billet family’s phone line, and obviously if the kids need the computer for school, that’s more important than Sid’s email. Sometimes, if he’s lucky, there’s internet available in the hotel rooms on road trips — not often, but sometimes — and Sid can plug the Ethernet cord into his laptop and really take his time writing to Evgeni.

He’s still nominally attending school, even if most of his education is happening via tutoring. Simon gives him a look when Sid asks whether he could get some extra lessons in a foreign language.

“Because your French is so good now?” Simon says, unimpressed.

Sid fidgets. “I just thought, you know. If you know someone who could teach me a little Russian.”

Simon gives him a long look. “I’ll ask around at the university. But now we’re going to work on this essay, and then trig.”

Sid is so pleased by even the possibility of Russian lessons that he almost doesn’t mind that his French essay has red all over it. Almost.

***

Evgeni’s latest email comes right after Sid gets off the phone with his family; they’re trying to hammer out the last details of his abbreviated trip home for Christmas. He feels a little like he’s earned the email, and opens it quickly. There’s a picture attached of Evgeni with Gonchar, out in the snow with rifles, and Sid carefully ignores the way his pulse jumps. The email seems to imply they had a few days off and went hunting, but mostly rode snowmobiles. Soft heart, Evgeni writes. No good for hunt.

Too cold for snow in Magnitogorsk. Strong cold for you?

It is cold — it’s snowing outside — but Sid feels plenty warm. He writes back right away, using some of the Russian his tutor, Valeriya, taught him, words he struggled through his embarrassment to ask for. There’s supposed to be a lot of snow over Christmas. My sister, Taylor, told me she hoped I was snowed in and wouldn’t have to leave for WJC. My dad said he knows a guy with a plow, just in case. Taylor’s really upset I’m flying out Christmas Eve. I won’t get to go to church with them but I’ll still get to open presents. I bought the fanciest Barbie doll for Taylor to apologize, even though I know it’s not the same. When does your flight leave?

He wants to send back a picture, too, but he doesn’t have any that aren’t official team photos or tragic shots of him sleeping on the bus. He’ll have to take some over the Christmas break.

There’s a reply waiting for him in the morning, full of cultural confusion: Sergei tell no new year presents for Canada? true? Sorry Taylor sad but I am happy see you. Hope small snow for Canada. Mama say no presents until after WJC. (( Presents for brother Denis, Mama, Papa on new year not for me (((

Sid’s still mulling that over when Valeriya comes for their lesson, and instead of focusing on the present tense exercise they’re doing, Sid blurts out, “What would be a good gift for New Year’s?”

She gives him a look over her glasses, and Sid has no idea what she’s thinking, but it seems like she is at least considering the question. “For a friend?” she asks, and there’s a funny emphasis on the word “friend” that makes Sid blush.

“Yeah,” he says.

Valeriya is never one to waste an opportunity, so she teaches Sid how to say necklace, bracelet, and earrings in Russian, which he repeats dutifully and then uses in a sentence. It’s when she moves on to perfume that Sid tilts his head to one side.

“You mean like — cologne?” he asks.

“Cologne is for boys,” Valeriya says. And this time she’s the one taken aback. “Your friend is a boy?”

Sid basically wants to dig himself a hole and never come out. “Hockey,” he says, which isn’t really an explanation, but it’s one that people accept for just about anything.

Valeriya accepts it gamely enough, and apparently Russian boys are good with necklaces too. Sid fingers the necklace around his throat. It’s one he bought with Jack while they were at Shattuck, and it feels a little lucky, so he’s been wearing it pretty much all the time. But he knows that what works for him doesn’t work for everyone, and he wants to give Evgeni something he’ll like. And if it turns into something that might be lucky for him — well.

He begs a ride from Cedrick to the mall, because Sid’s been the youngest new boy on plenty of teams and he always seems to get along with his goalies. There’s the girly jewelry store, but Sid doesn’t think he’ll find what he’s looking for there. There’s a really stuffy jewelry store with, like, diamond rings and things Sid can’t afford and doesn’t want to buy anyway. Cedrick trails after him and doesn’t seem enormously offended when Sid shoots down all his suggestions, and they end up at a kiosk that specializes in chains and pendants. This feels way more like Sid’s speed.

He picks a sterling silver chain that looks sturdy enough, but not like it will be distracting. His instinct is to go for a St. Christopher medal, but then he doesn’t know if that’s a thing in Russia, and he really can’t call Valeriya to ask. He looks at all his options for a good ten minutes before the uni guy manning the booth tells him in a very bored tone that they do engraving, and that’s when Sid’s got it.

Afterward, Cedrick says, “It’ll work out,” which is weird, because it’s not like Sid told him he was worried about anything.

***

The trip home starts with Sid shelling out for the better part of a tank of gas for Danny’s car.

“You can’t drive, we’d end up in Maine,” Jamie chirps.

Sid shrugs, because it’s fair enough; he’s about as directionally challenged as they come. Danny will drive them as far as Amherst, where their parents are picking them all up.

The drive takes about six hours, and staring out at the Quebec countryside and listening to Graham’s terrible mix CDs is exhausting. Sid wakes up somewhere around Miramichi, which is good timing because Danny stops at the McDonald’s, and Sid needs to use the bathroom and also buy a lot of burgers. He eats his three burgers when they get back on the road; he licks his fingers when he’s done and wishes he’d ordered another. He’ll be hungry again in a few hours, and who knows if Danny will want to stop again.

He mostly tunes out the chatter in the front seat, because Danny and Jamie are both talking about their girlfriends in Rimouski. He only pays attention when they talk about what they bought their girlfriends for Christmas.

“I think she really liked it,” Jamie says about the bracelet he bought. “I mean, I hope.”

Danny snorts. “She likes your face, so I’m sure it was fine.” He catches Sid’s eye in the rearview mirror. “What about you, Squid? You buy something for anyone?”

Sid opens his mouth to deny it, then stops, then wonders if Evgeni’s necklace counts.

“Oh my god, you did,” Graham says, sounding like he’s just discovered everything he knows is wrong.

Jamie cranes his head around to look at Sid. “Girls already make signs for you. You have to tell us your secrets.”

“Leave him alone,” Danny says mildly. “Let him have a little privacy. Everyone already knows what stick he uses and what he had for breakfast.”

“That’s everybody else,” Jamie objects. “We’re his team.” He looks at Sid again. “Seriously, Sid — tall, short? Blonde?”

“It’s not — it’s not like that,” Sid says. “I just got a present. For a friend.”

Graham gives him an intensely sceptical look. “Like a friend-friend? Or a friend?”

Sid stares at him, perplexed. “I don’t — what does —”

Graham groans. “You’re hopeless. The worst. Girls are hanging on you all the time and you don’t even notice.”

“I notice!” Sid objects. “I just don’t. I don’t — you know.”

“It’s fine,” Danny says, catching Sid’s eye in the mirror again. “You do your own thing, Sid.”

The car is quiet for a moment, and then Jamie says, “No seriously, Croz, you have to give us something. If you buy a present for someone, that’s special. Cough it up.”

Sid hesitates, wondering what he’s supposed to say. “He’s just a friend,” he says finally.

Danny and Jamie exchange looks. Graham’s mouth is twisted into a dissatisfied pout. “Fine, be boring,” he says with a huff.

The quiet in the car isn’t uneasy, by any means, but it feels like everyone is pretty obviously sitting on that admission. Sid thinks there’s a tacit assumption being made that’s not exactly right, but considering everyone has stopped asking Sid fraught personal questions, he’s willing to go with it.

They drive maybe another few miles in peace before Jamie says plaintively, “Won’t anyone stop this car so I can take a piss?”

Graham laughs. “See any bushes that need watering, Danny?”

Luckily for the flora of New Brunswick, there’s a gas station a mile away. Everyone gets out to stretch their legs, and while Sid is staring out toward the sea, Danny comes up behind him. Sid assumes it’s to tell him to get back into the car, but Danny just pats his shoulder twice.

“All right?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Sid says, and looks back at him. “Thanks.”

Danny just shakes his head and smiles a little before heading back to the driver’s side.

***

When he gets home, Taylor throws her arms around his neck and hangs on like she’s just going to make him carry her around like that for the whole time he’s home. “Heavy,” he grunts theatrically, and makes like he’s going to drop her.

“Sid!” she shrieks in his ear. He winces but gives her a big hug.

“How was traffic?” his mom asks his dad.

“Oh, you know,” he says. “Same old, same old.”

“Taylor, let your brother breathe,” Mom says, but when Taylor reluctantly lets go, she swoops in and hugs Sid tightly. “I missed you, sweetheart.”

“Me too, Mom,” Sid says, throat weirdly tight. He still can’t believe he can see over the top of her head, caught off guard by it all over again.

“I made mac and cheese,” she says, though Sid’s nose was two steps ahead of her. Everything feels just the same — the smell of his mom’s cooking, the sound of his dad’s boots hitting the mat as he toes them off, Taylor singing to herself as she thumps upstairs.

“Oh, and there’s a bunch of mail for you on your bed,” she says, letting go of Sid and turning back to a chopping board full of carrots. “I tried to sort the important things out to the top, but, well, who can tell these days?”

The question seems to be directed mostly to herself, and Sid’s brain is already upstairs, wondering what’s up there and how quickly he can get up the stairs without injuring himself.

It turns out the answer is about twenty seconds and one near miss with the step that’s just a hint steeper.

Waiting right in the middle of his neatly made bed is a surprisingly big pile of mail — there’s a letter from Shattuck, a stack of fan letters bundled together and forwarded by Pat, a Christmas card from the Johnsons, and —

At the bottom of the pile, there’s a battered-looking padded mailer covered in Cyrillic and international markings and Sid dives for it. His hands shake a little when he opens it, and he pulls out a package messily wrapped in plain green paper. Sid usually rips wrapping open, but he takes care with this one, lifting the tape and pulling the paper open.

It’s a Metallurg t-shirt, and Sid is familiar enough with Evgeni’s name in Cyrillic that he recognizes it on the back. There’s a 71, too, familiar from the Metallurg website Sid uses to check their schedule. He’s only ever known Evgeni as number 17, but numbers change from team to team.

The t-shirt is stiff with newness, and when he unfolds it and shakes it out, there’s a card. The writing is all in Russian, though, and he doesn’t get a chance to work it out until later that night when he’s getting ready for bed. He goes to put on his SSM t-shirt that he usually sleeps in, but hesitates, then pulls on Evgeni’s shirt instead.

It’s not as comfortable, but he likes the way the print on the front looks, and he turns a little in the mirror to see Evgeni’s name and number on the back. And when he sits down with his textbook, it takes him a little bit but Valeriya’s tutoring pays off. Roughly translated, Evgeni has written: Best shirt for best player. Merry Christmas, Sidney. Your friend, Evgeni.

Sid pulls at the hem of the shirt. Obviously it’s a little joke, but that Evgeni might think he’s a good player — that Evgeni might think he is the best player — maybe that part isn’t so much a joke. He hopes not. He wants to meet Evgeni on the ice in the NHL and try to prove him right.

He goes to sleep in Evgeni’s t-shirt. There’s only four more days until WJC.

***

Sid checks his email at night after Taylor has gone to bed and while his parents are watching TV, but there’s nothing from Evgeni. There’s an email from Jack, and a few from former teammates, and something intimidating from Pat that he dutifully reads.

His mom catches him before he goes to bed. “You okay, honey?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” he says.

She squeezes his shoulder. “You’re going to do great.”

He blinks at her, and then he realizes what she’s talking about. “Oh,” he says. “I’m going to do my best.”

She gives him a long look and says, “Do you want a sandwich?”

Sid is about to say no when his stomach gurgles and his mom looks vindicated.

He eats two, in fact, before he heads off to bed. As he does, he realizes that Evgeni is probably playing his last game before heading off to WJC. It’s such a shame about the lockout — Evgeni could be playing right now in Pittsburgh, he could be playing with Mario Lemieux, and Sid bets Evgeni would be tearing everything up. Maybe he still will, if the lockout ends anytime soon.

Sid sighs and changes into his Metallurg t-shirt. He’s been keeping it under his pillow, which is maybe weird. He just — he doesn’t want questions about it. This thing with Evgeni is unlikely but great, really great, and Sid wants to keep it all to himself.

He tries to sleep, but his brain is chasing itself in circles, and it’s all just — he needs to stop thinking. He needs to go to sleep. He sighs and rolls over on his back and stares in frustration at the ceiling. Then he figures, as long as he has a room to himself, he might as well jerk off and see if he can sleep after that.

There are plenty of magazines that get handed around the locker room, none of them containing anything Sid is particularly interested in. Which is fine — he just has to use his imagination. He doesn’t usually think about anyone in particular. He remembers a few of the older boys from the last WJC, who had all been bigger and had more muscle, and Sid had wanted to be them but he’d also felt just a little shiver up his spine when he looked at them.

There’s lotion in his bedside drawer, and he lets it warm up in his hand a little before shoving his boxers down. He’s always played with older, bigger boys, and he doesn’t know if it’s a thing, but he doesn’t think it’s so unusual to want someone who could hold him, someone he could curl into. He keeps quiet while he jerks himself off, and if he wants to imagine a hand bigger than his wrapped around his cock, if it makes him bite his lip to imagine someone holding him close and getting him off, that’s fine, that’s totally fine, and Sid would absolutely return the favour, would get his hand — both his hands? — on the other guy’s dick and then he —

He only just manages to shove Evgeni’s shirt up before he comes on his stomach. There’s a hint of the Cyrillic visible when he glances down to evaluate whether or not he needs to offer to do his own laundry this week and he shivers, a little cold where his shirt is rucked up and his come is rapidly cooling. He reaches for a tissue off the nightstand, trying to make sure to get every drop before tossing it into the trashcan — he doesn’t want to wake up stuck to his t-shirt. If he didn’t want to answer any questions about it in the first place, he really doesn’t want to answer any questions about why he needs to wash it, either.

He pulls his boxers up and his shirt down, reaching for the blanket at the foot of the bed too when his comforter isn’t cutting it. The last thing Sid thinks before letting his eyes drift shut, post-orgasm drowsiness kicking in, is that the extra weight on top of him feels good.

***

If Taylor had thrown a tantrum about them opening presents early, he thinks it would have been easier to deal with than watching her try so hard to put on a brave face.

“But what about Santa?” she says, biting her lip, and then looks to their mom. “He’ll miss Santa.”

“Santa knows he’ll be in the States. He’ll find him there,” Mom says without batting an eyelash.

“Are you sure?” Taylor asks.

Sid doesn’t remember her asking these questions last year. But she’s another year older, he supposes — another year that he’s mostly missed. “It’ll be just fine,” he says. “I won’t see what you get from Santa, but I’ll call you and you can tell me, okay? And I’ll tell you what I got, too.”

Taylor still looks worried, but she nods. Sid’s not surprised when she snuggles up to him on the couch while he’s trying to finish a book for an English assignment. They’re opening presents after lunch, and then Sid will get on a plane to Winnipeg, and from there, the team will bus down to Grand Forks, North Dakota.

“Your shirt has funny writing,” she says eventually.

Sid looks at her and blinks — and then looks down, where his hoodie is unzipped enough to show a little Cyrillic.

“It’s just different writing,” he says. “It uses different letters. So Taylor wouldn’t be T-A-Y-L-O-R.”

She looks intrigued. “What would it be?”

“B-O-O-G-E-R,” he says. He tries to keep a straight face for the second it takes her to process that and then cracks up when she shrieks with laughter and kicks him for good measure.

“If you’re going to break something, go outside,” Mom calls from the kitchen.

Sid knows from experience that that’s not a suggestion. “Come on,” he says to Taylor. “We can build another snowman before lunch.”

Taylor lights up, because she’s read a lot of Calvin and Hobbes and wants to have an army of snowmen in the back yard. So far there are three, and one of them is a snow goalie that they packed snow on the front of to make leg pads. “I’m going to get dressed faster than you!” she says, and takes off for the front door — and it’s not like he’s proud of himself, but there’s no way that’s happening.

***

The flight to Winnipeg is full of anxious, last-minute travelers, carry-ons of carefully wrapped presents clutched in their hands. Sid has the Russian textbook that Valeriya recommended to him after she tossed his old book aside with a snort. He manages to get in some good review before he gives in and puts on his eye mask.

Thanks to his relatively early flight, he’s one of the first players to arrive, and his gear is quick to come out on the carousel, so he’s left without much to do as he waits by the signs marking the waiting area for the team.

He’s trying to build up the nerve to go break into the little clump of guys wearing Knights hoodies when someone thumps heavily into the seat next to him.

“Crosby, right?” he asks, sticking out a hand. “Shea Weber, Kelowna.”

“Um, hi, yeah,” Sid says, before belatedly shaking his hand. “Sid. Sorry.” He feels every minute the baby of the team all of a sudden, awkward and out of place.

Weber grins at him. “Nothing to be sorry about,” he says. “So, you the guy to show me the ropes?”

Sid can’t help but stare at him, a little bewildered.

“I’m a rookie here,” Weber says with a shrug.

“Well, you already made a good choice,” Patrice Bergeron says, sitting down on Sid’s other side. “You’re doing good in the Q, Crosby. Weber, right?”

They shake hands across Sid in an increasingly surreal exchange.

“Stick with us,” Bergeon advises, nudging Sid. “Those OHL guys reek.” He says it a little louder, clearly meant to be overheard, and Mike Richards immediately picks up the bait.

“I’m sorry, maybe all those Boston beans have burned out your nose,” Richards chirps back and everyone laughs.

Somehow it’s easy after that to float along between Weber and Bergeron and meet the few guys he hasn’t met before, trying to play it cool and casual as Weber makes Sid introduce him all around.

Then they pile on the bus, Weber leading the way, and he pats the seat next to him after he sits down, so Sid takes him up on the invitation. It’s two hours to their hotel, and it’s dark, but Sid’s not sure if he’ll sleep or not.

“Crazy, right?” Weber says quietly. “Last year I was watching the first game on TV with my family.”

Sid’s not sure what the right thing to say is — he wasn’t, but he never wants to take this for granted. He says softly, “Pretty crazy, yeah.”

***

The teams have taken over a hotel just off UND’s campus, and Sid gets assigned a room with Jeremy, who he doesn’t know well but played with at last year’s WJC, so that’s fine. And Jeremy’s cool, so Sid gets settled and then pretty much passes out. They have morning skate, and he wants all the sleep he can get. Not even the prospect of seeing Evgeni again can keep his eyes open.

At least, not for long.

When he wakes up, he and Jeremy shuffle around each other to shower and then head down to breakfast. After that, it’s time for a big team meeting, and then finally, finally they’re out on the ice. No matter how awkward Sid feels sometimes around the older guys, the strangers, he feels completely at home in his own skin on the ice, completely sure that he’s going to work hard and do his best. But all too soon, they’re hustled off so Slovakia can have their time, and then there’s another meeting, then lunch. They get moved from place to place, and Sid finds it weirdly relaxing; he doesn’t have to worry about what to do next or when, because he doesn’t have a say. There’s only the team, and hockey, and that’s all he wants or needs.

Sid gets a glimpse of Russian jerseys coming off the ice from their pre-game skate before Weber nudges him ahead into their locker room. It’s enough to yank him out of his headspace for just a few minutes, but only a few. They have a game to win.

Win it they do, and Sid wonders if Evgeni is watching, the way teams do, the way Canada will probably all watch the Russian matchups later. He gets two goals and an assist, and he wonders if Evgeni saw.

They blow Slovakia out of the water, and Sid was right — they’re pretty much all staying to watch Russia’s game, which means no one’s really hurrying to get showered and dressed again. Sid strips off his pads, skates, and Under Armour and edges past the goalies to take advantage of the shower, which looks cleaner than most but he doesn’t care as long as the water is hot.

“Be right back,” he tells Bergeron after he’s changed into his Canada tracksuit, holding his water bottle as an excuse.

Bergeron barely acknowledges that with a nod, and Sid slips out into the hallway. He’s not sure which locker room the Russians are in; probably he shouldn’t go looking. But if he just happens to run into Evgeni, that’s obviously fine. Not a problem, definitely not weird.

It turns out that he didn’t need to worry about finding Evgeni, because Evgeni is waiting for him. He’s just down at the end of the hall, but it’s him, and he’s clearly waiting, and when Sid makes eye contact, Evgeni lights up and oh. Oh.

Sid half jogs down the hallways and stops up short in front of Evgeni. He’s been thinking about this, but he doesn’t know what to say now that they’re face-to-face. Evgeni signed all his letters and emails with your friend but does that mean friends really, or kind of not friends, or penpals, or like—

Evgeni says, “Hi,” in English just as Sid says it in Russian. They both smile helplessly at each other and Sid laughs a little at himself. But Evgeni’s eyes are just as kind as he remembered, and when Evgeni wraps him up in a hug, it feels even better than he remembers. Maybe that’s because Evgeni seems to be holding him more tightly than last time. The hug goes on and on and Sid’s pretty sure somebody should let go, but Evgeni just murmurs in his ear, “Good game.”

“Thanks,” Sid says softly. “Um. You too, okay? Have a good game. I’ll be watching.”

Evgeni pulls back then to look at Sid, his brow furrowed. Sid scrambles to deploy his limited Russian, managing “see” and “game” and “Evgeni” and hoping it comes out sort of okay.

Evgeni looks excited, and Sid can’t really follow the soft tumble of Russian, but he catches his name and Evgeni is beaming at him, and he’s pretty sure he heard “goal.”

Sid repeats the word in Russian. Evgeni smiles at him and taps his fingertips against Sid’s chest right over his heart.

“Good luck,” Sid says.

He thinks Evgeni must know that one, because Sid understands the “thank you” Evgeni says in Russian just fine. He’s trying to figure out what to do other than stare at Evgeni, who is unbelievably here after months of just letters and emails, and a little overwhelming with his wide smile and long limbs just an arm’s reach away. Sid’s suddenly struck with how little time there is before Evgeni is across the world again, and he impulsively stretches up to wrap his arms around Evgeni’s shoulders and hugs him again, trying to fix the feel of it in his memory.

Evgeni hardly pauses before he returns the hug, hands coming to rest on Sid’s back, his palms large and warm between Sid’s shoulderblades.

“It’s good to see you,” Sid mumbles mostly to Evgeni’s collarbone, his cheek pressed against Evgeni’s chest.

“Good,” Evgeni agrees, soft but confident.

Sid’s going to let go before it gets weird, but just like the first hug, neither of them moves except to breathe, and there are none of the impatient tells that mean the hug is over — it’s like Evgeni would just stand there forever, holding on to Sid. But there’s the sharp metallic clanging of a fire door opening; it echoes loudly in the concrete hallway and Sid jumps a little, half a foot away before he realizes he’s moved.

“Crosby?” someone calls. Bergeron half leans out of the door to the locker room. “Are you — hey…?” He trails off, clearly surprised to find anyone other than Sid in the hall. “Everything okay, Sid?”

“Oh, yeah, um,” Sid stammers, feeling oddly guilty, like he’s been caught doing something illicit. “Be there in a minute.”

“Right,” Bergeron says, but he’s slow to close the door again, and Sid isn’t really into having an audience for anything else he wants to say to Evgeni.

“Are you in the Hilton?” Sid asks, suddenly very conscious of how loud even his regular voice is in the hallway.

“Hotel, yes,” Evgeni says, nodding.

“Call me?” Sid asks, strangely nervous. Evgeni seemed happy to see him, and there isn’t any reason to think he wouldn’t want to talk more. “I’m in room 106.” He repeats the numbers in Russian and Evgeni smiles at him.

“I call,” Evgeni promises. “Today?”

“Yes,” Sid says quickly. “Good luck, Evgeni.”

Evgeni smiles at him, just a little shy, and ducks his head. “Zhenya,” he says. Sid doesn’t get it until Evgeni points to himself. “Friend name.”

“Oh, like a nickname,” Sid says and Evgeni — Zhenya — blinks at him.

“Good friend name,” Zhenya says, as if he’s trying to make sure that Sid understands. “Sidney?”

“Um,” Sid says, thinking. “I mean, Sid? But we don’t have nicknames like Russians do, really.” He vaguely remembers Valeriya explaining about how Alexanders can be Sashas or Sanjas and being totally baffled and too embarrassed to ask about Evgenis.

“No name?” Zhenya asks, looking a little horrified.

Sid shrugs apologetically.

“I give you,” Zhenya says, sounding determined. “I call, I give you.” He nods toward the locker room door and ushers Sid gently back in that direction.

“Later?” Sid says, a sudden, awkward need to be reassured sticking in his throat and making the word come out a little desperate.

“Yes,” Zhenya says immediately.

Sid heads back down the hall. Only after he’s mostly through the door does he let himself look back. Zhenya’s still standing there and the door automatically drifts shut slowly enough that Sid can see him smile before it closes completely.

***

He watches the Russia vs USA game with Weber on one side and Getzlaf on the other. Sid’s paying careful attention, as are the guys around him — both teams will be strong competition, and everyone’s eyes are on the first and second picks from the draft. USA opens with two goals, but Zhenya gets the assist on Russia’s first, and Sid takes in Zhenya’s smile as he hugs his teammates.

“Bomb of a shot,” Weber says after Ovechkin scores. He sounds respectfully appreciative, but he has a distant look in his eyes, like he’s already thinking about how he’s going to defend Ovechkin when the time comes.

Getzlaf hmms. “I’d take Malkin. Better playmaker.” He nudges Sid with a friendly elbow. At least, Sid thinks it’s friendly; ever since Getzlaf and Jeff Tambellini taped Sid up in a mattress and sent him down in an elevator in his boxers during last year’s WJC, Getzlaf’s been really nice. “Who you got, Sid?”

Sid makes himself consider it as objectively as he can. Ovechkin’s dangerous, like a weapon always loaded. Zhenya, though — Zhenya’s deceptive, prowling through the neutral zone and then turning on a dime, skating up ice and around d-men like they’re not even there.

Zhenya, in fact, does exactly that just then, and Sid sucks in a breath as he goes hard to the net.

“Oh,” Sid says, feeling something like adrenaline just from watching. “Oh, I’d definitely take Malkin.”

Getzlaf, who is nice these days but maybe still a dick, slings an arm over Sid’s shoulders and looks over Sid’s head. “Kid agrees with me,” he tells Weber.

Weber snorts. “Can’t go far if his linemates can’t finish.”

“Blah blah,” Getzlaf says. “I’m starving, let’s go find some food.”

“I’ll save seats,” Sid says, not looking away from the ice.

Getzlaf fucks with his hair on the way out. But he does bring Sid a grilled chicken sandwich, which Sid eats while watching the clock run down in the third period.

***

Russia loses by one, and Sid catches a glimpse of Zhenya’s frustrated face as he comes off the ice. Everyone piles back on the bus for the hotel, and once they’re there, Jeremy leaves their room almost immediately with his cell phone, which Sid thinks means he’s going to call his girlfriend and doesn’t want to be overheard.

Sid decides to take a second shower, hoping it will help him wind down. The water pressure is really great and feels good, and it’s not like Jeremy is around to complain about him being a bathroom hog. He puts on sweats, and after a moment of deliberation, Zhenya’s shirt and a battered Shattuck hoodie on top. He puts on the TV and flips to ESPN, and settles in to wait for Zhenya’s phone call.

He jumps a little when he hears a knock on the door, and thinks maybe Jeremy forgot his keycard. So he doesn’t even check the peephole and just yanks the door open, and it’s Zhenya, looking tired and maybe just a little shy.

“Oh,” Sid says dumbly. “I thought — I thought you were going to call?”

Zhenya shrugs a bit, a tiny smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “We go?”

“Go where?” Sid says, and Zhenya gestures vaguely, so he puts on his shoes and grabs his keycard and follows Zhenya down the hall.

Zhenya actually leads them outside, where it’s cold but not so cold that Sid can’t get by in a hoodie for a little bit. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. Zhenya’s pace isn’t purposeful, more a slow meander along the cleared sidewalks around the hotel.

“You played really good,” Sid ventures. He tries to wrestle out the same sentiment in Russian, and Zhenya shakes his head once in a sharp negation. And Sid knows where that anger comes from — he knows it so well that he catches the sleeve of Zhenya’s coat to stop him, holding it carefully, gently between his fingertips.

“You played good,” Sid tells him insistently. “You’ll win the next game, Zhenya.”

It’s dark around the back of the hotel where they’ve wandered, but he can see Zhenya’s expression soften. “Say Zhenya nice,” he says. “Like Russian.”

Sid feels his face go bright red and hopes it’s too dim for Zhenya to see.

“I think name for Sidney,” Zhenya says. “Good Russian name.” He pauses, clearly considering, and he’s smiling. “Little bit funny.”

Sid shrugs and ducks his head a little. “That’s okay,” he says, because he’s gotten lots of nicknames, and some of them are nice but a lot of them aren’t. He’ll take one that’s maybe a little bit funny.

He’s surprised when Zhenya touches the zipper on his hoodie. It’s not pulled all the way up, and Sid’s breath catches, because Zhenya is tugging the zipper down just a little to see Metallurg’s logo.

“Like?” Zhenya asks.

Sid is frozen in place, but his mouth still works. “I like it. A lot. Thank you.” And when he shivers, he’s not entirely sure it’s because of the wind whipping through.

Zhenya zips Sid’s hoodie up all the way and gives his upper arms a brisk rub before nudging Sid back the way they came. They talk a little more on the way back to Sid’s room — Zhenya likes dogs, apparently, and he’s going to buy a house for his family — but when they get to his door, Sid wonders what happens next. He doesn’t want Zhenya to go, but they both need a good night’s sleep.

“Good luck tomorrow,” he says. Zhenya will be playing games at the arena that’s an hour away, so he won’t get to watch Zhenya play, not for days.

Zhenya’s standing close. “Good luck,” he echoes, then looks a little shy again. “Sidney. Sidnyusha.”

Sid feels himself flush, and the only mercy is that he can hide his face a little when Zhenya gathers him in for a hug.

“Sidnyusha,” Zhenya says again, and it sounds impossibly sweet. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Sid manages to croak out, and then pulls away to get out his keycard and let himself back into his room.

***

Tournament play always passes in a blur, and this is no exception. There are no complaints on Sid’s part, certainly; everyone is playing well and the point differentials will help them if they need a tiebreaker. He’s lucky that there are Ethernet ports in the hotel room, so he can plug in his laptop and check the scores on TSN and see how Zhenya is doing. Russia rolls through their opponents, much the same way Canada blows through theirs, and Sid hunts for every mention of Zhenya in the box scores and write-ups. Most of the articles focus on Ovechkin, but even if Zhenya were the main focus of the article it’d be no replacement for getting to watch him. None of the articles manages to capture the way Zhenya moves on the ice, too big to be called graceful, but with a surprising speed and weightlessness that gives the impression of grace anyway.

But Zhenya will be back today, now that all the play in Thief River is over. Sid stares at Zhenya’s New Year’s present, carefully wrapped and tucked in a pocket of his carry-on, and wonders if he should have picked something different.

But it’s too late for second-guessing by the time he’s out with some of the guys having lunch near campus. By the time they get back to the hotel, Zhenya might already be there.

“You guys in town for the hockey tournament?” their waitress asks.

“Yes, ma’am,” Patrice says politely.

“Watch out tonight, all the kids are going to be setting off fireworks and getting rowdy,” she advises them, refilling water glasses.

It jogs a memory. Valeriya told him about how she was finally allowed to have her own sparkler for New Year’s Eve when she was six. She remembered holding it so carefully, terrified the whole time she’d drop it. He wonders if he could get some sparklers — from the tone of Zhenya’s emails, he was so sad to be missing New Year’s with his family. Sid obviously can’t make up for that, but he can make Zhenya’s New Year here a little better, he hopes. Or well, he’ll try.

He stops at the concierge desk, nervously stumbling over his request, but the lady behind the desk eventually puts him out of his misery, asking, “You’d like a cab? To take you to a fireworks store?”

“Yes,” Sid breathes out, relieved.

“Not a problem,” she says, before pausing for a second. “I don’t want to be rude, but are you eighteen, sir?”

Sid blinks. “No?” he says, before his brain catches up with her line of thought. “Oh.”

Her mouth twists into a sympathetic smile. “You have a friend, maybe, who could go with you?” she suggests. Her eyes flick to his hoodie. “A teammate, maybe?”

“Thanks, yeah, I’ll — thank you,” Sid stammers, trying to think who he could ask to go with him.

“Would you like me to call the cab now?” she asks. “It’ll take at least ten minutes to get here.”

“Yes, yes please,” Sid says. “Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.”

She smiles and Sid takes off, feet taking him to Shea’s room before he’s even really thought about it. Patrice is great, but he asks a lot of interested questions, like he really wants to get to know Sid. Which isn’t to say Shea isn’t great, but he’ll go along for the ride with no tough questions asked. Also, he pointblank refused to help Getzlaf prank anyone, which makes Sid think he’s probably the only person who won’t give him shit about this, even if he does end up explaining the whole thing.

“Hey, Croz,” Shea says, grinning as he opens the door. “What’s up?”

“I’m too young to buy fireworks, but I really need to. Will you come and buy them for me?” Sid asks, the whole thing coming out in one breathless rush.

Shea just stares at him for a few seconds, and Sid wonders if maybe he said it too fast, but then Shea says, “Fireworks?” like he’s never heard the word before.

“Yeah,” Sid says. He really hopes Shea says yes, because now that he’s thought of it, he’s convinced that the whole thing can’t work without them.

“Okay,” Shea says slowly. “Let me get my coat.”

Sid keeps waiting to see if Shea says anything else — which, who wouldn’t — but he just waits with Sid for the cab to show up and gets in. When he finally does speak, it’s to ask, “You get anything good this Christmas?”

Sid thinks for a minute. “Well, Taylor, my little sister, she made me a stocking in art class,” he says. It’s probably prime chirping material, but he thinks Shea will get it. “She was pretty upset I wasn’t going to be home for Christmas, so she made me a stocking to take with me.”

Shea nods slowly and bumps shoulders with Sid. “That’s a good one,” he says quietly, smiling. “My kid brother got me a new video game.”

“That’s cool,” Sid says.

“Well, then he kicked my ass at it,” Shea adds, rolling his eyes as if to say, Can you believe it?

It’s easy to shoot the shit after that. Shea makes conversation easy, and they roll to a stop in the middle of a discussion about the Jays.

“This is you,” the cabbie says. “Am I hanging around?”

“Uh, yes please,” Sid says. “We’ll be back in just a minute.”

Shea is staring at the front of the store a little disbelievingly. “Fireworks,” he mutters, seemingly to himself.

“Yeah, come on,” Sid says, heading in. He wonders if he can even be in the store, but no one seems to care. The salespeople are busy with college kids who are counting out crumpled bills between them, trying to buy the biggest bang they can.

There’s a big display of sparklers, super long ones and neon ones, but Sid doesn’t let himself overthink it. He just picks out a package of classic ones, like the kind they have at summer barbeques on Canada Day. Luckily, there’s a box of cheap Bic lighters next to the cash register, or Sid might have forgotten about that completely and looked like a giant idiot later.

Compared to the four guys with their arms full behind them, Sid’s little purchase doesn’t give the cashier a moment of pause, and neither does Shea’s Canadian driver’s license.

After all the fuss, they’re back in the cab less than five minutes after they got out, and back in the hotel ten minutes after that. It’s almost all of the money Sid changed over at the airport, but he doesn’t care.

He makes sure to thank Shea for doing him a really solid favour, but Shea just slaps him on the shoulder.

“No problem, Croz,” he says, like he really means it.

Sid’s feeling good, bag swinging from his hand when he heads into the room.

“Hey,” Jeremy says, giving Sid a nod in greeting. “Some guy came by, left a note for you.”

“What?” Sid says, startled, almost dropping the bag.

“Yeah, Yey-Yevgy? Something Russian. Said he was your friend?” Jeremy says, watching Sid with a little bit of concern. “That’s cool, right? You know the guy?”

“Yeah, yeah, um, yes,” Sid says, feeling his face burn. He’s not unaware of how strange their friendship would seem to anyone else — he’s not ashamed of it, but he feels like he’s been caught out, and he’s self-conscious about what Jeremy might be thinking.

It isn’t much of a note, but Sid carefully sounds out the first word and realizes it’s addressed to Sidnyusha and thinks he’s just never going to get rid of this blush. There’s a room number, and Zhenya’s initials at the bottom. He opens his suitcase to put the sparklers with Zhenya’s present, and tucks the note away, too. Then he grabs his skates out of his bag, says, “Be back later,” to Jeremy, and rushes out the door.

He’s nervous when he gets to Zhenya’s room and knocks on the door. Maybe Zhenya will think it’s dumb, or not want to go skating when they don’t have any games for two days, but Sid overheard a person at the hotel saying there’s an outdoor rink a short walk away and, well, he can at least ask.

The door opens slowly, and it’s not Zhenya — it’s Alexander Ovechkin, and when he sees Sid he looks curious.

“Hi,” Sid says nervously, feeling his palms sweat. His brain totally blanks out for a second, but he manages to scrape together enough Russian to ask, “Is Zhenya here?”

Ovechkin’s eyebrows go right up, and his smile bodes nothing well. “Oh, Zhenya,” Ovechkin calls sweetly, but he didn’t need to — Zhenya appears right over his shoulder like he got up as soon as he heard Sid’s voice.

“Sid,” Zhenya says, and if anything, Ovechkin’s smile becomes more frightening.

Sid’s Russian vocabulary is extremely dubious, a combination of what he’s learned from his textbook and all of the hockey-related words he’s begged from Valeriya. Verbs are just — impossible, and Sid can’t conjugate for shit yet, but he knows enough to say hopefully, “Skate?”

Zhenya says, “Yes, of course,” and then something that Sid thinks means let me get my skates. He disappears from view for a moment, and Sid can hears something being unzipped, and all the while, Alexander Ovechkin is smiling at him.

Sid has faced off against guys years older than him, under do or die situations, but he’s never felt as rattled as he does with Ovechkin beaming at him as Zhenya puts on his coat.

“You know,” Ovechkin finally starts to say, only to be shouldered aside by Zhenya.

“Bye,” he says shortly, ushering Sid out with a hand on his back.

“Bye,” Sid adds as Zhenya shuts the door in Ovechkin’s delighted face.

“Where?” Zhenya asks, shaking his skates a little to make himself clear.

“Just over there,” Sid gestures, not sure if he’s actually pointing in the right direction at all. He double-checked the directions with the concierge, the same lady as before, who patiently told him, “Left, left, cross the highway and it’s right there on the left.”

Zhenya ambles along beside him, and it’s a nice afternoon — cold and crisp, the sky a pristine blue. They don’t say much on the walk, but it doesn’t feel weird at all. The snow on the sidewalk crunches underneath their boots, and the directions are easy after all, because the rink is right where the concierge said. There are little kids with their parents, a few figure skaters twirling in the middle. It’s not overly crowded, and when Sid takes a peek at Zhenya, he’s reassured by the happy smile on Zhenya’s face.

They put their skates on in the warming house and then head onto the ice, and Sid’s very aware of all the little kids around, some of them pushing cones, so he sets an easy pace, turning in stride to see Zhenya and skating backwards.

Zhenya covers the distance between them in just a few long strides, and he’s beaming from ear to ear. “Like home,” he says.

Sid smiles back, imagining Zhenya growing up skating outdoors. He wonders if it was on a rink like this or on a pond. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.” He turns again so that he and Zhenya are skating side by side, and they do leisurely laps around the rink, avoiding the little kids and staying well out of the way of the girl and boy who are working on jumps.

There’s a little boy in a helmet who goes down hard in front of them, and they both stop. “Hey buddy, are you okay?” Sid asks.

The boy shakes his head, still face down on the ice.

“You need a hand up?” Sid coaxes.

Very, very slowly, he peeks up at Sid, who smiles encouragingly and holds out his hand. It’s another long moment before the boy takes it, with a grudging expression that makes Sid want to laugh. He doesn’t, but Zhenya is so plainly tickled by the whole thing that he takes the boy’s other hand and they swing him up together.

“I can do it!” he says crossly.

Sid bites his lip and lets go, and Zhenya does the same — and the kid’s actually pretty good for his age, but it’s good that he’s wearing a helmet.

“Like home,” Zhenya says again, looking delighted.

They go back to skating laps, and Zhenya nods to the figure skaters in the median of the ice. “Sid?” he says questioningly.

Sid shakes his head. “No, not me. Always hockey. You?”

Zhenya shakes his head too. “Hockey,” he confirms.

The rink has cleared out a little — well, it is New Year’s Eve — so Sid turns in stride again so that he’s skating backward in front of Zhenya. “I had a skating coach,” he says. “Worked on my edges, my balance.” He tries to put some of that in Russian, but he doesn’t really have the words, except “skate” and “coach.”

Zhenya reaches forward suddenly and pushes on Sid’s left hip — and he cuts to his right and just misses skating into a girl who took a tumble. She was upright the last time Sid checked behind him; she must have fallen while he was talking.

“Thank you,” he tells Zhenya.

Zhenya smiles in response, but continues gently steering Sid around the ice. It’s kind of nice just to skate, trusting Zhenya to guide them around the other people on the ice. All he has to do is pay attention to the way Zhenya’s hands press his hips this way and that. But eventually his thighs start to get cold, and he figures they could both do with a chance to warm up a little inside. Zhenya follows him off the ice, and they sit on a bench inside, watching the controlled chaos of families contending with skates and missing gloves and pleas for hot chocolate.

“Like?” Zhenya asks suddenly.

“Hmm?”

Zhenya mimes drinking from a cup.

“Oh,” Sid says. “Hot chocolate. Yes, I like it.”

Zhenya looks at the concession stand with undisguised longing before he comes to a decision and levers himself up on his skates. He picks his way across the warming shelter to where a high school girl is leaning against the counter. Sid follows him, but Zhenya appears to have it in hand. “Two,” he tells her, holding up two fingers, then pointing to the Styrofoam cups.

“That’ll be four dollars,” she says, and that’s when Zhenya looks back at Sid uncertainly.

“Four,” Sid reassures him in Russian, although he thinks Zhenya had it. He digs out his wallet from his front pocket, but Zhenya pushes it away and carefully sorts through his American bills, which are bafflingly all the same size and colour, before coming up with a five dollar bill and handing it over.

The girl rips into the paper packets, pours in hot water, and stirs a few times before handing them over. Sid keeps stirring, careful not to splash it onto his gloves. It’s a bit of a delicate balancing act, the full, hot cups and the slightly uneven ground, but they make it to a bench, no problems.

He tries to remember that it’s hot, and if he takes a sip now, he’ll definitely burn his tongue, but it smells so good it’s hard to wait. He tries to content himself with breathing in the steam, but is distracted by Zhenya laughing.

“Wait,” Zhenya says, grinning. “Look —” Zhenya says something in Russian that Sid can’t translate, but he doesn’t need to. It’s clearly a chirp, Zhenya’s tongue poking out a little from between his teeth.

“Oh, shove it,” Sid says, though he can’t help laughing too. He blows across the top, knowing it’s not really going to do anything. There’s a point, though, where he just thinks fuck it and takes a sip anyway.

It’s hotter than comfortable but not unbearably so, and it’s just what he wanted. He licks his lips in case of a chocolate mustache, and glances over to see Zhenya watching, mouth quirked in a lopsided smile.

“Um,” Sid says, suddenly feeling a little shy. “How do you say this in Russian?” He lifts his cup, pointing at Zhenya’s with his free hand.

Zhenya says it slowly, repeating it after Sid tries to stutter his way through it.

“Thank you,” Sid says in Russian.

Zhenya smiles widely, no sly teasing or the big goofy grin that makes Sid smile back automatically, but just like he’s happy, happy to be here with Sid.

“You’re welcome,” Zhenya says carefully in English.

They finish their cocoa, down to the gritty, straight-sugar dregs, and toss out the cups before getting back on the ice, the lingering warmth from the cocoa the perfect counterpoint to the wind picking up. The sun sets and the lights come on, and the rink empties out until the Zamboni sputters to life. Sid figures they’re getting kicked off in the next few minutes.

“We go?” Zhenya asks, nodding toward the impatient looking guy on the Zamboni.

“Yeah,” Sid says. They change out of their skates quickly and head back to the hotel. Sid’s pleasantly tired, and now that the sugar is leaving his system, he realizes he’s starving. And it’s not a bad idea for Zhenya to eat, either. Sid’s hungry pretty much all the time, and Zhenya has about half a foot on him; he must eat like it.

“Dinner?” Sid asks him, searching his memory for the word in Russian, but before he can remember Zhenya nods emphatically. Sid saw a couple of restaurants on their way to the rink, and even though it’s New Year’s Eve, it’s a college area and something must be open.

One of them still has lights on, and Sid points it out. “Okay?” he asks.

Zhenya shrugs easily and nods. It’s warm inside, which is a good start, and it smells amazing, like tacos. Sid’s not sure if Zhenya’s ever had Mexican, but he can’t imagine a hungry hockey player turning down a taco or five.

When Sid turns to look at Zhenya, he seems bewildered by the menu, and Sid doubts it’s just a translation issue.

“You want me to order?” Sid offers.

Zhenya looks a little sceptical but nods.

Sid orders three for each of them, even if he thinks he’ll eat at least four. Zhenya’s eyebrows go up, but he doesn’t protest.

The other good thing is the food is fast. In just a few minutes they’re sitting down and Sid gets to watch Zhenya try his first taco ever. The shift from polite but dubious to delighted to an empty plate is impressive.

“Good,” Zhenya says, picking up the stray shards of taco shell and lettuce, leaving no bite behind.

Sid finishes his first before saying, “Do you want more?” They’re generously filled and Sid has been trying hard not to let all of the toppings fall out, but the nature of tacos is disintegration between your fingers.

Zhenya nods. “You?” he asks, making to get up.

Sid thinks about it for a second, because yes, but the question is how many more. “Yes,” Sid says. “Th- two?” He can always order another if he wants more.

“Okay,” Zhenya says, looking determined. He points to Sid’s plate. “Taco, yes?”

“Tacos,” Sid confirms. He keeps an eye on Zhenya as he orders, but it can’t have gone too badly, because Zhenya hands over money and comes back with tacos and a bunch of other stuff in a minute.

“I ask what best,” Zhenya says, and proceeds to methodically demolish another two tacos before reaching for a third. In the way of tacos, it splits right along the bottom where the filling has been soaking through the shell. Zhenya just stares, betrayed, at where the filling is scattered across his plate.

Sid can’t help but laugh. “That happens,” he says. “Here, hold on.” He looks for a fork, but there aren’t any, so he finally grabs a spoon.

“Okay?” Zhenya asks, murmuring a thank you for the spoon Sid hands him.

“Yeah, they’re messy,” Sid says.

“Messy?” Zhenya asks.

“Um,” Sid says, biting his lip. “Untidy?”

Zhenya blinks at him, then shrugs. “Keep practice English,” he says. “I get better.”

“I’m going to practice my Russian, too,” Sid promises. Even if Zhenya will need English more than Sid will need Russian, he wants to meet Zhenya halfway.

Zhenya smiles at him; he’s got chipmunk cheeks with the food he just shoveled in his mouth, and he’s such a dork and he’s so great that Sid giggles. Zhenya knocks their knees together under the table, and Sid smiles at him before tackling his last taco.

When they’re both full and the food’s been demolished, they head back down the street to the hotel. “Team,” Zhenya tells him, then waggles his fingers open in something like spirit fingers.

“A party?” Sid guesses. “Your team having fun together?”

“Party,” Zhenya agrees.

Sid’s team isn’t doing anything in particular for the New Year, although they did get their curfew extended by a few hours tonight, along with a few pointed reminders to stay out of trouble. Sid never gets in any trouble, and normally he would be in bed by the regular curfew anyway, but he has plans for tonight. “Can I see you later?” he asks, then bites his lip and switches to Russian. “See at 11:30?”

Zhenya looks curious, but Sid doesn’t want to ruin the surprise or make Zhenya think he needs to reciprocate, especially when he already got Sid a Christmas present.

“Eleven-thirty, yes,” Zhenya says. He squeezes Sid’s shoulder once before they split up in the hotel lobby and head to their rooms.

***

It only occurs to Sid around 11 that he doesn’t know if Zhenya is coming to meet him at Sid’s room, or if he should go to Zhenya’s room to find him. He put Zhenya’s present in the plastic bag with the sparklers, so he’s ready to go whenever, but he’s worried that Zhenya won’t show up, or he won’t be able to find him, or that he’ll be taking Zhenya away from important team bonding time. At 11:25, he shoves his feet in his boots. He has no idea where Jeremy is, but he’s grateful that he doesn’t have to explain himself to anyone. He heads down the hall to the elevator, only to meet Zhenya on the way.

“Oh!” Sid says. “Hi — do you want to get your coat?” Sid tugs on the sleeve of his coat to be clear.

Zhenya’s eyebrows go up, but he nods and hits the button for the elevator. Sid guesses they can just meet in the lobby, but Zhenya looks expectant when the doors open, so Sid follows him in. There’s a fair bit of noise on Zhenya’s floor, but his room is empty — probably his teammates are hanging out further down the hall. It means that Zhenya can grab his coat quickly, and then Sid can lead the way back downstairs and outside with no one the wiser.

Zhenya follows him out to the far corner of the overflow parking lot, far enough away from the hotel that Sid thinks they won’t get in trouble even if someone happens to see them, which he doubts. “Close your eyes,” Sid says, and Zhenya blinks in confusion before Sid reaches up and gently lays his hand over Zhenya’s eyes. When he takes his hand away, Zhenya’s eyes are obediently shut. There are no lights in the overflow lot, but there’s enough light from the moon overhead and the hotel that he can see the dark fan of Zhenya’s eyelashes.

Sid struggles with the lighter, but he finally gets one sparkler lit. Zhenya’s eyebrows go up in surprise at the hiss of the sparkler igniting. When Sid says, “Zhenya, open your eyes,” he does, and they look full of wonder as he takes the sparkler from Sid’s hand.

“What —” Zhenya says in happy disbelief.

Sid holds out his sparkler so that he can light it from Zhenya’s. He practiced saying “Happy New Year” in Russian with Valeriya, then by himself, because he wanted to do this right. It’s going to be 2005 in twenty minutes, and it’s crazy that they’re here together, just like Sid promised Zhenya when they first met off the ice. He feels confident enough not to stumble over the words, but he’s not prepared for the quiet rush of heartfelt emotion that almost steals his voice.

“Happy New Year,” Zhenya says in kind, and he waves his sparkler in figure eights, the afterimage lingering. Then he waves it to write an 87, and Sid laughs and responds with a 71.

“Why 71?” Sid asks. He traces a 17 with his sparkler as it burns down. “You wore 17 last year.”

“Best player I like, he —” Zhenya sketches a 17. “Valeri Kharlamov.”

“Oh,” Sid says, his mind jumping ahead. “Is his number retired in the Superleague? Like — like Gretzky for the NHL. Nobody else can wear 99.”

Zhenya looks like most of that went over his head, but he says, “No 17 in Magnitka,” so Sid thinks he’s right.

“I bet in Pittsburgh you can be 71,” Sid says. He bites his lip. “They might already have a 17 on the roster.”

Zhenya nods, then gives Sid a little sideways look. “Maybe you 87 in Pittsburgh.”

Sid sucks in a breath, because he wants that, he wants that so bad. But there’s still a lockout going on, and, well — the only thing Sid knows for sure is that he has no say. “I wish,” he says softly. “It would be really great to play with you, someday.”

Zhenya says, “Best.” Sid blushes and tips more sparklers out of the box to cover it. When they’re down to the last two, Sid checks his watch and sees that it’s nearly midnight.

He feels like his heart is beating too fast when he kneels down to pull the wrapped box out of the plastic bag. He almost doesn’t want to give it to Zhenya at all — what if he thinks it sucks, what if he’s not into necklaces, what if it’s weird or he just doesn’t want any presents from Sid? But he gave Sid the t-shirt, and even if that didn’t mean anything special to Zhenya, maybe he’ll at least appreciate the thought. Zhenya doesn’t have to wear it, Sid reminds himself. He could throw it in his luggage, or leave it behind in his hotel room. It just matters that Sid gives it to him.

“I — I got you a present. It’s not much, I just thought —” he shyly holds out the wrapped box for Zhenya. “Happy New Year,” he says again in Russian.

Sid can barely stand to watch as Zhenya rips the paper off the box and takes off the lid. He’s actively holding his breath when Zhenya lifts the necklace out. He turns the little penguin pendant this way and that, and he rubs his thumb over the 71 engraved on the back. Then he carefully undoes the clasp and fastens it around his neck, and the necklace glints a little in what light there is.

“I know you’ll be great for the Penguins,” Sid says. “You — you’re going to be amazing, Zhenya.”

Zhenya’s eyes are wide, and just then, there’s the flash and bang of fireworks not far away, and Sid thinks — it’s midnight. It’s 2005. He hopes that it’s true that you’ll spend the year with the person you start it off with, and he closes his eyes and wishes for it with all his might.

His eyes fly open again when Zhenya grabs his shoulders and steps closer, and Sid doesn’t know what to do with his hands because Zhenya’s not hugging him, but bringing his face down close, and Sid just trembles in place when Zhenya presses a kiss to each cheek, his chapped lips rough but warm where they brush Sid’s skin. He feels exhilarated and a little embarrassed, but if Zhenya’s going to do that — that European thing, surely a hug is okay. He goes up on his toes to wrap his arms around Zhenya’s neck. Zhenya’s jaw is warm against the top of his cheek, and his arms go tight around Sid.

“Thank you,” Zhenya whispers in his ear. “Sidnyusha, thank you.”

The sky lights up with a flurry of fireworks all at once. Sid pulls back enough to look up and Zhenya does the same. They watch for a few more minutes, Zhenya’s arm around his shoulders and his arm around Zhenya’s waist, before the cold gets the better of them both and they head back inside.

***

They both have a semifinal game to focus on afterward, though Sid is glad that his game is first, so he can watch Zhenya’s game. He’s pleased to have been useful in his own game, getting an assist, but he can hardly handle how happy he is to see Zhenya play well — an assist, an even strength goal, and the empty netter.

But it does mean that they’ll be playing each other in two days. Sid has no idea how that will go and he just — he wants to have a great afternoon with Zhenya. It’s not that he thinks Zhenya doesn’t like him, but he knows all too well that emotions run high in games, and who knows how Zhenya will feel by the end.

So he heads up to Zhenya’s room and doesn’t even care if Ovechkin is there; he wants to ask Zhenya if he’ll go to one of the relegation games tomorrow. Because nothing sounds better than watching a game with Zhenya — it certainly seems like an activity they’ll be able to share easily, with the most vocabulary in common.

Ovechkin grins at him from behind Zhenya’s door. “Hello, Sidney,” he sing-songs loudly. There’s a loud thump from inside the room and Ovechkin’s smile widens.

“Hi, I wanted to speak to —” Sid starts, but then Zhenya shoulders Ovechkin out of the way.

“Hi,” Zhenya says. He looks rumpled and sleepy. “I get coat?”

“Oh, no, I just wanted to ask if you wanted to come with me to a game tomorrow,” Sid says. “Do you have time?”

Zhenya asks Ovechkin something but then nods, turning back to Sid. “What game?” he asks. “Slovakia?”

“Sure,” Sid agrees. It’s right in the middle of the afternoon, so maybe he and Zhenya can grab dinner afterward. “Meet here at 3?” Sid tries to reiterate it in Russian, a little extra self-conscious in front of Ovechkin.

“Three,” Zhenya confirms.

Ovechkin says something that sounds teasing, but Sid can only pick out a word or two that could mean anything, depending on context.

Zhenya rolls his eyes and Sid understands the “Absolutely not” that follows.

“Dinner after?” Sid asks, unwilling to get in the middle of whatever Zhenya and Ovechkin are talking about.

“Yes,” Zhenya agrees, grinning. Sid can’t help but smile back. The prospect of an entire afternoon with Zhenya ahead will speed tomorrow’s practice along.

Ovechkin says something that Sid misses almost entirely, but he also gestures to Sid lazily, so he can guess that it’s about him.

Zhenya looks alarmed and steps forward, nudging Sid out into the hall. He lets the door shut behind him. Sid looks at him and opens his mouth to say something, but then he realizes that Zhenya is wearing the chain he gave him.

Zhenya looks at him questioningly, and Sid realizes he’s just been staring and feeling pleased. “Um,” Sid says intelligently. “You like it?” he asks, tapping Zhenya’s chest where he can just see the suggestion of the penguin pendant.

“I like it,” Zhenya says. He smiles. “Cute.”

Sid feels his cheeks go warm.

“See you tomorrow?” Zhenya says.

“Yeah, tomorrow, for sure,” Sid says. His fingers twitch a little at his sides, and he feels a little weird just walking away, but he doesn’t really know what to do. He settles for saying, “Bye, Zhenya,” and turning to go.

He’s not expecting the hand on his shoulder, but he stops in his tracks and looks back at Zhenya.

Zhenya thumbs Sid’s necklace. “Present?”

Sid shakes his head. “No, I — I bought it.”

Zhenya makes a thoughtful noise and squeezes Sid’s shoulder once before letting go.

“Bye,” Sid says, and raises his hand to wiggle his fingers goodbye, happy that he’ll be seeing Zhenya again tomorrow.

***

Practice is good — hard, productive, and satisfying. Sid takes a second shower when he gets back to the hotel, and it occurs to him that he hasn’t shaved in a week and he might want to, just for the sake of tidiness. He also has serious thoughts about whether he should gel his hair or what.

He forgoes the gel, but he does put on the nicest pair of jeans he packed. The Russian boys look either really dressed up or really dressed down, and he doesn’t know which way Zhenya is going to go. Except Zhenya will probably be wearing his team tracksuit instead of being a giant weirdo like Sid. He’s wondering if he should put on his Team Canada gear, which may or may not be slightly smelly, when Shea comes by to collect him for lunch.

He hopes Zhenya is back from practice by the time he heads over to pick him up. He’s half-expecting Ovechkin to answer his knock, but there’s no response at all. He knocks again. There’s a muffled call from inside and then the door is wrenched open. It’s not Ovechkin after all — it’s Zhenya, dripping wet with a towel clutched around his waist.

“Sorry,” he says, pushing his wet hair off his forehead. “Sorry, practice.”

“That’s okay,” Sid says, unable to stop himself from staring at the penguin necklace against Zhenya’s bare chest.

“You — come on?” Zhenya says, still looking flustered. He waves a hand inside the room.

“Oh,” Sid says stupidly. “Oh, sure. I can wait.”

Zhenya looks relieved and heads back into the bathroom, where Sid can hear the shower still running. Sid takes a seat in the armchair in the corner. The room looks pretty much like his and Jeremy’s — gear bags open with equipment airing, suitcases also open and kind of a mess. Housekeeping’s already been by, though, so everything else looks okay.

He hears the water shut off, and then Zhenya comes out — again with the towel around his waist and using another to scrub at his hair. He digs around in a suitcase on one of the beds. He looks at Sid’s clothes and then decisively pulls out a pair of jeans and a light blue shirt.

Sid carefully averts his eyes when Zhenya drops the towel around his waist, only looking back when Zhenya has his boxers on and is pulling on his jeans.

“Good practice?” he asks.

Zhenya nods and pulls on his shirt. “Sid?”

“Um, yeah,” he says. “Did you eat?”

Zhenya nods again, but looks pitiful. “Hungry,” he tells Sid sadly.

“We can get some food at the game,” Sid says. He cringes at the idea of forking over money for overpriced concessions, but, well — they got a food allowance for the tournament, so it’s probably okay.

They catch a shuttle over to the arena and show their ID badges for seats. They have time before the game starts, so he and Zhenya wander down the concourse to survey their food options. It all looks pretty typical to Sid. He stops dead in his tracks at a stand that has cheese curds on its menu. “Oh, here,” he tells Zhenya, stopping him with a hand on his arm.

Zhenya eyes the food other people have ordered and looks indecisive. He points at one guy’s sandwich. “What?” he asks Sid.

Sid scans the menu. “Uh, beef brisket? Or it could be pulled pork.”

“Yes,” Zhenya says, so Sid figures he’ll just order both and let Zhenya eat whichever he likes best.

They settle into their seats, carefully balancing bottled water and food. Zhenya takes a cautious bite of the pulled pork, chews thoughtfully, and makes a pleased noise. Then he attacks the rest. Sid starts in on the deep-fried cheese curds. After a few bites, he holds one out to Zhenya. “Do you want to try?”

Zhenya says, “Good, yes?” Because he’s still valiantly trying to hold his sandwich together, Sid pops one in his mouth. Zhenya doesn’t seem quite as enamored of them as he is of his sandwich, but Sid decides not to hold that against him.

Slovakia scores in the first minute, but instead of taking the wind out of Switzerland’s sails, it turns chippy. There’s a lot of stopping and starting as the officials decide who’s going to the box this time, which in turn leads to a lot of time when Sid and Zhenya can talk. It’s mostly gestures and hockey talk in a mishmash of English and Russian. But sometimes Sid turns to ask Zhenya what he thinks about Switzerland’s backchecking, or say that if the d-man had just pinched in a little bit more to block the lane that never would have been a shot on goal, and finds Zhenya smiling at him, lips a little crooked, and Sid just smiles back instead.

There’s a goal near the end of the first that gets the audience excited, and then it’s intermission. Zhenya sprawls out. Their knees knock gently as he stretches his legs out diagonally, and he raises his long arms into an arc and then settles them along the tops of the seats on either side of him. Sid doesn’t mind; Zhenya’s left enough room for him to stretch out a little, too, and there’s something nice about the easiness of Zhenya in his space.

“You like dog?” Zhenya asks out of nowhere.

“Yeah, dogs are great,” Sid says, settling back into his seat a little more. Zhenya’s arm is pleasantly warm against his shoulders.

“Big? Small?” Zhenya’s expression is very serious.

“All kinds,” Sid says easily. “What kind do you like?”

“Big,” Zhenya says emphatically, gesturing with his hands. He looks like he’s talking about something the size of a pony. “Want dog always. Mama say no.”

“Will you get a dog when you go to Pittsburgh?” Sid asks.

“Hope yes!” Zhenya says, and his happy anticipation is almost infectious. “Maybe you meet. When we play NHL.”

“I hope so,” Sid says softly.

Zhenya grips his shoulder in a friendly, reassuring sideways hug. “Big, big dog,” he says. “And we play best hockey.”

It sounds perfect, to be honest, and Sid sighs wistfully. He doesn’t know where he’ll go — no one knows if there will even be a draft this year, or when. He might go to Buffalo, or maybe New York. Or maybe, just maybe—

“How many penalties this period, do you think?” he asks Zhenya to distract himself from wishful thinking.

Zhenya waggles his eyebrows. “Five,” he says decisively. “You, how many?”

Oh, it’s on. “Four. Loser buys hot chocolate.”

“Mmm,” Zhenya says, and they settle back to watch the second.

***

Sid loses the bet, but Canada wins the gold medal.

Sid has played against friends before, against former teammates, against current teammates. That’s just how hockey is, and he can put it aside and play the game. He never wants to give anyone less than his best, and that includes his opponents.

But when the game is done and Sid’s celebrating with his teammates, his heart aches to see Zhenya with his arm around an injured Ovechkin. Sid knows exactly how they feel. Everyone does; to get that close and not make it just plain hurts.

Even though Sid knows that there’s nothing to be done about it, there’s a sick ball of anxiety in his stomach as they queue up for the handshake line. He remembers the unhappy expression on Zhenya’s face from their loss to the Americans and can’t help but worry. He can just see Zhenya in the middle of the line, tall even with his shoulders slumped.

Sid tries to give his full attention to each person as he shakes hands, respectful of the game they put up and the work they did to get to the game at all, but each handshake inches him closer to Zhenya. He’s been less nervous before elimination games.

And then there he is. Sid has gotten to know a little bit about Zhenya’s moods over the last few days, has seen the easy way his face shows everything he’s thinking. But there’s nothing there for Sid this time; Zhenya’s eyes are averted and there’s barely any grip in his fingers. The anxiety in the pit of Sid’s stomach swoops up to choke him.

The rest of the handshake line is a blur, as is the continued celebration in the locker room and on the bus. Sid is glad to have won, to have represented his country to the best of his ability. But his friendship with Zhenya was unlikely to start with and maybe it was unrealistic to think it could stand up under the circumstances and pressure. After all, if there’s a chance that he could play with Zhenya in the future, it’s small compared to the much greater chance that they’ll meet twice, three times a season wearing different jerseys. And then what? Zhenya will go home to Russia in the offseason, Sid to Canada. Maybe it’s kinder to just let it peter out now, let the packages stop and the emails dwindle down to nothing rather than to try to force a friendship.

But Sid can’t forget the excitement of receiving that first letter, the way Zhenya smiles at him like they’re sharing a joke only they understand, the warmth of Zhenya’s lips against his cheeks at midnight, welcoming a new year. So he ignores people telling him to “Quit harshing the buzz, Croz, and start partying” and goes straight to Zhenya.

He knocks on the door, lips pressed together in determination, and it isn’t until Zhenya answers, looking worn out and holding a bag of ice to his hip, that Sid realizes he has no idea what to say.

Zhenya seems to understand anyway, because he reaches out with the hand not holding the ice and pulls Sid into a hug. Sid’s hands fit easily over the edge of Zhenya’s shoulder blades, and a breath Sid didn’t know he was holding bursts out in something like a gasp, almost too loud in the quiet hallway.

Sid can’t apologize, but it doesn’t change the fact that he wants to.

The hug lasts for a while before the sound of the bathroom door opening inside the room prompts Zhenya to usher them out into the hall. He leaves the door just open enough for him to be able to get back in.

Zhenya rubs a hand over his face. “Go be with team,” he says, voice hoarse and strangely harsh sounding, and Sid wonders if he read Zhenya all wrong. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to be around Sid, which is understandable, although Sid didn’t realize how much it would sting to hear Zhenya say so.

“Not good friend now,” Zhenya goes on, looking at Sid earnestly. “I want be good friend for you.”

Sid is stricken and he just has to say — “You are,” Sid assures him, flinging his arms around Zhenya’s neck, straining up on his toes. “You’re a great friend.”

Zhenya squeezes back just as tightly. “I see you NHL,” he says. “See you soon.”

Sid tries to let the iron certainty in Zhenya’s voice leech into his bones. He dares to say, “Yes, soon,” even if the obstacles between now and soon seem massive.

“Be happy, Sidnyusha,” Zhenya says into Sid’s hair, voice muffled but decisive.

Neither of them seem to want to let go, but eventually Zhenya ruffles Sid’s hair, squeezes the nape of Sid’s neck, and steps back. He says something low and fast and Sid doesn’t manage to catch any of it, but he doesn’t need to understand it to feel warmed by the sweet and affectionate tone.

“I call later?” Zhenya says. Sid wonders if he means later than night. “From Russia.”

“Oh,” Sid says, surprised, but pleased. “Yeah, we’ll figure it out.”

Zhenya chucks Sid under the chin, just a careful brush of his knuckles, and Sid doesn’t miss the smile on his face, small but genuine. “Soon,” he repeats.

Zhenya reaches for the doorknob. Sid doesn’t want to let him go without a last goodbye, the Russian tumbles from his lips, probably with the emphasis all in the wrong place, his vowels too Canadian, but Zhenya beams and returns it warmly before the door closes between them.

***

It feels like the rest of the season speeds by. They’re playing well and he can’t complain about that, certainly. Zhenya’s emails are full of pictures, mostly him with Gonchar’s daughter, including one of Zhenya playing princesses that Sid laughs himself sick over and actually takes to go get printed. It’s sweet and hilariously great, the pink plastic crown and shameless grin. He feels like his Russian lessons suffer from the pace of the season, the big push for the playoffs tag-teaming with the push to finish all his school requirements so he can graduate in June. But Valeriya records lessons for him that he listens to on bus rides and late at night, falling asleep to the sound of her explaining how to change verbs from present to past tense.

The Océanic make it to the playoffs again, and that consumes nearly all of Sid’s attention, but he still has some to spare for following Zhenya’s appearance at Worlds. Sid watches all the Canada games, of course, but he also makes a point of watching Russia’s matchups. If his billet family thinks it’s odd, they keep it to themselves. Zhenya’s young to be named to the team, but he seems to be doing well. Playing well, anyway. He’s gotten only two emails since Zhenya left for Worlds, and he — misses Zhenya, he supposes.

He’s talked to Zhenya on the phone a handful of times since WJC, always carefully scheduled, but the day after Rimouski wins the Q championship, his billet father knocks on his bedroom door and says the phone is for him. Sid just saw his mom and dad for the championship game, so he’s not sure what they would be calling him about, but he picks up the phone and says, “Hello?”

“Sid?”

Nobody else says his name like that, and Sid smiles into the receiver. “Hi, Zhenya.”

“You win!” Zhenya says excitedly, followed by a torrent of Russian that Sid is pretty sure is praise of his play, even though Zhenya can only seen the box score. His cheeks heat up anyway.

“Thanks,” he says. “You’re doing really well, too — you play Finland tomorrow?”

“Finland,” Zhenya says, with considerable distaste. “Finland gross.”

It startles Sid into laughing. “Well, you better beat them, then,” he says easily.

“No problem, Russia best,” Zhenya says loftily. “More hockey for you?”

“Yeah, we have about ten days before we start the Memorial Cup round robin,” Sid says.

“Rest,” Zhenya says thoughtfully. “You watch me now?”

“Yeah, of course,” Sid says. “I’ve been watching.”

There’s some loud talking in the background and Zhenya says something sharply in Russian. Then he sighs. “Ovechkin say hello,” Zhenya says, sounding resigned.

“Tell him hi,” Sid says, and smiles when Zhenya grumbles and does so. But Sid doesn’t want Ovechkin — listening. Phone calls from Zhenya are rare and never last long, so Sid dares to say, “Now tell him to go away.”

“I tell him always,” Zhenya gripes, but translates the sentiment, and there’s a little racket before he says, “He go.”

“Have you been reading the news about the NHL?” Sid asks.

Zhenya makes a discontented noise. “Maybe NHL. Maybe no NHL.”

Sid sighs. “Yeah. I guess — if there’s no NHL next year” — God, he hopes that’s not true — “you’ll stay in Russia?”

Zhenya sighs in turn. “Yes. Team wants — team wants me play always.” He sounds pensive to Sid’s ears, a little worried.

Sid grips the phone cord. “Do you want to stay?” he asks carefully.

“No,” Zhenya says sharply. “NHL my dream.”

Sid takes in a slow breath and tries to relax. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He knows Zhenya has been in touch with Pat Brisson and another agent, although Pat refuses to tell Sid anything about Zhenya’s situation. All Sid knows is that Zhenya has a contract with Metallurg, and a promise that he can leave when he feels ready for the NHL.

“I’m bring you Russian candy,” Zhenya says abruptly. “Like chocolate?”

“Oh,” Sid says, and thinks about politely demuring, but then admits, “I love chocolate.”

“Bring you best,” Zhenya promises, and tells him something that might be about a bear, but it doesn’t really matter. Sid’s listening for the steady, affectionate warmth in Zhenya’s voice, hoarding it until their next meeting.

***

An aggravating but not serious knee injury and an ignominious shutout loss to the Knights end Sid’s season and, he hopes, his career in the Q. It’s not how he wanted to do it, but getting to the Memorial Cup final is nothing to sneeze at. Anyway, Sid has to let go quickly so he can focus on rehabbing his knee and getting ready for the Combine. He can’t do his morning runs, but Andy has him working on his upper body.

He’s just out of the shower and eating a sandwich his mom left for him on his dresser when Taylor howls, “Sid! Phone for you!”

She sticks her hand in the room, waving the phone around just out of Sid’s reach. “It’s Jack,” she sing-songs, and Sid snatches it out of her hand.

“Hey!” It’s been a while since they talked instead of emailed, but he and Jack have always been able to pick up right where they left off. “What’s up?”

“Just wondering when you were getting in for the Combine,” Jack says.

“Um, I need to check my flight, but I think it’s at 6? So you’ll probably check into our room before I get there,” Sid says.

“Okay, no problem,” Jack says affably. “You ready for the interviews?”

Pat’s drilled Sid mercilessly on how to answer, what to sidestep, and body language. He shudders. “Yeah. Kinda wish we could just focus on the testing.”

“You’ll be fine,” Jack says. “You will, right? Knee’s not giving you too much trouble?”

“Not sure I’ll be one hundred percent, but I’m working on it,” Sid says. “How about you?”

“I’m going to wear my Superman underwear to my interviews,” Jack tells him. He sounds serious. “That’ll work for sure.”

Sid snorts out a laugh. “Man of Steel, huh?”

“You know it,” Jack says, managing to sound both fake dorky-sleazy and affectionate at once. “So if you got to pick, where would you go?”

“Pittsburgh,” Sid says instantly.

There’s a pause. “Okay,” Jack says slowly. “I mean, sure, Mario Lemieux. But seriously, if you didn’t have to worry about draft order — like, where would you go?”

“Still Pittsburgh,” Sid says.

“What, really?” Jack says.

“Yeah,” Sid says. He hesitates for a moment. But if there’s one person Sid can trust, it has to be Jack. They made out once at Shattuck, which was enough to cement for Sid that he really liked boys. Jack shrugged and shook his head afterward and said ruefully, “Guess I just really like you, Squid.” And everything had been fine. Better than fine. Jack is his friend, and Sid knows he’ll always have his back.

“Evgeni Malkin,” Sid blurts out.

“Okay?” Jack says cautiously. “What about him?”

“I know him,” Sid says in a rush, and even that much feels like a confession.

“Uh, yeah, from World Juniors, right?”

“Well, yeah. I mean. At first?”

Jack is silent for a long moment, and then he says, “Spill.”

It all comes tumbling out: finding out who Zhenya was, the letters, the emails, seeing each other again, the phone calls. Sid barely takes a breath, and, okay, it’s not like he didn’t know it was kind of weird. But it feels weirder when he lays it all out like this.

Jack snorts incredulously when Sid finishes his embarrassing word vomit. Then he says, “When did you even have time for Russian lessons?”

“There weren’t a lot,” Sid says, like that’s going to make any of this better. “I just — he was trying in English. I wanted to try, too.”

“Sounds like you guys are good friends,” Jack says.

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” Sid says a little snippily. “I can make friends.”

“I know,” Jack says, and it feels a little like when they used to lie awake in the dark, talking about everything and nothing.

“I mean — we’re not going to be on the same team anyway,” Sid concludes. “So probably it’ll stay just like this. If he still wants to talk or email or whatever when he gets here.”

“Friends is friends, right?” Jack says. “That’s going to be you and me, too.”

“Yeah,” Sid says after a relieved exhale. And then he smiles. “I can’t wait to play against you.”

“Might have to wait,” Jack cautions him. “I’m thinking — I want to play college for a bit.”

It’s not the first time Jack’s alluded to that, and Sid doesn’t get it, exactly, but he knows what to say now. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll wait.”

***

The Combine is too exhausting to be stressful, really. Andy’s prepared him so well for all the exercises that there aren’t any surprises, just Sid trying to push his body as far as it’ll go. He’s frustrated by his knee, which still isn’t 100%, and a stupid summer cold, which is just enough to make him miserable, nasal, and cough until his ribs hurt. It’s a little easier with Jack there, to be able crash into bed early and hear Jack say, “Dude, did they ask you about whether you’re a bird or a fish? I don’t know what the fuck that even meant.”

“They asked me who my worst teammate was,” Sid rasps out. “I said you.”

Jack laughs and throws a pillow at Sid. “You suck,” he says, but Sid can hear the grin that goes with the tone. “I regret every nice thing I’ve ever said about you. I should have let those baseball players kick your ass.”

“Some other team asked what I was most scared of,” Sid says, smothering a hoarse giggle into his pillow. “I also said you.”

“That was you?” Jack says incredulously. “They asked me about that later!” Jack kicks at Sid’s bed, which means Sid has to throw Jack’s pillow back at him, which leads to some playful shoving and wrestling that ends up with Jack sitting on him and tickling him. The room is a mess and Sid feels better than he has in days.

The interviews are definitely the worst part, with all kinds of bizarre, personal questions that make Sid wonder if there’s a right answer. Pat and Andy spent hours on the phone with Sid practicing and still didn’t cover everything. He hopes the pauses between the questions and his answers don’t feel as glacially slow as they feel to him, but he’d rather come off as slow but thoughtful than quick and stupid.

By the middle of the week, he feels a little less like he’s being ambushed on all sides, but Friday morning he has his interview with the Penguins staff and he’s not sure if it’s the cold or nerves that’s making him feel like he might throw up. There are introductions all around and staff from their AHL affiliate as well as the regular assortment of team employees Sid has seen in the other interviews.

After all of his admittedly self-imposed stress about it, the interview is almost too easy. They’re doing a lot of the work, trying to put him at ease with some of the softer questions — who do you model your play after, what areas do you think you need to improve in most, that kind of thing. They keep glancing at each other after Sid’s answers. That isn’t uncommon, but it still makes Sid have to bite down an instinctive, “What?” He’s not the best at reading people’s facial expressions, and most of these guys have a pretty good poker face anyway.

He’s prepared for most of the questions they ask him, but when their director of player personnel leans forward and says, “How would you feel about playing with Evgeni Malkin?” Sid nearly jumps out of his skin.

His pause this time isn’t out of concern that he’ll say the wrong thing, but because for a second he doesn’t know where to start. “It would be amazing,” Sid says, trying to even out the slight shake in his voice. It’ll sound like he’s nervous, when, for the first time, he’s really just excited. “I’ve had the chance to play against him at World Juniors and he’s just — he has a physical presence on the ice that you can’t learn. He’s incredibly skilled, and he’s not afraid to get to the front of the net and get dirty. Everyone wants a guy like that on their team. Playing alongside someone like that would be a real opportunity, one that I would be grateful for.” There’s silence from the other end of the room and Sid takes it to mean he should keep going. “He’s a playmaker — when he has the puck, he’ll make something happen with it. He’s persistent and that’s the guy you want on the ice with you. He’s not done until the whistle blows, and neither am I.”

“Thanks, Sidney,” the conditioning coach says after another second. “So, you’re working with Andy O’Brien, right? What’s your routine like there?”

The rest of the interview is pretty standard, but Sid feels good about it as he shakes all the guys’ hands, being sure to thank them for their time. When he crashes that afternoon for a quick nap, he has a dream about skating with Zhenya back in North Dakota, not even talking, just doing slow laps around the rink. He hopes it’s a good sign. He tells Jack about it and he just shakes his head.

“You and your ‘signs,’” Jack says, but he’s smiling. He nudges Sid’s shoulder with his. “Come on, I’m starving.”

Sid recognizes some of the other guys at the buffet they’ve set up, but he doesn’t really feel like trying to branch out. He’s happy to sit with Jack and listen to the latest crop of weird questions Jack was asked over the course of the day. By the end of the meal, even though Sid just got up from a nap, he thinks he probably won’t make it through whatever movie Jack will put on when they get back to the room.

“If you fall asleep in your food, I’m going to take a picture,” Jack warns him.

“I’m not going to fall asleep,” Sid protests, even if he has to keep blinking himself awake.

Jack snorts. “Yeah, right. You done? Let’s go back up to the room.”

They find the X-Men movie on one of the random movie channels and Jack argues about Wolverine with him as Sid brushes his teeth and gets ready for bed. He’s assuming he’s going to fall asleep mid-movie.

“I think Batman could totally take Wolverine,” Sid says, about to throw on a hoodie automatically, but he feels a little better tonight and doesn’t want to wake up overheated.

“No way, Batman is just a dude. He might be the world’s greatest detective, but Wolverine is —” Jack breaks off mid-sentence. “Uh, where’d you get the shirt, man? That’s — that’s Russian, right?”

Sid glances down — he’s wearing his Metallurg shirt like he has been every night they’ve been at the Combine. “Yeah? Zhenya sent it to me for Christmas,” he says. “I think it was a joke. This is his name and number.” Sid turns around so Jack can see.

“Can you read that now?” Jack asks. “Or can you just say stuff?”

“I mean, I can definitely read this,” Sid says, thinking of all the time he’s spent on the Metallurg website. “But I’ve had a lot more practice speaking than reading. But Zhenya’s English is probably better than my Russian.” He’s definitely been backsliding, even with Valeriya’s tapes. He wonders if there’ll be a Russian community wherever he ends up so he could keep getting tutored, or maybe even a Russian teammate to ask.

“Better up your game, then,” Jack says, grinning.

Sid calls him a fathead in Russian.

***

Sid hates answering the phone at home, because it’s never for him, and it usually means he spends at least fifteen minutes telling a neighbour no, he’s still training, yes, he’s worried about the lockout, etc., etc. But his dad’s at work and his mom took Taylor to the dentist, so he picks up, saying, “Hello, you’ve reached the Crosbys,” just like his parents taught him when he was five.

“Sid,” Zhenya says heavily. He sounds — he sounds terrible.

“Are you okay?” Sid asks, snagging the stool with his foot so he can sit right under the phone. He tangles his fingers in the cord and holds his breath.

“Yes — no,” Zhenya admits.

“Are you, are you hurt, is something —” Sid starts.

“No, no, not hurt,” Zhenya says and Sid breathes out a sigh of relief. “Need — Pat say no call, but I want call you, I —” He breaks off and draws in a shaky sounding breath.

Sid does some quick math and realizes it’s the middle of the night in Magnitogorsk. “Zhenya, did you say Pat told you not to call me?”

“It’s plan,” Zhenya says miserably. “For NHL.”

Sid’s eyebrows fly up. “What?” he asks, because why isn’t Zhenya supposed to talk to him?

“Complicated,” Zhenya says, practiced and kneejerk like he’s heard and said the word a lot recently.

“Okay,” Sid says, though he would call Pat right after he got off the phone with Zhenya if he wouldn’t be essentially ratting him out. “But you’re coming, right?”

There’s a long silence and Sid wonders if the line is dead.

“Zhenya?” he asks.

“You think I’m ready?” Zhenya asks in return.

Sid’s mouth drops open, and then he says passionately, “Of course you are. Of course — Zhenya, you’re ready, Pittsburgh is ready for you.” He pauses, and then asks quietly, urgently, “Who’s been telling you you’re not?”

There’s another long stretch of silence, and then Zhenya says with quiet misery, “Sidnyusha.”

Zhenya’s breathing is uneven, and Sid’s never felt so helpless. “They asked me about you at the Combine,” Sid tells him, grasping for something, anything to make this better. “Pittsburgh asked me if I wanted to play with you.”

Zhenya takes in a shuddering breath. “You want play with me?”

“I really want to play with you,” Sid says. “The NHL is my dream, too. But if I can have an extra dream — I’d play with you, Zhenya.”

“Good dream,” Zhenya says, and he sounds so wistful.

“The best,” Sid tells him, voice rough with emotion. “You should get some sleep, Zhenya. It’ll be better in the morning.” He pauses. “I know you have a plan, but I — I always want to talk to you. I always want you to call me.”

“I’m always want you,” Zhenya says. “Not forget.”

“I won’t,” Sid promises. This feels like a goodbye and he can hardly stand it. “I won’t forget.”

Zhenya hangs up. Sid’s eyes feel wet as he stares blankly at the wall in the kitchen.

***

There are no more phone calls from Zhenya and no emails. The rumours of a new CBA fly fast and furious, and Sid lurches from hope to despair seven times a day until there’s an actual agreement to end the lockout. The news the next day affirms that there will be a lottery the following week to establish drafting order.

Everything, it seems, will depend on a ping pong ball.

Pat calls him and tells him to sit tight because the media scrutiny is going to get even more intense, although Sid can barely imagine how. There are reporters staking out the house and calling so much that they have to let the answering machine screen everything first. He knows that New York Rangers, Buffalo, Columbus, and Pittsburgh each have a 6.25% chance of winning the first pick. He knows he will go first. He’s always dreamed of going first, and he used to dream of going to Montreal like his dad.

Now he’s hoping against hope that 6.25% is enough.

He asks Pat about Zhenya, and is roundly told to leave it alone. “Let me do my job, Sid,” Pat says flatly, and Sid knows he’ll have to wait until Pat is good and ready to tell him anything. It’s just another unanswered question.

Sid doesn’t have an outlet for any of his frustrations. He goes for runs that cool into jogs into walking, trying to spin out time when he doesn’t have to think about the lottery. He wheedles Taylor into setting up shooting obstacle courses for him, knocking down tin can after tin can. When they run out of targets, he rounds up some old midget league friends to play street hockey.

All he wants is a time machine to next Friday, to just know already. But all of that is just idle imagining. What he really wants is to talk to Zhenya, who isn’t answering his emails. Sid’s still sending them — rambling things about the neighbours’ new puppy he thinks Zhenya would like or how he woke up in a sweat after dreaming Pittsburgh had won the lottery, but passed him over.

One thing he doesn’t mention is the wet dream he had. It wouldn’t have been remarkable at all, except he was wearing a Penguins jersey with Zhenya’s name and number on it. In the dream, he gets into bed and he doesn’t want to get the jersey messy but he still desperately wants to get off. But there is a note under the pillow that Sid only finds because it makes a crinkling noise under his head. In real life, he probably can’t read that much Cyrillic, but in the way of dreams, he know it’s Russian and he know it says, “It belongs to you, too.” He slips his hands into his boxers, then, and every touch feels better. He gets himself off, fast and sure. He feels the stitching and roughness of the twill lettering against his bare skin so vividly — it feels so real — and he comes all over himself. He’s barely a breath into the afterglow when he wakes up, finds come all over himself for real, and has a load of laundry to do.

As he shoves the sheets into the washer, he tries to figure out what it means, if it means anything. Everyone knows that dreams are basically one big jumbled up mess of whatever’s on your mind, and most of Sid’s thoughts are about the Penguins and Zhenya, so it’s not that surprising. By the time the sheets and his clothes are ready for the dryer, Sid is certain it’s all just a random act of his subconscious.

But maybe it is some kind of sign, because a few days later, his mom presses a padded mailer into his hands with a conspiratorial look. Sid glances down to see the familiar rainbow of Cyrillic stamps. He high-tails it for his bedroom and shuts the door behind him before looking at the package and seeing Zhenya’s familiar handwriting.

The only thing inside the mailer is a small box. He carefully peels off the tape holding the box shut. Inside, there’s a folded note scribbled on what looks like hotel stationery. It says don’t and then something he can’t read; he puts it aside so he can look it up later.

Underneath is a necklace. The chain is short, like the necklace Sid is wearing right now, and a little delicate. A small 87 hangs from the chain. It’s almost exactly what Sid would have chosen for himself, and he wonders when Zhenya paid such close attention to him.

He takes off his current necklace and carefully fastens the new one around his neck. It hangs just about where the old one did. He’s not sure if it’s really gold or what, but when he looks in the mirror, it catches the light a little. He touches the 87 pendant once before pulling out his Russian dictionary, and it’s not long before he has his answer.

Don’t forget, Zhenya wrote to him.

He holds the pendant tightly, pressed between his thumb and his forefinger, and thinks about Zhenya not calling or writing but sending this instead. He can’t help but worry about Zhenya, about whatever plan he and Pat have that’s making Zhenya call Sid in the middle of the night and then not call at all. He does trust Pat, but it’s hard to be patient and harder not to imagine the worst.

Sid flops down on his bed, still rubbing the necklace between his fingers. He’s trying not to let himself think about even the possibility that Zhenya isn’t coming to the NHL. All he can do is get ready for the season, a season that he hopes will include Zhenya. Sometimes he catches himself just assuming that they’ll be together and has to remember that his future is out of his hands.

He knows there are plenty of good guys, good players who are hoping to be drafted at all, who would give anything to be the number one pick. But Sid can’t help wanting Pittsburgh and wanting Zhenya. So he buries his face in his pillow and selfishly hopes, heart in his throat.

2. Chapter 2

Pat was right — the media scrutiny does get worse. On the day of the lottery, Sid’s extended family gathers at their house. Sid’s exhausted, and he just wants it to be over. He wants to know and have it done with. He wanders the house until a little bit before the lottery begins and then sits down on the couch. Taylor snuggles up to his side; he wraps an arm around her shoulder and tries not to bite his lip while the camera is on them.

Gary Bettman announces the lottery in reverse order, so Sid has to endure the long list of the 29 teams to which he will not go before the team with the first pick is announced. With each envelope Bettman opens, there’s another team out of the running, but beyond “not Pittsburgh” he couldn’t have said what any of them were. By the time they get to the top ten everyone in the room is leaning forward like it’s a shootout and the closer you lean the more you can will yourself to the next round.

His dad makes a noise under his breath when Montreal is called fifth, but it’s done, and even if Sid knows he’s disappointed, it’s another team closer. He half expected Pittsburgh to be called 30th right away, but it’s almost worse to have made it this far if it’s not —

The Wild — the Hurricanes — it’s just Anaheim and —

“Sid,” Taylor says, pulling at his arm. “Sid!”

Bettman says, “We’re going to switch it up —” and the envelope marked “1” is in his hands, right there, and it seems like the sentence lasts forever —

“The number one overall selection in the 2005 NHL Entry Draft belongs to —”

He opens it so slowly, fumbling it around and it looks like — he says —

“Pittsburgh Penguins.”

Sid’s clutching Taylor so close and tight it has to hurt, but she just says, “Sid, you’re going to be a Penguin” over and over and the phone is ringing and everyone is talking and Sid finally lets himself breathe.

***

The most surreal part of the day is the phone call from Mario Lemieux himself. Sid has met Mario, had an unbelievable dinner with him and Tie Domi a few years ago, but that’s worlds away from Mario telling him there’s a place for him in Pittsburgh, a city waiting for him, and a franchise to rebuild.

“I’ll see you at the Draft, Sidney,” Mario says. “We have a lot to talk about. I’m sure your family wants to have you back now. Give them my best wishes and let them know we’ll speak soon.”

His family is all staring eagerly at him, like if they’re quiet enough they’ll be able to hear Mario too.

“I will, thank you,” Sidney says. “I look forward to seeing you on Draft day. And thank you, I — this was my dream.” It’s probably a little too personal, not professional, but it just slips out.

“We’re going to do great things,” Mario says with calm, cool confidence, and Sid believes him wholeheartedly.

***

The week between the lottery and the Draft is full of all kinds of obligations, including important conversations with Reebok and Frameworth, mostly handled by his father, Pat, and a team of lawyers. The thing he’s most excited about, other than the Draft itself, is the hockey clinic on Friday. It’s always fun to see the kids working on their skills, and it’ll be fun to get on the ice with Jack again and meet some of the other guys.

Benoit Pouliot catches him and, after some small talk, says, “Pittsburgh, man, you’re lucky. I was hoping they would get second pick or something.”

Sid’s throat closes up for a second, thinking about the nightmare he had just that morning about that. “Yeah — you like Pittsburgh?” he manages.

Something must show on his face, because Pouliot blinks and shrugs. “Eh, it doesn’t matter,” he says.

It takes Sid a moment, but he manages to check back in and offer something to the conversation, conscious of the mic clipped to Pouliot’s jersey.

Jack skates up after Pouliot has left and nudges Sid with his stick. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Sid says, taking a deep breath and being absurdly grateful that Jack is here with him. “It’s just hard to believe, you know? I don’t know if I’ll be able to until it’s over.”

Jack is maybe the only other person besides Zhenya who understands how much this means to Sid, and Sid feels bad complaining to him when he knows Jack has no idea what will happen to him tomorrow. But Jack just claps a gloved hand on Sid’s shoulder and says, “Yeah, man.”

The cameras make everything easier and harder, but it’s probably good Sid has something to focus on, something to remind him to be collected and professional. When the cameras gone, he winds up wrestling with Jack over airing out his reeking gear. It probably makes both of them feel better.

“Hey, Sid,” Jack whispers quietly into the dark that night. “I’m really happy for you. Not just going first overall, but getting Pittsburgh. You just — you deserve it, man.”

Sid bites his lip until he thinks he can talk normally. “Jack, you’re my best friend,” he whispers back. They both heard rumors that the Ducks were going to take a forward, which meant Ryan, but— “You’re just great, okay? You know that, right? Whoever picks you tomorrow, they’re so lucky.”

There’s a long pause and then Jack says, “Yeah, you’re pretty okay yourself.”

He can’t help the laugh that busts out of him and Jack laughs too. And though Sid worries he’ll have a hard time falling asleep, he drifts off easily to the steady hum of the air conditioner.

The Draft morning is surprisingly quiet. They both get up early to work out and then lounge around. Sid wonders if he has time for a quick nap before the cameras show up; a glance at the clock reminds him about time zones. He realizes that by the time the Draft is over, it’ll be Zhenya’s birthday.

He’s glad he brought his laptop, which he and Jack have mostly been using to watch DVDs, so he can turn it on and open up his email. It’s quick work to copy and paste Happy birthday in Russian, but he has to think of what else to write. He doesn’t think Zhenya is even getting these emails, but he can’t stop sending them. On the chance that Zhenya is reading them — on the chance that Zhenya is having more middle-of-the-night doubts and can’t or won’t call him, Sid writes, I’ll give you your present when I see you. I’ll make you a cake. It probably won’t taste very good, but I’ll try. Just come to Pittsburgh. Please.

He sends it just a few minutes before the camera crew shows up again, apparently to film Jack wandering around in a towel. The NHL seems like it might be kind of weird like that.

***

The Draft itself is a blur.

He sits at a round table with his parents until his name is called, and then he’s hugging his parents, and his mom is tearing up, and when he gets up on the stage, Mario Lemieux and Craig Patrick are waiting for him. There’s a jersey with his name on the back, and he holds it with nerveless fingers for a picture before pulling it on.

He’s smiling so hard he feels like his face should hurt, but it doesn’t. All his hard work led to this moment, and he thinks he might just smile forever. He gets whisked away for interviews and photo shoots and more interviews, and when he sees Jack he hugs him tight, because Jack went third to Carolina and Sid’s so, so proud. “You did it,” he tells Jack. “You’re so awesome.”

Jack squeezes him back. Bobby Ryan may be looking at them weird, but whatever. That’s not as important as Jack murmuring in his ear, “You’re going to tear it up. You’re awesome.”

It’s an emotional day, but the thing that makes him come closest to losing it is Mario leaning forward to say, “I don’t know if you’ve given any thought to your housing situation in Pittsburgh, but I talked it over with my family and we’d like to invite you to stay with us.”

Sid knows his mouth has dropped open stupidly. “What?” he manages eventually.

“We have a couple of kids about your age. We think it would be a good fit, but I’d understand if you wanted to —” Mario starts and Sid waves his hands frantically.

“No, no, no,” Sid says quickly. “I mean, yes, I mean — I can live with you?”

Mario’s smile isn’t teasing, it’s just happy looking. “If you’d like to,” he says.

“Yes, thank you, I’m really — thank you so much,” Sid says, probably like a big weirdo, but Mario Lemieux wants him to come live with him and play hockey with him.

He keeps thinking about it through the rest of the day — doing more interviews, having dinner with his family. When he’s finally collapsing in bed, it hits him again, that he’s going to live in Pittsburgh with Mario Lemieux and play hockey and get paid for it. Even though he knows Jack wouldn’t tease him about it, Sid has to just laugh into his pillow, giggling helplessly until he can hardly breathe.

It’s so unbelievably, wonderfully amazing, and Sid’s hand drifts up to touch his necklace before he falls asleep.

***

He still feels pretty amazing the next morning at breakfast. He’s laughing with Taylor when Pat puts a hand on his shoulder and says, “Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?”

Sid’s stomach lurches. “Is everything okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah,” Pat assures him. “It’s not about you.”

He can feel his eyebrows rise, but he excuses himself and goes off with Pat, who doesn’t say anything until they’re in Pat’s suite.

“You asked me before about what was happening with Evgeni Malkin’s contract,” Pat says, and Sid can’t help but think that Pat was wrong before; it might not be about him, but this is personal.

“Yes,” Sid says quickly.

“He asked me to pass this along to you,” Pat says, reaching for a folder on the table and handing it to Sid.

Sid opens the folder and there’s a short letter from Zhenya. It’s half in English, which makes Sid wonder how long he took to write it, even though all it says is, Sorry like this. I want always see you soon. He’ll have to wait until he’s at his computer to figure out the rest. It sounds — there’s a sick ball of worry in the pit of his stomach and he looks up at Pat, who looks a little concerned himself.

“Is he okay, is — has there been trouble with his contract?” Sid asks, trying not to crumple the letter as his hands tense.

“Frankly, yes,” Pat says. Sid feels like the rug has been pulled out from underneath him. It’s one thing for him to have doubts and concerns; it’s a whole different thing for Pat to confirm it.

“I — what?” Sid asks shakily.

“Evgeni asked me to give you the letter and to explain what’s been going on as JP and I have tried to end his contract with Metallurg and negotiate one with Pittsburgh,” Pat says.

Sid’s breath catches on the word tried, and he bursts out, “Is he coming, is he — not coming?” He sounds panicked, even to himself, but he can’t take it back.

“We’re trying,” Pat says, slowly, carefully. “At the end of Metallurg’s season in March, Evgeni submitted a letter of resignation to management, which was rejected immediately.”

“Rejected,” Sid repeats blankly.

“The GM ripped it up in front of him, told him not to tell anyone what he’d done,” Pat says. “Evgeni told me what happened when I asked, but he was, understandably, upset.”

Sid feels like someone is pressing on his chest. His throat’s thick.

“We suggested he go to Worlds, and while he was in Austria, we tried to see if we could convince them to change their mind, but Evgeni said he was under constant pressure from the coaching staff and watched closely to make sure he didn’t try to leave.” Pat pauses, brows furrowed. “Are you all right, Sidney?”

“I — please, keep going,” Sid manages, hands clenched in his shorts.

Pat eyes him for another moment, but goes on to say, “They offered him a new contract when he came back and took his passport. We advised him to lie low, that we would prolong negotiations as long as we could while we tried to explore avenues. The team was restricting his unsupervised time, and to reduce pressure on him, we suggested he limit his North American contact, especially with anyone who would be perceived as pro-NHL, like you.”

The idea that he was making things more difficult for Zhenya, even if he had no way of knowing because Zhenya hadn’t told him anything — he’s heartsick and hurt and overwhelmed.

“It became increasingly clear that we weren’t going to make progress with the club itself, but with the rumours of the CBA, we thought they might reach a league-wide agreement to ease these types of transfers. Otherwise, we might have tried to have him leave during training camp in Germany, but we thought it would be best to make sure we did due diligence here. Bettman is meeting with the IIHF and the Russian Superleague today to try to negotiate, but if that fails, we’re going to have to use our fall back plan, and Evgeni has expressed some concerns about it. Well, concerns about you.”

“About me?” Sid asks.

“Part of the backup plan involves Evgeni signing a new contract with Metallurg,” Pat says.

Sid can’t push down the instinctive horror he feels hearing those words. “What?” he demands.

Pat holds up his hands placatingly. “To get his passport back, Evgeni will need to give every appearance of being committed to the team. Like I said, we hope it won’t come to this, but if the negotiations don’t go anywhere today, you’re going to see news stories about Evgeni Malkin re-signing with Metallurg, and Evgeni insisted that I tell you about it before you saw that.”

When he imagines seeing that kind of headline on TSN out of the blue, after weeks of no communication other than the one phone call and the package, Sid feels so grateful that Zhenya thought of him, thought of how he would feel.

“But he’s coming, right?” Sid asks, suddenly struck with the awful irony of the situation — he’s going to make it to Pittsburgh after all, but now Zhenya might not.

Pat sighs, loudly. “We’re all doing all we can, Sid,” he says. “I don’t want to make any false promises here. But hey — hey, Sid.” Pat claps a hand on his shoulder and squeezes it. “No one is giving up, and neither should you. I’ll keep you posted, I promise.”

“Thank you,” Sid says, trying to force himself to breathe normally. “I mean that, Pat, thank you.”

Pat shakes his head. “I know I sent that first letter for you, but I have to say, I didn’t think you guys would ever get so close,” he says, and Sid isn’t sure how to take that, but Pat smiles. “No, I think it’s a good thing. Good for both of you.”

Sid hopes it is. All he can do now is wait.

***

He has a week and a few days at home He spends time with Taylor and plays ball hockey with his buddies in the neighbourhood, who he’s only spent a little time with since he left for Shattuck. They’re still good guys, and hockey’s still the same, so it’s fine. He likes getting the chance to play goalie, likes putting on the scuffed-up, cast-off pads that came from someone’s brother and taking his place in net. It’s hockey from a different vantage point, and this way, everyone has fun.

One afternoon, he’s curled up on the couch watching Pokemon with Taylor, and Sid has a weird thought. When he was in middle school, all his friends had Pokemon cards but Sid didn’t, because all the money they had went to his hockey. Everything, everything was for him to get to this point.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” Sid asks Taylor.

“A detective,” she says promptly. Then she scrunches her face up, considering. “Or a vet.”

Sid manages to only smile a little. “Okay,” he says. Whatever she wants to be, he’ll do his best to help her get there.

He tries to appreciate every day he’s home, but when he hears that Evgeni Malkin has signed a new contract with his hometown club, he just feels sick and anxious. He never takes off his necklace, and he wears Zhenya’s shirt to bed every night. Otherwise, there’s nothing he can do except hope. He still writes Zhenya emails, carefully devoid of any suggestion that Zhenya is trying to leave, just in case. He tells Zhenya about winning a game of tennis, about helping his mom bake cookies for a fundraiser. It’s all ordinary stuff, but he hopes Zhenya knows what he’s really saying, which is that he still wants to talk to Zhenya all the time.

He’s packing when his mom knocks on the doorframe to his room and hands him new packages of underwear and socks. “Mom,” he says, half-embarrassed, half-grateful.

She comes in and tucks the tag on his shirt back in. “You be a good houseguest,” she says. “Be sure to help out. Four kids is a lot, and you make five.”

“I’m not a kid,” he protests. “I’m eighteen now.”

“You are,” his mom sighs, and then she hugs him. “When did that happen?”

“Yesterday,” he says.

She gently smacks his shoulder. “Smarty-pants,” she chides him. “You can always call us, okay? No matter what.”

“I know,” he says, and squeezes her tight.

She sighs again and steps away to fuss with tucking the package of socks into the corner of his suitcase, even though she knows he’s just going to end up moving it anyway. “Should I be on the lookout for any more mail from Russia?” she asks.

Sid flushes. “I hope not,” he says.

She looks at him, her brow furrowed.

He moves the package of socks. “I hope I won’t need any more letters,” he mumbles.

His mom takes in a deep breath. “Well, be careful, honey,” she says. “I know your father talked with you about things, but it’s important to be safe.”

“Mom,” he says, face flaming. “It’s not — I’m not —”

His mom pats his arm, but she doesn’t particularly look like she believes him. “He did send you an awful lot of letters, honey.”

Sid has a moment of wondering how she knows it’s a he when Zhenya’s return address was always in Cyrillic, but he guesses the handwriting could have given it away. “He’s my friend,” he says eventually.

“Good,” she says briskly. “When you finish up here, come downstairs and help me with dinner.”

“Okay,” he says. He feels relieved when his mom leaves the room, conversation apparently over.

The relief lasts until after dinner, when his dad comes to his room and shoves a Lawtons bag at him. Sid looks inside, sees it’s a package of condoms, and wants to die.

“Dad,” he whines.

His dad plainly isn’t having any of it. “You be safe no matter what,” he says gruffly.

His parents are both obviously wrong about Zhenya, and he still wants to never ever talk about this, but when his dad pulls him into a hug, Sid manages to say, “Thanks.”

“You’re a good kid,” his dad says. “Your mom and I just want the best for you.”

“I want to make you guys proud,” Sid says.

“You will,” his dad says. “You do.”

“I’ll try my best,” Sid says, because he always does, and because there’s no way to pay his parents back for everything they’ve done other than to give it everything he’s got.

***

Sid arrives in Pittsburgh on a beautiful, perfectly sunny summer day, or so the captain of the plane says as they prepare to land. There’s a fluttering nervousness in Sid’s stomach as the plane taxis. It’s not because he’s leaving home, but because when he called Mario to let him know the plane was on time, Mario made his apologies — stuck in a meeting — and said, “Nathalie and the kids will come pick you up.” He’s never met Nathalie Lemieux, but he’s sure she’ll be just as nice as Mario. He’s more worried the kids won’t like him.

Which is why he’s pretty surprised when he gets to the baggage claim and there are two little girls holding up a sign covered in glitter that says SIDNEY in giant bubble letters. He wonders for a moment if it’s for someone else, but when the girls see him they start waving the sign frantically.

The younger looking of the two runs up to him and says, “Hi, I’m Stephanie, that’s my sister Lauren, Mom said to help you with your stuff.” It comes out in an excited rush, all in one breath. By the time she’s done, Lauren has walked over.

“Hi, Sid, I’m Lauren, it’s nice to meet you,” she says, very deliberately, like she thought about what to say to him while they were waiting, maybe. “Mom is in the car with Austin and Alexa, so as soon as we have your stuff we can go.”

Stephanie is a barely contained ball of excitement and Lauren looks like she’s trying really hard to be cool. Sid is stupidly charmed by them both, maybe because they remind him of Taylor. Stephanie is telling him all about her hockey team when the baggage carousel buzzes into life, and Lauren jockeys her way forward to get a good place in front of the opening.

“Oh, all my stuff is really heavy, you’d better let me grab it,” Sid warns her.

Lauren looks like she wants to protest, but she just hipchecks Stephanie out of the way to grab the handle bar on the luggage cart. “Okay. I’ll push, though,” she says determinedly.

Stephanie pushes back until they both have a hand on it. “We’ll push,” she says. “What’s your stuff look like, anyway?”

“Well, I’ve got a big Reebok gear bag,” Sid says, eyes on the belt. “But the rest of it is basically just the same black suitcases everyone else has. Boring, sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Lauren says, clearly trying to be gracious.

“We’ll make you some cool tags or something,” Stephanie says. “I’m really good at drawing the Pens logo, I can totally do it.”

“Thanks,” Sid says, grinning. It seems like they made their minds up to like him before they even met him, which Sid is grateful for.

He spots his first bag, and from the weight of it, it’s the one with his shoes and books in it. The cart squeaks ominously when he slings it on there, but it doesn’t fall off or hit the girls or anything. The second one is just a few bags behind, but it takes another few minutes for his gear bag to show up. By the time he has the cart loaded, Lauren is peeking over the top of the three bags together and he can just see the top of Stephanie’s head.

They shove at the cart, but between the weight of the bags and the lack of traction on their flip flops, they slide further back than the cart moves forward. Stephanie and Lauren stare at the cart, betrayed, and Sid does his best not to laugh.

“I can do it, it’s okay,” he says. He has to put a fair amount of muscle into getting the cart moving, but then it’s fine. There’s a door close by, and Stephanie uses the sign to flag down a minivan that’s almost passed them by.

“Hello, Sidney,” Mrs. Lemieux calls from the front seat, as the window rolls down. “Do you need a hand? We might have to do some creative bag stacking, since we just picked Austin up from practice.”

“I’ve got it, Mrs. Lemieux, thank you,” Sid says.

She laughs. “Please, call me Nathalie,” she says. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

Stephanie has already popped the trunk, and sure enough, there’s an Easton gear bag back there and two curious faces.

“Hi, I’m Austin,” the little boy says as the little girl waves and says, “I’m Alexa.”

“Hey,” Sid says. “It’s nice to meet you guys.”

They beam back at him and offer advice on how to stack the bags, but they eventually have to put Austin’s bag on the back seat with him and Alexa so there’s room for all of Sid’s stuff without blocking the view out the back window.

“You’re in my seat,” Stephanie sighs out, like it’s such a frequent offence that she’s making the argument more for the sake of it than out of actual irritation.

Lauren rolls her eyes and buckles her seatbelt pointedly. “Oh my god, they’re the same seat,” she says.

“Girls,” Nathalie says gently. “Sidney, come sit in the front and don’t listen. They’re still arguing about a spilled Coke from a year ago.”

“It was a milkshake!” Stephanie protests and Nathalie shakes her head wryly as she starts the car.

“It was a milkshake,” she says, in an apologetic tone that still manages to sound amused and point out the ridiculousness of it all. Sid’s mother uses it all the time, so it must be a mom thing. “I hope your flight was okay. Mario said it left pretty early. When we get home, you can have some peace and quiet before we show you around.” She shoots a pointed look to the back seat on “peace and quiet,” and Austin makes a face.

“But Stephanie and Lauren already got to talk to him,” he says, sounding annoyed.

Nathalie is opening her mouth to say something, but Sid quickly says, “I’m not tired at all. I wanted to thank you, though, for letting me stay with you, I really appreciate it.” He turns around to face the back seat. “Thank you guys, too. I’ll try not to be too much of a drag, I promise.”

Alexa giggles and Austin’s sulky expression turns into a grin. Stephanie shoots a delighted look at Lauren, who is smiling out the window.

“You’ll probably be okay,” Lauren says, before turning to smile at Sid. “But we only have four controllers, so you’ll have to wait your turn for Mario Kart.”

“Oh yeah?” Sid asks. “Who do you guys play as?”

“Yoshi!” Stephanie says loudest over a chorus of “Peach!” “Mario!” and “Bowser!”

The rest of the drive is consumed with video games, Austin and Stephanie’s hockey teams, and the day camp Lauren is going to for band practice. Nathalie keeps sneaking little looks at Sid out of the corner of her eye, but going by the smile on her face it’s nothing bad, , so Sid just asks another question, this time about Alexa’s art lessons. Soon, they pull into a driveway. Nathalie interrupts the conversation to teach Sid the gate code.

The house is intimidatingly huge, but the inside is cozy, with shoes lined up in the mudroom just like his parents’ house. The kids are happy to show him around, pointing out the pool through the living room windows, and showing him the stairway down to the basement. Despite what he said earlier, he’s starting to fade, but the kids are so excited to share their home with him that he can’t bring himself to say anything.

“I’ll show you to your room now, Sidney,” Nathalie says firmly, going on to add in French, “He’s tired, go on, shoo.”

There’s some grumbling, but clearly the conversation in the car sparked a need for a Mario Kart battle, so the four of them troop down into the basement.

“Thank you,” Nathalie says to Sidney. “You have no idea how excited they are to have you here — they’ve been dying to meet you since Mario said you’d agreed to stay with us. You’re very good with them.”

Sid ducks his head, cheeks warm with the unexpected compliment. “I’m really happy to be here,” he says. “Please let me know what I can do around the house. I want to help out.”

Nathalie smiles at him warmly. “I’ll let you know, Sidney. Or do you prefer Sid?” she asks.

“Oh, either is fine,” he says, following her up the stairs. The guest room is actually more of a little suite nestled in the eaves of the house. The ceiling slopes back and forth under the gables. Nathalie points out the kitchenette and living room before leading him into a big, open bedroom.

“If you need anything, I’ll be downstairs in my office — it’s just off the kitchen,” Nathalie says. “If you want anything from your suitcases, we can go get them and send them up in the elevator, but I’m guessing you’ll just want to rest.”

“I should call my parents first,” he says.

Natalie nods to the phone on the wall. “Feel free — it’s on a separate line, so you don’t have to worry about tying up the phone.”

“Thanks,” Sid says gratefully. He probably should get a U.S. cell phone soon, but he’s glad to have permission to use the landline. It makes him feel a little more like he really lives here, and isn’t just a houseguest. He has endorsement deals and he’ll be signing a contract in a few weeks; he can pay the bill.

Only his mom is home when he calls, and she asks him how his flight was and how he likes his room, and it’s all very ordinary and comforting. They don’t talk long — she has some errands to run, and tells him to get some rest.

“I love you,” he tells her.

“I love you too, baby,” she says. “Get some sleep — you’ll want to be well rested for camp tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he says. He doesn’t quite want to hang up, but she’s right and it’s not like he can’t call again soon. “Bye, Mom.”

“Bye, honey,” she says, and the line goes dead.

He puts the phone back in the cradle and heads off to the bedroom. It really is big, with windows that let in a lot of light. There’s a little sitting area off to one side, with a pair of chairs and a small table. He guesses the Lemieuxs intended this place for their parents, and he hopes he won’t cause any trouble by living here when they come to visit. The air conditioning is a little chill, but there’s a big sunbeam across the bed and Sid lies down on top of the covers. He sets an alarm on his phone to wake him up in a few hours so he doesn’t sleep the day away or miss dinner.

The last thing he notices as he’s drifting off is a metallic clinking sound and a whuffle before the bed shifts under him.

***

Sid wakes up with a warm, heavy weight on his hip and looks down to find the head of a beautiful chocolate Lab there. A second later the dog blinks and wuffs at him, staring back solemnly. A glance at his phone lets him know he didn’t sleep through his alarm, but it’s still closer to evening than afternoon. The dog’s ears perk up and it gets down off the bed, heading for the door to the living room. Sid figures that’s as good an idea as any, so after splashing some water on his face he heads back downstairs. By the time he gets to the first floor landing, he can hear laughter and smell something good, which speeds him up a little.

It sounds like everything is coming from the kitchen. Sure enough, the kids are lined up on stools along the breakfast bar and Nathalie is working on a salad.

“Hey, Sid!” Alexa says, spotting him first.

“Glad to see you made it,” Mario says, appearing at his elbow, startling Sid a little.

“Hi, Mario,” Sid says, struck all over again by the fact that he’s going to be living in Mario Lemieux’s house.

“Have a seat, dinner will be ready in a little while,” Nathalie advises, gesturing to an open stool. “I thought you might be hungry already, though, so if they left any, there are some snacks on the counter.”

Sid’s basically hungry all the time, so that sounds pretty good to him. He sits on his stool and reaches for the veggie plate. “Thanks,” he says before decimating all the carrots on the plate. There’s also a plate of crackers and cheese that is calling his name, and he’s happy to snack while the kids tell Mario about their day.

The dog who slept with him pads up, sitting under his feet hopefully. Or at least he thinks it’s the same dog, but then another brown Lab appears to drink out of a nearby water bowl. The kids introduce him to Tara and Lola, who cheerfully sniff the hand he extends. Everything feels sort of perfect — kids laughing, dogs roaming around, the smell of fresh, hot potato salad wafting through the air.

“Time for the grill,” Nathalie says, handing off a platter of hamburger patties to Mario.

“You want to help?” Mario asks Sid. He nods, grabs a couple of sticks of celery to go, and follows Mario out to the deck.

He expects to talk about hockey because the rookie orientation camp starts tomorrow, but as Mario’s putting the meat on the grill, he says, “I remember you like to golf, right, Sid?”

Sid thinks he might have said something about it at that dinner years ago, and he can’t believe Mario remembers that. “I do,” Sid agrees. “I’m not really, uh, good at it, though.”

“If you want, I could use a partner,” Mario offers. “I try to take Austin sometimes, but he gets bored around the 6th hole.”

“Sure,” Sid says quickly. “Any time.”

“Weather’s supposed to be good in the coming week. You don’t mind sticking around after camp?” Mario asks.

“Only if you guys don’t mind,” Sid says.

Mario flips a burger and looks at Sid seriously. “You’re always welcome here, Sid,” he says, before going back to his grill duties.

Sid mulls that one over for a minute as Mario takes care of their dinner. Finally he says, “I’m really glad to be here.”

“I want you to feel comfortable here, because this is your home for now,” Mario says. “But I also expect you to remember this is my family’s home, and there are considerations that come with that. You should feel free to have friends over — you’re a young guy and I don’t want you to feel like you’re stuck here.”

Mario pauses and purses his lips for a second like he’s trying to think of how he wants to say something, so Sid is sort of expecting it when Mario says, “Girls are fine to visit, but they can’t stay the night.” Sid still turns bright scarlet, thinking about the conversations he had with his parents before he left Cole Harbour.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Sid says, honestly. And not just because he wouldn’t be bringing girls. The idea of bringing anyone to Mario’s house is too weird and terrible to imagine. He also wonders what he did to deserve three talks about his nonexistent sex life in as many days.

Mario looks at Sid, seems to evaluate something, and nods firmly, like that’s the end of that. “I’m always willing to listen, and I want you to tell me if something is wrong or bothering you. I really think this is going to be a good fit, and I hope you feel the same way,” he says. He starts taking the burgers off the grill, just in time for Stephanie to stick her head out the door.

“Are you ready? Mom wants to know,” she hollers.

“Just a minute more,” Mario says back. “Come on, we’d better not keep them waiting.” He claps Sid on the shoulder, picks up the platter, and leads the way back inside.

***

The next few days pass quickly — more strength and fitness evaluations, autograph signing, and meetings with the Pens organization. In the evenings, Sid hangs out with the kids and gets to know more about his new city. When Mario mentions that he and Sid are going golfing, the kids make a flattering fuss about getting left behind until they all agree to go mini-golfing, which makes the news. Sid is used to being under a fair amount of media scrutiny, but not on this level. He’s sort of baffled by it, because he’s not even playing hockey yet. It’s nice to meet some of the other prospects, and he sees some of the guys who’ve been traded to the Penguins since the draft, who are starting to come into town.

He’s between stuff and wants to sneak in a quick extra workout at Mellon where he can, figuring every little bit now will help when the season starts, only to find he’s not the only person with that idea. The guy looks familiar in that way that makes Sid think he’s going to feel really stupid in a minute. He’s pedaling hard on a bike, but then he notices Sid and slows to a stop.

“Hi,” Sid says, trying to shove his hands in his pockets, only to realize he’s wearing basketball shorts.

“Hello,” the guy says. The Russian accent makes Sid remember that early this month Sergei Gonchar was traded to the Penguins. “Nice to finally meet you, Sidney.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Sergei,” Sid says, trying to say it the same way Zhenya had.

“You can call me Gonch,” he says wryly, which makes Sid think he didn’t manage it as well as he hoped.

“Sid,” Sid suggests. He’s close enough to stick his hand out now.

Sergei shakes it and smiles a little. “It’s a little strange to meet you in person,” he says.

“You too,” Sid says, thinking about the pictures of Sergei and his family Zhenya sent, how he knows a lot about them without knowing anything for himself. He wonders if Sergei feels the same way. “How’s your family?”

“Good,” Sergei says. “My wife never really cared for Washington. She and my daughter are excited for a new city. We’ll have to have you over sometime, when we’re unpacked. You can practice your Russian with Natalie.”

Sid laughs, thinking about all the times Zhenya complained that Natalie was picking everything up much faster than him. “She’ll have to be really patient with me,” Sid says. “But I’d like that a lot, thank you.”

He wonders if Sergei fell under the Brisson and Barry umbrella of too North American, if maybe he’s spoken to Zhenya recently and knows anything Sid doesn’t. “Have you talked to Zhenya recently?” he asks, unable to resist.

Sergei shrugs. “Not since I went to spend time with my family in Chelyabinsk. The front office asked if I would billet him when he comes, but with the new contract he just signed, I think he probably won’t come until later,” he says. His expression turns hesitant. “You guys are still writing?”

Sid feels torn, wondering if he should say something or not. He got the impression from Pat that this was extremely hush-hush, and if Zhenya didn’t say anything to Sergei, he probably shouldn’t either. “Yeah, as much as we can,” Sid says, which is the truth — it’s just that Zhenya can’t write at all right now.

Sergei nods, looking pleased. “Maybe you’ll see each other at the Olympics.”

“Maybe,” Sid says. The thought of having to wait until February to see Zhenya again makes his heart sink, especially since there’s no guarantee he’ll make the Olympic team.

Sergei claps him on the shoulder. “I think your landlord is hoping you’re finished,” he says, and Sid turns around to see Mario in the doorway.

“Oh,” Sid says, and then remembers his manners. “It was nice to meet you. And — thanks. For everything.”

Sergei waves it off, and goes back to pedaling.

***

He and Mario work out every morning and they both seem to be morning people, so it makes sense to get up pretty early, which means Sid is in the middle of making oatmeal when Mario gets a call and frowns down at his phone for a second before answering.

“Morning, Pat,” he says. His expression changes from concerned to calculating, interested. “He is? He’s with Barry?”

Sid is wondering if Mario means Pat Brisson — and if it is, is Barry JP Barry, and if so, could they be —

Mario listens thoughtfully, occasionally making noises of agreement that do nothing to help Sid figure out what they’re talking about. After a few minutes, he says, “Well, keep me posted.” There’s a pause and Mario blinks, then glances over at Sid. He says, “Yeah, he’s right here. We were about to go train.” He holds the phone out. “Brisson wants to talk to you.”

“Pat?” Sid asks, and he can hear the shake in his voice, but he can’t stop it.

“Evgeni is with Barry in Helsinki now. They’ve been to the embassy, and now they’re waiting on a visa,” Brisson says. “We’re really close, Sid. I’ll call Mario if I hear anything more from them, but they’ve got to lie low.”

“Okay,” Sid says, his voice far more steady than he feels. “Thanks for letting me know.” Pat hangs up, and Sid has to make himself unclench his hand from around the phone and hand it back to Mario.

“Something up?” Mario asks with bland curiosity.

Sid shakes his head. He goes back to his oatmeal and tries very hard to ignore the way his stomach roils with worry.

It’s two whole days of Sid thinking the worst, fearing that Zhenya won’t get a visa, or that Metallurg will find him and drag him back to Russia, or that maybe he’ll get a visa but then they’ll find him. All he can do is focus on his routine, working out and eating and sleeping, even though he does the last only fitfully. It makes everything a little more difficult, even if he doesn’t push himself as hard as he normally would when he and Mario train in the gym in the basement. He keeps trying to nap, but ends up lying on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. Tara seems to make it her personal mission to comfort Sid, snuggling up with him or lying there with him, her serious brown eyes sympathetic. He hopes he doesn’t seem so bad off that the dogs are worried about him.

It’s hard to focus when seemingly everything makes him think about Zhenya, stuck in a hotel room, worried and helpless. He must not be hiding his distraction very well, though, because in the middle of playing goalie for some game the kids have concocted that is part ball hockey, part singing competition, Alexa comes up and wraps her arms around his waist. “Sidddd,” she says. “Are you okay?”

“It didn’t even hurt,” Sid assures her. The ball bounced off the pavement and hit his face, but not hard. That it went into the goal afterward is only a little aggravating.

“Are you too hot?” she says, deeply suspicious. “Maybe you need more water.”

“I’m okay,” he says.

“You let us score three times,” Stephanie says, crossing her arms. “Lauren, maybe it’s your turn to be goalie.”

“I don’t want to, it’s too hot and it stinks,” Lauren says, and it devolves into an argument. Sid decides maybe he does need more water, after all.

Nathalie is doing something with her laptop at the kitchen counter when Sid walks in. “Everything okay, Sid?” she asks, brows drawn together.

“It’s just a little hot outside, I guess,” he says. “I’m not used to it yet.” It takes him a second to remember which cabinet the glasses are in, but he figures it out.

“I —” Nathalie starts, mouth pressed into a line, just for a second before she smiles at him. “There’s some Gatorade powder in the cabinet next to the fridge, if you want it. If there’s a flavour you like, just let me know and we’ll pick some up.”

“Thank you,” Sid says, mixing some in just in case he really is dehydrated. He’s pretty sure he’s feeling crappy for other reasons, but there’s no need to take chances.

He knows he’s quiet at dinner that night, but it’s soothing to let the kids talk about maybe going to Hershey Park next week with friends and argue about which of them would win the biggest stuffed animal. He doesn’t miss the looks Mario and Nathalie shoot at him, but they haven’t asked and Sid doesn’t really want to talk anyway. He just needs an end to all the waiting. He doesn’t know if he can be quietly patient for much longer.

The next morning, he and Mario work out in the basement. Sid is spotting Mario during a set when Mario’s phone goes off. Mostly he keeps it on vibrate while they work out and handles calls when they’re done, but this time, he grunts through another rep and then says, “Can you see who it is?”

Sid keeps an eye on the barbell but obediently leans over to look at the caller ID. “It’s Pat,” he says, and the sudden spike of anxiety makes his insides twist.

“Pat Brisson?” Mario asks. When Sid nods, he says, “Sorry, I’ve got to take this.” Sid helps him re-rack the barbell before leaning down to snag the phone and handing it over.

“Hello,” Mario says, and Sid wonders if he should be pretending not to listen, but Mario catches his eyes and looks speculative while he responds to whatever Pat is saying with yes and no and okay and nothing that tells Sid what is happening.

“No, I agree completely,” Mario says. “Do you want to talk to Sid?”

Sid twitches guiltily, feeling caught out, but he takes the phone. “Hi,” he says, and he feels like he should turn away from Mario’s gaze, but all he can manage is to look at the floor.

“Evgeni’s on a plane,” Pat says without preamble. “He’ll be in Pittsburgh this afternoon.”

Sid isn’t sure what question he wants to ask first, but everything else will work out as long as he knows — “Is he okay?”

“He’ll be fine when he’s there,” Pat says, which is not reassuring, and if Sid thought he was tense before, it’s nothing compared to now. “He should be arriving at the house this evening.”

“Here?” Sid says, throat so dry his voice creaks.

“Just in time for dinner, if they make their connecting flight.”

Sid sits down heavily on the bench behind him. “Oh,” he says, hardly able to believe it but wanting to so badly. “Thanks, Pat.”

“Breathe,” Pat suggests. “And give the phone back to Mario.”

Sid holds it out wordlessly, and Mario looks well and truly concerned when he takes the phone back. He talks to Pat some more and then hangs up.

Sid just stays where he is, even though he knows he should get back to his workout. Mario makes as if to walk past him, but then stops. After a moment, his hand sinks into Sid’s hair.

“I meant it,” he says. “I’ll listen whenever you need to talk.”

Sid takes in a shaky breath, and Mario rubs his thumb once against Sid’s scalp before he takes his hand away.

“We’re expecting guests for dinner,” Mario says. “I have to go let Nathalie know.”

“Okay,” Sid says. “I’m just going to — use the treadmill.”

“All right,” Mario says gently, and leaves Sid to stare at the wall blankly. After a few minutes, he hauls himself up and gets on the treadmill.

***

Sid stares at the contents of his closet indecisively, because this isn’t going to be a normal Lemieux family dinner. And Mario said guests, as in more than one, as in more than just Zhenya, so he really should look nice. But not like suit-coat nice, he doesn’t think. He settles on a blue-grey button down and a nice pair of jeans that he had custom-made last month. He straightens out his necklace so that the 87 is hanging right where his shirt is open.

He goes downstairs to help Nathalie with dinner. She absently fixes his collar, throws an apron over his head, and puts him to work making a salad.

She also pours him half a glass of wine. “Oh,” he says. “I don’t usually—”

“I’m trying to decide what to serve with dinner,” she says. “Let me know what you think.”

“Sure,” he says, and sips it obediently. He really doesn’t know anything about wine and has no idea what he’s supposed to say. “I — it seems okay?”

“Drink the whole thing,” she says, before she goes back to doing something with potatoes.

When dinner prep is done, Sid takes off the apron and goes to the bathroom to make sure he didn’t get vinaigrette on his shirt anywhere, and also to take a second to breathe. It’s like there’s a knot of tension pressing in on his chest. When he looks in the mirror, his face is pale and his mouth is red from the wine, and he hopes that Zhenya made that connecting flight, that he’s really on his way here. As he’s washing his hands, he hears the dogs bark and a commotion in the foyer.

He takes a deep breath, carefully dries his hands, and touches his necklace once.

He comes into the foyer just as Zhenya is squatting down to shake hands very seriously with Alexa, who is last in the welcoming line of Lemieuxs. “You call me Geno?” he says to Alexa. He looks past exhausted, but he’s still found a smile for her

Alexa nods. She turns around and says, “There you are,” when she spots Sid, and Zhenya follows her gaze. His eyes go wide and he stares at Sid in shock.

Sid knows he should walk forward calmly — he should definitely keep it together, he should definitely be cool. But he takes half a step and Zhenya whispers hoarsely, “Sidnyusha,” like he can’t believe he’s there, and then they’re both meeting halfway and clutching each other tight.

Sid can barely breathe and he doesn’t care. “You’re here,” he murmurs. “I was so—”

Zhenya grips the nape of Sid’s neck and his nose brushes Sid’s ear, and he can hear how unsteady Zhenya’s breathing is — it’s a match for his own.

“Why don’t we give the boys a minute,” he hears Mario say, and he just keeps hugging Zhenya tight. He feels Zhenya’s fingers trace the chain along his neck, and he pulls back enough so that Zhenya can brush his fingertip over the 87.

“Get letter?” Zhenya asks softly.

“Yeah,” Sid says, and then bites his lip. “Did you get my letters?”

Zhenya’s thumb strokes along the hinge of his jaw. “I get all your letter. When — when everything bad, I read.”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Sidney says, his throat tight. “I never stopped hoping you’d come.”

Zhenya’s eyes look a little damp. “You promise cake,” he reminds Sid.

Sid’s eyes may not be entirely dry, either, and he hiccups out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I did,” he says.

They’re still holding each other close when they hear a throat clear. “Zhenya,” Sergei says, and then pauses, and then says dryly, “Sidnyusha. Apparently.”

Zhenya mutters something that Sid thinks is a negative, and Sergei rolls his eyes. “Sorry, Sidney, but our host is putting steaks on the grill and wants to know your preference.” He repeats it in Russian for Zhenya’s benefit, who looks a little chagrined but in no way eager to let Sid go.

Sid pulls Zhenya toward the kitchen, reassured by the feel of Zhenya’s hand wrapped firmly around his. He lets go when they get there, but Zhenya sticks so close that they’re shoulder-to-shoulder. George from the front office is murmuring a steady translation of Mario and Nathalie’s small talk, and Sergei speaks to Zhenya in Russian and then translates it himself. It’s all manageable until the kids get over their bouts of shyness and then George laughs and begs them to slow down and speak one at a time.

Zhenya’s clearly charmed and determined to use what English he has. “Play hockey?” he asks the kids.

Austin and Stephanie nod vigorously. “What play?” Zhenya asks. “D?”

“Me,” Stephanie says. “I do. Austin’s a winger.”

Zhenya waggles his eyebrows at Alexa. “Goalie?” he asks.

She giggles. “No, no, Sid’s the goalie!”

Zhenya gives Sid a look of exaggerated shock. “Good?” he asks Sid, his tongue poking out of his mouth.

“Better than you,” Sid says, and fumbles that into Russian. Zhenya cracks up, and there are a few curious looks from the other adults.

George’s eyebrows are up. “You speak Russian?” he asks Sid in Russian.

Sid winces and shakes his head, and if he could hide behind Zhenya, he would. He put a lot of effort into learning to speak French well enough for media scrums, and he’s only put a fraction of that into Russian. He knows he has a long, long way to go.

Zhenya grumbles at him, saying his name and something about good.

Mario waves everyone into the dining room and heads outside to get the steaks off the grill. Nathalie is pulling a tray out of the oven and the kids are enthusiastically showing Zhenya the way to the dining room, so Sid stops and waits.

“Can I carry something in?” he asks Nathalie, who smiles at him.

“Thank you, Sid,” she says. “Will you take the salad?”

He takes the giant bowl, which he thinks he did a pretty good job on, and carries it in, looking for an empty space on the table to put it. Once Sid’s duty is discharged, Zhenya says, “Sid,” and gestures to the empty seat next to him. Sergei is talking to Mario about something, but spares a second to shoot Sid a look that he can’t really interpret.

So Sid mentally shrugs it off and sits down between them, hoping no one will notice if he scoots his chair a little closer to Zhenya while he’s sitting down. Sergei snorts quietly, so he probably wasn’t as subtle as he hoped. Sid can’t bring himself to care, though, because Zhenya scoots a little closer, too.

The food is amazing, and there’s tons of it. Conversation waits for everyone to get their fill before resuming. At first, it’s mostly Mario talking about the team and how excited everyone is that Zhenya is finally here, with George or Sergei translating for Zhenya. But the kids are impatient to get to know Zhenya too, and Alexa butts in to ask, “Are you and Sid friends?”

“Duh,” Austin says immediately, with all the scorn a nine-year-old can muster.

Nathalie gives Austin a look; he squirms a little under the heat of his mother’s disapproval, and only when he looks properly chastised does she say, “How did you two become friends?”

Sid can feel himself turning pink for no good reason — there’s nothing actually wrong with how they became friends, but if Jack, who is the least judgmental person Sid knows, thought it was a little crazy, what will everyone else think? He turns to look at Zhenya, who just had the question translated for him, but before he can really think about it, or Zhenya can say anything, Sergei chuckles.

“All I know is one day, Geno shoves this letter at me and asks what it says,” Sergei says, taking a sip of his wine. “Imagine my surprise when I saw who the letter was from.” He looks pointedly at Sidney.

“And then after I read the letter for him, he goes off and I think, well, that’s it,” Sergei goes on, clearly warming to the story. “He starts asking me all these questions about English, about how to say such and such, and eventually I realize he’s trying to write a letter back sentence by sentence.”

There’s some good-natured laughter. George translates for Zhenya, who groans and covers his face with a hand. Sid’s interested though, curious about anything to do with Zhenya, but especially about how Zhenya started to write back to him.

“So I helped him write a response and I thought that’s the end of it,” Sergei says, then shakes his head. “A few weeks later, Zhenya brings me this ten page novel of a letter and I realize there is no end.”

Sid’s cheeks are hot, but he can’t help but protest, “It was only three pages.”

He gets a few looks, and Zhenya says something to him quietly in Russian that he knows is a negative. He’s just on the edge of maybe translating it for himself when Sergei leans over and says, “Not long enough.”

Zhenya nudges Sid’s foot with his own and smiles. It’s a tired smile, but Sid can tell that he means it. He has to smile back, because they’ve gone all the way from those first letters to here and now, teammates and friends.

“So you guys are like pen pals?” Stephanie asks. “We have pen pals in our class at school and we write to them every month. My pen pal lives in Japan, it’s really cool, but I don’t think I could think of three pages worth of stuff to say to her. What did you write about? ”

“Um, hockey, mostly,” Sid says, probably to the surprise of no one.

“When did you send the first letter?” Mario asks.

“It was right after Zhenya was drafted,” Sid says. “I asked Pat to get the letter to his agent and hoped he’d get it. So, a bit over a year now.”

Mario and Nathalie’s eyebrows go up. “Sounds like you did a lot of translating,” Nathalie remarks to Sergei.

Sergei shakes his head. “Believe it or not, they seem to have managed on their own after the first few.” He pauses. “Unless you were just sending each other diagrams of plays.”

“Zhenya worked really hard on his letters,” Sid says, and he knows he sounds a little defensive but he can’t help it.

“Why do you call him that?” Austin interrupts. “He said to call him Geno.”

Sid blinks and turns to look at Zhenya uncertainly. “Oh,” he says. He leans closer and asks quietly in Russian, “You want—”

“Zhenya for you,” Zhenya assures him, just as quietly. He nudges Sid’s knee with his.

Neither George nor Sergei translates that for the table. But Sergei says kindly, “English speakers sometimes have a hard time with Russian names. He thought ‘Geno’ would be easier.”

The kids clearly mull that over. “I guess that makes sense,” Austin allows.

“It’s polite to call someone what they ask you to call them,” Nathalie adds, which seems to seal the subject for them. “And it’s polite to offer to help your mother when she carries in dessert.”

That gets a scramble of chairs pushing back from the table and Sid even scoots back a couple of centimetres or so before he realizes Nathalie has four helpers already. Sid feels a little bad letting Stephanie and Lauren clear plates while he keeps his seat, but they don’t seem to mind.

“Does anyone want coffee?” Nathalie calls.

Zhenya nods enthusiastically, even as Sergei says, “Not for him, for me, please!”

Mario looks over at Sid and asks, “Hey, would you come downstairs with me? I want to get a different wine for dessert.”

Sid wonders why Mario and Nathalie seem to care what he thinks about the wine, but he nods. He’s prepared to do pretty much anything Mario ever asks him to do. He feels a little strange leaving Zhenya, like maybe he’ll come back upstairs and Zhenya won’t be there — which he knows is ridiculous, but his stomach still twists a little as he leaves the room.

Once they’re actually in the cellar, Mario gives him a long look, like he’s weighing his options. Sid feels a little like a bottle of wine.

“You’ve been pretty upset the past few days,” Mario says eventually, crouching down to look in a wine fridge in the corner. “Ever since you talked to Brisson. Was this what was bothering you?”

Knowing Zhenya is upstairs, Sid can say, “Yeah, I, um.” He struggles to find the right way to explain it. “I was worried when he stopped writing back.”

“When was that?” Mario asks, glancing over at Sid.

Sid pauses and thinks back. Zhenya had called from Worlds, and that was the last he’d heard from him other than that call that had seemed desperate and strange, and now all too understandable in context. Then there was the note with the necklace. “We talked a little bit when he was at Worlds, but after that, just once, well, twice this summer,” Sid says. “After the draft, Pat explained why, but…”

Mario’s eyebrows draw together. “You were still writing to him after Worlds?” he says, a little too astute.

Sid hopes the low light in the cellar is working in his favour as his cheeks heat. “Well, I thought, even though he couldn’t write back, maybe he could still check his email,” Sid explains. “So I wrote him anyway.”

There’s a pause. Then Mario pulls what looks like a bottle of champagne out of the fridge and stands up, reaching over to squeeze Sid’s shoulder with his other hand. “You’re a good friend, Sid,” Mario says, smiling at him. “I’m glad he had you.”

“I’m lucky to have him,” Sid says quietly. He thinks about Zhenya breaking the rules to send him a good luck charm and remembers a hug between strangers that made all the difference.

Mario just squeezes his shoulder again and nods toward a crate across the room. “Can you grab a bottle of cider for the kids?”

“Oh, sure,” Sid says. He picks it up and follows Mario back upstairs.

Zhenya grins as soon as he sees Sid, and even though he’s tired and a little bleary-eyed, he still looks great to Sid. Sid smiles back, passes the bottle to Mario to open, and sits back down next to Zhenya. He scoots his chair as close as he has dared all night. He feels better having Zhenya right at his elbow, and as long as he’s not annoying Zhenya, he’s not moving.

Nathalie’s cutting into a strawberry tart that Sid is dying to get a piece of: ripe summer strawberries arranged beautifully on top of custard.

Zhenya leans over and quickly asks George something that Sid can’t hear over the kids arguing about who got the biggest piece and the most cider. A moment later, Zhenya turns and whispers into Sid’s ear, “Sweet tooth.” When Sid turns to look at him, Zhenya has a little secret smile on his face.

“You? Or me?” Sid asks in Russian.

“Both,” Zhenya says, laughing.

The wine Mario picked out is sweet and sparkling — Sid only had champagne once before, at a cousin’s wedding, and he didn’t like it, but it didn’t taste anything like this. It makes the strawberries brighter and the custard richer, and Sid drains his glass before he’s even halfway through his piece of tart. He probably should have paced himself better, because he feels a little bubbly himself, so he focuses on eating the rest of his dessert and drinking water.

He grins as Mario tells a story about a youth hockey camp he helped organize a few years ago and the kid who wanted to fight him all afternoon. Sid’s head feels light and some of the tension slips out of his back as he presses his shoulder against Zhenya’s. After dessert, Nathalie declares it to be bedtime, putting Lauren in charge of making sure teeth get brushed and lights go out.

They say goodnight and troop toward the stairs. “Why do you get to be in charge?” Austin whines to Lauren, clearly for the form of it.

“Because I’m the oldest, shrimp,” she says, grabbing him in a combination of headlock and hug.

Nathalie looks heavenward, but she’s smiling. “The coffee should be ready now, if you want to head into the living room?” she suggests. Sid gets up and goes for the plates but she shakes her head and says, “Oh, leave them, don’t worry.”

Mario leads them all to the rarely-used formal living room. Zhenya sits down first, dropping carefully onto a little sofa that has just enough room for the two of them. He pats the seat next to him unnecessarily, because there was no way Sid was going to sit anywhere else. Nathalie brings out the coffee. Sid passes on it, but Zhenya takes a cup. He looks pretty exhausted.

There’s some discussion of training camp in September, though it’s very general and mostly about how exhausted everyone will be. Sid thinks it’d be hard to beat how tired Zhenya looks now. He’s visibly drooping and too tired even to drink his coffee. In fact, he’s falling asleep; as Sid watches, Zhenya’s eyes drift closed.

“I think that’s our cue to go,” Sergei says when he glances at Zhenya. He repeats it in Russian for Zhenya’s benefit and Zhenya’s suddenly wide awake.

Sid realizes that Zhenya is about to walk out the door and he doesn’t know the next time they’ll see each other. He feels his shoulders tighten. He knows it’s totally irrational and stupid, but he doesn’t know if he can bear to say goodbye to Zhenya, not so soon after getting him back, after all the awful uncertainty of the last few months. He turns to look at Zhenya, who looks just totally worn through and like maybe he can’t say goodbye right now either.

“You want to go?” Sid asks in Russian, or at least he hopes it’s what he said. He stumbles a little over the words.

Zhenya shakes his head and slips his hand around Sid’s wrist.

“Um, Mario,” Sid says before he even thinks about what he’s going to say. “Zhenya is really tired, could he — could he stay here tonight?”

There’s a pause from everyone, even George, who belatedly translates for Zhenya after a moment.

“I can share my room, you wouldn’t have to go to any trouble,” Sid says. He doesn’t want to make more work for Nathalie or Mario, but he also can’t let Zhenya go, not right now. “Please,” he adds in French.

Mario clears his throat. “Of course. Geno is more than welcome to stay,” he says.

Sergei and George confer with Zhenya in Russian that Sid has no hope of following, and then Sergei says in English, “George will call tomorrow to get some things set up. Sid, you’d better get him upstairs before you have to carry him.”

Sid would certainly do his best if he had to, but Sergei’s point is well-taken. “Do you have a bag?” he asks Zhenya.

Zhenya blinks at him, clearly not processing that, and George volunteers, “Just a backpack. It’s in the foyer.”

Sid levers himself off of the sofa, and turns his wrist in Zhenya’s grasp to pull him up to standing. He’s about to say their good nights when Zhenya says to Mario, “Thank you. Everything — thank you.”

Mario shakes his head. “There’s no need to thank me. I’m just glad you made it here safely.”

Sid shivers a little; he’s still worried. Pat alluded to several possible consequences of Zhenya’s flight from Magnitogorsk, the mildest and most certain of which is a lawsuit. It seems like they’re not out of the woods yet, and if he’s still sick with anxiety, he can’t even imagine what Zhenya is feeling.

It must show on their faces, because Nathalie says gently, “Go on, up to bed. We’ll see you boys in the morning.”

“Good night,” Sid says, and Zhenya echoes him.

In the foyer, Zhenya snags his backpack. Then he follows Sid up to the third floor. Sid hasn’t been living here long, but it’s already starting to feel a little like his space and not just a place he’s staying. He points out the kitchenette to Zhenya and opens the fridge so Zhenya can see the food that Nathalie’s stocked it with. He shows Zhenya the bathroom and then, finally, the bedroom.

Zhenya scrubs his face with his hand and then opens up his backpack. There’s not much there, and what clothing there is looks rumpled, like it’s been worn a few times.

“Oh,” Sid says. He pulls open a dresser drawer. “I have — that’s not going to fit — try this.” He hands Zhenya a t-shirt and some shorts that are a little long on Sid.

Zhenya still looks peaky and overwhelmed, but he pulls what looks like a shaving kit out of his backpack and retreats to the bathroom.

Sid changes for bed; he almost puts on his usual shirt, but when he stops to think about it, he realizes that Zhenya might not welcome the reminder right now. He settles for putting it on inside out. He thinks about investigating the linen closet but decides he’ll be okay with just a pillow and a throw blanket on the couch. Obviously Zhenya needs the bed more since he looks like he’s got a lot of sleep to catch up on, and he should be as comfortable as possible while he does so.

He waves Zhenya toward the bed when he comes back, and then Sid takes his turn in the bathroom. He decides to check on Zhenya again, because he really just needs to see him one more time before he goes to sleep.

Zhenya’s already in bed. He looks up when Sid comes in. “Do you need anything?” Sid asks in English, then tries to repeat it in Russian.

Zhenya shakes his head.

“Okay,” Sid says. “Okay. Um, good night, then.” He turns off the overhead light, so that the room is lit only by one of the bedside lamps.

He turns to go, but stops when Zhenya says his name and beckons him over.

“Did you forget something?” Sid asks, confused.

Zhenya wraps his hand around Sid’s. He looks tired and frustrated for a minute, and finally he just pulls Sid by the hand until Sid has one knee on the edge of the bed so he doesn’t lose his balance. “What do you —?”

Zhenya scoots across the bed and then pats the mattress next to him. And, well, if that’s what Zhenya wants, Sid can give him that. So he crawls into bed and clicks off the lamp, and can’t help but feel a little relieved. He’s glad Zhenya asked, because he’s sure he would have woken up on the couch at some point and had to go make sure Zhenya was still there. It’s probably weird, but Sid can’t bring himself to care, not with the steady sound of Zhenya’s soft breathing so close. There’s the unmistakable weight of someone else in the bed, like a constant reminder that, after all this time, they’ve finally made it. And he knows the trouble with Metallurg is far from over, but he’s decided to be determined instead of scared — he has Zhenya here and he’ll fight to keep him here, as long as that’s what Zhenya wants.

There’s a rustle of the sheets and Zhenya’s hand lands on his elbow, slipping down in the dark of the room until he knits their fingers together. He murmurs something quietly, maybe half-asleep; the only word Sid catches is “dream.”

He’s not sure whether Zhenya means it feels like a dream, or this is a dream, but either way, Sid thinks he understands. He squeezes gently and feels all the tension flood out of his body. He finally falls asleep, warm and lulled by the sound of Zhenya’s faint snores.

***

Sid wakes up to a strange clinking sound. He stretches out his arm to make sure Zhenya is still there and finds cool sheets instead.

That startles him all the way awake. “Zhenya?” he says, hoarse and froggy, looking at the empty pillow next to him.

“Shh,” Zhenya whispers. He’s standing next to the bed, stretching, his arms high over his head, his stomach pale and lean between the hem of Sid’s shirt and the shorts. Sid’s heart rate slows and evens out when Zhenya climbs back into bed and throws the blankets back over his legs, letting in a momentary blast of air-conditioning-chilled air. Sid shivers, the adrenaline fading even as his skin is covered in goosepimples.

“Sleep,” Zhenya says. His voice thick with disuse, which makes Sid think he hasn’t been up for too long. He’s sitting up against the headboard, picking up a mug of tea from the nightstand and settling back in. Sid sighs and flops back over, burying his face in his pillow. Zhenya’s hand, warm from the mug, rests gently on top of his head, fingertips sunk into Sid’s hair.

Sid sighs again for a totally different reason and, reassured for the moment, falls back asleep.

***

When he wakes up again, there’s no question that Zhenya is there — his hand is warm and covers Sid’s shoulder blade, idly tracing along the edges of the screen-printing that’s bled through the shirt. It’s one of the few signs that Zhenya is actually awake, because when Sid opens his eyes, Zhenya’s are shut and his breathing is steady and slow.

Maybe Sid’s breathing is a little uneven, because Zhenya blinks at him slowly, then smiles. “Good morning,” he says quietly into the little space between them.

“Morning,” Sid says, whispering. The sunlight is still dull and weak, which means it’s sometime around 6 probably, and the whole house is quiet. But it’s nice being close to Zhenya. Sid’s not sure when he’ll stop feeling like Zhenya might just vanish out from in front of him, but in the meantime, he can watch Zhenya watch him right back, wondering if Zhenya feels the same way.

The penguin charm Sid gave him is peeking out of the neck of Zhenya’s borrowed t-shirt and Sid reaches up between them to touch it carefully.

“Always wear,” Zhenya says, still in that hushed early morning tone. Sid’s eyes flick back up to his face. It’s strange to think that for all Zhenya means to him, they’ve spent maybe only a full day or two with each other, face to face.

“I’m glad,” Sid says. And he is, he’s glad about so many things that he feels like he can hardly contain it. They’re in Pittsburgh and they’re going to play hockey together.

“Sidnyusha?” Zhenya asks, running his finger along where the chain of Sid’s necklace is resting along his neck, presumably asking if Sid does the same.

“Of course,” Sid says. “I always wear it.” He wonders about Sidnyusha, because Zhenya made it sound like it was just a silly nickname, no big deal, but clearly hadn’t wanted Sergei to use it last night. Zhenya is Zhenya to lots of people — Ovechkin and Sergei at least — but Sid is only Sidnyusha to Zhenya and he thinks it’s important, it’s good. It’s private and so few things are private about him anymore that he appreciates it, likes it better for being just for the two of them.

He’s not sure how long they would have stayed like that if Zhenya’s stomach hadn’t audibly growled. It startles a laugh out of Sid, one of those nose-scrunching giggles that he never manages to control.

“Breakfast?” Sid asks Zhenya, even though he’s pretty sure of the answer.

Zhenya’s hand slips up to squeeze the nape of Sid’s neck, easing out some stiffness. “Thank you, yes,” Zhenya says, getting out of bed and heading for the door. “Tea?”

“Please,” Sid says. He appreciates that Zhenya is tactfully giving him a moment to wake up on his own.

By the time Sid is out of the bathroom, Zhenya has coaxed the electric kettle into making two cups of tea. When Sid comes in, Zhenya’s holding the sugar spoon over a mug. He asks something in Russian, gesturing to the sugar pot.

“Sugar,” Sid says.

“Sugar,” Zhenya repeats. “Want?”

“Um, just one,” Sid says. “Thanks.” He opens up the fridge, trying to figure out their options. If they wait for everyone else to wake up, they can probably have leftover steak and eggs, but he’s pretty hungry now and he knows Zhenya is, too.

“Scrambled eggs okay?” Sid asks, because he can do that fairly well.

“Scramble?” Zhenya asks, peering over Sid’s shoulder.

“Um,” Sid says, thinking. “Mixed? Like this.” He pantomimes stirring the eggs.

“Oh,” Zhenya says. He nods and tells Sid the equivalent word in Russian, coaching Sid through it patiently.

Sid hands him the bread to toast. They spend most of the cooking time trading words for words, naming each fruit as they devour the entire container of fruit salad. There’s some yogurt to round out the meal, and after they’re both full, they manage to migrate as far as the couch, but no further.

Sid turns on the TV and finds an episode of the new Ninja Turtles cartoon, which seems as good as anything. He’s not really paying attention to it, though — he’s busy looking at Zhenya, who looks less exhausted but still not ready for the outside world.

“Bet you’d like a shower,” Sid says. “Maybe some clean clothes.”

Zhenya gives him a vaguely curious look.

Sid reaches over to pluck at the borrowed shirt Zhenya is wearing. “We can wash some of your clothes,” he says. Zhenya looks perplexed, so Sid rubs his hands together. Zhenya — does not look any less confused.

Okay. Sid might suck at charades.

He gets off the couch and pulls open the laundry closet with its stacked washer and dryer. He knows how to do laundry — no one at Shattuck did it for him, and he felt weird about letting his billet mom do it in Rimouski. Zhenya seems to get it, then, and disappears into the bedroom. He comes back with a few rumpled t-shirts and boxers, and the nicer pants and button-down he wore last night.

It’s not a lot, Sid thinks as he puts it in the washer with some detergent. Everything Zhenya has fits in a backpack.

Sid goes back into the bedroom to grab some of his own dirty clothes, because his mom would have had things to say about wasting water and electricity on such a light load. He’s just thrown them in when it occurs to him that his Metallurg shirt could probably stand a wash, so he strips it off. He’s about to put it in the washer with the rest when Zhenya stops him.

Zhenya shakes the shirt out, glances at the logo on the front, and then turns it around to look at the back. The expression on his face — it looks complicated, like there are too many feelings competing with each other for one to come out on top.

“You wear?” Zhenya finally asks.

Sid wonders if it’s weird that he wears it to bed practically every night. “To sleep in,” he says.

Zhenya rubs Sid’s back right where his name would be if Sid still had his shirt on. Sid shivers a little at the contrast between Zhenya’s warm hand and the artificial chill of the air conditioning. And then Zhenya drops the shirt into the washer, and it takes Sid a few more seconds to remember to shut the lid.

“Do you want a shower?” Sid thinks to ask. He might be able to scrounge up some more clothes for Zhenya to wear while the laundry is going.

Zhenya’s looking a little sleepy, but he nods. Sid shows him where the clean towels are and leaves him to it.

A quick survey of his closet confirms what Sid suspected — Zhenya’s too tall for almost everything he owns. He bites his lip for a moment in thought and then throws on a clean shirt and pads downstairs.

Nathalie is awake, watching the news in the kitchen while she makes coffee. “Good morning,” she says when she spots Sid.

“Morning,” Sid says.

“I expected the leftover steak to be gone when I woke up,” she says, smiling.

Sid really does regret not sneaking downstairs to get it out of the fridge, and it must show on his face because she laughs. “It’s still there,” she says.

“We already ate breakfast,” he says, not that that means much. “But, um. Zhenya doesn’t have a lot of clothes. I’m washing what he has right now, but — do you think there’s anything he can borrow?”

“Oh, I think we’ve got some things lying around that would fit,” she says. “I’ll go have a look and bring up what I find.”

“Thanks,” Sid says, and smiles gratefully.

He’s almost out of the kitchen when Nathalie says his name and he comes to a halt and turns around to see what she wants.

“Take the steak,” she says, the corner of her mouth drawn up.

She comes up a little later with an armful of clothes — some shorts, pants, a few shirts, and a suit jacket. “You’re about the same height as Mario but skinnier,” she says to Zhenya. “Hopefully some of this will work.”

Zhenya looks at Sid for a translation. Sid just takes the whole pile from Nathalie and herds Zhenya into the bedroom. “Try these on,” he says, handing a pair of shorts over. Zhenya gets the idea. The shorts ride a little low on his hips, and he doesn’t quite fill out the nicer button-down through the shoulders, but it’ll do.

“How’s the jacket?” Nathalie calls.

Zhenya puts it on, and Sid looks at him, but he doesn’t quite trust his own assessment of the situation. He leads Zhenya back out.

“It’ll do for now,” Nathalie pronounces, tugging at the sleeves. “I’m sure the Gonchars can take him shopping after he gets settled in with them.”

Sid tries not to frown at that, but he may not succeed — Zhenya rubs Sid’s shoulder once before he shrugs out of the jacket.

“When he’s ready, George will drive him over to Mellon for some meetings with his agent and the front office,” she says.

“So — suit?” he says doubtfully.

“Save it for tomorrow,” she says. “Should I let George know he’ll be ready in an hour?”

He confers with Zhenya — “We go at eleven?” he asks. “To see Barry, Mario, the GM.”

Sid thought Zhenya might be apprehensive, but instead he looks determined and nods.

“All right, then,” Nathalie says, and leaves them to it. She didn’t actually say that Sid couldn’t go with Zhenya, so he figures if he puts on nice clothes too and sticks tight, Zhenya won’t have to go alone.

***

If George is perturbed by Sid sliding into the backseat of the car while Zhenya gets in the front, he doesn’t show it. He and Zhenya are having a steady conversation in Russian, but Sid has no hope of following it. He hears Barry’s name a few times, and his own, but Zhenya looks and sounds relatively calm about it all, so he relaxes as well and looks out the window until they arrive at Mellon.

The Igloo has seen better days, but Zhenya doesn’t seem to particularly notice or care as they head toward the team offices. He just takes everything in with wide eyes, and keeps walking very close to Sid. When they get to Craig’s office, Mario and a man who must be JP Barry are waiting inside.

Mario’s eyebrows go up when he sees Sid. Barry claps Zhenya on the shoulder and says something like “good to see you” in Russian — he’s obviously not a native speaker, but he’s better than Sid, anyway. Then Barry holds out a hand for Sid to shake, and when he does, Barry says, “So this is our little bird, the one who kept tweeting in Evgeni’s ear.”

“Um,” Sid says, uncertain how to respond.

“Evgeni would have come eventually,” Barry says to Mario and Craig. “But our little bird turned out to be a Penguin, and Evgeni insisted he had to come over this year.”

It’s not as though Sid didn’t have the feeling that he was a factor in Zhenya’s decision, but that makes it sound like — well, like Zhenya might well have waited otherwise. Barry must be exaggerating.

“Let’s talk next door,” Craig says. He leads the way to a conference room. Sid’s still wondering if he’s going to be politely disinvited, but no one shuts the door in his face, so he figures it must be okay. It’s not a very big room, but there’s enough space for them all around the table. Zhenya hesitates in the doorway until the seating arranges itself. It ends with George on one side of Zhenya and an empty space between Zhenya and Mario for Sid.

“Now that we’re ready, I’ll call Pat,” Craig says, reaching for the conference phone in the middle of the table. “Oh, before we get started — Evgeni, you’re okay with everyone in the room being here?” He doesn’t look at Sid, but it’s pretty obvious that’s what he means.

George relays the question and Zhenya nods once, emphatically. “Everyone okay,” he says.

Craig nods in return and Brisson picks up, and that seems to be the end of the issue. It’s all a little overwhelming — English overlaid with Russian as George translates for Zhenya — and full of contingency plans that make Sid’s head spin and his stomach clench. It seems that everyone agrees that Metallurg will sue; the questions are when and what for. They seem equally confident that the case will get thrown out, but that doesn’t make Sid feel any better.

Zhenya’s hand is gripping his knee, and he looks like he’s a second away from curling it into a fist. Sid doesn’t want to distract Zhenya, but he doesn’t want him to feel alone, either. Sid reaches over and lays his hand on top of Zhenya’s for a moment, just to remind him that Sid’s there for him, that Sid’s in his corner. Zhenya keeps listening to George translate, his expression unchanging, but when Sid goes to draw his hand away, Zhenya tangles their fingers together. He’s not squeezing Sid’s hand tight, and it’s not even really hand holding, or at least not what Sid thinks of as hand holding. But Zhenya’s thumb strokes along Sid’s skin in a steady rhythm — it may be the most aware Sid has been of the delicate skin between thumb and forefinger since the last time he got a blister there.

Sid isn’t sure what that’s doing for Zhenya, but it’s doing a great job of keeping Sid calm, even with words like “breach of contract” and “deposition” flying around the room. He feels like he’s on slightly more solid ground when they move on to the statement they’re going to release tomorrow, officially announcing that they’re negotiating a contract for Zhenya, that he’ll be playing for Pittsburgh this fall. They go over seemingly inconsequential details again and again and have a ten minute discussion of whether or not to accept questions. All through the conference, Zhenya keeps up the same even strokes of his thumb on Sid’s hand.

Apparently they can’t even offer Zhenya a contract until two weeks have passed since Zhenya walked away in the airport and Brisson and Barry faxed in Zhenya’s second letter of resignation, according to whatever loophole of Russian labour law they’re using. So basically there’s nothing for either Sid or Zhenya to do but train and be ready to sign their contracts on the 28th.

After all that, it’s a little anti-climactic for George to just drive them back to the Lemieuxs’ house. Sid is surprisingly exhausted, though; he thinks he might go easy on his workout today.

“You want to work out?” Sid asks Zhenya. “Just a little bit.”

Zhenya nods, cocking his head to the side. “Weight?” he asks. “You help?”

“I can spot you,” Sid agrees.

Neither of them pushes very hard, but they do work up a decent sweat. They’re heading up the stairs afterwards when the kids come in, horsing around, shoving at each other happily.

“Hey, guys,” Austin says. “We’re going to use the pool. Come swim!”

Zhenya blinks at Sid, who pantomimes for him. He nods and says a word in Russian that Sid repeats quietly under his breath. Sid knows that Zhenya doesn’t have any swimming trunks, and he actually wonders if he packed a pair himself.

Sid traces Nathalie to her office and sticks his head in. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but do you have a pair of swim trunks that Zhenya could borrow?”

She laughs. “The kids are going to use you both as pool toys,” she says, shaking her head even as she stands up. “I’ll find something. Did you pack trunks?”

“I think so,” Sid says, though he can’t be sure until he checks his dresser.

“Well, just give a yell if you didn’t,” Nathalie says easily.

Sid, or maybe his mother, did think ahead, and Sid is changed by the time Nathalie drops off a pair of what are presumably Mario’s trunks for Zhenya. He’s wondering if he should bother to find his flip flops or just head out barefoot when Zhenya steps out. Sid’s seen Zhenya mostly undressed before, and he can see that Zhenya has more muscle to him now — unsurprising for late summer versus late in the season — but he’s just as pale as he was in January. Sid usually has a day where he forgets to be careful and burns, but when it peels, he’s tan and stays tan for the whole summer, hardly needing to worry about the sun.

“Sunscreen,” Sid says decisively, resolving to make sure Zhenya doesn’t burn.

Zhenya raises his eyebrows. Sid tries to think of a way to explain it, but in the end, he just shrugs. It’ll make sense when they get outside and Sid makes him put it on. Mario’s shorts fit well enough, even if they look closely cinched around the waist.

“Ready?” Sid asks, heading for the stairs. Zhenya nods and follows Sid out to the backyard.

He feels stupidly happy; he even enjoys the bright glare of the sun when they step outside. The kids are already splashing in the pool, shrieking as they smack each other with pool noodles. Sid’s glad he didn’t go find his flip flops, because the grass is thick and perfect under his feet and it feels like summer. He can’t help but grin at Zhenya, feeling the same spike of happiness that zips through him every time he realizes that Zhenya is here and they’re together.

“Come on,” Sid says in Russian, heading for the little overhang by the pool.

“Jump in!” Alexa yells as soon as she spots them.

Sid shakes his head. “Is there sunscreen out here?” he asks.

Lauren points to the bar. “Mom keeps some under there, usually,” she says, shading her eyes with her hand.

“We already put some on,” Stephanie tells them.

Sid pokes around the bar and finds a couple of different tubes. He takes a quick look at Zhenya’s pale skin and goes for the one with the highest SPF. He squirts some into his hand, hands the tube to Zhenya, and goes to work on his arms and legs. Zhenya looks dubious but follows suit. He looks like he’s ready to jump in the water when he’s barely gotten his back, so Sid says, “Wait.” He puts more sunscreen on his hands and gestures for Zhenya to turn around.

Zhenya’s really just — huge. Sid doubts the handful of sunscreen he has is going to be enough. He starts with Zhenya’s ears, because of course he forgot them and that’s the worst place to get a sunburn. Zhenya shivers and laughs a little, and Sid says impatiently, “Hold still,” while he covers Zhenya’s neckline. He works his way across Zhenya’s shoulders, making sure to rub the sunscreen in all the way before moving down Zhenya’s back. Zhenya’s skin is warm under his hands. Sid presses his thumbs occasionally into muscles as he goes, which makes Zhenya sigh a little. He’s got to be tense after the meeting this morning, and it’s not like Sid’s doing a lot, but maybe it will help him relax a little.

When he gets to the dip of Zhenya’s spine and the waistband of his borrowed trunks, Sid leaves off with a pat.

“You’re good,” Sid assures him when Zhenya turns around to face him.

“You too?” Zhenya asks, and he sticks out his hand for the sunscreen. Clearly, Sid isn’t moving fast enough for Zhenya, because Zhenya swipes it out of Sid’s hand before taking hold of Sid’s hip and moving him instead.

The sunscreen is a little cool on his shoulders at first, but Zhenya’s hands are warm and feel huge gliding over Sid’s skin. Zhenya works the sunscreen into Sid’s neck before moving out to his shoulders, and he hopes it felt this good for Zhenya, too. It certainly doesn’t feel like he misses any spots; he makes sure to get Sid’s sides, even when Sid squirms helplessly. Zhenya just holds on with the other hand, right at the dip of Sid’s waist, pressing more firmly so it doesn’t tickle so much. He pushes his thumbs into the small of Sid’s back and then gives a last slick rub, and Sid arches into it easily.

Zhenya pats Sid’s shoulders. When Sid turns around to look at him, Zhenya grins slyly. “You get?” he asks, tapping a glob of sunscreen on to Sid’s nose.

Sid swipes at it, because of course he did. He tries to grab the sunscreen to return the favour, but Zhenya holds it out of reach before tossing it on a chair.

“Come, Sid, water,” Zhenya says. He takes Sid’s hand to drag him over to the pool, taking a second to make sure the kids are out of the way before letting go and flinging himself in with a monstrous cannonball.

The splash is probably as tall as Zhenya, and the kids scream with approval and delight. He comes up, hair slicked flat down all over his head in a goofy almost-bowl cut before he scrubs a hand through it, shoving it every which way.

“Sid, jump, jump,” Alexa yells.

Sid likes to bake for a little before he gets in the water, so he shakes his head, sits down on the edge of the pool, and sticks his feet in.

“No jump?” Zhenya asks. He slips underwater and resurfaces right in front of Sid’s knees. “I help?” He wraps a hand around Sid’s ankle and tugs gently.

“Don’t you dare,” Sid says, but the huge grin on his face probably gives the wrong message.

And sure enough, Zhenya takes the bait and hauls Sid into the water, to the shrieking approval of the kids. Sid tries to dunk Zhenya, but he can’t quite manage it because Zhenya’s got his feet solidly planted. He ends up sort of clinging to Zhenya’s shoulders. Zhenya gives him a grin that can only be described as shit-eating before he wraps his arms tight around Sid and takes them both down.

When Sid comes up, sputtering, Alexa is already paddling up on her inner tube saying, “I want a turn, too!” And that’s how he and Zhenya end up flinging the kids across the water and then being employed as horses in a pool joust with noodles for lances, all the way up to dinnertime.

Zhenya’s shoulders are looking a touch pink as they towel off — Sid totally forgot to remind Zhenya to reapply sunblock halfway through. He runs his fingers carefully over the reddened skin. “Ouch?” he asks.

Zhenya considers it, and shrugs. Sid makes a mental note to ask if Nathalie has some aloe, just in case.

George joins them for dinner. Sid’s a little curious as to why — Zhenya’s been coping fine with his limited English and Sid’s even more limited Russian. But after dinner, when the kids have cleared the table, George broaches the topic of Zhenya’s living arrangements.

“The Gonchars aren’t quite set up for a houseguest yet,” George says to Sid by way of explanation, after speaking in Russian to Zhenya for a minute or so.

“Okay?” Sid says.

George and Zhenya talk again, and Sid hears Mario’s name, and his own. He doesn’t want Zhenya to go; it’s stupid, but he’s still afraid he’ll wake up and Zhenya will be in Russia, and none of this will be real.

Zhenya grabs Sid’s hand under the table, and Sid blinks in surprise. Zhenya turns to look at him, his eyes searching Sid’s for something. “Okay?” he asks.

Sid opens his mouth and realizes he has no idea what the question really is. He looks to George for help.

“The Lemieuxs have offered to continue hosting Zhenya until the Gonchars are settled in,” George says. “Zhenya wants to know if that’s all right with you.”

“Yes,” Sid blurts out, almost dizzy with relief. “Yes, of course it’s okay.”

“If you get tired of the sofa bed, we can make up the guest room in the basement,” Nathalie says.

“Oh, no, it’s fine, I don’t mind,” Sid says, even though neither of them have used the sofa bed yet.

“Well, that’s settled,” George says, looking pleased. “Zhenya’s going to have English tutoring, starting tomorrow. It might be nice if you two did a little sightseeing before training camp. That would give him a chance to practice his English outside hockey.”

“Oh,” Sid says, and looks at Zhenya. “Oh, yeah. I mean. There’s lots to do, right?”

“I think I’ve got a guidebook or two around here,” Nathalie says. “I don’t mind dropping you boys off while I’m driving the kids around.”

“That would be great,” Sid says. He turns to smile at Zhenya, and Zhenya smiles right back and squeezes Sid’s hand under the table.

***

That night when they head up to the third floor, Sid feels relieved that he doesn’t have to let Zhenya out of his sight yet. They get ready for bed, and Sid snags the aloe he asked Nathalie for and gestures to Zhenya’s shoulders.

Zhenya gets it and pulls off his t-shirt, hissing a little as he does so. Sid winces in sympathy when he sees Zhenya’s shoulders, which are a pinky red — not the worst burn ever, but it definitely needs some attention.

“You’re too tall,” Sid complains, and closes the lid on the toilet. “Sit down.”

Zhenya sits, angling his back toward Sid. Sid gets a good amount of aloe on his fingertips and carefully spreads it across Zhenya’s sunburned skin.

Zhenya hisses out a few words in Russian that Sid knows. Sid says, “Sorry, sorry,” and tries to work as quickly and carefully as he can. He can feel how warm Zhenya’s skin is where it’s red, and he really hopes the aloe will help. It seems to take a long time to cover the expanse of Zhenya’s shoulders, and it’s strangely hypnotic to slide his fingertips across Zhenya’s skin as he gently rubs the aloe in.

When he’s done, Zhenya holds out a hand. Sid’s confused but he hands the aloe over.

“Little bit—” Zhenya pauses, trying to think of the word, before shrugging and saying “pink” in Russian. He smears his index finger with aloe and delicately swipes it over the tops of Sid’s cheeks, fingertip trailing down the bridge of Sid’s nose. He didn’t realize how warm his face felt until Zhenya put on the aloe, tapping a cool finger on the point of Sid’s nose.

“Thank you,” Sid says, the words falling easily from his lips in Russian. Zhenya smiles at him before responding in kind.

The room is on the warm side, so Sid cranks up the air conditioning, figuring they’ll need all the help they can get staying cool, especially Zhenya. He’s been assuming they’ll split the bed again, but maybe Zhenya needs some space. Just because he’d feel better with Zhenya in arm’s reach doesn’t mean Zhenya necessarily feels the same way.

“Um,” Sid says, toes curling in the carpet nervously, as Zhenya comes out of the bathroom in a pair of basketball shorts that might be Mario’s, with the waist cinched in tight. “You want to spread out, probably.”

Zhenya cocks his head to the side, probably trying to make sense of that. But he just sits down on the edge of the bed, pats the mattress, and says, “Sleep here, Sid.”

Sid can feel his shoulders slump in relief. He nods. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “I’m just going to brush my teeth, then.”

“Lights on?” Zhenya asks, lying out on top of the blankets.

“You can turn them off,” Sid says. Zhenya nods and flicks off the lamp on the bedside table. Sid gives himself time to let his eyes adjust when he comes back out of the bathroom; he wants to make sure he won’t bump into any furniture or Zhenya’s sunburn. He’s careful getting into bed, tucking himself along the edge, but before he can settle in there’s a grumbled phrase in Russian and Zhenya’s hand curling around his elbow.

“Come here,” Zhenya says, tugging at him until Sid scoots further from the edge and closer to Zhenya, who leaves his hand on Sid’s arm and says goodnight sleepily.

“Goodnight,” Sid whispers back. The sun and business of the day make it easy for him to shut his eyes and drop off right away, the warm weight of Zhenya’s hand anchoring him.

***

Zhenya spends a few days adjusting to the time difference and has some heavy sessions with his English tutor. When he seems settled in — Sid generously allows him three days — Sid folds him into his training routine without too much fuss, mostly because Zhenya doesn’t exactly seem to have one, or at least not one that Sid can pry out of him. What’s good for the gander is good for the other gander, he figures, even if Zhenya seems distinctly unenthused about Sid’s preference for an early start.

“Come on, we have ice time later this morning,” Sid coaxes. “But we have to get a good workout in first.” And they have to get Zhenya fitted for gear, since he wasn’t able to bring anything with him. But one thing at a time.

“I’ll make tea,” Sid bargains. “But you have to wake up.”

Zhenya groans into his pillow but pushes himself to sitting. His hair is sticking up everywhere and he blinks into the early morning light. Sid tweaks his foot and makes his way to the kitchenette to the sound of more grumbling.

Mario joins them both in the basement for a workout. Mario can lift more than either of them, but he says his back isn’t what it used to be and he has to be careful. Sid guides Zhenya through one of a series of workouts that Andy developed for him, although there’s only one stability ball and they have to switch off.

“Put your butt down,” Sid tells Zhenya, who’s holding a plank with the ball under his forearms and looking mulishly determined. He puts his hand on Zhenya’s lower back. “You need to work the right muscles.”

Zhenya mutters a curse but straightens out until his arms and legs shake and then he collapses onto his knees.

“That was really good,” Sid tells him encouragingly. Zhenya gives him a baleful look.

Mario shakes his head and says, “When I was your age, training didn’t start until training camp.”

Sid can’t imagine wasting the whole summer like that, and his horror must show on his face because Mario laughs.

Later that morning, Mario takes them to the Igloo so that Zhenya can get equipment and they can get a little ice time in. Sid doesn’t mind standing around as the trainers measure Zhenya and have him try things on, and soon they’re heat-fitting Zhenya’s skates. Zhenya looks happy to have a stick in his hand, so Sid catches him by the sleeve, grabs a bag of pucks, and leads him out to the ice in their sneakers while the equipment guy does more things to Zhenya’s skates.

It’s not quite what he’s dreamed of, but passing a puck back and forth feels good, and they take shots at the net until Tom comes out and says he’s ready for Zhenya again.

When they finally get out onto the ice in their skates, Zhenya tests his out, working on stops and crossovers and pivots until he’s satisfied, and then they work on one-timers until all the pucks are in the net. They fish all of them out and start all over again — and too soon, Mario is calling them from the bench and saying it’s time to go.

Sid’s a little bummed — he bets Tom would have let them stay for another few hours, easy. But there’s always tomorrow, and anyway, he did promise Zhenya a trip to the zoo.

Pittsburgh’s crisscross of bridges is completely baffling, and Sid honestly has no clue how anyone finds their way anywhere around here, but Mario doesn’t look worried as they cross what Sid thinks is the same river again, and soon they pull up to the zoo.

Mario puts the car in park and says, “Nathalie will be here to pick you up at 4:30.” He pauses and then adds seriously, “Do you need lunch money?”

Sid’s been just fine with his ATM card, so he shakes his head. “We’re good. Thanks for the ride.”

“Thanks,” Zhenya chimes in.

The zoo is on top of a giant hill. Zhenya looks around as the escalator goes up and up, while Sid listens to the friendly PA system’s loop of generic announcements.

“High,” Zhenya says, surprised.

“There are mountains all around here,” Sid says. He wonders if maybe they could fit in some day hikes in state parks before the season starts. He likes the idea of packing a lunch and spending a day in the quiet of the woods with Zhenya. Plus, with these elevations, it wouldn’t be a half-bad workout. The guidebook will probably have some good suggestions, but it’ll have to wait until Zhenya isn’t dragging him along by the hand heading straight for the tiger.

“Sid, Sid,” Zhenya says excitedly, pushing right to the rail around the enclosure. He stares avidly at the tiger, who is pacing along the far fence, probably waiting to be fed. He says “tiger” in Russian, apparently the same in both languages, even if it sounds different in Zhenya’s mouth.

“Tiger,” Sid agrees, and Zhenya wrinkles his nose at Sid.

“Not exciting?” he asks, as if he has no idea how Sid could fail to be excited.

The tiger licks his chops at them. “He looks hungry,” Sid offers.

“I want to meet someday,” Zhenya says wistfully, like if he could, he would hop into the habitat right now and pet the tiger until it loved him.

Zhenya keeps that expression all through the big cats, looking especially taken with the leopard, who flicks its tail balefully at them. The gazelles are cool, but the elephants reek, so neither of them can spend much time in the elephant house. Sid’s no big fan of monkeys, but he’ll go into the tropical forest monkey house if Zhenya wants. Within a minute they’re glancing at each other as if to say, “Are you enjoying this?”

“How about lunch?” Sid suggests and Zhenya nods.

“Close?” he asks.

Sid consults their map, and nods. “Yeah, it’s this way,” Sid says, pointing.

Zhenya raises his eyebrows. “We come,” he says, pointing where Sid is. “I look.” He pushes up into Sid’s space, leaning over Sid’s shoulder to look at the map.

“You most wrong,” Zhenya says, but it sounds sweet coming from him, and he’s grinning, like he thinks it’s funny that Sid is — okay — pretty directionally challenged. “I lead.” He firmly takes possession of the map and draws Sid down the other path.

Sure enough, there’s a big open cafe area with beleaguered parents sitting at tables and kids running around excitedly. Sid is pretty hungry; the lifting earlier and the skate after are catching up with him. He figures Zhenya must be hungry too. It looks like their options are pizza or burgers and Sid is fine with either so he stops and tugs on Zhenya’s shirt sleeve.

“Hey,” Sid says. Zhenya looks at him curiously. “Which one? Pizza? Burgers?”

Zhenya hums thoughtfully. “You want?” he asks, pointing both ways.

“Uh-uh, you choose,” Sid says.

Zhenya sighs like he’s so put upon, but his tongue is poking out the corner of his mouth, sly and teasing. He says, “Burger?”

Sid nods. “Okay, sure.” It’s loud inside, but cool, and there’s a view of the bears and a lone cheetah stalking the ravine restlessly. They both basically inhale their food. Zhenya’s eyes keep darting back and forth between the animals, which, after the previous parts of the zoo, is totally unsurprising.

Zhenya knocks their feet together, though, tearing his gaze away from the cheetah, who flops gracefully on a rock, to beam at Sid. “Best day,” he says.

Sid can’t help but beam back. It’s one thing to hope Zhenya is happy here, happy with the choices he’s made, and another thing to hear it, to see it all over his face. “Yeah,” Sid says. “Me too.”

“But better if ice cream,” Zhenya says plaintively.

Sid is startled into laughing. “We’ll get some,” he promises.

“Best,” Zhenya says, but he’s looking right at Sid, like maybe he’s not talking about the ice cream.

“I’m just —” Sid pauses, overcome with the sudden need to make sure Zhenya knows how much it means to him to be able not only to play with him, but to just hang out and go to the zoo with him, or eat lunch. “I’m really happy you’re here. Really happy.”

“Me too,” Zhenya says, nudging his knee against Sid’s.

They spend probably way too long just smiling at each other, but Sid thinks he’s justified in still being excited. It seems crazy that Zhenya only arrived a week ago, because it feels right that Zhenya is here. The terrible worry of the summer fades with every morning he wakes up to find Zhenya just an arm’s reach away. So he doesn’t think anyone could blame him for still having moments of giddy happiness that seem to bubble up in his chest and overtake him, when it feels like all he can do is smile at Zhenya. And maybe Zhenya feels the same way, because he just smiles back.

But there are families circling around looking for places to sit, so Sid and Zhenya get up and throw their trash away. They head for the bears. The big black bears seem to fascinate Zhenya and he peers into their dens, nudging Sid to point out a bear, curled asleep almost out of sight, back turned toward to the path, pointedly ignoring the people.

“Me,” Zhenya says proudly.

Sid laughs, thinking about trying to wake Zhenya up in the mornings. “Grumpy bear,” he agrees.

Zhenya tries out the word “grumpy” a few times and raises his eyebrows, inviting Sid to help him figure it out.

“You know,” Sid says, and, having no equivalent in Russian, he makes the face Zhenya does before his first cup of tea.

Zhenya laughs hard, head tipping back as his whole body shakes with it. When he finally stops, he tells Sid a word in Russian. “Grumpy,” he says.

Sid repeats after him and they keep going up the hill. They take a sharp bend and see the aquarium laid out below, including a polar bear in an outdoor enclosure.

“Sid, penguins,” Zhenya sighs out happily, and drags him down the hill.

There’s a surprisingly nonchalant peacock wandering around by the doors to the aquarium, and just beyond the entrance is the penguin enclosure, with big penguins and little penguins milling around on the rocks squawking at each other loudly. Sid reads the plaque on the wall and learns that the big ones are king penguins, the ones with the yellow feathers are macaroni penguins, and the smallest ones are gentoo penguins. Zhenya’s face is almost smashed up to the glass as he watches all the little interactions, penguins flapping their wings and wiggling their little tails. They’re pretty stupidly cute. Some of them are sacked out on rocks on their bellies, others are honking out calls and looking aggressively interested in what’s happening on the other side of the glass.

What catches Sid’s eye though, is a new-looking little flag hanging up high with the Pens logo emblazoned on it.

“Zhenya, look,” Sid says, pointing it out.

Zhenya grins. “New teammate?” he asks, gesturing to the penguins.

“Hope they’re as good on the ice as in the water,” Sid says, as one of them dives in. It’s a nice sign, though, that the city is excited and supportive about the season about to start. He knows they have a lot of work ahead of them, but with Zhenya at his side and Mario at his back, he can’t see how they can do anything but make the city proud. Pittsburgh has made itself into a hockey town, and he wants to be part of a team that will do great things for the city.

They spend a long time watching the penguins, but eventually they go through the rest of the aquarium. They breeze past most of the fish, even though Zhenya is entranced by the sting ray. The polar bear is still at it when they come outside, being adorable with a ball this time, and Sid spends a while watching the otters play. Then he glances at his watch, and it’s just past four.

“Hey, we probably just have time for the seals,” Sid says, nodding down the path.

Zhenya takes Sid’s wrist to check his watch and hums. “Seals,” he agrees, letting go of Sid. “Ice cream?”

Sid hesitates. “On the way out,” he promises.

Zhenya nods. They go watch the seals sunning for a few minutes before stopping at the Dippin’ Dots cart.

“Ice cream?” Zhenya asks suspiciously, eyeballing a kid’s cup.

“Yep,” Sid says. “What kind are you going to get?”

Zhenya peers at the sign. “Cookie,” he says decisively. “You?”

Sid almost always gets chocolate but — “Peanut butter,” he moans.

Zhenya chuckles and nods. “Always peanut butter for you,” he says.

“Not always,” Sid protests, but it sounds weak even to him.

Zhenya initially appears very skeptical of ice cream in dot form, but after a wary spoonful, he lights up, makes a pleased noise, and goes for his second.

“You want to try mine?” Sid asks, offering a spoonful.

Zhenya does not share Sid’s interest in peanut butter, but he’s been pretty open-minded so far about food. He leans down to take the spoon into his mouth. He looks thoughtful — not disgusted, but not overly enamored either. He shrugs and goes back to his own.

It’s hot enough that the dots go soft and start to melt more quickly than Sid expected. Zhenya scrapes the bottom of his cup and holds out an almost melted spoonful with a chunk of cookie. “Sid?” he asks, and if it weren’t for the cookie, Sid would say no, but.

He leans up for it, and Zhenya, that jerk, smiles a little and moves the spoon just out of reach. Sid scowls at him and Zhenya moves it back to Sid’s lips. Sid narrows his eyes at Zhenya as he closes his mouth over the spoon, but the chocolate cookie is the perfect follow-up to his peanut butter ice cream, and he can’t help humming happily.

They make their way back to the zoo entrance and back down the escalator. They only wait on the curb for a few minutes before Nathalie pulls up. Stephanie is in the front seat, so Sid and Zhenya pile in the back. The ride home is full of Stephanie telling them about hockey practice and Zhenya muddling his way through describing all the animals they saw, and Sid thinks Zhenya is right: today is the best day.

***

As expected, Metallurg threatens to sue. But Pat and Barry insist that they’re handling it, and Sid would leave them to it and not worry except that he knows Zhenya’s been advised not to contact his parents until it’s settled. Zhenya hasn’t said anything about it, exactly, but Sid can’t even imagine how that weighs on him. Their days are full of training and pool time and rowdy croquet games in the backyard, and Sid hopes that’s enough to distract Zhenya.

Today is Sunday, and a rest day in terms of training. The Gonchars invited Zhenya over to spend the day with them, and Sid feels a little adrift. And maybe, just maybe, he feels a tiny bit left out. But it’s not like his Russian is really up to a whole day of it and Zhenya could probably use some time away. Sid waves goodbye to Zhenya when Sergei comes to pick him up.

The kids aren’t sick of him yet, it seems, and he gets roped into some game that’s a combination of ball hockey, tag, and croquet wickets, at least until they’re all hot and worn out and get called inside for lunch.

Sid heads back upstairs and showers, and he figures he might catch his family at home and decides to give them a call. His mom picks up after Sid tells the answering machine that it’s him.

“I thought you planned on coming back before training camp,” she says with a sigh.

“I did,” he says, and feels guilty. He packed everything he intended to move to Pittsburgh when he came for rookie camp, but that was just so he wouldn’t have to worry about it later. “But with Zhenya here, it’s — I don’t want to leave him alone.”

She sighs again. “Well, of course not,” she says. “I just thought we’d get a little more time with you before the season started.”

“I know,” he says, and bites his lip. “It’s just — he can’t even call his parents to tell them he’s okay. I can’t imagine, Mom.”

There’s a rustle on the other end of the line. “Well, I hope everything will be sorted out soon. Did I tell you that we’ll be there for your first game in New Jersey?”

“Taylor too?” he asks, because that was up in the air the last he heard.

“Taylor too,” she confirms. “And then we’ll be in Pittsburgh for your first home game.”

“That’s great,” he says. He hoped they could see his first game, but he prepared himself to be happy even if they could only come to the one in Pittsburgh.

“Here, do you want to talk to your sister?” she asks. She doesn’t wait for him to say yes.

“Hi,” Taylor says, drawing it out, almost sing-song.

“Hi,” he mimics. “You ready for school?”

“It’s going to be the coolest,” she gushes. “Grade five is going to be so great.”

“You’re going to have to tell me all about it,” Sid says, smiling. “You know, when you see me in a few weeks.”

“Right?” she practically shrieks. “I’m getting to miss all this school, and we’re going to fly down, everyone is going to be so jealous.”

“The year hasn’t even started yet and you’re already excited about missing school?” he asks, unable to resist teasing her a little.

“Sid,” she whines. “C’mon. No one else at school gets to skip to go visit their brother in the NHL.”

“Yeah?” Sid says. He ducks his head even though there isn’t anyone around to see his stupid grin.

“I mean, it’s kind of cool or whatever,” Taylor says. Then she gets really serious. “You know I’m like, super proud of you, right? You’re an awesome big brother.”

Sid has to clear his throat before he can say, “Yeah, I know. Just like how I know I have the best little sister ever.”

“I miss you,” Taylor says, and now her voice is small and more than a little sad.

“Me too,” Sid says. He hasn’t lived at home for three years now, but it doesn’t mean he can’t feel homesick, apparently. “But you’re going to see me really soon. And I’ll call you whenever you want, okay?”

“Yeah,” she sighs.

“And when you come down, you can meet my friend, Zhenya, who just moved here from Russia,” Sid says. He’s sure they’ll be thick as thieves. “He’s on the team with me.”

“Is he your Russian friend?” she asks. “Is he why you were learning Russian?”

“Um,” Sid says, feeling caught out. “Yeah.”

“Will you teach me some Russian? So I can talk to him too?” she asks.

“He speaks some English,” Sid says, totally overwhelmed with how great his sister is. “But I’ll teach you how to say hi, okay? That’s — he’ll really like that.”

“Okay — oh, Mom wants to talk to you again, I love you, bye!” Taylor says.

“Love you,” Sid says, wishing he could hug her.

“Hi again, honey,” his mother says. “I just remembered, did you want us to ship the rest of your things down, if you’re not coming back up?”

Sid tries to think of what’s still in his bedroom. There are some clothes, but nothing that he can’t live without. “No, that’s okay. I’ve got everything I really need right now.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” she says, and they chat a little more before they say goodbye.

He feels a little adrift after that, like — this is it. This is really it. He lives in Pittsburgh, and he hopes he’s going to be here for a long, long time. This is going to be his home.

He looks around the upstairs. There’s a cleaning service that comes through, but there’s still signs that he lives here, from the dumb picture of him and Jack from Shattuck that he put up on the fridge to his Russian textbook that he put on the little desk in the corner — although that’s been taken over by Zhenya and all of his English workbooks. Sid doesn’t mind; he likes the signs that Zhenya lives here, too, even if it’ll only be until the Gonchars are settled enough to take him in.

He lies down on the couch, turns on the TV, and finds a baseball game. Somewhere after the seventh inning he must fall asleep, because he drifts awake to find Zhenya sitting at the end of the couch, flipping through channels. He lands on a nature show with snow leopards and settles back to watch. He has one hand resting on Sid’s ankle.

“Hi,” Sid ventures, his voice husky with sleep.

Zhenya looks at him and rubs his thumb once against the knob of Sid’s ankle. “Good sleep?”

Sid blinks a few times and then rubs his eyes. “Guess I was tired,” he says. “Did you have fun?”

Zhenya nods. “Fun, yes. Lot of Russian. Good food.” He doesn’t look unhappy, exactly, but there’s something about the set of his mouth that makes Sid think maybe he wasn’t the only one feeling a little homesick this afternoon.

Sid is lying on his side with his knees bent, and his feet are brushing Zhenya’s thigh. They stay like that, Zhenya absently rubbing Sid’s ankle, while the snow leopard does snow leopard things.

Later that night in bed, Sid’s just turned off the light and gotten comfortable when Zhenya says quietly, “Sid?”

“Yeah,” he says, just as quietly. The room is pretty dark, and it feels a little like when he used to talk to Jack at night back at Shattuck.

Except Jack usually wasn’t sharing a bed with him. He feels Zhenya shift and roll over, and Sid rolls over to face him, even though he can only see a vague outline of Zhenya in the dark. It feels like Zhenya’s got something important to say — so far, he hasn’t been much for talking after they’ve turned off the lights.

“I talk to Seryozha today,” he says.

Sid frowns for a second. “Sergei?” he guesses. He bets he would have an easier time with Russian diminutives if there weren’t basically a billion of them.

“Sergei, yes,” Zhenya says.

Sid keeps waiting for Zhenya to say something, and when he stays quiet, Sid reaches out to brush Zhenya’s arm with his fingers. He actually winds up touching Zhenya’s wrist; he lets his fingers rest against it. “You talked to — to Seryozha,” Sid prompts gently, repeating the diminutive as best he can.

“Good — talk Russian, eat Russian,” Zhenya says, and Sid can hear a but at the end of that sentence. “Not good for English.”

“Oh,” Sid says, because — well, he gets that. His French probably wouldn’t have gotten better if he could have used English with his billet family in Rimouski.

Zhenya wraps his fingers around Sid’s hand. “Not — not good for you?”

Sid blinks. “It doesn’t — I don’t — I want you to be happy. You should live wherever makes you happy.”

Zhenya makes a dissatisfied noise and then rolls over and clicks on the lamp. Sid blinks at the soft light. Zhenya gets out of bed and leaves the room, and Sid just has time to worry that they’re having some kind of weird fight when Zhenya comes back with his electronic dictionary in hand. He climbs back into bed and presses a few keys, then considers the results.

“Miss,” he says hesitantly. “Live with Seryozha, I’m miss you.”

“Oh,” Sid says faintly. Outside of his family, and maybe Jack, he’s not used to hearing that. He bites his lip.

Zhenya puts the dictionary on his nightstand and clicks off the light again. Sid’s still wondering what to say, because he means it — he wants Zhenya to be happy, and if it’ll make Zhenya happy to live with the Gonchars, that’s what he should do.

Zhenya settles back into bed, and finds Sid’s hip in the dark. Apparently he’s not satisfied with Sid’s response, because he says gently, “Miss me, Sidnyusha?”

It shouldn’t be about him. And he shouldn’t admit it, but — “Yes,” Sid says, almost whispering.

He’s not prepared for Zhenya to pull him close, but he goes easily and hugs Zhenya just as tight as Zhenya is hugging him.

“We live here, maybe,” Zhenya says, his lips moving against Sid’s temple. Then, sounding speculative, “Or buy house.”

Sid can’t even imagine buying a house, although he knows Zhenya’s already done it once for his family. “We can ask Mario and Nathalie if we can live here together.”

“Okay,” Zhenya says. He relaxes his hold but he doesn’t let go, and Sid thinks it’s going to get uncomfortable sooner or later, or someone’s arm is going to go numb, but instead, he just drifts off, warm and safe and wrapped up in Zhenya’s arms.

***

One morning their training is interrupted by George, who whisks Zhenya away to do something related to Metallurg’s continuing legal threats. Sid is pointedly not invited. Zhenya goes in his sweaty workout gear and gives Sid an apologetic look on the way out. When he comes back after lunch, he looks drained, but doesn’t say anything in response to Sid’s halting inquiries. Sid settles for giving him a push in the direction of the shower and foraging in the fridge for food.

Training camp is drawing closer, and Sid is all the more determined to make the most of the remaining summer. When Mario mentions having a couple of tickets for a Pirates game, Sid doesn’t have to work very hard to convince Zhenya to go.

“It’s supposed to be sunny,” he tells Zhenya. “We can eat hot dogs.”

Zhenya shrugs in easy acquiescence.

Nathalie drops them off near PNC Park early, and they gawk at all the merch on offer as they walk toward the entrance. There are lots of ridiculous hats, but Sid buys two plain black ones with the yellow Pirates ‘P’ and steadfastly ignores Zhenya’s longing looks at the more outlandish tricorns.

Their seats are great — not surprising, since Mario got them from a friend in the Pirates organization — and PNC Park is really something. It’s warm but not overly so, and it promises to be a beautiful afternoon for a baseball game.

“I played baseball in high school,” he tells Zhenya when they sit down.

Zhenya’s eyebrows go up. “You play?”

Sid nods. “At Shattuck, in Minnesota. When the hockey season was over, we had to pick a spring activity. So I did baseball.”

Zhenya points to a pitcher warming up. “You do?”

Sid laughs. “A little. Mostly catcher.” He points to home plate.

Zhenya hums, looking at the catcher. “Like goalie fun for Sid.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he says after a moment. He’s a little surprised to hear it put that way, but then again, out of everyone in Pittsburgh, Zhenya knows him best.

The Pirates are so-so this year, or so ESPN would have Sid believe. But win or lose is not really the point of today’s game for Sid and Zhenya. They got a solid session of training in already today, and they’ve earned the afternoon out.

Sid explains a few rules, but tries to keep it simple. Zhenya nods along to Sid’s explanation of three strikes and looks where Sid points on the scoreboard. And then there’s the first pitch and the crack of the bat, and the game’s begun.

Sid was halfway thinking he should prepare Zhenya for disappointment, but then the Pirates have four runs in the first. That makes Sid sit back with his eyebrows raised, because maybe they won’t be disappointed, after all. Zhenya is either enjoying the game or enjoying the two little kids sitting right in front of him, a boy and a girl with little ball caps on. The girl has a ponytail threaded through the back of hers, and they both have a Pirates P painted on their cheeks.

The Pirates improbably score three more times while the Cardinals are thwarted at every turn. At the bottom of the fifth, Sid decides that it’s definitely time for food.

There’s only one acceptable choice for ballpark food. Sid orders them both hotdogs, though he suspects that they might be back for seconds. He’s not terribly surprised when Zhenya makes his hotdog roughly half relish with a giant smear of mayonnaise buried beneath it. Sid focuses on putting an even stripe of mustard and ketchup on either side of the dog, making sure they won’t ooze out, even as Zhenya makes noises of delight around his first bite of hotdog.

Once his hotdog is perfectly assembled, Sid takes a testing bite, just to be sure that he’s gotten the ratio of condiments right, and it’s so good Sid demolishes the whole thing in a minute standing in front of the condiment bar. When he looks up, still licking his fingers free of smudges of mustard, Zhenya is looking at him hopefully.

Sid tilts his head back toward the stand. “You want another?”

“Yes,” Zhenya says fervently.

These they manage to take back to their seats. They enjoy the sunshine as they eat, and they take at least five minutes to finish this time. The Cardinals get a little something going in the 6th, but the Pirates keep them scoreless, and the next three batters on both sides are all retired in short order.

They’re thirsty. In the process of getting a soda to split and some last second impulse fries, they miss another run, but in the grand scheme of things, 7-0 or 8-0, it’s not a big difference. The crowd is cheerful and the building is full of people determined to soak up every last minute of the late summer sun and the big slam dunk win that seems inevitable.

The Pirates even score twice more in the eighth, whipping the crowd into delighted chanting, and it will be a 10-0 win if they can just get three more outs. Even Zhenya, who hasn’t seemed overly invested, is leaning forward, chanting along with the crowd loudly, though not exactly accurately. The Cardinals put forward a good effort, but can’t get on the board, and the crowd cheers and roars its approval. Zhenya slaps Sid’s back enthusiastically and then leaves his arm around Sid’s shoulders.

“We good luck,” he says. “Good for Pittsburgh sports.”

“I hope so,” Sid says.

Zhenya squeezes his shoulder. “Best together,” he says.

Sid hopes that’s true, too.

***

Sid is relieved to know that Zhenya wants to stay with him, even if he worries a little that he’s being selfish. But he knows he’s not the only thing Zhenya took into consideration when he talked to Sergei and Zhenya doesn’t seem like he’s anything but certain about his decision. Sid sort of assumes that Sergei and Mario will talk it over, or maybe he just hopes they will, but Mario walks out to the pool the next afternoon and says, “Gonch called, he wants to talk living arrangements with us all.”

“Um,” Sid says, feeling weirdly nervous. “Okay?”

“He said he’d be over in an hour or so,” Mario says. “You guys can be dressed by then, right?”

“Yeah,” Sid says, glancing over at Zhenya, who is still floating on the raft in the pool, sound asleep. “I’ll get Zhenya.” He slips back into the pool and starts walking over. He’s been making sure that Zhenya keeps up with his sunscreen and changes sides every so often, but he’s not one to wake a sleeping Zhenya lightly.

Mario smiles. “Not going to just tip the raft?” he asks.

Sid can feel his face shifting into a disbelieving frown. That’s basically a one-way ticket to getting noogied underwater forever. “You try it,” he says. Mario is the only person in the house bigger than Zhenya; maybe he could do it and survive.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Mario says. “I’ll listen for splashing or yelling.”

Zhenya is about as stubbornly sleepy as Sid expected. He only opens one eye when Sid shakes his shoulder with pool-cold hands. “Sidnyusha,” he grumbles. “Play later.” He closes his eyes again, tucking the brim of his hat down over his face more firmly.

“Sergei is coming over, he wants to talk about where you’re staying,” Sid says.

Zhenya cracks the same eye open again. “Now?” he asks.

“Soon,” Sid says with a shrug. If they’re both going to shower, better to get Zhenya moving now.

Zhenya sighs dramatically and tosses his hat over onto a chair with pinpoint accuracy before sliding off the raft into the water. He doesn’t come back up until he’s already at the steps, where he glances over his shoulder. “Slow! I’m shower first,” he chirps.

“Yeah, well, you need it,” Sid chirps right back, waving a hand in front of his nose.

“Ow, burn,” Zhenya says sarcastically, even as he grins delightedly. Austin taught him “burn” last week and Sid regrets it terribly.

They only tackle each other into the grass once on the way back into the house, which is an improvement over Saturday, when Sid ended up laughing as Zhenya tickled his way to victory four times in a row. If Sid can get his legs around Zhenya, he can usually pin him, but Zhenya’s reach is unreal, and he has zero scruples. It’s totally unfair how underhanded Zhenya is about wrestling, considering he already has the size advantage, but it just means Sid’s wins are both strategic and moral.

Zhenya showers first, as he crowed about, but since he only takes forever in morning showers, he’s quickly in and out and waving Sid in to take his. Sid nearly twists himself up over the upcoming conversation, but he takes some deep breaths and reminds himself that no matter how this goes, he’ll still see Zhenya a lot.

They both head downstairs when they hear the doorbell, and there’s Sergei, who gives Zhenya a put-upon look. Zhenya wilts a little but then squares his shoulders, like he’s ready for a fight.

“Why don’t we go talk in the family room?” Nathalie suggests, and leads the way.

Zhenya herds Sid over to the loveseat, and it makes a certain amount of sense: Zhenya’s uncertain, and he wants backup. That Sid can be that for him, that he wants Sid for that, feels a little special.

“Geno and I have talked about living arrangements,” Sergei says by way of preamble. “Ksenia and I are ready for a houseguest now, but I wonder whether this is the best arrangement.”

Nathalie and Mario trade looks, and then Mario asks Zhenya, “What’s on your mind?”

Sergei rephrases the question in Russian, and Zhenya looks thoughtful for a moment. He takes a deep breath, and Sid thinks he’ll answer in Russian, but he says, “Bad for English. Live with Sergei, Russian always.”

“Immersion made a difference for me,” Sergei says. “I think I learned English much faster. It might have been nice if I could have lived with a Russian family, but I think I benefited from living with an English-speaking one.”

“Geno’s ahead of where I was when I first came here,” Mario says. “I didn’t know any English at all. I stayed with a family my first year in Pittsburgh, and I think it helped me, too.”

Sergei takes a moment to catch Zhenya up in Russian, then says, “It’s not that Geno is unwelcome at our house — far from it. But I want to think of what’s best for him in the long term.”

“Well,” Mario says. “We could ask to see if someone else on the team would be willing to billet him.” He pauses. “If that’s what Geno wants,” he says, in a carefully bland tone.

Sergei translates, and Zhenya licks his lips once. “I want live with Sid,” he says, and then adds a few things in Russian.

Sergei looks unimpressed, but dutifully translates it. “He doesn’t want to impose. They could get an apartment together.”

Nathalie shakes her head in instant negation. “I think it’s important for them both to live with a family their first year,” she says. “As a parent, I’m sure you can understand why.”

Sergei nods.

Nathalie and Mario look like they’re having some kind of silent conversation, and finally Nathalie says, “How is the current arrangement working?”

They’re looking in Sid’s direction. “Good,” he says. “Great. I mean—” he looks at Zhenya, who nods vigorously after Sergei translates.

“Good,” Zhenya agrees. “Best.”

“Well,” Nathalie says. “If you want to stay on, we can see about getting another bed upstairs. One of you can’t sleep on the couch all season.”

Both Mario and Sergei wince. “Definitely not,” Mario says. “Be good to your backs — you’ll appreciate it when you’re older.”

“I stay?” Zhenya says, and the hope in his voice is painful.

“Stay,” Mario says gently.

Zhenya lights up and clutches Sid in an excited hug. “Thank you,” he tells Mario and Nathalie fervently. “Thank you, thank you.”

“We won’t be a bother,” Sid hastens to assure them. “We’ll help out, do our part.”

Nathalie laughs. “The kids will be so happy to hear the news. They’ve been campaigning for you both to stay since Geno got here.”

Sid’s pleasantly surprised to hear that — he thought they were getting along well, but it’s different to hear that they tried to convince Mario and Nathalie to let both of them stay.

Sergei is talking with Zhenya in Russian — something about dinner, he thinks. And then Sergei says to Sid, in much slower, simpler Russian, “Come to dinner with Zhenya. You can practice your Russian.”

Sid uses a phrase Valeriya taught him, just, “Thank you, I look forward to it,” because he can’t manage are you sure and I don’t want to get in the way.

Mario and Nathalie are watching them curiously. “You two are full of surprises,” Mario remarks, sounding impressed.

“Aren’t they?” Sergei says, a small smile on his lips like he just had a suspicion confirmed.

***

Two days later, Nathalie presses Sid and Zhenya into service, moving the sitting area furniture out of the bedroom and downstairs to various rooms. Then she has them move the bed over to one side of the room. When a new bed is delivered that afternoon, it gets set up on the other side, and there’s really a surprising amount of room even with two beds in there.

“It’s a little like being on the road all the time, I suppose,” Nathalie says. “If it’s not working out, you let me know. I figured you boys would want your own space away from the kids, what with your schedule.”

Sid nods. “It’ll be okay,” he says. “I lived in the dorms at Shattuck. I don’t mind a roommate.”

“You’re sure?” Nathalie says again, giving him that serious look that maybe all moms have.

“I don’t like being alone,” Sid confesses.

“Small chance of that in this house,” Nathalie says. She pats his arm and heads downstairs.

Zhenya is in the middle of his English lesson downstairs, so Sid has the room to himself for the moment. He sits down on the edge of the old bed. He hadn’t minded sharing, even though it took a few nights to get used to feeling the bed shift under him when Zhenya rolled over in his sleep. Zhenya is a heavy sleeper, and if he’s ever heard or cared that Sid talks in his sleep, he hasn’t mentioned it.

So, on the whole, sharing a bed has been fine. Then again, no matter how heavy a sleeper Zhenya is, Sid couldn’t just wait until he was asleep and then jerk off while they were in the same bed.

He checks the clock, and Zhenya’s still got another half hour of his lesson, so Sid gets up and closes the bedroom door. When he unpacked after getting home from Rimouski, he found a plastic-wrapped magazine in his hockey bag. He thought it might have gotten in with his things by mistake, but then he realized what kind of magazine it was. He felt some weird combination of embarrassed and grateful when he saw good luck scrawled in black sharpie on the plastic wrapping.

The particular issue is devoted to jocks, which might mean that his gift giver knows way too much or that Sid’s never been subtle. It doesn’t really matter — right now, it’s just him, the big guy on page 34, and the really good lotion that’s a little greasy and slick. He shoves his shorts and underwear down and out of the way, and he’s jerked off to this page a lot because the magazine stays open as Sid palms his cock and starts to get hard.

The guy is just — ripped. And big. Big shoulders, big thighs, big dick. He’s got a football helmet in one hand, and Sid’s got a well-worn fantasy now, about getting cornered in the locker room after a big game, the quarterback pushing up close to tell him how well he played, but that there are a lot of different positions he’d like to see Sid play for him. Maybe a tight end, the quarterback would whisper in his ear, and pull Sid in by the hips. Or he’d slip a hand between Sid’s legs and roughly grope at him from behind, telling Sid he might make a good centre in football, too. He’d tell Sid he’d love giving up the ball to him, and his hands would spread Sid’s thighs apart as he pushed Sid up against the wall. Sid imagines the heavy press of the quarterback all along his back, desperately wonders what it might feel like to feel the quarterback’s cock hard against his ass, hard for Sid, wanting him. Maybe the quarterback would put Sid on his knees, have Sid suck his cock, or just grind against Sid right there, too desperate to let Sid go, rubbing off against him, jerking Sid off fast. He can’t stop thinking about the quarterback pushing him around, just putting Sid wherever he wants him to get him off and Sid bites his lip, jerking himself fast until he comes. It feels so good he can’t help but moan his way through it, his hand slowing, so slick with his own come that it just glides over the sensitive skin, just on the right side of too much.

He’s breathing hard and trying to settle down when he remembers that Zhenya could be coming up any minute now. He looks frantically at the clock, only to find it’s hardly been eight minutes since he brought out the magazine. The relief mixes with the dizzy, lightheaded post-orgasmic rush, and he lets himself really sprawl out for a few more minutes before he cleans up and says farewell to page 34 until the next time.

***

The day they sign their contracts is anticlimactic — their agents already negotiated and informed them they’d be getting the maximum allowed contract for rookies, so all that’s left to do is to walk in, sign, and shake hands with Craig Patrick and a few others from the front office. Sid has to do a little press afterward, and Barry answers a few questions on Zhenya’s behalf, and then that’s it. It’s final. They’re Penguins together for at least for the next three years, and with luck for longer than that.

Pat takes Sid out for lunch afterward. Sid knows a talk coming when he sees one, and Pat only waits until after they’ve ordered.

“I first floated the idea to Mario of billeting you because I thought a stable home life would be an asset in your first year,” Pat says.

“Right,” Sid says cautiously, because Pat’s already told him this.

“Look at me and tell me that rooming with Geno isn’t going to be a problem,” Pat says.

Sid wrinkles his nose. “Of course it’s not going to be a problem. We’ve got more than enough space, we get along great—”

Pat holds up a hand. “What did we talk about before you came to Pittsburgh?”

Sid blinks, because they talked about a lot, but then it hits him. He doesn’t duck his head, though he desperately wants to, and he knows his face is going red. “If I don’t want people to know things about me, I have to be really careful or I have to not do anything I wouldn’t want everyone to know about.”

“Are you being careful?” Pat says, his eyes narrowed.

Sid takes a deep breath. “I’m not doing anything,” he says, firmly and honestly. “It’s not like that, anyway.”

Pat taps the side of his water glass with one finger. “One more word of caution, and then I’ll drop it. You might never do anything, but the heart’s a funny thing. Try not to make yourself miserable, okay?”

“Okay,” Sid says quietly. Maybe Pat would have said something if Sid was rooming with another guy his own age regardless, but it makes him wonder how his friendship with Zhenya looks to others. Probably weird, he concludes.

He thinks about it a lot that afternoon, but he decides that as long as it works for them, it doesn’t really matter what anyone else thinks. Later that night, Zhenya puts on one of the jackets he borrowed from Mario, Sid attempts to school his hair into something approaching passable, and Mario and Nathalie drop them off at a really nice restaurant. There are plenty of other people in the restaurant who look like they’re just friends, although Sid and Zhenya probably are the youngest people there without parents. Sid feels a little bit like people are staring at them as they walk through to their table — Mario got them the reservations, so it’s even nicer than Sid expected — but they’re tucked into a deep booth in the corner, about as private as it gets, and when it’s just him and Zhenya, all the squirmy self-consciousness evaporates.

“Nice,” Zhenya says, eyes wide.

Sid grins. “We earned it,” he says. “Contracts.” It still seems a little unreal, both the sheer amount of money being thrown around and the fact that Sid’s getting paid to do the thing he loves most in the world.

“What you do?” Zhenya asks. “With first money.”

The waiter comes then, and Sid’s happy to see Zhenya determinedly muscle his way through giving his order, even though he knows that he’s shy about his English and extra shy with strangers. But he’s trying, and Sid’s so stupidly proud of him. He remembers how awkward he felt in Rimouski, and that was just French — he can hardly imagine how he’d feel trying to order in Russian.

Sid takes up Zhenya’s question after he’s ordered. He’s had a little more time to think about it. “My parents’ car is pretty old, and it doesn’t work very well anymore. I think I want to buy them a new car, for sure. They drove me everywhere for hockey, so — I want to make it up to them a little.”

“Want to help,” Zhenya summarizes, head tilted a little. Sid nods, and Zhenya looks satisfied to have understood so much. “First contract, I buy house for parents. I want — want to help.”

Sid smiles, remembering that from Zhenya’s early letters. “So what are you going to buy this time?”

“Car,” Zhenya says immediately. He’s been giving tiny, impractical sports cars some really longing looks.

“You don’t have a licence yet!” Sid says, laughing a little.

Zhenya waves that off like it’s completely unimportant. “Okay. Car for family. What for you?”

“Oh,” Sid says. “I guess — I guess I should get a few new suits. You need some, too.”

Zhenya makes an aggrieved noise. “Yes, suits, for team. What for you?”

Sid’s honestly stumped for a minute. All of the things he wanted growing up, the things they never had because everything went to hockey — cool shoes, video games, air conditioning — it’s really weird to think that he can have all of that now, if he wants.

“I’m getting a new TV for my parents, too,” he says. “And if — if there’s something leftover, maybe I’ll get a new watch.”

Zhenya looks confused, and Sid points to the one on his wrist. “A watch, to know what time it is,” he says.

“I help,” Zhenya says, nodding sagely. “Find good one.”

“I’m getting something nice. Classy,” Sid warns him. He can already tell that he and Zhenya are not on the same page, sartorially speaking.

“Boring,” Zhenya interprets, his tongue poking out of his mouth the way it always does when he chirps in English.

They continue on in that vein for a while, because of course Zhenya is applying himself to learning how to give people shit in English. When their food arrives, they eat in companionable silence — well, mostly silence, only broken by the occasional happy noise from one or both of them because the food is so good — until Zhenya brings up training camp, which starts the following week.

“We’re going to work hard,” Sid says. “I wonder what lines we’ll end up on.”

Zhenya hums and looks at the dessert menu. “Maybe all same — you, me, Mario. Big line,” he says.

Sid laughs. “Three centres. That would be terrible.”

Zhenya looks mostly innocent. “Maybe you good wing.”

“I haven’t played wing since before midget,” Sid says, and tugs at the dessert menu. “What are we getting?”

“Maybe fruit.”

“You are so full of it,” Sid tells him. “Do you need help with the menu?”

Zhenya nods. Right, it’s written in a scrolling cursive that has to be giving him fits. So Sid reads the menu, occasionally stopping to clear up some confusion for Zhenya, even though sometimes Sid is really no help because what’s a sabayon, anyway. In the end, they go for something that has a lot of chocolate in the description, and cheesecake, because Sid really can’t help himself.

“When you make me cake?” Zhenya says. “You say.”

“After training camp,” Sid says. “Big chocolate cake, all for you.”

“I share,” Zhenya says. Their dessert comes at that moment, and Zhenya’s eyes are wide when he takes in the chocolate confection in front of him. Sid’s envious until his cheesecake is placed in front of him, and then he looks at Zhenya.

“Are you going to share now?” he asks, teasing.

Zhenya looks honestly torn, but then he waves at his plate, like Sid should help himself.

“Maybe in a while,” Sid says, and takes his first bite, and oh. It’s the perfect temperature, cool and creamy and punctuated by the tart cherries scattered on top. For his part, Zhenya looks blissed out with so much chocolate in front of him. About halfway through, they trade bites, and Sid’s only a little bit embarrassed by the noise he makes around the forkful Zhenya offers him.

“I tell you, you want chocolate,” Zhenya chides him.

“Give me another bite,” Sid begs shamelessly.

“Magic word,” Zhenya demands, because he’s a jerk and learning too much from the Lemieux kids.

Sid gives him a pout and says, “Please?”

Zhenya gives him a bigger piece this time, and Sid savors it, sucking the chocolate off the tines of the fork. “Eat cheesecake now,” Zhenya says, half-imperious, looking at Sid instead of at his own dessert.

Sid licks his lips. “Do I have some on my mouth?”

“Mouth okay,” Zhenya says, and tugs his plate back a little closer.

Sid chooses not to be offended, and eats the rest of his cheesecake happily enough. And when the bill comes, he boggles over the total but hands over his card, knowing he’s got more than enough from the first cheque from his endorsements to cover it.

“My first cheque, I buy you dinner,” Zhenya promises.

“Deal,” Sid says, and signs for the bill.

***

Training camp comes with a bundle of nerves — there’s guys the same age as him and Zhenya, and guys as old as Mario, but not a lot in between. And Pat warned Sid that the front office would be thrusting him in front of the media at every turn, but it’s still something of a surprise to see all the reporters looking at him like they might start licking their chops at any second. Zhenya sticks close but conveniently forgets all of his English any time anyone even gets close with a recorder.

At least Sid can focus on the comforting familiarity of the actual training part of training camp — tests and drills and endless skating that Sid can throw himself into, pushing hard to compete with Zhenya. In between panting for breath, he’s pleasantly surprised to see Max Talbot, who he’s run into here and there since he was fifteen, mostly at tournaments and clinics.

“Hey, Max,” Sid says while they’re waiting for their turn at the next drill.

“I’m going to die,” Max moans in French. “Find me a new set of lungs. Give me one of yours, you’re not even breathing hard.”

“I am too,” Sid wheezes back in kind. If he’s not gulping for air, he’s not working hard enough.

Zhenya looks curious, and prods Sid with one glove.

“Oh, right — Max, this is Geno. Geno, this is Max Talbot — we went to some of the same tournaments.” Geno feels weird on his tongue, but it’s what Zhenya decided on for the team, so Sid’s making an effort.

“Same team?” Zhenya asks.

“Hey hey, some English, up top,” Max says, and holds up his hand for a high five. Zhenya obliges, but looks confused. “And nah, I always played against this guy.” He punches Sid lightly in the arm, and Zhenya frowns.

“Friend?” Zhenya mutters to Sid in Russian.

Sid hums noncommittally.

It’s Max’s turn to look at Sid with a curious expression. “You know Russian?”

“Lots,” Zhenya says, before Sid has a chance to demure. And then their conversation is cut short because Max is up for the next drill.

They meet a lot of new people — guys from the AHL trying to break in, steady veterans sure of themselves but still working hard. Mario is like an indestructible force, parting the seas wherever he goes.

And then there’s Colby Armstrong.

“Call me Armdog, everyone does,” Colby says.

Sid gives him a wary smile, trying to decide if he’s serious.

“That’s Armdawg, d-a-w-g,” Colby says helpfully, and that’s when Sid bursts out into too-loud laughter.

It’s surprisingly easy to talk to Colby — “Armdawg,” Colby says insistently, even as Endicott skates by and says, “Don’t listen to him, Crosby, Army is full of shit.” They’re doing a two on one drill, so it’s easy enough to lean against their sticks and trade gentle chirps between rushes. And between the chirps, it’s surprisingly sincere conversation about being excited to maybe make it to the show this time. Sid can understand that; the same excitement is itching under his skin, too. Sid watches closely, and he definitely thinks that Colby has what he needs to get to the show, and moreover, the attitude to go with it. Colby is the kind of guy Sid likes on every team: funny and welcoming. In a funny way, he kind of reminds Sid of Jack as he goes on a tear about learning to fight as a shrimpy figure skater in Saskatoon, making Sid laugh until he’s bent over.

They’re on the same rotation for a while, shooting the shit until they all get called in to take a knee, and then Zhenya’s right there at his elbow, bumping their shoulders together.

“Hey,” Sid says, grinning up at him. He wants to introduce Colby to Zhenya, but Coach Olcyzk starts talking, so that’s tabled while they listen. It’s a pretty short speech, probably in deference to the way a lot of the guys are barely holding themselves up on their sticks and a couple of faces around the ice look a little green. Sid doesn’t feel great, but he feels like he pushed himself appropriately and gave a good showing. He’s certainly going to have a long, hot shower and maybe a precautionary ice pack for his knee, which was a little stiff. He looks up at Zhenya, who looks sweaty and tired, but good, legs still strong as they skate toward the bench after Olcyzk sends them all off.

“Oh, Zh-” Sid starts, only to stop and make himself start again. “Geno, this is Colby Armstrong.” Colby was on Sid’s other side during the scrum, and is only a stride or so behind. Sid pulls to the side, out of the way of the rest of the team, who are making a beeline for the showers.

Zhenya stops, turning to give Colby an evaluating look before sticking his hand out, gloves already off. “Geno,” he says, and Colby pulls off his glove to shake.

“Army, good to meet you, man,” Colby says, glancing between Sid and Zhenya. “So, what’s it like carpooling with the boss?”

“Car…pooling?” Zhenya asks Sid, eyebrows raised. Sid can only imagine what Zhenya is coming up with.

“We drive with Mario,” he explains in Russian. At least, he’s pretty sure he said drive.

Zhenya shrugs. “Better than Sid drive,” he says finally, before shooting Sid a smirk. “Sid slow. Grandmother.”

“The turning radius in the van is weird!” Sid protests for the hundredth time. “I don’t want to get in an accident in Nathalie’s car.”

“Don’t wreck the family van,” Colby agrees, laughing. “But if you don’t cut someone off at least once a month, they take your driver’s licence. Pennsylvania law.”

Sid’s not sure how much of that Zhenya got, but there’s a smile on his face, so he’ll assume the best for now. “I’ll leave that to him,” Sid says, nodding to Zhenya. “He’s already talking about sports cars.”

“Oh man,” Colby says in an appreciative tone. “BMW? Cadillac?”

“Ferrari,” Zhenya says firmly, and Sid winces. Pittsburgh geography is not conducive to anything Zhenya has been looking at. The last thing he needs is encouragement.

“Hey!” Max yells from the bench. “C’mon, let’s go! The reporters are begging for you, it’s getting desperate and sad.”

True enough. There’s an intimidating cluster of reporters around his empty stall and they spring into action as soon as he enters the room. The questions are a blur, and Sid hopes he didn’t mess up too badly. Colby is next to him most of the time, and when he heads off to the showers he gets right behind one of the reporters and makes the most unbelievable face. Sid nearly busts out laughing in the middle of his sentence. He feels a little off balance without Zhenya beside him, his presence reassuring even as he stubbornly pretends he doesn’t speak English, but when the team PR guy finally shoos the last reporter out, Zhenya is right there across the room, half-asleep in his stall. He blinks himself awake and smiles at Sid, jerking his head toward the showers.

“You stink,” he calls in Russian, wrinkling his nose like he can smell Sid all the way over there. “Hurry up, I want to go home.”

Sid tries not to smile and fails. “You stink,” he parrots back in Russian.

Sergei wanders by in a towel. “You’re holding up the carpool,” he says mildly to Sid, and oh, right, Mario’s already dressed too. How did Sid end up talking to reporters the longest? He would have thought they would still be talking to Mario, at least.

Sid takes a fast shower and heads to the secondary locker room to dry off and get dressed in his street clothes. He’s just shoving his feet in his shoes when Zhenya appears in the doorway, like a looming, skinny bear.

“Slow,” he complains.

“Sorry,” Sid says, and he really is. It’s not that he didn’t expect that he would have considerable media responsibilities, because he did. Pat warned him, Craig Patrick warned him, Mario warned him — but he can see now that it’s going to have a bigger impact on his day-to-day life than it ever did before.

Zhenya frowns. “No sorry,” he says finally, and then herds Sid out to where Mario is not so patiently waiting.

Sid nearly nods off on the ride home. When they get there, he and Zhenya both down a protein shake and collapse on the couch. There isn’t much on, so Sid flips to some cooking show and hands Zhenya the remote. But Zhenya declines to change the channel, apparently fascinated by whatever the lady is doing with meatballs. And the next thing Sid knows, he’s blinking his eyes open and finding his face smushed into Zhenya’s neck. He — kind of drooled on Zhenya a little.

“I said, time for dinner!” Austin hollers.

“Be right down,” Sid calls back.

Zhenya groans. “Why?” he grumbles.

“Dinner,” Sid repeats. The more he wakes up, the hungrier he realizes he is.

“But,” Zhenya mutters, his head plonking down onto Sid’s shoulder as Sid sits up. He’s cut off by the audible growl of his own stomach and Sid giggles. “Okay.”

“I hope there’s a lot of it,” Sid says, because he feels like he could eat everything that all eight of them ate together last night. But Nathalie has been married to a hockey player for years and is raising two more — she can’t have been caught unaware on the first day of training camp.

They stumble down the stairs to the smell of tomato and cheese. Sid is going to break into a run to the kitchen in a second.

Zhenya mutters something that sounds worshipful as they walk into the kitchen to see Nathalie pulling out a pan of lasagna. There are two more on the counter already.

“Can we help?” Sid remembers to ask.

“Get some potholders and move those to the table, please,” Nathalie says. Her mouth quirks. “I’m going to insist that you actually eat off your plate and not straight from the pan.”

“We wouldn’t,” Sid assures her, but honestly, if left to their own devices, he and Zhenya would probably take custody of a pan each.

Mario looks like he’s just as wiped out from training camp as they are. It shouldn’t surprise Sid, but he grew up watching a Mario Lemieux who never looked like he skated on the same ice as everyone else.

Dinner passes mostly with chatter from the kids, while Sid, Zhenya, and Mario apply themselves to eating a lot of food. Mario taps out before they do and smiles at them wryly. “Still waking up hungry in the middle of the night?” he asks.

Neither he nor Zhenya pause in eating, but Sid nods in response.

“Think of it as a preview,” Nathalie says to Mario, glancing Stephanie and Austin’s way.

They all retreat to the family room afterward. The kids squabble over a movie — Alexa and Austin are pulling for Harry Potter, but Lauren is dead set on Howl’s Moving Castle — and Sid and Zhenya take up the corner of the sectional.

“Lauren, if you want to watch the movie in Japanese with subtitles, that’s going to be hard for Geno to follow,” Nathalie points out gently.

Lauren opens her mouth and then shuts it, clearly thinking about it. “Well,” she says finally. “I guess we can watch Harry Potter. Have you seen it, Geno?”

Zhenya shakes his head.

“Oh, then you have to,” she says. “And we should start with the first one,” she informs the rest of her siblings, who agree readily enough to that.

Zhenya watches raptly, but Sid is full of lasagna and he’s seen it maybe a hundred times with Taylor, so it’s hard to focus on the movie. Nathalie is reading a book and Mario also looks like he might fall asleep any minute, which Sid can sympathize with. But it’s nice, having them all in the same room, the kids trying to explain the wizarding world to Zhenya, who nods gamely along and seems to be enjoying the spectacle of the movie, at least. With every passing minute, it’s harder for Sid to keep his eyes open. He drifts slowly into Zhenya’s space until his shoulder meets Zhenya’s, warm and solid. He must have dozed off sometime after Harry got on the train, because all of a sudden there’s a troll in the dungeon, and he blinks hard, waking up slumped against Zhenya for the second time today. At least this time he didn’t drool on anybody.

“I’m not carry you up,” Zhenya whispers teasingly, but he looks about done in himself. It might be time for them both to get to bed.

“I’m up,” Sid groans. Stretching feels good, even if his body is sluggish to respond. He glances around. The kids are all still watching the movie, though Austin is dividing his attention between the TV and a Game Boy. Nathalie is still reading her book, but Mario must have already gone upstairs.

“Do you want us to stop it?” Alexa asks.

Zhenya shakes his head. “I watch rest later,” he says. “Not tell me end!”

Lauren grins and opens her mouth to say something, but Zhenya just covers his ears.

“I’m go, I’m go,” he says, uncovering his ears to offer Sid a hand up. “Before Sid sleep on couch again.”

It’s a pretty fair assessment of the situation, so Sid lets Zhenya pull him up. “Goodnight, everybody,” Sid remembers to say. There’s a chorus of goodnights.

Zhenya nudges Sid in the direction of the stairs, which seem never ending as they trudge up and up. Sid feels like he’s going at half-speed as he strips down to his boxers, puts on the first t-shirt he finds in the pile of clean laundry they haven’t gotten around to putting away yet, and switches places with Zhenya in the bathroom to brush his teeth. It’s only when he glances up in the mirror that he realizes he’s put on one of the promotional t-shirts they sent over in a box full of black and gold 87s and 71s. The shirt says MALKIN on the back in all caps, and as much as Sid liked his Metallurg shirt, this is even better. This is something that’s both of theirs.

Zhenya is doing something with his phone when Sid comes back out, so Sid asks, “You want me to turn out the light?”

“Yes, okay,” Zhenya says in Russian, seemingly distracted, only to say a moment later, “Wait.”

Sid pauses with his hand over the switch. “Everything okay?” he asks, turning back to look at Zhenya.

“Wear best shirt,” he says, grinning.

Sid rolls his eyes and turns out the lights, blinking while his eyes adjust until he can navigate to bed by the light of Zhenya’s phone.

“Goodnight, Zhenya,” Sid says, getting under the covers.

“Goodnight, Sidnyusha,” Zhenya says on a yawn. “Alarm?”

“Early,” Sid warns him. “Seven.”

Zhenya grumbles but sets it on his phone before putting it on the nightstand between their beds.

***

The rest of training camp is eating and sleeping interspersed with hockey and interviews. There’s some promotional stuff to do for Reebok and they go out for lunch with Max and Colby a few times, but that’s about it. He’s glad that it seems as exhausting for Zhenya as it does for him — it’s reassuring to have someone to look at and think, “Well, it’s not just me.” They fall asleep on the couch a lot, and in the car. Zhenya even nods off once during dinner. The kids occasionally make snoring noises mid-sentence at the table for the next three days.

Their first preseason game is in Columbus, less than an hour away in the air. The whole process is sort of surreal — packing a duffel and putting on a suit and getting on a plane to go play hockey in the NHL. Zhenya looks good in one of the suits they actually bought for him, if impossibly tall. Mario drops them off at the airport since he’s not going on the trip with them, and wishes them both a good game.

The stadium is surprisingly full — and surprisingly full of Pittsburgh fans, for that matter. Then again, Columbus isn’t that far from Pittsburgh.

When he says as much to Zhenya, Zhenya shakes his head and grins at him. “Here to see you,” he says.

“Here to see us,” Sid says firmly. Zhenya gives him a friendly bump and goes to stretch out on the ice.

It isn’t until they’re getting ready to go out for the game and are left staring at each other that Sid realizes they have a problem.

“Do you — do you usually go out last?” Sid asks, because he’s gone out last for years, but this is Zhenya — but he’s gone out last for years.

Zhenya nods.

“Oh,” Sid says, flummoxed. They can’t both go out last, obviously. He wonders if they could flip a coin, or do rock-paper-scissors.

Zhenya doesn’t look particularly perturbed, but he doesn’t look like he’s going to back down, either. “I play two years Superleague,” he says.

“Are you serious?” Sid says incredulously.

“I’m older,” Zhenya says, looking down at Sid implacably, echoing Lauren and Stephanie’s most frequently used rationale for why they should win all arguments.

“I’m going to kill you both,” Sergei threatens from just up ahead. “Figure it out, it’s almost time.”

Sid wrinkles his nose, and then sighs. “It’s my routine,” he tries one last time.

“Make new,” Zhenya says.

“Like what?” Sid says warily.

“Like—” Zhenya bumps fists with Sid, taps his chest, then knocks their helmets together.

“I guess that could work,” Sid says reluctantly. He moves so that Zhenya is in the very back of the line, and only jumps a little when Zhenya swats him hard on the ass.

“Good luck,” Zhenya says.

Sid’s not sure if he’s wishing him good luck or explaining, but there’s no time left to wonder — they’re heading out onto the ice for their first taste of the NHL.

***

It’s going to be an adjustment. The guys are bigger, and they hit harder. Sid doesn’t think it’s his imagination that they hit him harder, in particular. Zhenya nearly took the head off an AHL defenseman who can-opened Sid in the second, got two minutes, and fumed in the box.

They sit together on the plane, mostly because only Sid dares to come near Zhenya — even Sergei gives him a wide berth. He lets Zhenya stew in silence until they reach cruising altitude. It’s after midnight, the cabin is dimmed, and there’s the sound of quiet conversation and the occasional snore.

“We’ll do better next game,” Sid says eventually. Zhenya’s jaw clenches. As much as Sid would have liked for them to win their first preseason game, he knows that there’s a learning curve for everyone, and they just have to work hard and be patient.

Sid sighs and leans his head against Zhenya’s shoulder. He feels Zhenya tense and then relax a little.

Zhenya doesn’t have to talk for Sid to listen, after all.

***

He and Zhenya don’t play every preseason game. At least one of them plays every home game, but only Zhenya gets called to play the first preseason game against Washington in Hershey. Mario’s going, too, which means Sid is left home alone. He’s trying not to be annoyed by it, because he understands the point and necessity of preseason games — he just wishes he was playing. He’s raiding the downstairs refrigerator for leftovers from the previous night’s pot roast to make up a post-workout meal when Nathalie sticks her head into the kitchen.

“Oh, good, there you are. I have a bit of a favour to ask,” she says.

Sid nods, glad to do anything for her, but also hoping for a distraction until game time. “Sure,” he says.

“Austin has a game tonight, and normally we’d all go, but Lauren has a big project due tomorrow and Stephanie and Alexa are dragging their feet about it,” she explains. “They’re pretty good on their own, but can you just make sure they don’t burn down the house or anything?”

“Absolutely,” Sid says. “Anything else?”

“Finish off that container. Don’t you even think about putting it back in there with that little bit left,” Nathalie says, smiling.

There’s probably another whole non-hockey-player serving in there, but Sid just grins back and cleans out the container before putting it in the dishwasher.

“If you all get hungry, there’s stuff in the fridge, but if no one can find something they want, there’s always pizza,” she says, before yelling, “Austin! Let’s go!”

After he heats up his leftovers, Sid finds Lauren in the dining room with the better part of the table covered in a massive tri-fold poster and a laptop, muttering to herself.

“Need a hand?” Sid offers.

“Science project,” Lauren hisses at her laptop. Sid nods and bows out.

He takes his plate to the living room, figuring that it’s the first place the girls would go to look for him if they need something. There’s still about two hours to game time, so Sid clicks around until he finds a special on naval pilots in the Pacific. It’s almost done when Tara hops up on the couch with him, sniffing hopefully at his empty plate before settling with her head in his lap. And where one dog is being petted, the other will follow, so he ends up with both Tara and Lola cuddled up against him. He doesn’t want to move even to get a glass of water. He’s just wondering if he should switch to the pregame already when Alexa plops down on the couch.

“Whatcha watchin’?” she asks.

“I was about to put on the pregame,” he says. “But we don’t have to watch it. Is there something you want to watch?”

Alexa hesitates, then holds out her hand for the remote. “You sure?” she asks.

“Yeah, as long as we switch over at five,” Sid says, hoping he won’t have cause to regret it.

“Duh,” she agrees, which is how Sid ends up watching a cartoon about a kid with fairy godparents for an hour while two dogs and an 8-year-old lie on him. The dogs huff occasionally as Alexa laughs. It reminds him so much of afternoons with Taylor that he finds himself grinning at nothing at all, thinking he might call home after the game.

Promptly at five they switch over. Stephanie appears in the doorway right before puck drop. “I’m going to make some popcorn, do you guys want some?” she asks.

“Oh, I can help—” Sid starts.

“Nah, I got it,” Stephanie says. “I’m sure Mom warned you not to let us burn down the house but I’m not going to set anything on fire in the microwave. It’s popcorn, there’s a button and everything.”

Soon there’s a giant bowl of popcorn for them to share. Lauren ventures in from the living room and throws herself down next to Stephanie with a sigh. “My partner is too stupid to function, I need a break,” she declares. Sid’s certainly not going to argue with that, so he just passes the popcorn down.

The guys aren’t playing badly per se, they’re just taking some stupid penalties, so it’s a good thing when Zhenya blocks a clearing attempt and dishes up a beauty of an assist for Tomas, who squeaks it in just over Ouellet’s glove. They all scare the dogs off the couch with their cheering. The period ends 1-0, but the Caps are reenergized when they come out for the second and it seems like just a matter of time before they score. Fifteen minutes in they equalize, and the period ends 1-1 with Mario hitting the post twice. They’re hardly sending him out, which — Sid guesses it’s just the preseason, why tire anyone out now — but at the same time, it feels wrong.

Michel scores in the third, but the Caps score twice and that’s that — the buzzer sounds and the Pens are 0-3-2. It grates on Sid’s nerves — he knows the point of the preseason is to evaluate player readiness and to test things out, but Sid can see the bones of a good team in their roster, and it’s frustrating to have to watch them lose.

Alexa turns off the TV with a huff. Lola comes over and puts her head on Sid’s knee and whines a little. Maybe a walk is in order for both of them. “I’m going take the dogs for a walk, then we can make dinner?” Sid offers into the silence.

There’s some quiet agreement. Lauren heads back into the dining room, presumably to finish her project, and Alexa grabs a beaten up copy of Sideways Stories that seems to live in the den.

“Can I come with you?” Stephanie asks, a little subdued.

“Of course,” he says. She doesn’t say anything through leashing up the dogs or heading outside — it’s still warm from the day and a little humid, like it might rain later — but by the time they’re about halfway through the usual dog walking circuit, Stephanie says, “Sucks.”

“Sucks,” he agrees. He wonders if Zhenya is beating himself up over the game, without Sid to carefully draw him out of his post-loss funk. Before they left, Mario said the trip would take about the same amount of time as Columbus, so Sid at least has a benchmark for when to expect Mario and Zhenya to get home.

By the time Sid and Stephanie get back, the van is in the driveway and Austin’s gear is airing out in the mudroom. The dogs sniff it gleefully before heading in, barking happily.

“Hey, do you guys want me to make something or do you just want to forage for leftovers?” Nathalie asks, putting a plate of reheated pasta in front of Austin, who waves as he digs in.

Alexa pokes her head into the fridge. “Is there more of the spaghetti?”

“Probably enough for the whole street,” Nathalie says. Sid’s seen her make huge, unbelievable quantities of pasta, split up into hockey-player-portion-sized Ziploc bags and kid-friendly-sized tupperware. “I don’t know how much of the sauce is left, if you boys have been raiding it.” She smiles at Sid, who stops to think if he and Zhenya took any of the sauce from Wednesday’s spaghetti.

“I think we’ve been too busy eating the pot roast,” Sid admits.

Nathalie laughs. “You’re both always welcome to anything in the fridge, you know that,” she says. “Are you about ready to eat again?”

“I can heat up my own plate,” Sid offers, because he doesn’t want to put her to any extra work.

She waves him off. “It’s no problem,” she says firmly.

They all end up clustered around the kitchen counter, eating and talking about Austin’s game. When they’re done, everyone is called into the dining room to marvel at Lauren’s science fair project about erosion.

Mario and Zhenya probably still won’t be home for another three hours, and Sid knows it’ll be better to go to bed as early as he can manage. But he finds himself reading until almost 11, when he can’t keep his eyes open anymore.

***

He’s not really sure what wakes him up, but there’s dim light coming from the bathroom, and he can hear what sounds like Zhenya’s bag hitting the floor.

“Zhenya?” Sid asks, his voice froggy.

“Sorry,” Zhenya murmurs as he comes into the bedroom already dressed for bed. “Go back to sleep.”

Even in the low light, there’s still a tightness in Zhenya’s features, his mouth turned down into an unhappy frown as he puts his phone on the nightstand between their beds. Sid reaches out for him before he even thinks about it.

“Hey,” Sid says, tugging on Zhenya’s shirt. “Hey.” He keeps tugging until Zhenya sits down on the edge of the bed.

“You played a good game,” Sid says. “We’re all going to get better.”

“Not score,” Zhenya says grumpily.

“You will,” Sid says firmly. “You had a great assist tonight.”

“Look good?” Zhenya asks, ducking his head, hiding a small smile.

Sid shoves at him gently. “I bet it looked even better from the ice,” he says, smiling right back.

“Tuesday, you see yourself,” Zhenya says.

“Go to bed,” Sid says, settling back under the covers. “You have to wake up for practice tomorrow, sleepyhead.”

“Sleepyhead,” Zhenya echoes back, lazily messing up Sid’s hair further before stretching hugely and lumbering off to his own bed. “Good night, Sid.”

“‘Night, Zhenya,” Sid says, yawning and burying his face in his pillow again.

***

Sid has nothing against Alexander Ovechkin. The media is transparently cooking up some kind of rivalry storyline, but there’s no clear consensus on whether it’s Crosby versus Ovechkin or Malkin versus Ovechkin. Zhenya had a few words to say about him after the last game, but it was mostly genial complaining about having to endure his face.

None of that changes Sid’s uneasiness when Ovechkin skates up to him during warm-ups. Zhenya wasn’t tapped for this second preseason game against the Caps, and Sid’s not quite sure what Ovechkin could possibly want with him.

“Oh, hello,” Ovechkin says with a smile that does not bode well. And then, in Russian, “It’s been so long. I’m so happy to see you again.”

“Hello,” Sid says, feeling awkward and little flummoxed but unwilling to show it if he can avoid it. “It’s nice to see you too,” he continues in doggedly careful Russian.

Ovechkin throws his head back and laughs, and, right, people are definitely looking at them. There are probably eight cameras getting this right now. “So formal! We’re friends!” He waits a beat, and then purrs, “Aren’t we, Sidnyusha.”

Sid feels his hackles rise. “Don’t call me that,” he spits out. That’s Zhenya’s name for him, and Zhenya’s alone — Zhenya gave it to him, and he doesn’t know where Ovechkin heard it but he doesn’t like it at all.

His response was the wrong one, obviously, just the one Ovechkin was looking for, because the smile on his face gets more dangerously shit-stirring. “You should call me Sasha, of course,” he says.

Sid has no idea what goes on inside Ovechkin’s brain, but he doesn’t have time for this. He’s got to warm up. “Whatever,” Sid mutters.

“Don’t be like that,” Ovechkin croons at him. “I’ll see you on the ice, Sidney.” He drags Sid’s name out like a song. He beams at Sid, gently hip checks him, and skates off, seemingly without a care in the world. If Sid wasn’t certain that at least two cameras were trained right on his face, he would roll his eyes. So instead he skates off himself and finishes his warm-up, focusing only on his game and his team.

The first time Ovechkin hits him, he sees it coming the whole way — it knocks the breath out of him, but it’s no worse than any other hit. What he doesn’t see coming is Ovechkin patting his helmet fondly.

“Hi, Sidney,” Ovechkin says, skating off happily.

Sid picks himself up and keeps going. Every time Ovechkin makes contact with him, he makes it a point to say something to Sid, but instead of the chirp that Sid keeps expecting, it’s always bizarrely friendly. It’s actually probably more effective than a chirp in throwing him off, so maybe that’s Ovechkin’s game. Sid resolves to just ignore it.

The game is tight, and Sid gets two assists, but it’s not enough — the Caps take it in regulation, 4-3, and the Pens have only won one preseason game. It’s frustrating and he doesn’t have any answers for the reporters who crowd around his stall, either. Sid just feels tired.

By the time they’re on the plane, the adrenaline is wearing off and Sid’s drooping a bit. He collapses in the aisle seat before he realizes Zhenya’s not there to take the window seat. He’s too tired to move, anyway.

“Hey,” Colby says, nudging Sid’s shoulder. “Scoot on in.”

Sid’s already scrunched up his nose before he even thinks about it. Colby just rolls his eyes.

“Fine, but if I get you in the nuts, this is your fault,” Colby warns him, pushing in to take the window seat.

Their knees bang together a bit, but Colby makes it in with no other problems, dropping hard into the seat.

“We’re going to get there,” Colby says after a few minutes. He scruffs up Sid’s hair. “You’ll see.”

“Quit it,” Sid says half-heartedly. And he lets himself sigh once before he says, “Yeah, we will.”

“Bet you’re sore from Ovechkin gunning for you all night,” Colby says sympathetically. “What did you say to him before the game?”

“I didn’t say anything!” Sid protests. “He just wanted to mess with me.”

“So, the big rivalry after all,” Colby says, waggling his eyebrows.

Sid rolls his eyes. It’s hard to think of Ovechkin as a rival, mostly because he keeps being so weirdly friendly.

“Either way,” Colby says, elbowing Sid once. “He’s owed a hit from the Armdog.”

“I can take care of myself,” Sid says, snappier than he means.

“I know you can,” Colby says easily. “But I’d rather have you on your way to the net while I’m checking Ovechkin into the boards.”

Sid eyes Colby, but there’s logic in it, and kindness, so Sid just says, “Cleanly.”

Colby laughs. “Cleanly checking Ovechkin into the boards,” he agrees.

***

Sid catches a catnap after his conversation with Colby, which is good, or else he might not have made it up the stairs. When he does, he’s surprised to see light coming underneath the door, but he figures maybe Zhenya left a light on.

But when he opens the door, there’s Zhenya sitting on the couch, not even asleep, just watching the Magic Bullet infomercial with a baffled expression on his face.

“Hey,” Sid says quietly, not wanting to startle him.

Zhenya turns and smiles at him tiredly. “Hi,” he says, warm and sweet.

“It’s late, you didn’t have to stay up,” Sid says, perching on the arm of the couch. If he sits down for real, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to get back up.

Zhenya shrugs and stands up, stretching. When he’s done bending all his long limbs to his satisfaction, he holds out a hand to help Sid up. Sid probably needs it at this point, so he just lets Zhenya tug him up.

They’re close together, and Zhenya puts a finger under his chin and tips his face this way and that, like he’s looking for something, or maybe like he’s cataloguing the bruise that’s throbbing a little on Sid’s jaw, the stiffness in his shoulder, the careful way he’s holding himself.

“Need ice pack?” Zhenya asks.

Sid thinks about it for a moment, but he hates trying to fall asleep with an ice pack on. “Nah, I’m okay,” he says. Zhenya gives him a look, so he adds, “In the morning.”

“Take care,” Zhenya says firmly. Sid knows that’s not half-hearted well-wishing — that’s Zhenya’s determined look, and it looks like he’s determined to take care of Sid.

Sure enough, Zhenya shepherds him into the bedroom and fusses over him all through brushing his teeth and hanging up his suit. Zhenya points out the stack of neat, folded laundry on the dresser. When Sid has changed into a soft Pens tee, the screen printed 71 cool along his back, and he’s settled between the sheets, Zhenya hands him a glass of water and some aspirin.

“Thanks,” Sid says gratefully, grimacing as he rolls onto his bruised hip to put the glass on the nightstand.

“You ready?” Zhenya asks, hand over the light switch.

“Yep,” Sid says, snuggling into the pillows and his comforter. The air is finally starting to turn crisp in the evenings, but the days are still hot and they haven’t turned off their air conditioning yet, which is giving off a peaceful background hum.

Zhenya tweaks Sid’s toes through the blankets as he passes by and says, “Goodnight, Sid.”

It’s becoming familiar to have Zhenya’s voice be the last thing he hears before falling asleep, and even with his body aching from exertion and exhaustion, Sid smiles as he says, “Goodnight, Zhenya.”

***

It feels like the best kind of revenge when the team hosts the Capitals for a final preseason game and they finally, finally win. They tally point after point, and Ovechkin skates away swearing as Zhenya crashes into Sid, his glove coming down on top of Sid’s helmet as he shouts, “Fuck yes!” happily into his ear. It’s the kind of game to just revel in, Mario with four points on the night and goals for what seems like everyone. True to his word, Colby does give Ovechkin a good clean knock, but Zhenya is the one Sid has to keep running interference on.

“Leave his mother out of it,” Sid says, hand planted in the middle of Zhenya’s chest.

Ovechkin shoots something at Zhenya that’s too quick for Sid to catch, but he doesn’t need to understand it to know that the expression on Zhenya’s face means trouble.

“I will fuck you up!” Zhenya shouts at Ovechkin, even as Sid tugs him back toward the faceoff dot.

“Listen to your —” Ovechkin yells and Sid misses the end of it, because Brooks Orpik is yelling at them both.

“Zhenya, come on,” Sid says sharply, and Zhenya takes his spot for the faceoff, but he’s still muttering shit under his breath.

In between reffing Zhenya and Ovechkin’s rounds of smack talk, Sid gets two points, and they manage to win the game in a blowout 7-1 victory.

The press is understandably eager to speak to him after a win like this, but Sid doesn’t want to hold up Mario and Zhenya and tries to keep his answers short. No one seems in a hurry tonight, though, everyone trying to hold on to the high and wandering between locker rooms happily.

He’s not expecting Sergei to pull him aside after he’s showered and dressed, but he does, and he looks way too serious for right after a game like that. “Sid,” he begins, then stops and sighs. “Don’t listen to any bullshit,” he says.

“What?” Sid says, because okay, but what?

“Don’t listen to anything that comes out of Ovechkin’s mouth,” Sergei clarifies with a meaningful look.

Sid runs his hand through his still-damp hair. “It was just the usual, right? I mean, I didn’t get all of it, but it seemed typical.”

“He calls you Canadian mistress,” Konstantin Koltsov says, clearly eavesdropping.

“He what?” Sid squawks.

“Like I said, don’t listen,” Sergei says dryly. “I can’t hold both you and Zhenya back.”

“Call him sheep next time,” Koltsov advises.

“Don’t help me,” Sergei says, giving Koltsov a half-hearted shove.

Koltsov grabs Sid before he leaves, though, and carefully teaches him the sheep play on Ovechkin’s name, correcting his pronunciation until Sid’s got it down.

“Good,” Koltsov says, then looks thoughtful. “He’s going to punch hard if you call him that, so be ready.”

“Right,” Sid says, and then thanks him in Russian.

“You’re okay, Crosby,” Koltsov says, and fucks up Sid’s hair a little on his way out.

***

They travel to New Jersey for the first game of the regular season. Sid sees his family briefly between morning skate and pre-game nap, but he’s too amped up to really enjoy their company. He’ll see them after the game, though, and then they’ll fly to Pittsburgh for their home opener, so he’ll have more time to visit with them then.

He’s been assigned Colby as his road roommate, and that suits him just fine. They seem to be compatible on napping and bedtime, which is the most important thing, as far as Sid’s concerned. He knows that Zhenya asked for an English-speaking roommate and got Brooksie, which seems to suit Zhenya just fine, as well. It’s good to see Zhenya making friends with the other guys, even if he makes Sid switch seats on the plane mid-flight so he can get in on card games.

The alarm goes off and Sid wake up from his pre-game nap. Colby turns on the TV and hums tunelessly to whatever song Ellen is dancing to on her show while they get dressed. When they go downstairs for the pregame meal, Zhenya takes the seat on Sid’s right and Max takes the one on his left. It feels good, it feels right. At the arena, Sid changes out of his suit into his Under Armour and tapes his sticks and rests them against his stall. Maybe it’s a bad sign that everybody already knows that it’s his thing and he’ll have to retape them if anyone touches them, but oh well.

When it comes time for his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, Zhenya crowds him as he puts his sandwich together. “Lucky?” he asks, and Sid nods. “Always peanut butter,” Zhenya says long-sufferingly. “Jam and butter for me, please.”

“Make your own,” Sid says, but then makes it anyway.

After Sid’s warmed up on the treadmill, there’s Zhenya again, doing stretches at the same time as Sid. He gives Sid a friendly nudge when he wanders off toward the equipment room.

Sid’s nervous — of course he is, how could he not be? Because this is it. This is his first real NHL game, this is what he’s been working for since before he can remember. Zhenya is jittery and might feel exactly the same way, but he’s steady as he does their newly minted special handshake. He says, “Good luck,” before swatting Sid on the ass, and then Sid’s going down the tunnel and stepping out on the ice, with Zhenya right behind him.

***

If pressed, Sid could only come up with disjointed memories of their first game. He remembers the glare of the lights, and the Devils fans shouting, “You suck!” He remembers his first faceoff, with Scott Gomez saying kindly, “Welcome to the NHL,” before knocking the puck behind him. He remembers one power play shift with Mario, trying not to just watch him, but the way Mario dispassionately surveys the ice like he can see every possibility sends a shiver up Sid’s spine. He remembers Zhenya bullying his way to the net, stymied by the post and then the crossbar. He remembers the final buzzer, and the hollow frustration of losing.

He sees his family after he’s done with the press, showered, and dressed. They’re waiting in the hallway outside the visitors’ locker room, and Taylor flings her arms around Sid’s waist without saying a word.

“You did good, Sidney,” his mom says, and hugs him too. His dad looks like he disagrees, but then, Sid disagrees. If they’re going to win, he’ll have to be better.

Taylor peeks around Sid’s side, to where Zhenya is hanging back hesitantly. “Oh!” she says, and then tugs on Sid’s jacket. He bends down so she can whisper in his ear, “Let me practice one more time.” He nods, and she whispers back what they’ve practiced in Russian: “My name is Taylor. It’s very nice to meet you.”

“Good,” Sid says, and she peeks again, takes a deep breath, and then steps out and repeats it to Zhenya, clear and confident.

Zhenya’s expression goes utterly delighted with a healthy dash of surprise. He holds out his hand very seriously and, when Taylor puts her hand in his, shakes it with solemnity only ruined by the smile threatening the corners of his mouth. “You can call me Geno,” he says. “And I am very, very glad to meet you.”

“Sidney,” his mother prompts him.

“Sorry,” Sid says. “Um, Mom, Dad, this is Evgeni Malkin. Geno, these are my parents, Trina and Troy.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Zhenya says, and shakes their hands in turn.

His mom has an odd expression on her face. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, too,” she says.

Whatever else she might have wanted to say is preempted by Sergei, who sticks his head out of the locker room and tells them both it’s time to go.

“We have to go get on the bus,” Sid says apologetically. “We’ll see you in Pittsburgh?”

“We’re flying out tomorrow afternoon,” his dad confirms. “Good luck in Carolina.”

“Thanks,” Sid says, and it’s another round of hugs and handshakes before he has to leave his family behind again.

The plane is quiet on the way to Carolina, partially because of the hour, partially because of the loss. Zhenya stretches out as much as he can; he’s a little too tall even for the charter plane’s seats. His eyes close as his head thunks back against the headrest.

The seats are nice, but Sid just can’t seem to get comfortable. He shifts his weight back and forth, stretches out his legs before tucking his feet beneath the seat until Zhenya cracks an eye open and says, “Be good.”

“Sorry, am I bugging you?” Sid whispers, feeling a little snippy.

“Just —” Zhenya throws his arm around Sid’s shoulders, dragging him closer until Sid’s fairly pressed up against his side. “Stay. Still.”

He’s expecting to feel even worse, to want to squirm and fidget, but Zhenya is so warm and the weight of his arm over Sid’s shoulders is anything but uncomfortable. The only thing is — holding his head up is putting a crick in his neck. But since Zhenya was the one to drag him in, he can deal with taking the place of Sid’s travel pillow. So Sid lets himself slump against Zhenya completely, and Zhenya’s hand tightens on Sid’s shoulder in a quick little acknowledgement.

“Sleep, Sidnyusha,” Zhenya mumbles, cheek pressed against the top of Sid’s head.

Sid doesn’t wake up until they touch down.

***

They get in late and he and Colby basically faceplant into bed. For once Sid sleeps in, grateful that their practice is scheduled for the afternoon and not the morning. It seems like everyone did the same thing since most of the team is in the hotel restaurant when he and Colby head down. Zhenya waves him over to where he’s sitting with Sergei and Koltsov, and Colby rolls his eyes and says, “Go be Russian,” when Sid wavers for a moment.

He’s pretty sure they’re slowing down for his benefit, but it’s good to practice his Russian, and the other guys are politely keeping the conversation to topics he can manage. He’s happy with how much he seems to be understanding, even if his speaking skills need work.

“How’s Natalie?” he asks Sergei.

“She’s discovered flushing crayons down the toilet,” Sergei says wearily, and for a moment Sid thinks he misheard, but Koltsov and Zhenya are laughing, so no, he probably got that one right.

“Better that than your cell phone,” Koltsov says with a shrug.

“I have the plumber on speed dial,” Sergei admits, and takes a second to translate plumber for Sid. “I talk to him more than I talk to my wife.”

“The romance is dead,” Zhenya says, laughing. “Is the plumber good looking? Should Ksenia be worried?”

“The plumber looks like you, so, no and no,” Sergei says, making a face. Sid laughs into his breakfast.

Practice is good, and Sid’s glad to have some time to work on his backhand. After, a bunch of the guys are talking about a restaurant they went to the last time they were in Raleigh, back downtown, a close walk from the hotel with good North Carolina barbeque, and Zhenya looks interested.

“Do you want to go?” Sid asks and Zhenya nods.

“Hotel first?” Zhenya asks. “Dress nice?”

“Yeah,” Sid says.

Zhenya pesters Sid to help him totally cheat on his English homework the whole bus ride back to the hotel. He’s out of Sid’s sight for thirty minutes, tops, which makes the miserable, nervous-looking wreck who comes downstairs a complete mystery. Zhenya is withdrawn and quiet the whole walk over, sticking close but refusing to talk about whatever is bothering him.

Zhenya eats, because he’s a nineteen-year-old NHL player, and there’s not a lot that can stop him from eating, but he picks at his plate after, pushing around the black eyed peas that stayed on his plate after an experimental bite. Sid isn’t the only one to notice the change in Zhenya’s mood — Sergei is shooting them both looks and Brooksie keeps frowning thoughtfully.

When Zhenya heads to the bathroom right before they leave, Sergei appears at Sid’s elbow and startles him.

“What the hell is wrong with him?” Sergei whispers.

“I don’t know!” Sid says, feeling stupidly defensive.

Sergei frowns. “Corner him when you get back to the hotel and make him tell you,” he says.

Sid crosses his arms. “I was going to,” he says, a little annoyed. He wasn’t going to just let Zhenya keep stewing in his own unhappiness. Sid knows that if left to his own devices, Zhenya will keep poking at the problem like a sore tooth and do nothing to actually make himself feel better. Which is why he has Sid.

Sergei is eyeballing him like he has more to say, but Zhenya is back from the bathroom and then they all head back to the hotel. When they get out of the elevator, Sid catches Colby’s sleeve and says, “Hey, would you mind giving us a minute?” He nods his head toward Zhenya, who is dragging his feet at the back of the pack.

“Sure,” Colby says. “I’ll be in Talbo’s room.” His raised eyebrows suggest he has no end of questions about it, but he just slaps Sid’s shoulder once in solidarity and hustles after Max.

Zhenya doesn’t put up any resistance as Sid basically drags him into the room. He sits on Sid’s bed and looks at his hands, folded in his lap.

Sid’s not sure what to say, other than the bewildered what the hell is wrong? that’s been on the tip of his tongue all night, which doesn’t feel like the right way to start this. So he sits down next to Zhenya, close enough that their knees bump, and waits.

It feels like forever, but Sid can see the alarm clock out of the corner of his eye and it barely takes two minutes for Zhenya to say, “Barry call, before dinner.”

There’s a sick lurch of fear in the pit of Sid’s stomach, but his voice is even when he asks, “What did he say?”

“Magnitka sue Penguins, saying I’m break my contract, can’t play NHL,” Zhenya says.

Pat and Barry had said it was probably coming, but it still feels like a hit from behind. “What else did he say?” Sid asks.

Zhenya shrugs. “He says everything okay, no worry,” he says dully.

“He wouldn’t say it if it weren’t really okay,” Sid says, even though it sounds like cold comfort to him, too. “If Barry says he’s sure, he’s sure.” Agents don’t take a definitive stance unless they’re really certain.

“Maybe they right, though,” Zhenya says, staring hard down at his hands. “Maybe I’m supposed to stay. I break contract.” He sounds so guilty, like he blames himself for how everything happened and no — none of it is his fault at all.

“The contract they made you sign,” Sid reminds him. “They said they would let you go when you were ready, they promised they would support you and they didn’t. You remember, you called me and asked me if I thought you were ready? They tried to make you think this wasn’t where you belonged, but they were wrong. You’re supposed to be right here.”

Zhenya looks at Sid for the first time all night. His eyes are just a little red and Sid is so mad he can hardly stand it, because how dare they make Zhenya question himself, all because they want him to come back. Sid can’t even figure what the odds are that they made it here at all, with a hundred ways for it to go wrong and seemingly only one way for it to go right, and he’s not going to let this stand in their way.

Sid throws his arms around Zhenya and pulls him in tight. “You belong here, with me.”

Zhenya draws in a shaky breath and he holds on just as tightly, face buried in Sid’s hair, until his breathing evens out, even if he doesn’t let go.

Sid feels drained but not tired, exactly, and he’s totally unwilling to let Zhenya go anywhere any time soon. “You want to stay here, maybe watch a movie?” he asks, slightly muffled, into Zhenya’s shoulder.

“Okay,” Zhenya says, and he slowly lets go. It feels kind of strange to Sid, his arms weirdly stiff, like he’s having to adjust to not hugging Zhenya.

He remembers he sort of kicked Colby out of his own room. He reaches for his phone and the remote and gives the latter to Zhenya. “You pick,” he says as he texts Colby hey you can come back were watching a movie.

Zhenya finds some movie that’s predominantly guys staring at each other challengingly and racing cars, neither of which requires a lot of emotional investment or thought, so it seems like the perfect choice. He almost offers Zhenya a change of clothes before he reminds himself that Zhenya has his own clothes just down the hall and that just because he doesn’t want Zhenya to go, it doesn’t mean he can’t come right back.

“Go change,” Sid suggests. “Hang up your suit and come back.” He follows his own advice, taking off his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt on the way to the closet. He sees the extra pillow while he’s in there and tosses it toward the bed, nearly smacking Zhenya in the face with it.

“No pillow fight,” Zhenya says, stern tone totally ruined by the little smile on his face.

“I’d win,” Sid shoots back, just to watch the smile turn into a grin.

“No,” Zhenya says, sliding past him to the door. “I’m fight dirty.”

“You always fight dirty,” Sid says, because Zhenya is a serial tickler. “Go change or you’ll miss the movie.”

Sid’s in his pyjamas and just finishing up with his suit when Colby walks in, Zhenya on his heels. The cops are busting up the drag race onscreen. Colby checks his stride for a moment and Zhenya nearly walks into him, but they manage to navigate three hockey players in the little entryway, even if it’s a tight fit.

“You forget your PJs, Sid?” Colby asks, gesturing at Sid’s shirt. Sid realizes he’s wearing another of Zhenya’s shirts.

“Must have just grabbed the first clean shirt off the pile at home,” Sid says with a shrug.

“Is my shirt, so best,” Zhenya says, smirking.

Sid rolls his eyes and hipchecks Zhenya out of his way so he can start arranging the pillows on his bed into a useful configuration.

“Oh, hey, I love this movie,” Colby says, walking over to his suitcase and getting out his own pyjamas. He says, “Be right back,” and disappears into the bathroom.

Sid’s just about got the pillows where he wants them when Zhenya flops onto the bed impatiently, waving Sid in as all the pillows fall over.

“You take too long,” Zhenya says, settling a group of pillows behind his back, even though he’s still mostly sprawled over the bed. “Here, done.”

“I have, like, one pillow,” Sid grumbles, as he tries to tug one loose from under Zhenya’s shoulder.

“Stop, I’m perfect,” Zhenya says, instead stretching his arm out along the top of the pillows and pulling Sid in. “See, you fit here.”

Sid is a little annoyed by how comfortable he is, actually, because Zhenya is being a pillow hog, even if Zhenya’s arm is supporting his neck perfectly. “Quit moving,” Sid says, as Zhenya reaches for the remote. “And you do have all the pillows.”

“Because you use me as pillow, always,” Zhenya says, turning up the volume. “So I need more pillows.”

“I’ll give you guys all the pillows if you just let me enjoy Paul Walker in peace,” Colby says, getting into bed. “You sound like my parents.”

“Sorry,” Sid says, looking back toward the TV. He rubs his feet together; he’s still a little cold in the chill of the air conditioning.

“Quit,” Zhenya says, poking Sid in the shoulder.

Sid tries not to move, but his feet are still cold. Zhenya is giving heat off like a furnace, though, so maybe he can just leech a little of that warmth —

“Cold!” Zhenya yelps, jerking his feet up.

“Well, you wouldn’t let me rub them together!” Sid points out.

“Such problems with you,” Zhenya mutters, squirming around until he manages to pull the comforter out from beneath them, dislodging Sid from his comfortable spot in the process.

“Hey,” Sid grumbles, even as he lifts his hips so Zhenya can pull the comforter over them.

“Shh, I’m miss it,” Zhenya says, nodding at the TV. He reaches out for Sid and settles them against the pillows again.

“He’s a cop, they’re in a street racing gang, but they’re friends, you didn’t miss anything,” Sid says. His feet are finally starting to warm up. He tucks them against Zhenya’s ankles anyway. Zhenya shoots him a look but doesn’t say anything, so Sid assumes that’s a free pass.

“They bad guys?” Zhenya asks incredulously as Vin Diesel cops to hijacking the trucks.

“Yeah,” Sid says. “But not like, the most bad guys. Kind of bad guys.” He’s a little drowsy — zapped from the travel, practice, and worrying about Zhenya — but warm and snug under the covers with Zhenya right beside him. It’s becoming increasingly hard to keep his eyes open. At first he worries that they’re keeping Colby up, but Colby keeps texting someone and Sid wonders if maybe he has a girlfriend.

“You asleep?” Zhenya asks, rubbing his thumb into Sid’s shoulder.

“Mm, no,” Sid says, even though he’ll probably only just make it through the movie.

“Always fall asleep first,” Zhenya says, thumb tracing a nonsense pattern, shifting the fabric of Sid’s shirt a little.

It’s distracting, but it’s not like Sid needs to pay attention to the movie, and, really, it’s kind of hypnotic. It keeps him up, at least, the little bit of shivery tension in his shoulder, until he realizes how tightly he’s holding himself and stretches out a bit.

“Sorry,” Zhenya says. He moves his arm down the bed, and Sid figures if he was stiff lying there, Zhenya’s arm must be at least a little asleep from keeping it stretched out so long. Sid rolls onto his side to scoot up the bed a little, getting his head on a pillow. He startles a little when Zhenya’s arm snakes out again, under where Sid’s elbow is curled beneath his side.

“Better,” Zhenya sighs out, arm around Sid’s back instead of his shoulders now. His fingers are still idly rubbing against the fabric of Sid’s shirt, rucked up a little in the small of his back, just firmly enough not to tickle. It’s like Sid is something for Zhenya to fidget with. Every so often Zhenya scratches the edge of a fingernail lightly through the fabric, which makes the skin underneath sensitive until he trails his fingerpads soothingly back over.

Paul Walker gives Vin Diesel his keys and the movie is over, the music blasting through the end credits, and it’s definitely time for bed. Zhenya squeezes him tight just once, pulling him in close before letting go and trying to get out of the bed without letting all the cold air in.

“Thanks for letting me watch,” Zhenya says, directing it mostly to Colby, who glances up from his phone.

“Yeah, man, any time,” Colby says.

“Night, Sid,” Zhenya says, scooping up his room key from the nightstand and heading for the door. He pauses and looks back with a sly grin. “Watch out, Army, he talk in his sleep lots.”

Zhenya lets himself out. When Sid looks over to say his own goodnight to Colby, Colby is staring at him like he has two heads.

“What?” Sid asks.

“He’s right, you do,” Colby says.

“What do I talk about?” Sid asks as he sets the alarm.

“Hockey, mostly,” Colby says, shrugging. “Go figure, eh?”

“Huh,” Sid says, and turns off the light.

3. Chapter 3

The game against the Canes is better, but they still lose in a shootout, 2-3. It sucks, but then at least there’s their home opener to look forward to, and, for Sid, getting to spend some time with his family. They fly straight back to Pittsburgh, get in late, and trudge up to bed. Luckily, Olczyk made it clear morning skate was very optional — Sid’s plan for the morning is to sleep through it and then eat a giant breakfast.

Zhenya seems to be on board with this plan, given the way he only rouses once Sid starts making a huge omelette. He lumbers into the kitchen and pours a cup of coffee, staring at it bleakly until Sid takes pity on him and adds milk and sugar so Zhenya can actually drink it.

He mutters something that sounds sweet in Russian, though Sid thinks it’s directed toward the coffee. After a few gulps that have to be too hot, he finally says, “Morning.”

“Hi,” Sid says, poking at the edge of the omelette impatiently. “Cheese?”

“What kind?” Zhenya asks, peering at the toppings in the omelette.

“Uh, cheddar, unless you can find something else,” Sid says, gesturing at the cheese with the spatula.

“No, cheddar is okay,” Zhenya says, knuckling his eyes with the hand not holding his coffee mug. “Hang out with family today?”

“Not until after the game,” Sid says, putting in a generous handful of cheese.

There’s a knock on the door and Sid and Zhenya blink at each other. Nathalie sometimes sends one of the kids up to deliver a message, but they usually just shout it through the door.

“Yeah? I mean, come in,” Sid says, swearing quietly as he tries to fold the omelette.

“Hey, Sid! Morning, Geno,” Taylor says cheerfully, bounding through the door into the kitchen. “Wow, I didn’t know you could cook.”

“What are you doing here?” Sid asks, turning off the burner just in time to be hugged thoroughly.

“Oh, I slept over,” she says breezily. “You didn’t tell me that Steph was like, the coolest. I mean, everyone is great, but she’s awesome. We all played ball hockey for hours yesterday.”

Taylor goes on, filling him and Zhenya in on the past few days in Pittsburgh, during which she’s been hanging out with the Lemieux kids and apparently having a great time. She steals a bite of Sid’s omelette and pronounces it “acceptable” but immediately tells Zhenya about the Kraft Dinner incident of 2001.

“You burn noodles in water?” Zhenya asks him incredulously.

“I got distracted!” Sid says.

“He was watching the Habs game and forgot he was cooking at all,” Taylor says. “Mom didn’t let him in the kitchen for a week.”

Zhenya laughs so hard Sid can’t even be annoyed about it.

They have to basically kick her out so they can get their pre-game nap in, which she takes with good grace, rolling her eyes and saying, “Whatever, I’m gonna go play Mario Kart with people who don’t need to take afternoon naps like two hours after they wake up.”

“One day, you’ll want naps again,” Sid warns her. He feels like he wants to nap all the time these days.

“Naps are for babies,” she calls over her shoulder, as she heads back downstairs.

“You and Taylor, same,” Zhenya says, smiling, as he gets up from the couch. His smile turns into a grin. “And she tells good stories.”

“Ugh,” Sid says, but he knows he’s smiling, too. “Who am I going to get to tell me embarrassing stories about you?”

“All my stories great,” Zhenya says, smirking.

“I’ll ask Ovechkin,” Sid warns him.

“No you won’t,” Zhenya says, getting into bed.

No, Sid won’t. “Okay, I’ll ask Gonch,” Sid says, setting the alarm.

“He old, don’t remember nothing,” Zhenya says smugly.

Sid laughs. “You’re dead if he hears you calling him old,” he says.

“He have to catch me first,” Zhenya says. “Sleep now.”

Taylor has a point; they’re taking a nap after basically waking up to eat, but full and in a patch of sunlight, Sid doesn’t care — he’s asleep in minutes.

***

Mellon has seen better days. It’s a little worn around the edges, a little dim and cramped in places, but this is also where Mario brought the city two Cups and saved Pittsburgh hockey, and Sid falls in love right off the bat. It’s heavy with history and expectations — the front office has been talking about a boom in season tickets and standing room crowds, but it doesn’t sink in until he’s standing under the lights in a black jersey with a beyond full house all on their feet shaking the dust from the rafters.

He’s a part of that now, and he grins over at Zhenya, because this is their town and they’re going to do great things here.

The game is back and forth — Thibault hurt his knee at practice and Caron is back in net again, tired from the back to back. Both teams are playing hard and Sid has to keep reminding himself not to just watch Mario, who slams in a power play goal and assists on Recchi and Jackman’s goals before scoring again. Sid nets himself an assist and is happy to be doing his part when the Bruins get called for tripping and he and Zhenya go over the boards. They’re throwing a lot of shots on net and Sid is happy with the pressure they’re putting on Toivonen, who gives up a rebound that Recchi slaps at, then Zhenya, and Sid skates in to box out one of the d-men when the puck finds his stick and then the back of the net.

The crowd roars, like nothing he’s ever heard before, and Zhenya has his arms around Sid, shouting at the top of his lungs, hand heavy on top of Sid’s head.

“Sid!” Zhenya screams. “First!”

He’s so grateful that his family is here, that his first goal was in Pittsburgh, and the PA crackles through the building, “His first of the season and first of his NHL career, from Mark Recchi and Evgeni Malkin, Sidney Crosby!”

Sid doesn’t think he’ll ever stop smiling, but then Boston scores twice in a minute and a half and they’re trailing 6-5.

Coach sends them out, him, Zhenya, and Koltsov, but it feels like they’re just fighting to get out of their zone and give Caron a break. Then Koltsov gets a stick in on a pass and sends it over to Sid. Zhenya is making a break for it, streaking up the ice and Sid can see the whole thing fall into place — he snaps it over to Zhenya, waiting until the last second, just barely keeping it onside and there’s nothing but ice between Zhenya and the net. It’s a breathtaking slapshot under Toivonen’s glove and Zhenya shouts before throwing himself at the glass, slamming his hands against it to the delight of the fans on the other side.

“Zhenya!” Sid shouts, so fucking happy he actually jumps, and he’s unable to hold it all in as he skates over and leaps into Zhenya’s open arms.

“Sid, Sid!” Zhenya screams, clutching Sid so tight he can hardly breathe. “Thank you, thank you, this — I—” He’s babbling in Russian still when Koltsov reaches them, slapping at their helmets before unleashing a torrent of excited swearing. Sergei and Brooks slam in from either side. There’s a torrent of congratulations in English and Russian, and the whole time Zhenya’s arm stays tight around Sid’s shoulder.

“His first of the season and the first of his NHL career, from Konstantin Koltsov and Sidney Crosby, Evgeni Malkin!”

Zhenya throws an arm around Sid where they’re squeezed close on the bench, their helmets banging together as seventeen thousand people cheer.

There’s some desperate last-second squabbling near their net, but the game goes to OT. The crowd is ecstatic, still, even as the puck mostly shuttles from end to end. One of the Boston players mishandles and there’s a breakaway, Ziggy tearing away with it and firing one off up close, the puck rebounding all the way straight back to Brooks, who lets off a bomb of a shot and that’s it — the Pens have won their first game of the season.

If Sid had thought it was loud before, he had no idea. Everyone is on their feet, jumping over the boards, shouting incoherently, slapping Brooks on the back, lining up to thank Caron, thanking the crowd.

Zhenya is herding him down the tunnel when Scuderi shoos them back toward the ice.

“Hey, no, go, you guys have to go back out,” he says, pointing to where the staff are yelling and waving.

“What?” Sid asks, confused and still high on winning.

Scuderi laughs. Mario grabs Sid’s jersey and says, “Come on, you’re holding us up, boys.”

Zhenya follows along gamely just in time for the PA to say, “Tonight’s third star of the game, with one assist and his first NHL goal, Evgeni Malkin!”

“Go, go!” Sid says, and Zhenya takes a little loop of the ice and raises his stick to the crowd, which screams back happily.

“Your turn,” Mario says, grinning, as Zhenya comes back in.

“Your second star, with two assists and his first NHL goal, Sidney Crosby!”

It’s overwhelming — the spotlight, the noise — but Sid just skates out and raises his stick. Knowing that somewhere in the shouting there are the voices of his parents, his sister, Zhenya, Mario, Nathalie, and the kids, that they’re all here cheering him on makes it even sweeter.

Mario claps a hand on his shoulder as they cross paths on the bench, looking every inch Le Magnifique as he skates out to thunderous applause that almost drowns out the introduction — “Your first star, your captain, with two assists and two goals, Mario Lemieux!”

Sid and Zhenya bump shoulders on their way down the tunnel together, and Sid’s speechless with happiness. The locker room is a riot of joy, and Sid smiles so much his face aches. He floats happily through the questions from the media. One reporter asks, “Sid, what did it mean for you to assist on Evgeni’s goal and to get an assist from him on yours?”

Sid says, completely honestly, “Everything. It meant everything. I hope it’s just the beginning.”

He dutifully answers the rest of his questions. After he showers and dresses, the whole team wants to head out for a post-game meal.

“Okay, okay,” Sid says. “No, wait, I have to find my family first—”

“In the hall,” Mario says. He lays his hand on Sid’s shoulder and leans in close enough to murmur, “Say hi, then come out with the team. It’s important.”

“Okay,” Sid says.

When he finds them in the hallway, Taylor looks like she would be bouncing off the walls if she weren’t struggling to stay awake, and his mom also looks like she’s ready for bed. “Hi,” he says,

His mom says, “Oh baby, we’re so proud of you,” and there’s hugs all around.

“You did good,” his dad says. “You did real good.”

Sid smiles. “Yeah, we did.”

“We’ll see you tomorrow,” his mom says. She nods to the door behind him. “I think you’re wanted.”

Sid looks back, and Max and Colby are impatiently waiting. “Yeah, okay — tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” his mom says kindly. “Go on.”

Max and Colby herd him back into the locker room. Mario says, “There you are,” and then they’re off to the restaurant. They get a private room upstairs, and Sid’s not entirely sure but he thinks the staff might have stayed late just for them. There are menus, not that it seems to really matter — everyone wants steak, and lots of it. And then there are drinks, and Sid expects to stick with water, just as he did when they went out on the road, but Zhenya somehow ends up with two beers and passes one to Sid.

“Oh,” Sid says, glancing down at it. He hasn’t done much drinking — the occasional glass of wine, the odd beer — but it seems pretty harmless. He sips at it, surprised by how much better it is than the beers he had furtively pressed into his hand at Shattuck and Rimouski.

“You like it?” Zhenya asks, gesturing to Sid’s beer with his own.

“It’s not bad,” Sid says, taking another pull.

“Fuck beers, you should be doing shots!” Max shouts, putting down a tray of some clear liquor. “A shot per point, don’t you think?”

“What is it?” Sid asks, eyeballing it. He likes Max, but it’s hard to trust him when he’s grinning like that. Besides, the last time he accepted clear liquor, he wasn’t sure he hadn’t drunk nail polish remover out of a used water bottle.

“Vodka,” Max says with a shrug.

Zhenya raises his eyebrows and knocks one back easily, tipping his head in a clean jerk, throat working as he swallows. “Not bad,” he says, shrugging. “Whiskey better.”

Max laughs happily. “Next round will be whiskey,” he promises. “Right after the kid takes one.”

So far, Sid hasn’t enjoyed social drinking a lot. People try to push him into doing it whether he wants to or not, and older teammates especially have tried to get him drunk because he’s the youngest and they thought it would be funny. But Max just seems like he’s offering because they’re celebrating their win. Sid’s sure he could say no, and no one would care, which is why he says, “Okay.”

“Yeah, boy!” Max cheers as Sid takes the shot. It’s more than he was expecting, and there’s probably a trick to it — maybe Zhenya can teach him. It’s sheer luck that he doesn’t spill it all over himself. It burns, but it’s nothing like the crap he drank in high school. Sid thinks he might understand how people enjoy drinking, now.

Max gets the second round, and it’s whiskey, as promised. The whiskey has more of a flavour, not just burning, and Sid thinks he likes it better too, but he washes it down with the beer.

“You do all wrong,” Zhenya says, taking his glass. “Like this.” He brings the shot to his lips, tilting his head back just a little, then it’s like he breathes it in and it just disappears, the long line of Zhenya’s neck exposed as he swallows and swallows.

The shots are postponed by the arrival of the appetizers, which could be sawdust as long as there was a lot of it, but there’s shrimp and some kind of fritter and all of it gets shoveled into mouths along the table as quickly as possible. The plates are emptied in a disturbing amount of time, and when they’re cleared from the table, Max conjures up another tray of shots.

“This time, you try it right,” Zhenya says. “Don’t try to drink, just—” He says something in Russian that Sid can’t catch between the noise and the alcohol.

“Just take it,” Koltsov says. Sid’s not sure if that’s a translation or advice, but he tries to mimic the way Zhenya took his shots, tipping his head back and pouring it into his mouth as fast as he can swallow. The trick seems to be turning off every sensible instinct and instead just hoping he doesn’t choke. It does go faster and there’s less of the lingering alcoholic burn, so Sid’s willing to call it a success.

“Good, good,” Zhenya says, squeezing Sid’s shoulder. “Much better.”

The restaurant has stuff other than steak on the menu, but no one would ever guess it from what arrives at the table. Considering the way Sid’s head has started feeling both heavy and light at the same time, protein hasn’t arrived a moment too soon. He’s devoured his steak by the time Max comes by again with another tray. He’s done one shot and is just reaching for another when Zhenya puts an arm around his shoulders and takes it from his hand.

“Get your own,” Sid says. He would squirm because Zhenya’s body is hot against his and Sid already feels like he’s overheating, but his eyes fix on the line of Zhenya’s throat as he knocks the shot back.

“Yours, mine,” Zhenya says with a casual certainty that makes Sid’s breath catch. He leaves his arm right where it is around Sid’s shoulders until Sergei says, “All right, boys. I promised the captain I’d get you home.”

That’s when Sid realizes that Mario must have slipped out sometime earlier, and when he looks at his watch, he’s surprised by how late it is. He gets to his feet a little unsteadily, and Zhenya sticks close as they navigate their way downstairs and out to Sergei’s car.

He’s glad that Sergei is driving, because four shots and a beer is a lot more alcohol than he’s used to. Everything is a little hazy. Sid’s head feels very heavy; he lets it loll back against the headrest so he can look at Zhenya, who’s sitting next to him rather than in the front seat, even though his legs have to be cramped.

Sid stares out the window past Zhenya. They’re crossing over one of the rivers, the lights flickering through the beams of the bridge, when it hits him — this is their city and they won here, they won their first NHL home game and they scored their first NHL goals. He looks back to Zhenya and says, “We won.”

“Yes,” Zhenya says, grinning.

“You scored,” Sid says, because he’s going to remember that forever, how it felt to see Zhenya throwing himself against the glass in celebration. “We scored!”

“Going to score lots more,” Zhenya says confidently.

“Together,” Sid insists, and he means to pat Zhenya’s knee, but he misses and sort of gets Zhenya’s thigh. It’s solid and warm under his hand and Sid is struck all over again by how happy he is that Zhenya is here. “This is what I wanted, you know. I hoped for it all year, you here, us.”

Zhenya’s expression is hard to parse at first, but the way he takes Sid’s hand and squeezes it tight isn’t. He looks fiercely happy, then, and Sid’s happy too, so unbelievably happy.

“What I hope for too,” Zhenya says. “To play with you, be here with you.”

“Oh my god, we’re here,” Sergei says, pulling to a stop. “You played well, goodbye, get out.”

“Goodnight, Gonch,” Sid says. It takes him a moment to remember to unbuckle his seatbelt. “Thank you so much for driving.”

“He’s drunk,” Sergei says to Zhenya. “Make sure he drinks some water.”

“I have him,” Zhenya says. “Go to bed, old man.”

“I’m not too old to kick your ass, child,” Sergei says.

“Come on,” Zhenya says, coming around to Sid’s car door to offer him a hand out. “Lots of stairs before Gatorade.”

“Ooh,” Sid says, because an icy cold Gatorade sounds great.

The house is dark and quiet, so they tiptoe up as quietly as they can. Sid has a near miss with an end table, but they make it upstairs and the only thing he bumps into is Zhenya.

Zhenya puts him on the couch, pushing down on Sid’s shoulders until he sits. Zhenya points at him sternly and says, “Stay, be good.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sid says. He’s not sure if he can even make it to the bed. His eyelids are suddenly heavy and the couch is more comfortable than it’s ever been.

“Have to stay up, drink some, or you hangover tomorrow,” Zhenya warns him. “Kids going to be loud, very excited.”

“I’m awake,” Sid says, even though it comes out like a whine.

“Hey.” Zhenya nudges Sid’s foot.

Sid opens his eyes, wondering when they shut in the first place, and sees Zhenya holding a bottle of lemon-lime Gatorade. “Thank you,” he says, taking it to sip slowly.

Zhenya has a bottle of his own; he downs half of it after he sits down next to Sid. “Drink all,” he says.

“I am,” Sid says, and tries to keep up. He doesn’t want to be hungover tomorrow. The Lemieuxs are hosting Thanksgiving and his family is coming over to join them. Sid finally kills the last of his Gatorade, and it seems like an awful lot of work to get to his feet, but he manages it. “How come you’re not drunk?” he grouses as Zhenya herds him to the bathroom.

“Russian, strong,” Zhenya says. Sid makes a face at him. They brush their teeth side-by-side and then head into the bedroom, where they strip out of their suits and hang them up in the closet. Zhenya passes Sid a Pens t-shirt.

“Maybe we don’t have to buy any more clothes,” Sid says hopefully. Zhenya gave him another Malkin t-shirt — how many did the team send?

He crawls into bed and fumbles at the lamp on the nightstand so that Zhenya can turn off the overhead. He expects Zhenya to get right into bed, but Zhenya comes and parks a hip on Sid’s, instead.

“Sidnyusha,” Zhenya says, and he sounds very serious.

“Hmm?” Sid blinks at him. He’s really so sleepy.

“Drink with team only,” Zhenya says.

Sid wrinkles his nose. “Who else would I drink with?”

“Team watch your back,” Zhenya says. He pauses for a moment. “I watch your back.” It sounds meaningful: not just a statement of fact but a promise.

“I know,” Sid says. “I know you will. I trust you.”

Zhenya looks troubled. “Everyone want — part of you. But you not have to give. Keep some for you,” he says, and rests his hand over Sid’s heart.

“I know,” Sid says. He feels like he’s sobering up, or maybe it’s just the topic of conversation. “It’s going to be hard.”

“I help you,” Zhenya says softly, and that really is a promise.

Sid puts his hand over Zhenya’s and lets his eyes drift close. His chest feels cold when Zhenya takes his hand away, and he only just hears Zhenya whisper goodnight before he falls asleep.

***

Sid wakes up the next morning to a cup of tea steaming hot on the nightstand. He can hear Zhenya singing quietly and badly to himself. Sid has a bit of a headache, but it doesn’t seem like anything a quick shower won’t fix.

By the time he’s done scrubbing a towel through his hair, his tea is warm but not hot, and it’s just the way he likes it — milky and barely sweet. The smell of frying eggs is in the air and Sid follows it to the kitchenette.

“Good morning,” Zhenya says, glancing up from the frying pan. “How’s your head?”

“Fine,” Sid says, peering around Zhenya into the pan before taking another sip of his tea. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Zhenya says. “You want eggs?”

“Um,” Sid says, thinking about it. “Just one, maybe.”

Zhenya nods. “You make toast, two for me, two for you,” he instructs.

The toast is done in time for the eggs, even if they’re a little more well done than Sid would normally prefer, and Zhenya slides the egg right between the toast to make a little sandwich. The yolk is creamy and the edges are crispy, and Sid hums happily.

“Thanks, Zhenya,” Sid says once he’s swallowed. “For everything.” He remembers Zhenya promising to help him, but he didn’t think taking care of him was part of the bargain, and yet Sid feels very looked after.

“You make me breakfast,” Zhenya says with a shrug, but he’s smiling a little, ducking his head to blow on his own mug of tea. “I only make little breakfast, we eat lots today?”

“Yeah,” Sid agrees, thinking about the pieces of the Thanksgiving feast Nathalie has been accumulating in the kitchen, with increasingly aggressive notes warning everyone not to eat any of them. “We should go downstairs to see what Nathalie wants help with.”

“Okay?” Zhenya asks, gesturing at his sweats and t-shirt.

“Yeah, we can change before everyone gets here,” Sid says, finishing off his sandwich.

He and Zhenya bump hips and knock elbows the whole way down the stairs, and he starts laughing when he realizes Zhenya is doing it on purpose. Sid races him down the last bit of the stairs and skids into the kitchen, his socks sliding over the wood. Nathalie glances up from chopping a bunch of root vegetables when Zhenya catches up to him and startles him into laughing again, his fingers tickling up Sid’s spine.

“Good morning, goofballs,” Nathalie says, smiling. “How do you feel about peeling potatoes?”

“I think we can manage that,” Sid says, taking a seat at the counter. “Do you have a peeler?”

“Check that drawer,” Nathalie says. She gestures with her knife and goes back to chopping.

Sid finds one mixed in with a jumble of gadgets of uncertain purpose that all seem dangerous. There are four five-pound bags of potatoes and two half-filled stock pots of terrifying proportions waiting for them.

“I’ll peel, you chop?” Sid suggests to Zhenya, and between the two of them, they get a pretty good rhythm going, even if it feels like Sid has peeled every potato in the world by the time all four bags are done. He’s been avoiding looking at the unsavoury-looking things Nathalie’s been doing to the turkey, but it looks beautiful now, perfectly arranged in the pan, slathered in butter and ready for the oven.

“Okay, one of you is putting this in the oven,” Nathalie tells them, eyeballing the roaster. “I got Mario to put it in the pan, but he’s vanished. Besides, if he throws out his back putting a turkey in the oven, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Zhenya volunteers and very carefully maneuvers it into the oven, standing up with a grin as he shuts the oven door.

“Great, now get the other one out of the fridge,” Nathalie says, pulling a second roasting pan out.

The morning goes on in that vein, with improbable amounts of chopping, measuring, and pouring. Eventually, they hit a bit of a lull. Mario has been squirreled away in his office, and Sid wonders if he scheduled a few conference calls to get out of helping. Whatever he’s doing, he can’t hide for long — Nathalie sends Sid to fetch him so they can put the leaves in the dining room table.

“Don’t let him forget the peg on the left side is a little crooked,” she says.

Mario glances up from his computer when Sid walks in and sighs. “Time to put in the leaves?” he asks. “Come on, they’re in the storage under the staircase.”

Sid, Mario, and Zhenya are stacking the leaves up against the wall in the dining room when Sid remembers what Nathalie told him and says, “She said not to forget the—”

“Peg on the left is crooked,” Mario says with a long-suffering look.

“And whose fault is that?” Nathalie yells from the kitchen.

“Mine,” Mario yells back. He grins at Sid and Zhenya. “Come on, help an old man get the leaves in right so he doesn’t have to hear about this for the next ten years.”

The peg is a little crooked, but the leaves are easy other than that. The table is transformed from its normal monstrous proportions, which easily fit all six Lemieuxs and Sid and Zhenya, to something that looks straight out of a banquet hall.

“Like Harry Potter,” Zhenya says, stepping back to look at it in all its extended glory.

“And now, the kids’ table,” Mario says. “We have to shift some of the furniture in the den to make it fit, so let’s do that first.”

Sid has a “what is my life?” moment. He’s moving a couch with Mario Lemieux to make sure Thanksgiving dinner goes smoothly, and it sounds like the plot of a dream Mike Chaisson described to him in grade 6. But the so-called kids’ table, which is bigger than his parents’ dining room table, fits perfectly. Nathalie drafts the kids into setting the table, laying out the nice plates they used the night Zhenya arrived and a seemingly endless amount of silverware.

Nathalie sends them upstairs to make themselves presentable, which will definitely involve shaving and maybe another shower. Which of course means Zhenya nudges Sid out of the way to head into the bathroom first, stripping off his shirt as he goes.

“I cook you breakfast, I’m shower first,” Zhenya says, tossing the shirt into the hamper.

Sid just sighs and waves him on. He goes to the closet. It’s been a while since he wore something that wasn’t sweats or a suit, but he thinks if he wears his nicest jeans and one of the button-downs fresh from the dry cleaners, he’ll be okay. He’s laying them out on the bed when his phone rings, and he hopes it isn’t his mom calling to say they’re downstairs already.

“Hi, honey,” his mom says. “We should be there in a half an hour, provided your father doesn’t get us lost again.”

Sid can hear his dad saying something about “the scenic route” in the background and his mom laughs. “Okay, see you soon,” Sid says. The second he hangs up he barges into the bathroom to tell Zhenya to hurry up.

They share a locker room and a bedroom, so there’s not much need for modesty, but even so, Sid’s glad that the shower and the sink are at such an angle that someone can shave and someone can shower without needing to avert their eyes. “Zhenya, I need to shower,” Sid says, reaching for his toothbrush, figuring he can at least do that while he’s waiting.

“Soap still,” Zhenya calls back. Sid’s not sure what step that is, but it needs to be the last.

“Hurry,” Sid says. All he hears is water splashing. He goes out to take a cursory look at the living room and kitchen, because his parents are going to want to see their little apartment.

He’s just finished putting the dishes in the dishwasher when he hears the water shut off and he scurries back into the bathroom. Zhenya is tucking his towel around his waist.

“Yes, yes, all you,” Zhenya says, rubbing another towel over his hair and gesturing to the shower.

Sid strips down, tosses all his clothes in the hamper, and hops right into the shower, taking care not to slip on the already wet floor. As he speeds through his shower routine, he can just see Zhenya leaning in close to the mirror as he shaves.

“What you wearing?” Zhenya asks as he rinses his razor.

“Jeans, button-down,” Sid calls back. “It’s on the bed.”

“You not do for me?” Zhenya says.

Sid doesn’t dignify that with a response. He scrubs his hair harder to get it suds-free. He’s out of the shower in a fraction of the time Zhenya took, but he takes his time shaving. He’s not willing to rush it and have a face full of cuts for the millimetre of stubble he accumulates. He glances at his phone on the counter and there aren’t any missed calls, so he takes that as a good sign. He heads back into the bedroom.

Zhenya is tugging at the sleeves of a thin, pale blue sweater that’s snug over a crisp white button-down. His legs are miles long in dark pants, and Sid wonders how someone who dresses like a grandpa can still look good — even if his collar is all askew.

“Hey,” Sid says, stepping close and reaching up, encouraging the collar to lie flat over the vee of the sweater’s neckline. Zhenya leans over a little once he realizes what Sid wants. The clasp of his necklace is just beneath the freckle on Zhenya’s throat, so Sid adjusts it so the clasp is centered at the nape of his neck. Sid hooks a finger around the chain and draws out the little penguin charm. He runs his finger over the engraved number before making sure it hangs evenly and tucking it safely back into Zhenya’s shirt.

“Okay?” Zhenya asks quietly. Sid nods, suddenly very aware that he’s still in just a towel.

His parents could be arriving at any moment, so Sid throws on his clothes quickly. He grabs both their towels and tosses them into the hamper, and Zhenya catches him by the waist of his jeans.

“Here,” Zhenya says, fussing with Sid’s shirt before pushing his hair back off his forehead, tucking a too-long piece behind his ear. “Look good.”

“Thanks,” Sid says, cheeks heating a little. He has to fussily straighten out the comforters on the bed, and it’s probably a good thing that there’s a knock on their door just then, or else he might have tried to remake both beds entirely.

Sid opens the door to find Alexa standing there. “Mom says to tell you your mom and dad are here,” she tells him, and then turns and scampers down the stairs. Sid follows at a more restrained pace with Zhenya right behind him. His parents are chatting in the foyer with Mario.

“Hi,” Sid says, and then looks around. “Where’s Taylor?”

“Out back with the kids,” Mario says. He looks pleased. “I think she and Stephanie are joined at the hip already.”

“Speaking of joined at the hip,” his mom says meaningfully. She looks at Sid and Zhenya. “Why don’t you give us a little tour, Sidney?”

Sid glances at Mario because — well, they’re living there but it’s not his house and he feels a little weird.

“Go on, before Nathalie finds something else for you to do,” Mario advises.

“Oh, we’ll be right back down to help,” his mom says, and she’s smiling but she means it.

Sid’s expecting Zhenya to come with them, but Mario catches Zhenya by the elbow and draws him back into the kitchen, so it’s just him and his parents.

He really wishes that he had remade the beds.

His dad looks not all that interested, but his mom makes a pleased noise at the kitchen. “Oh, this is nice — are you doing some cooking?”

“Yeah,” Sid says, and then tries not to wince when she opens the fridge. There’s some staples in there, but it’s mostly Gatorade.

“Hmm,” his mom says. They continue on to the bathroom, where his dad unexpectedly perks up and tells Sid about the bathroom renovation their neighbours in Cole Harbour are doing. Sid nods along, but his mom has clearly already heard all of this because she’s moving on to the bedroom, and — oh god, disappearing into the closet, what is even in there? Sid hopes there’s nothing embarrassing.

“At least you boys are hanging your suits up,” his mom calls. “Are you doing your own laundry?”

“Yes,” Sid says defensively, and squirms a little. His dad shakes his head wryly.

His mom finally emerges. “Are you doing his laundry, too?” she asks.

“Mom,” Sid protests, because okay, maybe he does but that’s only because all their stuff goes in the same hamper and it’s not like he’s going to sort it out before he starts throwing it in. Besides, he’s wearing Zhenya’s shirts half the time and he’s definitely seen Zhenya slouching around in a t-shirt that has to be one of Sid’s because it’s noticeably too short on him.

“So, that’s working out, then?” his dad asks. “The two of you up here?”

“Yeah,” Sid says. He doesn’t know how he would have done any of this without Zhenya just about arm’s reach away. “It’s working really well.”

“Kids aren’t too distracting?” his dad asks, almost absentmindedly, like he made a checklist of things to ask about that he’s gone over a lot in his mind.

“It’s all great,” Sid says, as firmly as he can without seeming defensive or sharp. He knows his dad isn’t trying to criticize anything. It just feels that way.

“It’s a nice city. Your mother and Taylor seem to like the shopping,” his dad says with a put-upon sigh that is part of a decades-long back and forth that his mother just laughs at. “If you’re happy and working hard, you know we’re happy.”

“I am,” Sid says, quickly. “Both, I mean, happy and — doing my best.”

His dad claps him on the shoulder and squeezes tight. “Good,” he says, smiling. “Now let’s head back down. Mario said the turkey was on the grill and I have to see that.”

“The second turkey,” Sid says, a little boggled by it. He knows they’re expecting a number of people, his family and some other players included, but it still seems crazy. “We’re going to have leftovers for weeks.”

His mother laughs. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” she says, catching Sid’s elbow when he goes to follow his dad downstairs. “I just wanted to say how proud we both are of you, baby.”

Sid blinks, wondering what prompted that, but he’s never tired of hearing it, so he says, “Thanks, Mom.”

“And I’m glad you have such a good friend to lean on,” she says. “I hope we’ll get to know Geno a little better today.”

“Me too,” Sid says, even though he finds himself a little nervous, hoping they like Zhenya as much as he does. “He’s just — he’s really great.”

His mom watches him carefully for a moment, and Sid is about to ask her what’s wrong when she sighs and hugs him close. He figures moms are going to worry no matter how much you tell them not to, so he just hugs her back tightly.

She lets go and pats Sid’s arm. “Come on, let’s see if there’s anything we can do to help,” she says finally.

***

There isn’t, but that’s mostly because Colby and Max have shown up and Nathalie is bossing them around the kitchen.

“Oh, hi, you must be Mrs. Crosby,” Max says, in a sweet, polite tone Sid has never heard out of him before.

“It’s so nice to meet you, after all the nice things Sid says,” Colby adds.

Sid looks over at Nathalie, who is biting back a smile as she assembles a salad.

“Can we get you something to drink?” Max asks. “Mr. Crosby said you might like a glass of wine.”

His mother looks a little bemused, but she says, “Thank you, that would be lovely,” before turning to Sid. “Won’t you introduce me to your friends?”

“Mom, this is Max, and this is Ar — I mean, Colby,” he says, gesturing to them both in turn. “They’re not normally like this.”

Nathalie busts out laughing and Max shoots a wounded expression at Sid. “Go on, boys, go outside and look at the grill with everyone else. Trina and I need time to talk, mom to mom.”

Sid is more than a little concerned about what that might entail, but he takes Colby and Max outside where, sure enough, his dad, Mario, and Zhenya are watching the closed lid of the grill while Taylor plays some kind of ball tag with the kids on the lawn. Sid’s been so distracted by everything else that he didn’t even think about his dad interrogating Zhenya, but they all seem to be having a good time. His concern must be pretty obvious, because Mario shoots him a reassuring look before making room for Sid right between himself and Zhenya.

Zhenya bumps his shoulder against Sid’s in greeting. “We watch football later, you not fall asleep this time,” he says. “Steelers need fans.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” Sid protests. “I was just lying down.”

“Lie down, snore,” Zhenya says. “But not sleep?”

Max and Colby laugh and Mario smiles. He opens the lid of the grill to reveal a perfect-looking turkey sizzling away in a tray of onions and apple halves. It smells incredible. Mario pokes it with the meat thermometer and everyone watches in anticipation.

“It’s ready,” Mario says. He turns to Sid and Zhenya. “Boys, can you go let Nathalie know?”

It’s a controlled chaos, with the kids getting rounded up and late guests arriving. The turkeys are set up on a counter and there’s barely enough room on the enormous kitchen island for all the rest of the dishes. Once the turkeys are carved, everyone forms a long line. Everything smells so good that Sid wishes he and Zhenya were at the front of the line, but oh well. They’ll survive. Probably.

Zhenya checks with him a few times to ask what something is, even though he takes a little bit of everything. They all sit down, and Mario says a few words and thanks them all for coming. Then there’s basically silence for at least five minutes while everybody eats, broken only by Max making some really pathetic noises.

“You’d think nobody ever fed you,” Colby says.

“It’s so good,” Max says, and looks woeful as he shoves more turkey in his mouth.

It’s not Sid’s family’s Thanksgiving dinner, but Sid hasn’t actually had that in years. The Thanksgiving in front of him could never taste as good as his grandmother’s Thanksgiving dinner, in her house with all his extended family. But this Thanksgiving is pretty delicious anyway, even with Zhenya blatantly stealing all the cranberry sauce off Sid’s plate to put it on — well, everything, apparently.

“You could get more. Of your own,” Sid says.

Zhenya makes a noise of denial around his current mouthful and waves his fork in the direction of the kitchen like it’s so far away, which obviously it’s not.

“One time my cousin stabbed my other cousin in the hand with his fork for that,” Max says.

Austin’s eyes go wide. “Really?”

“No,” Colby says. “Never listen to him. Besides, Sid’s definitely not going to stab Geno. They do this all the time.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Alexa says. Sid is on the verge of protesting when Zhenya puts half a roll on Sid’s plate, unbidden.

Colby and Max both give them looks, but the rolls are really good, and he already ate his, and it doesn’t seem right to go up for seconds just yet.

The Lemieux kids and Taylor tell them all about the pies they helped make and Sid’s definitely planning to save room. Zhenya wasn’t really listening or doesn’t particularly care or is a bottomless pit, because when they get up for seconds, he puts more stuffing and potatoes and turkey in a big pile on his plate, topped with a huge smear of cranberry sauce.

Once the table is cleared, most everyone migrates to the living room to watch the Steelers game. Sid can watch a football game, can even throw a decent pass himself, but he doesn’t get involved, not the way he does when he watches baseball — or hockey, obviously. Zhenya, on the other hand, is developing an obsession that borders on religious. He keeps making noise about Sid going to a game with him, which would probably be better to do sooner than later, since he doesn’t want to freeze to death.

However, he’s not worried about that now, tucked safely in the corner of the couch between Taylor and Zhenya, with both apple and pumpkin pie on his plate. Mario offers a round of coffee, but Sid is far too busy eating pie to consider it.

After the dessert plates are carefully stacked on the coffee table, Taylor flops back, leaning most of her weight on Sid, squirming until she gets comfortable. It feels like any night before he left home, with Taylor sprawled against him watching TV. But now there’s also Stephanie and Austin sitting on the floor and leaning back against the couch, Stephanie’s head resting against Taylor’s knee, and Zhenya is warm and solid against Sid’s side, unmovable. So Sid lets himself slump a little too, but he fights the heavy feeling in his eyelids. He tries to focus on the game and listen to his dad, Mario, and Zhenya talk about Roethlisberger and Brees, but there are a lot of commercials and they seem to be taking longer than usual to set up each play, or maybe that’s just what it feels like. The Steelers score a touchdown twice in the second quarter, which helps Sid stay awake, especially since Zhenya throws his arms up in celebration both times, and Zhenya and Austin cheer along with that “Oh, Oh, Oh” song.

He’s listening to the halftime report one minute and the next he’s listening to Zhenya swear quietly in Russian as the Chargers celebrate something. Taylor is heavy and warm against him, and her eyes are closed.

“Zhenya?” Sid asks. He’s still mostly asleep. Zhenya murmurs for him to go back to sleep, and Sid’s tired brain struggles to translate the words at first. His cheek is pressed against Zhenya’s shoulder, and he’s warm and still so full that his eyes slip shut again almost immediately.

He wakes up to excited shouting. He’s not sure what happened, but it must be good, because Zhenya’s arms are up in the air until one settles around Sid’s shoulders.

“Did we win?” Sid asks. He blinks and tries to focus on the score.

“We win,” Zhenya confirms, squeezing Sid tight. “Close. Ben hurt, might be out for next game.”

“Oh,” Sid says, watching the sideline reporter snag the kicker who apparently won them the game. “Good.”

“You no help,” Zhenya says, but he’s still grinning and looking pleased. “I’m cheer very hard, very quiet not wake you up. Also need more pie.”

Zhenya can’t get up until Sid gets up, though, and Taylor is still pretty out. She rubs at her eyes drowsily.

“Come on, honey,” his mom says, patting his dad’s knee. “I think it’s about time we got Taylor to bed if we’re ever going to get her up for the flight tomorrow.”

“Can’t I stay?” Taylor asks. Sid’s touched for a moment, then bemused when she grabs Stephanie’s hand. “I hardly got to spend any time at all with Steph.”

“No, baby, they have school tomorrow,” his mom says gently. “Come on, say goodbye.”

There are polite goodbyes around the room as everyone stands up and heads to the foyer. Colby and Max are pretty quick about their departure, and they take giant containers of leftovers with them. Sid’s parents thank Mario and Nathalie for the meal and for taking care of him. His mother hugs him tightly again and his father pats his back easily. Then they have to try to separate Taylor from Stephanie.

“We’ll see about coming down around Christmas,” his mom says at one point, and both girls get these looks on their faces that suggest that that might as well be forever away. Sid knows that feeling all too well.

“Hey,” Sid says as he pulls Taylor into a hug. “I’ll miss you too, you know.”

Taylor rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling just a little as she buries her face in Sid’s shirt. “I’ll miss you too, I guess,” she says, a little muffled. When she pulls back, she turns to Zhenya and tugs on his sleeve until he squats down so she can whisper something in his ear.

“I promise,” Zhenya says quietly. Taylor throws her arms around his shoulders and Zhenya hugs her back, his long arms wrapping around her.

Sid’s sad to see his family go, but glad he got to see them at all. He can’t imagine being in Zhenya’s shoes, afraid to even call his family for fear of making trouble for them. He feels bad for Zhenya, but at the same time he’s selfishly glad that Zhenya is here.

He tells Zhenya as much when they go to bed. “I’m glad,” Sid says, and has to swallow past some roughness in his throat. “I’m glad I didn’t have to wait until Worlds to see you again.”

Zhenya looks at him for a long, thoughtful moment. “Glad too,” he says in a low, solemn voice, and then he turns out the light.

***

Sid doesn’t think he’s ever been on a plane this much in his life. Quick little flights take the place of hours of bus rides, but even so his schedule is nothing like it was in Rimouski. The conditioning staff encourages them to sneak in workouts whenever they can, and the grand result of it all is constant exhaustion and hunger. When the older guys on the team see him and Zhenya devouring their weight in pasta and chicken, they wince sympathetically and say, “God, I remember that. That was the worst.” Sometimes Sid thinks he’s too tired to sleep, but hockey just keeps going and he has no choice but to keep pushing forward.

It’s not just the traveling wearing him down, either — it’s the attention he draws everywhere he goes. Before the first game in Boston, the team goes out to dinner. Sid honestly thought that he might get approached a few times but otherwise be left in peace. He’s wrong, terribly wrong. He doesn’t feel like he can refuse — especially not kids — but he’s all too aware that he’s a distraction and that dinner is virtually ruined.

He stays in his hotel room the next time, and the one after that. He gets used to taking back entrances and being separated from the rest of the team. The alternative isn’t fair to them.

He draws extra attention on the ice, too, and Zhenya — well, Zhenya takes extra penalties. Sid could let that go if they were playing better, if they were winning more, but they’re not. It all comes to a head after another game in Boston. Zhenya takes three penalties too many. And it’s so frustrating to lose when the games are close, when they need every player on the ice — especially this game, when Mario didn’t make the trip with them.

Sid feels angry and tired but tries to keep that all in while he does his postgame interviews. When he’s done, he showers, scrubbing at his hair roughly, and then comes back out to the secondary locker room. Zhenya’s mostly dressed and not talking to anyone. He broods something awful after every loss, and everyone except Sid gives him a wide berth. Even then, Sid usually gives him space, but tonight he is in no mood to do that.

He pulls on his underwear and pants. Then he says in Russian, “Stop it.”

Zhenya, Sergei, and Koltsov all turn to look at him, but Sid just stares at Zhenya. “Stop what?” Zhenya grumbles back.

“You know,” Sid says. In English, he adds, “We can’t win like that.”

Zhenya’s mouth twists. “Maybe if you score more.”

Sid goes hot with anger. “Maybe if you score more,” he retorts sharply. “But you can’t do that when you’re in the box half the game!”

“What’s your excuse?” Zhenya asks in Russian, and Sid jerks back, feeling like Zhenya hit him.

“Come on, boys,” Sergei says. “That’s enough.”

Zhenya stalks out of the locker room. Sid pulls on the rest of his clothes in sharp, jerky movements. The bus takes them back to the hotel — Zhenya doesn’t sit with him, and Sid is both relieved and hurt — and then the rest of the team heads out for a post-game meal.

Sid orders room service. He’s learned his lesson about being in public, and he can’t say he’d be very good company right now, anyway. He hates fighting with friends. He remembers how he used to get so mad at Jack, and Jack would be equally livid with him, and Sid would really wonder every time if this was it, if Jack would change his mind about being friends with him.

It feels even worse to wonder if Zhenya will change his mind about Sid.

Sid eats his dinner when it arrives, and flips around the TV before until he lands on a station showing Field of Dreams. Not long after the movie ends, Sid hears the door unlock. He’s lying under the covers and channel-surfing. “I’m not asleep,” he calls to Colby.

Colby doesn’t say anything back, which is weird. And then Sid realizes that’s because it isn’t Colby — it’s Zhenya, awkwardly holding a large takeout box.

“You eat dinner?” Zhenya asks.

Sid nods and then looks away.

Zhenya sighs and puts the takeout box on the nightstand. “I bring you dessert, I worry you alone.”

Sid presses his lips together. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

Zhenya sits down on Sid’s bed. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I say — bad thing.”

Sid studies him, trying to figure out if Zhenya is sorry about all the penalties he took, or just sorry about their fight.

Zhenya’s got a furrow in his brow. “I’m little bit — big meanie,” he says. Sid doesn’t mean to smile, but Alexa hollered that at Lauren at the top of her lungs last week and Zhenya asked Sid for an explanation.

“I’m sorry, too,” Sid says, and bites his lip. “I was angry after the game. I didn’t — I know you’re working hard.”

They’re quiet for a few moments, and then Zhenya says, “You working hard, but — teams hit you bad, no penalty. You tell ref, ref say no penalty. And I’m — I’m want them stop.”

Sid picks at the comforter under his hand. “You don’t take every penalty because of me,” he says.

Zhenya tilts his head from one side to the other. “No,” he says. “I punch Alberts because he’s asshole.”

Sid can’t argue with that. “Okay,” he says. “I know you’re trying to help, but—”

“I promise Taylor,” Zhenya says.

Sid stares at him. “You what?”

“I promise I take care of you,” Zhenya says. He looks mulish and determined.

Sid reaches out and curls his hand around Zhenya’s wrist. “I want to take care of you, too,” he says. “So if you’re going to — if you want to make hard hits, you need to make them clean. Ask Brooksie — he can help.”

“Okay,” Zhenya says.

“Okay,” Sid says back. He expects Zhenya to leave so both of them can lick their wounds a little more. He’s not expecting Zhenya to lean down and hug him.

“Sidnyusha,” Zhenya murmurs in his ear.

Sid puts his arms around Zhenya and hugs back, and his eyes fall shut. Zhenya just keeps hugging him, his breath warm against Sid’s neck. And Sid thinks — Zhenya can’t have changed his mind about Sid, not when he’s holding Sid like this.

“Are we — are we good?” Sid asks hesitantly.

“Always,” Zhenya says, and Sid lets out the breath he was holding.

They stay like that for a while longer, and Sid feels himself unwind. Eventually the comfortable quiet between them is broken when Zhenya says softly, “I bring you cheesecake.”

“Oh,” Sid says. It’s a nice gesture.

“Not one piece only. Half cheesecake,” Zhenya confesses.

“Half?”

Zhenya rubs his nose against Sid’s hair. “I worry you not let me say sorry.”

Sid’s breath catches — he hadn’t considered that Zhenya might have been just as worried as him. “I can’t eat an entire half a cheesecake by myself.”

He can feel Zhenya smile against his neck.

“Okay, I shouldn’t eat an entire half by myself,” Sid amends.

“I help,” Zhenya says agreeably. He pulls himself upright again, and Sid scoots over so they can both sit up against the headboard.

Zhenya opens the box. “That’s enormous,” Sid says.

Sid takes the first bite and makes a shameless noise of enjoyment. The cheesecake is creamy and sweet, and the tang of the raspberry sauce is the perfect contrast.

There’s only one fork, so he and Zhenya pass it between them. They make a considerable dent but they can’t quite finish it. “I guess I can give the rest to Army,” Sid says. “Where is he, anyway?”

Zhenya looks vaguely ashamed. “With Brooksie. He say don’t go to sleep angry.”

“I’m not angry anymore,” Sid assures him. “Are you?”

Zhenya shakes his head. “You want — sleep now?”

Sid looks at the clock. It’s later than he expected. “Yeah, we should.”

Zhenya gets up, and Sid’s surprised when Zhenya grabs a few pillows from Colby’s bed and tosses them on to Sid’s. He strips down to his boxers and climbs back into bed with Sid. When he turns off the light, it feels a little like those first few weeks. But it feels different, too, because there’s a bed right next to Sid’s that Zhenya could have all to himself if he wanted to. He’s glad Zhenya didn’t, though. It’s reassuring to have Zhenya close to brush shoulders with him as they get comfortable.

“Good night,” Sid says drowsily in Russian.

“Sweet dreams,” Zhenya whispers back in English.

***

There are a lot of players in flux — they’ve had injuries necessitating call-ups from Wilkes-Barre, some trades. When Thibault’s hip becomes too much for him to play through, Marc-André Fleury, who has popped in and out of Sid’s orbit through the national team and the preseason here, comes up to stay. Sid likes Marc-André instinctively, but he doesn’t know him very well. He’s usually squirreled away with Max, the two of them whispering to each other in French with devious expressions.

So he’s a little surprised when Max throws an arm around him after practice and invites him to lunch with them. “Come on, Sid,” Max wheedles in French. “You were in the Q first — we aren’t letting the Russians monopolize you.”

Sid glances uncertainly at Zhenya. They planned to go straight home after practice — Zhenya’s English tutor is coming at one and he needs to do his homework still. Zhenya looks back with a curious expression, and Sid explains, “They want to go to lunch, but you have tutoring.”

“Go,” Zhenya says, shooing him towards Max. “I’ll see you at home.”

“We’ll take good care of him,” Max says, which is probably the least reassuring thing he could have said.

Zhenya laughs, but he says, “You better.” And then adds, “Or else,” like he means it.

Zhenya goes home with Mario and Sid ends up in a car with three French-Canadians. Max proudly says, “See, they can be separated,” while eyeballing Sid.

Marc-André tilts his hand back and forth like he’s still not convinced.

“Geno and I do stuff separately,” Sid says. His French is a little rusty.

“We’ve just yet to see it,” Sébastien says, laughing. “No, no, Max is just jealous. No one could stand living with him, playing with him, and being his friend.”

“You should be so fucking lucky,” Max says easily. He seems to know where he’s going; he confidently navigates the streets with an ease Sid envies. He and Zhenya still get lost all the time.

They end up at a little bistro where the staff greets Max happily; apparently the French-Canadians come often. Sid’s not exactly sure how he became included in their lunch group, but he can’t deny he’s glad to be here. The French and the chirping sound like Rimouski, which Sid wouldn’t have exactly said he missed, but there is something comforting about it.

Max orders a bottle of wine and pours everyone a glass. Sid has the occasional glass at dinner with Mario and Nathalie, mostly because Mario’s collection is so good. But this bottle seems never ending, and Sébastien and Max cheerfully refill his glass again and again.

Marc-André is quietly, sneakily hysterical and he has Sid giggling the whole afternoon. At one point, he very seriously tells Sid, “Call me Flower. And now we drink to our friendship.”

Sid’s French is pronounced “sweet but terrible,” though it doesn’t seem to bother anyone. They linger over the remains of demolished plates of steak frites until the wine finally seems to run out. Flower looks at Sid consideringly before insisting on him killing the bottle.

“You weren’t kidding,” Flower says to Max. “My little sister and my girlfriend could drink him under the table.”

“I’m fine,” Sid says, but then he accidentally knocks his knife off the plate. When he tries to pick it up, he almost tips over his water glass.

“So who has to return the drunk rookie to Le Magnifique?” Sébastien asks.

Flower sighs. “I can sneak him in through the mud room,” he says.

“How do you know about the mud room?” Sid asks. He and Zhenya creep through the mud room all the time, but it’s to get in the SUV Sid finally bought earlier in the month and drive it to Giant Eagle because they’re out of ice cream.

“You aren’t the first Penguin to live in the ‘guest house,’” Flower says. “Though I certainly never thought about having a roommate in there.”

“It’s not so bad,” Sid says. “We have two beds now, even.”

There’s a long pause. Max says, “I get to tell Army.”

Sid doesn’t get what the big deal is, because they bunk in with each other all the time, but Flower and Sébastien laugh, so Sid grins along with them.

“So drunk,” Flower says. “Come along, little lightweight, time we took you home to your Russian, who will be mad at Max and not me.”

“Zhenya won’t be mad. He said to drink with the team, and you guys are team,” Sid says.

“We’re going to be in so much trouble,” Max sighs.

Sid’s probably not that drunk. He’s just tired and everything is a little wobbly. He doesn’t normally drink — well, however many glasses of wine he drank — in the middle of the day.

It’s hard to stay awake on the car ride home, and he’s glad Flower can give directions instead. True to his word, Flower sneaks him in through the mud room. He’s supporting Sid with one arm wrapped around him; he’s pretty strong for how scrawny he looks. Sid tells Flower this and he snorts.

“I only look scrawny next to your huge ass,” Flower says. “I’m compact.”

“It was a compliment!” Sid yelps, only to be hushed firmly.

They can’t have been that quiet, though, because when Zhenya opens the door to their suite, his eyebrows are raised.

“What you drink, Sid?” Zhenya asks, even though he mostly sounds resigned.

“Just a few glasses of wine,” Sid says, almost catching his foot on the last stair.

“Here,” Zhenya sighs. He holds out his hand, and tucks Sid close under his arm, keeping him steady. “Thanks for bringing him home,” Zhenya says to Flower.

“No problem,” Flower says. “You got him?”

“Yes,” Zhenya says. Sid tries to protest that he’s not a package to be delivered, but all that comes out is a yawn. “Come to bed, Sleepy.”

“Bye, Flower,” Sid remembers to call out over his shoulder. Flower laughs and waves. Zhenya is warm and solid against his side, and he really is the best, even if he makes Sid go all the way to the bedroom instead of letting him nap on the couch.

Zhenya tries to head back to the living room, but Sid catches his hand. “Hey,” he says. “Did you have a good afternoon?”

“Not as good as you,” Zhenya says. “Going to have to teach you drinking with Russians, Canadians do bad job.”

“We — we drank a lot,” Sid says.

“Yes.” Zhenya laughs. He pushes Sid’s hair back off his forehead and bustles off toward the living room. Sid’s hand feels cold now that it’s no longer wrapped around Zhenya’s wrist, so he tucks it under his pillow.

Zhenya comes back with a glass of water and perches on the edge of the bed. “Drink, nap,” he says. “You help me with homework later? Misha says he know I do it last minute, have to do better this time.”

“Sure,” Sid agrees. He stretches out his legs and hums. “Don’t let me sleep too late, though.”

“Wake you up for dinner,” Zhenya promises.

“Thank you, Zhenya,” Sid murmurs, mostly into his pillow, but Zhenya must have heard him, because he pats Sid’s foot. He turns out the light and leaves the door open just a crack. The sound of the nature program Zhenya is watching is low and steady and Sid falls asleep easily.

***

The day Zhenya gives his deposition, George picks him up early and drives him to the law firm that the team uses. Sid spends the day uselessly fretting. It’s a necessary part of the lawsuit being dismissed, but it doesn’t make Sid feel any better. The kids are at school, Nathalie is out running errands, and Mario’s in for an appointment with the trainers, which leaves Sid to putter around the house by himself. He works out in the basement for a while — working out now will help him keep up muscle tone later in the season — but everything is too quiet.

After his shower, he does a load of their laundry and sorts out a pile of stuff to be dry cleaned, but even the soft hum of the washing machine is not enough. He turns on the TV and watches a documentary about the Maginot Line that Zhenya would never watch, but he still feels off balance. He texts Jack, which helps, but Jack has to go to class after a bit, though he promises to call on the weekend. Eventually Sid just snuggles into the couch and lets the drone of the History Channel lull him to sleep.

He wakes up to the sound of the fridge door closing. He turns his head toward the sound, murmuring, “Zhenya?”

“Hey,” Zhenya says, coming over. He picks up Sid’s feet and sits down on the end of couch. His hands are warm on Sid’s ankles where they rest in his lap. “What we make for dinner? Fish in fridge okay?”

Sid blinks himself awake and tries to focus on Zhenya’s exact expression. He doesn’t look upset, exactly, but there’s something shuttered and tight in the corners of his eyes, the turn of his mouth. Sid opens his mouth to say something, to ask about how the deposition went, but thinks better of it at the last second. It’s best to let Zhenya work out his post-game mood in peace; maybe with this, too, he should wait and see.

“The salmon is okay with me,” Sid says finally. “What else do you want with it?”

Zhenya hums thoughtfully. “Asparagus, rice?” he suggests.

Sid wrinkles his nose. “You have to make the rice, then,” he says. It always comes out a little crunchy when he tries.

“Yes, I make,” Zhenya says.

They eat a lot of meals with the Lemieuxs, especially on game days, but sometimes it’s good to cook for themselves. They’re not going to live here forever, after all. Also there’s just something nice about bumping into Zhenya as they navigate their little kitchen, passing each other things and setting the table together.

The rice is perfect, and the salmon turns out pretty nicely, if Sid says so himself. Zhenya is a little quiet over dinner, but he’s smiling by the end of it. After they get the dishes into the washer, Zhenya herds Sid right back to the couch. Zhenya settles into one corner of the couch and tosses the throw blanket over his legs, then lifts up one side of it to invite Sid in. The weather’s taken a sharp turn for the colder, so they curl up on opposite ends of the couch, their feet in one tangled pile in the middle under the blanket. He thinks about getting up to turn on the fireplace, but he’s just managed to get comfortable and it seems like way too much work.

“What do you want to watch?” Sid asks.

Zhenya shrugs. “Anything okay,” he says. “Maybe not History Channel.”

Sid rolls his eyes, but doesn’t bother to fight the little smile he feels pulling up the corner of his mouth. He flips through the channels until Zhenya waves a hand at him and says, “Stop, stop!”

At first Sid thinks it’s a nature program, which is pretty par for the course for them, but then he realizes it’s about two girls who are volunteering at a zoo and wildly unprepared to do so.

“What?” Sid says blankly when they shriek in horror at pretty standard animal behaviour.

“Talbo say this show best,” Zhenya says, transfixed. Sid’s reasonably sure he disagrees.

It’s not just one episode. It’s a whole marathon, and Sid likes Zhenya a lot but he draws the line at three episodes of The Simple Life. When he starts to root for Nicky against his will, he says, “I think I’m ready for bed.”

Zhenya doesn’t look ready for bed, precisely. Sid stretches and wanders off to the bathroom to brush his teeth, then changes into a shirt and shorts for sleep. He turns on the bedside lamp on low before he switches off the overhead. Sid doesn’t mind a bit of light — Taylor needed a nightlight for a long, long time, and whenever they had family come to stay, Sid slept on Taylor’s bedroom floor, so he got used to it.

He’s only dozing when he hears Zhenya come in, and he vaguely registers the sound of his footsteps coming closer.

“You awake?” Zhenya murmurs.

“Mm-hm.” That’s probably not a convincing response, but it’s the best Sid has right now.

The bed shifts as Zhenya sits down on it. They’ve been avoiding it all day, so it figures that Zhenya wants to talk about it now, right as Sid is falling asleep.

But there’s a long silence, and if Zhenya doesn’t want to talk, they may as well get some sleep. Sid thinks of the other night in the hotel room, and, well, it made Sid feel better. He tugs down the sheet and the light blanket, at least as far as he can with Zhenya sitting on it, and then deliberately rolls over to the other side so that Zhenya can make whatever choice he wants without having to look Sid in the eye while he does it.

The lamp clicks off, and Sid has just resigned himself to sleeping alone and feeling weird for even having offered, because he knows it’s weird, he knows that he is weird, but he thought maybe it would help if nothing else could.

And then he feels the covers lift and the bed shift and Zhenya is settling down next to him. They’ve done this before, so maybe it’s not weird for them. Maybe it’s okay.

Sid’s about to drift off again when Zhenya’s hand comes to rest on his hip.

“Sidnyusha,” Zhenya whispers.

“Mm?”

Zhenya curls his arm around Sid and pulls him close, so close that Sid can feel Zhenya’s breath on the back of his neck.

“Be here when I wake up,” Zhenya says hoarsely.

“Okay,” Sid says, and squeezes Zhenya’s hand where it rests on his stomach. “Okay.”

***

Metallurg files for an injunction, which is denied three days later. Zhenya looks like a heavy weight has been lifted off him — the lawsuit still isn’t over, but it’s a big step, and cause for celebration.

It’s time for box cake.

“I promised you, and I’m going to do it,” Sid says. “Seriously, give me some space.”

Zhenya is doing the opposite of that. He’s all but hanging over Sid as Sid carefully reads the instructions on the back of the chocolate cake box. It’s not like it’s hard. Sid made a few this summer with Taylor. He’s not going to win any prizes for best homemade anything, but this? This he has down.

“Quit — quit being tall. Get me an egg out of the fridge,” he says as he measures out the vegetable oil. The oven is preheating, and he already greased the pan he borrowed from Nathalie. He cracks the egg Zhenya hands him into the bowl, adds the water, and then mixes it all up. Zhenya watches intently as Sid spreads the batter in the pan. Sid puts the bowl down and turns his back to put the pan in the oven. He turns around again to see Zhenya with the spoon in his mouth.

“It’s so good,” Zhenya says as he scrapes more batter out.

“It has raw eggs,” Sid says.

Zhenya holds out the spoon. Sid resists for five seconds before caving and leaning in to lick the batter off it. He leaves the can of frosting right where it’s hidden in the cupboard; if he brings it out, he won’t even need Zhenya’s encouragement. He’ll eat the whole thing before he’s ready to frost the cake.

When the cake comes out of the oven, Zhenya stares at it longingly even though Sid tells him it has to cool before they can frost it. He figured that one out this summer. When the cake feels ready, Sid spreads the frosting on top, and they each eat one piece before they abandon dignity and good manners and eat straight out of the pan.

“We should share with the kids,” Sid says reluctantly.

Zhenya wraps one arm possessively around the pan. He’s got a smear of chocolate at the corner of his mouth.

“Hey,” Sid says. “Happy birthday.” He feels a little awkward about the next part, but he pushes on. “So I know it’s late and everything, but since I didn’t get you anything on your actual birthday…” He puts a small envelope down on the counter.

Zhenya picks it up curiously, and opens it. His eyes go wide when he shakes out the tickets. He looks from the tickets to Sid and then back to the tickets and says, “We go see Steelers?”

Sid called and paid for the tickets all by himself, without using Mario’s connections. Once the nice lady at the box office took down his name, she got really excited and wanted to move him to some other seats, but he insisted that he was happy with seats they had already settled on.

“Um,” Sid says, because he did mean for the both of them to go, but. “I mean, if you want to? I don’t have to go — you could take Max, or Gonch, or—”

Zhenya throws his arms around him and squeezes him tight.

***

They leave for the game early enough that Mario checks his watch and asks when the kickoff is, but Sid wants this to be perfect. The weather is obliging with a crisp, cool autumn day, just right for the Steelers jacket Zhenya bought in anticipation, and Sid is going to pull his weight, too. Zhenya pulls all kinds of black and gold things out of a Dick’s Sporting Goods bag and Sid lets Zhenya deck them both out.

Zhenya laughs when the attendant waves them into the nearly empty parking lot.

“The stadium opens two hours before kickoff,” Sid says, a little defensively, and Zhenya pats his hand on top of the gear shift.

“Thank you, Sidnyusha,” Zhenya says, syrupy sweet.

Sid glances over to see if Zhenya is messing with him, but there’s a huge, wonderful grin all over his face and nothing else matters, then. Zhenya drags Sid all over the stadium to take pictures with giant ketchup bottles and look at sports memorabilia and buy hot chocolate. Eventually, he lets Sid lead him to their seats. Sid did an embarrassing amount of research before calling for tickets and anxiously asked the ticket salesperson if she thought the seats would be good, and all that ridiculous preparation pays off in the way Zhenya’s eyes widen as they exit the concourse into the lower bowl.

Sid’s been in hockey arenas of all sizes and a few baseball stadiums, but none of them can really compare to the sheer size of the field, the open cradle of the bowl around them, and the river and Pittsburgh beyond it. It’s probably good there’s still hardly anyone in their seats, because the two of them stand there staring until an usher asks if they need help finding their seats.

Zhenya keeps craning his neck around even as Sid ushers them down the stairs, and between him looking down at aisle letters and Zhenya looking up at the scoreboards and everything, it’s a miracle neither of them falls over.

Sid finds their aisle and leads the way to their seats, which are as perfectly on the 50 yard line as Sid could manage. “This is us,” Sid says. “Do you — this is good, right?”

“Great,” Zhenya says fervently. He sits down, then stands up and turns around, then sits down again, trying to take it all in. He looks so excited he can barely contain himself and Sid knows he absolutely got Zhenya the best gift he could.

The stadium starts slowly filling up, a sea of black and gold with the occasional pop of orange that Sid already instinctively dislikes, even though it’s a fairly common colour in sports. He finds himself smiling every time he sees someone wearing a Pens hat. There are even a few old-school Pens jackets that look like they’re from the early ’90s Cup runs scattered among the Steelers gear.

On Sid’s side, there’s a young couple who seem a lot more interested in each other than in the game, and on Zhenya’s side, there’s an elderly married couple, decked out in Steelers jogging suits and visors.

They introduce themselves as Myra and Earl Wamble and Zhenya spends most of the first quarter listening to them like an eager disciple.

“We’ve had season tickets since 1971,” Myra says. She swears soundly as the Steelers are held to a gain of a yard on the third down. “Some people have lived through three popes. We’ve lived through two stadiums now.”

“Four Super Bowls,” Earl adds. “I’ve been a Steelers fan since they made the team. They were the Pirates, then, and my father took me to opening day —”

“September 20th, 1933,” Myra finishes, rolling her eyes behind her giant sunglasses. “It was a Wednesday. What do you remember, anyway? You were six.”

“I remember everything,” Earl says, pointing a finger at her. “You’re from Altoona, what do you know about it?”

“Oh, Mister I’ve Lived in Pittsburgh My Whole Life,” she says, waving a hand. “I saved for a year to take a bus here and what happened to me — I married you. Anyway, what matters is I chose Pittsburgh. My mother wanted me to go to Philadelphia.” She shakes her head. “There but for the grace of god go I in a damn Eagles jersey.”

“Fucking Philadelphia,” Earl mutters. Myra nods.

“Grossest,” Zhenya agrees solemnly. The corner of his mouth is twitching.

The Steelers punt to the Browns and Myra makes an indelicate noise. “God, I hate these bozos.”

“Why?” Zhenya asks. Myra and Earl turn to stare.

“Oh, honey,” Myra says. The Wambles spend the next ten minutes interrupting each other as they explain the history of a divisional rivalry.

Halfway through their explanation of why the Oakland Raiders are awful thugs who deserve to have jock rot, Sid’s stomach starts rumbling. He doesn’t want to break into the conversation, and Zhenya’s attention is already divided between the field and the Wambles. Besides, it’s not like he doesn’t know what Zhenya likes — if you put enough pickles on cardboard, Zhenya would probably eat it.

“I’m going to go get us lunch,” Sid says, leaning in to Zhenya to make sure he can hear over the sound of an ’80s hair band song blaring over the PA. “Okay?”

“You want help?” Zhenya asks. He looks like just offering is a struggle.

“No, I’ve got it,” Sid says, before leaning around Zhenya to ask the Wambles, “Would either of you like anything?”

“Thank you, sweetheart, we’re good,” Myra says, holding up an impressively large flask. “We tailgate before the game, you know; you should come next time.”

“Thanks,” Sid says, almost in unison with Zhenya asking what tailgating is. Figuring that’s their conversation locked up for the next ten minutes, Sid heads back up to the concourse.

He gets hot dogs and piles Zhenya’s high with relish. He nestles them next to a huge container of nachos, and slips the bottles of water into his jacket pockets. He’s glad the usher just eyeballs him for a moment before letting him pass, because he’s not sure where his ticket stub is. He makes it down the stairs without spilling anything, and that’s when the quarterback goes down.

“What did I miss?” Sid asks, a little bewildered, because all of a sudden the Steelers have a three point lead and the quarterback — who Sid thinks is already their second-string QB — is holding his hand gingerly and shaking his head when the trainers ask him something.

“Batch hurt,” Zhenya says, looking devastated.

They show the replay. The quarterback’s hand slammed into the helmet of one of the Browns’ players, but it can’t be too bad, because he stays in and then pushes through to score a touchdown.

Earl shakes his head. “He won’t be back out for the third,” he predicts direly, even while Zhenya is high fiving everyone in sight and shaking Sid enthusiastically.

He’s right. Batch is out and they send in the third-string guy, a wide receiver. They seem comfortable with a ten point lead, which increases on an insane, fifty-some yard pass from the guy who isn’t even a quarterback. The stadium is roaring. They score another field goal, and maybe that makes them too confident, because Sid goes to get hot chocolate and the Browns answer back with a touchdown.

There’s annoyed sounds from all over, but the Steelers push back with a touchdown of their own, which has Zhenya smiling again — and then the Browns score again. There’s still a thirteen point lead, though, and the Steelers manage to slow down the Browns’ offence. The time ticks down, and both teams start to flood the field almost ten seconds out.

“Sid, we win!” Zhenya shouts. He grabs him and hugs him so hard that Sid’s feet actually leave the ground. Zhenya is probably the happiest person in the stadium, which Sid has no problem with, even if Zhenya’s making it hard for him to breathe.

“See, you boys were good luck,” Myra says, groaning a little as she stands up. “You should come more often.”

Zhenya finally puts him down. “Uh, we travel a lot,” Sid says apologetically.

She shoots him a sardonic look and Sid guesses she does know who they are after all. “I gathered,” she says dryly. “But any time you want to come, Earl and I will be right here.”

“Thank you,” Sid says. He and Zhenya shake hands with them before they head up the stairs.

“You wanna head out?” Sid asks. Zhenya looks like he doesn’t want it to be over yet. “Or we can see if we can go down toward the field.”

“Yes,” Zhenya says decisively. As soon as the aisle is relatively clear, they head down as far as they can go, just over the wall from the field. Zhenya bought the nicest camera he could find that would still let him point and shoot, and he takes it out. He slings an arm around Sid’s shoulders and stretches his other arm out as far as it’ll go to take a picture.

When he flips through the menu to find the picture, it’s slightly off-centre, but they both look happy. Sid likes it a lot.

“Looks good,” Zhenya says, squeezing Sid’s shoulders before he lets go.

“Yeah, we’ll have to print that one for sure,” Sid agrees. He notices that they’re getting looks, and some people are taking surreptitious photos. “Zhenya, we should go.”

Zhenya looks up from the camera, seemingly about to protest, when he notices the same things. “Okay, let’s go,” he says, ushering Sid forward with a hand on his back.

They make it to the concourse, where someone shouts, “Holy shit, that’s Crosby and Malkin!” A crowd builds up, thick and overwhelming, people shaking their hands, putting forward ticket stubs and jerseys to be signed. Sid doesn’t really worry until he’s suddenly not next to Zhenya anymore, and surrounded on all sides.

“Hey, break it up,” someone says loudly, and the crowd starts to loosen up. One of the guards gets to the heart of the scrum and says, “Oh, fuck me.”

Sid thanks them as they escort him out of the lingering crowd. Someone else grabbed Zhenya; they’re being loaded onto a golf cart. There are a few surprised-sounding comments as they zip by, but they’re headed out toward the parking lot now, at least.

Sid thinks he should maybe have taken the ticket lady up on the suite, but then they would never have met Myra and Earl, and Zhenya would have missed out on the regular fan experience just like they did at the Pirates game. He thanks the security guards a lot and directs them to their car in the rapidly emptying lot.

There’s some friendly ribbing about calling ahead for pickup, but Sid and Zhenya sign a few things and pose for a picture and there seems to be a general good feeling about it, so Sid thinks everything is okay. They get in the car, and Sid locks the doors and breathes out.

“Crazy,” Zhenya says, shaking his head. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Sid says. He turns to look at Zhenya. “You?”

“I’m okay,” Zhenya says. He shakes his head again. “Never happen to me like that before.”

They’ve had a few autograph signing sessions and Zhenya has seen the way some people react to Mario and even sometimes — usually in Canada — Sid himself, but maybe this is the first time it’s happened to him. Sid knows what a weird experience it is to realize that maybe you can’t just go to the grocery store or a restaurant — or a football game — without being noticed.

“Still,” Zhenya says, leaning his head back against the seat and grinning. “Great game. Best birthday present. Thank you, Sid.”

“You’re welcome,” Sid says, and he starts the car.

***

Mario is scratched from their road trip to New York at the start of December. Sid wonders if it’s his back, but Mario doesn’t say and Sid doesn’t want to pry. They’re on a three-game losing streak and Sid knows he should be focusing on trying to snap it with a win.

It’s not pretty. They go into OT tied 1-1 on his last-second goal. They stay scoreless throughout OT, forcing a shootout, which is probably going to be their best and clearest shot at Lundqvist, anyway. LeClair goes first and sneaks in a dirty beauty and Flower denies the next shot like a stone wall. He bumps fists with Zhenya before Zhenya goes out. Zhenya storms down the ice but there’s a last second poke check and the puck goes just wide of the net. The crowd cheers, but Sid pushes in to say, “Fuck ‘em, it’s fine.”

The Rangers sneak one past Flower that just trails over the line, and Sid goes over the boards.

Zhenya shouts some encouragement in Russian. Sid goes out to centre ice. Lundqvist dips one shoulder temptingly, but Sid recognizes that for the trap that it is. His pads are wide open — Sid’s going five hole.

Lundqvist slams his pads down, but it’s too late — the puck is in the net.

“Fuck yeah!” Zhenya yells as Sid skates back in. Colby fistbumps him and there are helmet taps all around.

“C’mon, Flower,” Sid whispers, as the Ranger takes his approach.

He goes top shelf and there’s an insane flash of Flower’s glove and that’s it, they’ve won the game. Everyone skates out to give Flower some love, and the locker room is loud and happy. It’s the best postgame interview Sid’s gotten to give in a while.

“Hey,” Max says, flicking at Sid with his towel. “We’re going out tonight. You better have brought something that looks halfway decent on you.”

Sid thinks over what he’s packed and frowns. “Um,” he says.

“Jesus.” Max sighs. “Well, we’ll just have to do the best we can.”

“With his ass, he could wear a paper bag,” Colby says. “Don’t let Talbo give you shit, Creature.”

Sid knows that’s impossible which is borne out when Max storms into their room right before they leave, takes one look at Sid, and says, “Really?”

Sid pulls awkwardly at the cuffs of his shirt. “What?” he says. “At least I have jeans. I didn’t think we were going to go out.”

“First mistake,” Max says cheerfully. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” He throws a t-shirt in Sid’s direction.

Sid catches it and shakes it out — it’s nothing interesting, just a solid navy blue. “Fine,” he says, and unbuttons his shirt to pull it on. It’s at least a size too small.

“It is not,” Colby says when he complains. “It’s just not a tent.”

Sid resigns himself to feeling hopelessly awkward for the whole night and goes with the guys downstairs to catch cabs to wherever they’re going. Zhenya evidently expected to go out and packed accordingly, because he’s wearing what Sid has come to think of as his clubbing clothes. Sergei acerbically dubbed them “thug chic.” It’s a lot of distressed denim. And a grey v-neck.

Sid shoves his hands in his pockets and sidles up to Zhenya as they wait for a taxi. “Hi,” he says.

“Good shirt,” Zhenya says approvingly. “You borrow?”

Sid resists the urge to pull at the hem. “Max got it from someone.”

Zhenya nods. A large cab pulls up and they pile in. Sid ends up squashed on the back bench between Zhenya and Flower.

“Hey, not bad!” Flower says, plucking at the sleeve of Sid’s shirt. “Try not to lose it, though, it’s one of my favourites.”

“Oh,” Sid says, surprised. “Oh, yeah. I mean, I won’t lose it. Thank you so much.”

“Welcome,” Flower says, and then pokes the back of Max’s head and gives him grief for his greasy hair.

“Dance tonight?” Zhenya murmurs to him. He’s put cologne on for the occasion. It’s a little strong, but not unpleasant.

“Um,” Sid says. He’s not much of a dancer. He’s been dragged out onto the floor a few times, but he’d rather sit and talk with the guys.

“We’ll see,” Zhenya says. It has a distinctly Nathalie-like tone to it; that’s probably who Zhenya learned it from.

When they get to — wherever — the bouncers let them in, but they get carded and Sid and Zhenya both get an under-21 wristband. Sid’s not put out by it, because it means Max can’t try to make him buy drinks for strangers.

The club is dark, which is okay, and pretty loud, which is not, but someone wrangles them a deep booth away from the dance floor, and at least Sid can hear people next to him or, if they shout, across the table.

And it’s okay, the usual. Some of the guys sit around drinking, some go out to dance. Max chats with girls and introduces them to Sid, and Sid is polite until the girls lose interest and start talking with someone else.

Eventually Max drops down in the seat next to Sid. “You gotta work with me, here,” he huffs. He’s looking at the latest girls, who left to dance with Zhenya and Colby.

“What?” Sid says, like he doesn’t know.

“No one’s that picky,” Max says. “What are you looking for?”

“I’m not —” Sid starts.

Flower leans over Sid’s lap to tell Max in too-loud French, “Don’t be so pushy. What if he has a girl back home?”

Max wrinkles his nose.

“Or in Rimouski? Nice Rimouski girl. You’d feel bad then,” Flower chides him.

It’s really tempting to let them think that. It would stop Max from trying to help him. But it’s dishonest. And even if Sid never tells anyone else about what he wants, he doesn’t want to lie to his team.

“The whole world would know if there was,” Max says shrewdly.

Sid squirms, because even the thought of that is just — no. The thought of everyone knowing that much about him makes his skin crawl.

“No nice Rimouski girl?” Flower asks Sid sadly, and Sid shakes his head. Flower heaves a sigh and shrugs. “Don’t worry. You’ll find someone.”

“Not if he won’t talk to anyone,” Max says. “Or dance. Look at Geno, he’s having a good time.”

Sid looks at the dance floor, where Zhenya is dancing with a girl with long blonde hair. They’ll probably come back to the booth in another few songs and start sucking face. Zhenya seems to do that whenever they go out, sometimes with a few different girls in a night. Sid averts his eyes.

“Let’s go dance,” Flower cajoles Sid. “I’ll dance with you so you don’t feel lonely.”

“That’s not fixing the problem,” Max objects, but Sid lets Flower shove him out of the booth and toward the dance floor. There are more people, and it’s darker. He doesn’t see Zhenya anywhere.

“Don’t think so much,” Flower says, still in French. Sid thinks he’s swaying a little harder because he’s drunk, but Sid’s not quite sure. “It’s just me. You don’t have to be shy.”

“I’m not shy,” Sid says.

Flower might be drunker than Sid thought, because he sort of falls forward against Sid, one skinny arm wrapped around his shoulder as he puts his mouth closer to Sid’s ear. “I don’t dance with any girls either,” he says, and Sid freezes.

“No?” he says uncertainly.

“No,” Flower says. “I promised. My girlfriend, back home — maybe someday we’re going to get married, you know?”

“That’s nice,” Sid says. And the thing is, it does sound awfully nice. And awfully like something he won’t have, not for a long time, maybe never. And in the middle of the crowded dance floor, with Flower wrapped around him, Sid has to swallow around a lump in his throat, because he’s never felt lonelier.

“Come on,” Sid says after another song. “Let’s get you some water.” He hauls Flower back to the booth and pushes him in, sliding in next to him.

There’s more drinking, and Zhenya appears briefly with maybe a different girl and then disappears again. Sid’s not sure if the music’s gotten quieter or if Max is just getting louder, but everyone at the table can hear him when he starts in on Sid again.

“Seriously?” Max howls in protest after yet another girl he introduces to Sid leaves the table, this time to dance with Brooks. “What was wrong with her?”

“Nothing,” Sid says. He wishes everyone would stop looking at him.

“I’m the best wingman,” Max tells everyone. “Seriously, I’ve got this. Throw me a bone, Sid — is it redheads? Is that what it is? I can — hold up, if that’s what it is —”

“Max, stop,” Sid says. “Don’t worry about it.” He feels caught, and he’s miserable, and usually he loves being around his teammates but he doesn’t love this. There’s no Danny to stick up for him or tell the other guys to let Sid do his own thing, whatever that is. The worst part is that he knows Max thinks he’s helping, but he’s not prepared to tell him that this is in no way the kind of help he needs.

“You can’t just have hockey,” Max insists.

And that’s it. That’s as much as Sid can take. He swallows roughly. “It’s all I can have,” he says. He stands up and drops some money on the table. “I’m heading back. See you guys later.”

He hears his name a few times but he keeps going. He gets a taxi back to the hotel and takes a shower to get the smell of the club off him. He carefully folds up Flower’s shirt and packs it away in his bag, and climbs into bed. He’ll probably wake up again when Colby comes in, but whatever. He turns the TV on and watches nothing in particular for a little while before turning it off again.

He’s dozing when he hears the door click open. He’s glad he left a light on so Colby won’t trip into any furniture on his way in. Maybe Colby will pass out right away and Sid can get some sleep.

“Sid?” Zhenya says softly.

Sid opens his eyes. Zhenya’s still in his thug chic clothes. His hair is sticking up in weird tufts and he smells like all the shots that the guys slid him. “Wrong room,” Sid tells him. “You’re next door, remember?”

Zhenya’s brow furrows, and he sits down on Sid’s bed. “Borrow key from Army,” he says, a lot more coherently than Sid expected. “Guys say you leave early.”

“I was tired,” Sid says, and then bites his lip. It’s not really a lie, but it feels like it.

Zhenya narrows his eyes. “Flower say you leave because Talbo is asshole.”

“He wasn’t,” Sid says quietly. “He was just — you know. Trying to help.”

“Maybe he bad help,” Zhenya says. He sighs. “You want me to help?”

“No,” Sid says, and he’s horrified to feel himself tear up. “Thanks anyway. You didn’t have to check on me. You could have stayed.”

“You think I’m dance when you look so sad?” Zhenya says incredulously.

“I’m not,” Sid croaks. “I’m not sad.”

Zhenya is quiet. Eventually he says, “In Russia, there is a girl I like.” He lays one hand on Sid’s shoulder, thumb stroking back and forth. “I’m sad to leave.”

Sid nods. Zhenya’s never said, but it’s not surprising to hear he left a girlfriend behind.

“You leave girl you like?” Zhenya asks gently.

“No,” Sid says. He knows the stakes are so much higher in the NHL, that he isn’t in the Q anymore, but it’s Zhenya. If he can’t trust Zhenya, he can’t trust anyone. His heart is pounding as he makes himself say, “No girls for me.”

Zhenya’s thumb stops. “Never?” he asks. He doesn’t sound grossed out, or surprised. Just thoughtful.

Sid shakes his head. He doesn’t dare look at Zhenya’s face.

“Boys?” Zhenya asks. Sid feels his cheeks go red. He darts a glance up to see Zhenya’s expression. It’s calm and not at all disapproving.

“One,” Sid confesses. Jack sort of counts.

Zhenya hums. “So. You sad to leave boy?”

Sid wrinkles his nose, because it’s not like he and Jack were dating, and they went separate directions but they’ll always be friends. “No, it’s not like that.”

“Hm,” Zhenya says. “You meet new boy, maybe.”

“No,” Sid says sharply. “No,” he repeats, softer. “It’s not — I can’t.”

“Can’t?” Zhenya echoes.

Sid sighs, and rubs his eyes. “It’s not — not a good idea. Pat says if I don’t want everyone to know, I have to be really careful. Or just — not.”

“So you decide not,” Zhenya says. He sounds kind of angry.

“It’s okay,” Sid assures him. “It’s not a big deal. If I weren’t playing hockey, it would be different, but — everything about me is a story. I want the story to be about hockey, not about — personal stuff.”

Zhenya frowns, looking troubled. “I understand,” he says slowly. “But team is good guys. You tell Talbo no girls, he stop. They support you.”

“Yeah?” Sid says. It’s awful to doubt them, but if things go wrong, it’s not like he can pack it up for a new team.

“When I get to table after you leave, everyone argue, everyone call everyone dumb shithead. They worry they make you sad. They didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” Zhenya says. There’s a lot of forced apologies in the Lemieux household that contain that phrase.

“Oh,” Sid says. He’s touched.

“Think they guess you like boys,” Zhenya says. “Or you virgin. Nobody sure.”

Sid groans and turns his face into his pillow.

“Maybe good to tell about boys,” Zhenya advises. “Boys okay. Virgin, they chirp you.”

Sid looks at him again, and he knows his face is bright red.

His silence must be telling, because Zhenya’s expression is incredulous. “You and your boyfriend, you not?” He makes a vague hand gesture.

“He wasn’t my boyfriend,” Sid says, and takes a deep breath. “And no.”

“He dumb,” Zhenya pronounces with a heavily judgmental look on his face.

Sid’s face is still burning, but he laughs, half because Zhenya’s face is ridiculous and half out of relief. “Nah. He was a good friend. My best friend. And we stayed friends, too.”

Zhenya nods. He leans down to wrap Sid up in a hug that’s no less close than the ones that came before it. Sid holds on tight, and he’s so, so happy that nothing seems to have changed. He told Zhenya and he didn’t lose him. And it sounds like the guys half-know, too, so maybe he can just — focus on hockey.

Zhenya’s basically lying on him now, and that feels comforting, but Sid wonders if he should send Zhenya next door to bed. Zhenya says, “If you change mind, pick good guy. Guy who put you first.”

“Where am I going to find one of those?” Sid says, only half-joking.

“Nobody Talbo introduce,” Zhenya says sternly.

Sid huffs out a laugh. “What, like you’re going to find me a date?”

“If I find guy good enough,” Zhenya says easily.

Sid sighs. He pushes at Zhenya’s shoulders. “Come on, you’re heavy. You should go to bed.”

“No, good right here,” Zhenya says, and snuggles him obnoxiously.

“I can’t breathe,” Sid complains. “Zhenya, come on.”

“Sidnyusha,” Zhenya says in his ear, and Sid stops squirming and listens. “I’m always your friend,” Zhenya tells him, very seriously.

“I’m glad,” Sid says. His throat goes a little tight.

“So you don’t worry,” Zhenya tells him. “You sleep, have sweet dream. Tomorrow is tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Sid says. “Okay.”

Zhenya squeezes him once more and drags himself upright. “Army stay in my room tonight,” he says, stripping off his clothes. He sniffs his shirt. “Spill drink,” he mutters with disgust, and drops it on the floor. He crawls into Colby’s bed in his boxers and turns off the lamp on the nightstand.

“Night,” Zhenya says.

“Night,” Sid says. He rolls over and falls asleep in minutes.

***

At breakfast, Max is apologetic. “Dude,” he says meaningfully, and then punches Sid affectionately in the arm. “Dude. You could have said. I thought you were like — shy. Or like. Saving yourself for Christ.”

Flower flicks Max in the ear and scolds him in French.

“Which is fine!” Max says hastily. “My cousin is in the seminary.” He peers at Sid. “You’re not, though, right?”

Sid looks at him steadily. “No, Max.”

Max gives a relieved exhale. “That’s good, or I’d have felt even worse. Anyway, you don’t have to worry.”

“Thanks,” Sid says, and he really means it. He feels better already, being able to sit down at breakfast and know that at least here, he doesn’t have to pretend.

“That said, you’ll have to give me some pointers,” Max says through a mouthful of eggs. It’s pretty gross. “Ladies, I know, dudes, not so much. You want tall? Short?” He chews thoughtfully while Sid stares at him in horror.

“I want to never talk about this,” Sid says.

“Does that mean he only cares about what the guy is packing?” Max asks Flower in French.

“You have no romance in your soul,” Flower says pityingly.

Zhenya takes his seat next to Sid, and grunts out something that might be good morning as he rubs Sid’s shoulder in greeting, just like he usually does. Sid relaxes even more when Zhenya helps himself to the kiwi on Sid’s plate and gives Sid a piece of bacon in return.

The rest of breakfast passes in peace, and Sid thinks: Zhenya was right. His teammates are good guys, and they have his back.

Through the next several games, Zhenya in particular seems determined to do whatever he can to support Sid. It’s the only explanation he can come up with for why, in the middle of yet another losing streak, Zhenya draws the usual crowd of media away from Sid by saying he’ll take questions in English.

Sid stares, flabbergasted, as Zhenya listens carefully to their questions and then answers as best he can. He’s clearly nervous, and flubbing more than he would in private conversation, but he’s trying. He catches Sid’s eyes once in the middle of another question; he looks so determined and protective and Sid doesn’t even know what to do with the feeling suffusing him.

***

Mario leaves practice a little early, right after Coach Olczyk runs them through some odd man rushes in hopes of taking advantage of some holes in Minnesota’s defence tomorrow. It’s not anything out of the ordinary — sometimes there’s a meeting that can’t be rescheduled or Mario just needs the trainers to work something out.

But Mario’s nowhere to be seen after practice either, which wouldn’t be so strange if he hadn’t driven them all in that morning. His things are still in his locker, though, so when they’re done with post-practice interviews, Zhenya collects Sid and they head over to the trainers’ room, thinking Mario might still be there.

“Hey, have you seen Mario?” Sid asks, when they walk in to see the trainers talking in a hushed huddle.

They exchange a series of looks that make Sid decidedly concerned. Jim says, “You’d better call Nathalie.”

Sid was concerned before, but this feels like a sick weight in the bottom of his stomach. “Is he okay?” Sid asks.

“We can’t talk about it,” Jim says. “But it’ll — just call her, okay?”

Zhenya already has his cell phone out and once he’s dialed, he hands it over to Sid.

“Hi, Geno,” Nathalie says, after two rings.

“No, it’s Sid. Is everything okay?” he asks quickly.

“Mario wasn’t feeling well after practice. He thought it might be the flu still,” Nathalie says. She sounds surprisingly calm and steady for all this mystery, so maybe everything is fine. “He’s experiencing an irregular heartbeat. With his history, they decided to have him come to the hospital and stay overnight, just for observation.”

“Oh,” Sid says, trying to wrap his head around this. Zhenya nudges him with his elbow. He tilts the bottom of the phone away from his mouth to say, “They’re checking up on his heart, he’s going to be in the hospital overnight.”

“It’s just for observation,” Nathalie says, like she’s trying to reassure Sid, when Sid should be the one trying to make her feel better.

“What do you need? We can run things over to you at the hospital, anything,” Sid says. He hopes they can at least take something off of Nathalie’s plate.

“Well, I was actually just about to call you,” she says. “Can you go pick up the kids from school? Everyone but Alexa has something after school today, so you need to get her by 3:20. I called the office, they know to expect you. The rest of them should be done at 4:30.”

“Absolutely,” Sid says. He glances at the clock on the wall. They should be able to stop at home and switch cars.

“I have to go in a minute, but put Geno on the phone, I’m going to give him the directions,” Nathalie says. “Mario’s keys are in his bag, just dump all his stuff in there and you can drive his car home.”

“Okay,” Sid says. It’s probably for the best — Zhenya is a lot better with directions than he is. He hands the phone over and thanks the trainers while Zhenya talks to Nathalie. They collect Mario’s things and head out to the car. They’re quiet on the way home. Both of them know it won’t do any good to speculate when they know so little about what’s going on, but at the last red light before the turn into their neighbourhood, Zhenya reaches over and squeezes Sid’s shoulder once.

“Gonna be okay,” Zhenya says firmly, like he can will it to be true.

“Yeah,” Sid says. He takes a deep breath.

They take Sid’s SUV. It will be a tight fit for them, four kids, and two hockey bags, but they should make it. They went to the school once before to pick up the kids, but it’s a good thing Nathalie gave Zhenya instructions, because Sid can’t remember the way. They squeak in with a few minutes to spare, park the car, and head into the office. They find Alexa chatting with two other students, who break off suddenly to stare at Zhenya and Sid.

“Hey!” Alexa says, jumping up to hug them both quickly. “Where’s Mom?”

“Um,” Sid says, before deciding honesty is the best policy. “She went with your dad to a doctor’s appointment that’s going to take a long time.”

“Oh,” she says. She’s frowning a little, but she nods. “Okay. Can we go get ice cream while we wait for everyone else?”

“One scoop each,” Zhenya says sternly, and Alexa grins, knowing she’s already won.

“Um, is there — do we need to…?” Sid asks, totally unsure of the protocol. The previous time all four kids met them in the lobby and left with them.

“Could I see some ID, please?” the secretary says, and Sid digs his license out of his wallet and hands it over. “And sign here.”

“Sure, sorry,” Sid says. He fills in the blanks on the sheet: his name is Sidney Crosby, he’s picking up Alexa Lemieux, it’s 3:21 on December 7th. “Thank you so much.”

“Sid,” Alexa says from the doorway, near Zhenya. She’s already got her backpack on. “Bye, guys, bye, Mrs. Walters!”

Alexa knows the way to two different ice cream shops that are close to the school, and offers Sid and Zhenya the choice with a philosophical shrug. “There’s the Dairy Queen across the river, which — Blizzards, but the one on Beaver Street has more flavours.”

Both Sid and Alexa look at Zhenya, who, after a moment of serious thought, says, “More flavours.”

The little shop is empty, probably because it’s windy and below freezing outside. This turns out to be good. Alexa tries a reasonable three flavours before deciding on Cake Confetti, but Zhenya tries upwards of ten. The slightly star-struck expressions on the faces of the teenaged servers suggest that Zhenya could rob the store and they wouldn’t care, though. Sid is most of the way through his enormous single scoop of mint chocolate chip by the time Zhenya settles on Death by Chocolate. They sign something for the staff, partially in thanks for letting Zhenya try every flavour in the store, and eat their ice cream in the car so they don’t freeze to death.

Zhenya reaches over with his spoon and sneaks some of Sid’s ice cream, humming happily around his stolen bite.

“Didn’t you already try it in the store?” Sid asks. He takes some of Zhenya’s in retaliation. It’s so rich that Sid can’t imagine eating a whole scoop of it, even with his sweet tooth, but the one bite is unbelievably good.

“Taste better when it’s yours,” Zhenya says, because he’s a dick. Sid has to move fast to keep the last of his ice cream out of Zhenya’s long reach. “Sid not sharing anymore, Alexa, you have to share.”

“I’m not sharing!” she says. “You take monster bites.”

Zhenya reaches back with his spoon and she practically dives out of the way. He grins like a loon the whole time, sharing a conspiratorial look with Sid.

“Are you sure you’re not an older brother?” Alexa asks, her eyes narrowed.

“No, I’m baby,” he croons. “Just like you.”

Alexa gives him a look that clearly says yeah, right.

Sid starts back to the school to get the other kids. When he stays in the right lane, Alexa says, “Sid, turn left!” It’s a little sad to realize the 8-year-old is the least directionally challenged person in the car, but they make it back to school.

Lauren gets in the car first, while Stephanie and Austin are still grappling with their gear bags. “Hey, where’s Mom?” she asks.

“She’s at a doctor’s appointment with Dad,” Alexa says. Lauren frowns but doesn’t say anything more about it. Instead, she pushes everyone around until all four kids are in the backseat with seat belts on.

When they get home, Sid figures they should try to get the kids to do their homework first, and he’ll find something in the fridge or the freezer they can all eat. The kids spread out their homework all over the dining room table, and it looks like a lot for four kids, none of whom are in high school yet, but they don’t blink an eye at it.

Sid leaves Zhenya to answer any questions while he takes a look in the fridge. He eventually finds the emergency frozen pizzas, which seem like their best bet. He puts them in the oven and makes a salad; he even remembers to leave the bell peppers on the side, because he, Zhenya, and Lauren will eat them, but basically no one else will.

Zhenya comes in around the time Sid finishes with the salad — which is also when the pizza starts smelling cheesy and great — and hovers over Sid’s shoulder, stealing some pieces of carrot. “Smells good,” he says.

“It’s not going to be done for another ten minutes,” Sid warns him.

Zhenya sighs and thunks his head against Sid’s shoulder dramatically. “Okay,” he says. “Thank you for cooking.”

“It was no problem,” Sid says. Zhenya’s head is heavy on his shoulder, but it feels nice having him close. “Did you check their homework, or is there still more?”

“Lots,” Zhenya says, half sympathetic, half horrified. “I’m never have so much. You need to do English, maybe history, too. Maybe science.”

“Did you actually do anything?” Sid asks, mostly to give Zhenya shit.

“I’m do all math, most problems!” Zhenya squawks, poking Sid in the side.

Only the ding of the oven timer that stops them from trying to headlock each other in the kitchen, and Zhenya still manages to get in his way when he goes to take the pizzas out, leaning in to stare at them and sniff deeply.

“You’re going to set your head on fire, dummy,” Sid says. He doesn’t want to push Zhenya next to an open oven, but he does want to push him out of the way.

“You too slow, not take out fast enough,” Zhenya complains, but he moves, so Sid doesn’t have to point out that Zhenya is the reason he couldn’t take the pizzas out.

“Go get the kids,” Sid says. He takes off his oven mitts and reaches for the pizza cutter.

“Give me biggest,” Zhenya says, jogging Sid’s elbow as he leans in over the pizzas.

“No one is getting any if you don’t get out of my face,” Sid gripes. Zhenya immediately smushes his cheek against Sid’s. Their noses bump.

“Now I’m in face,” Zhenya says. He’s warm against Sid’s face for just a moment before he pulls away and heads for the dining room. Sid hears him say, “Clear table, time for pizza,” and has to roll his eyes.

“Salad first,” Sid says when the kids come tromping in seconds later.

“Yeah, okay, Mom,” Lauren says. She fills half her plate with the salad and, of course, takes almost all the bell peppers. “Thanks for making dinner, Sid.”

There’s a chorus of sounds that approximate “Thank you” from everyone. Sid dishes up the pizza. He has to smack Zhenya’s hand with the spatula when he reaches for a fourth piece.

“I cut our pizza big,” Sid says. “We each get three pieces — that’s half.”

“I’m hungry,” Zhenya says mournfully.

“Then eat your half now and if you’re still hungry, there’s some leftover chicken in the fridge. Don’t steal my pizza, jerk,” Sid says, pulling his pieces onto his plate quickly to stop Zhenya from making a play for them.

“So mean,” Zhenya sighs, clearly trying to play it up for the kids, who laugh.

“Yeah right,” Stephanie says. “Mom makes us each take a piece at a time.”

Sid notes that all of them have at least two pieces of pizza on their plate. He thinks about trying to enforce normal household rules for about two seconds and shrugs. “Come on, it’s getting cold,” he says, herding everyone back out to the dining room.

Dinnertime conversation is about one-third school drama, one-third talking about the weekend, and one-third greedy speculation about Christmas presents. Austin and Stephanie argue about the chances of Mario and Nathalie making them a real backdoor rink if they leverage Sid and Zhenya’s presence in the house. Sid notices Lauren looking at the clock and frowning.

“You okay?” he asks her.

“Yeah,” she says slowly, but there’s still a hint of something worried in the way her eyebrows draw together.

Sid isn’t sure what to say to make her feel better, but Alexa asks her what she wants Santa to bring her, and Lauren gets distracted talking about the camera she asked for. Alexa, in her turn, talks about horseback riding lessons.

“You hear?” Zhenya asks, nudging Sid’s knee with his.

Sid pauses. He can just barely hear his phone ringing in the other room; he dashes to grab it and probably just makes it. He flips it open. “Hello?”

“Hey, Sid,” Nathalie says. She sounds a little tired, but still calm, so Sid tries to make himself breathe. “I wasn’t sure if you would cook or go out to dinner, so I thought I’d try your cell first.”

“No, we’re at home, just finishing dinner now. We had pizza and salad,” he says. He notices the red indicator light on the oven and belatedly remembers to turn it off.

“Thanks. Was there enough for everyone?” she says. “There’s some leftovers from yesterday in the fridge, too, if you boys are still hungry.”

“Zhenya will probably take care of those for you,” Sid says. She chuckles. “Do you — everything is still — how is Mario? How are you?”

“He’s fine. He’s sleeping already, actually,” she says, her wry fondness coming across loud and clear, even over the phone. “I’ll probably be home before midnight, but the kids know they should be in bed by 8:30. Don’t let them try to tell you otherwise. Lauren can stay up a little later, but lights out by 9.”

“Sure,” Sid says. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, can you put them on the phone with me? I just want to say good night,” she says.

Each of them gets a little time on the phone with her, mostly in French, but with the occasional English phrase dropped in. Sid thinks he’s going to have to practice French more — he’s been so focused on his impromptu Russian lessons with Zhenya, Sergei, and Konstantin that his French feels rusty.

“Mom says bedtime at 9,” Stephanie says, grinning a little.

“Nice try,” Sid says and rolls his eyes.

“Worth a shot,” Austin says. He shrugs and gives Stephanie a high five. “Hey, Sid, Geno said you had to look over my writing assignment.”

“Okay,” he says. “You guys all done with dinner?”

They clear their plates and responsibly put them in the dishwasher before the homework session begins again. Austin’s paragraph is good, and fits the assignment, which is to persuade the reader that lunch should be ten minutes longer. It needs a few commas but is otherwise fine. Lauren’s history homework is next. It takes less than a half hour for them all to finish up.

They catch almost all of some American Idol promo/recap show after a dogfight over the remote that Zhenya finally ends by hitting numbers at random and then sticking with his choice. There’s a little grumbling, but everyone gets into it pretty quickly. Zhenya leans back and stretches out with his legs on the ottoman. He rests his arm along the back of the couch and his knuckles brush against Sid’s shoulder.

“So, you sing,” Zhenya says, trying to figure out the premise of the show. “They’re refs?” he asks, as the camera shows the panel of judges.

“Yeah,” Sid says. “Judges.”

“They’re pretty much always wrong,” Stephanie says, kicking her feet against the couch from where she’s sprawled out on the floor.

“They find best?” Zhenya asks.

Austin makes a so-so motion. “Like, the best person to sell CDs,” he says dismissively.

“Whatever, they’ve all been garbage since the first season,” Lauren says with all the 12-year-old scorn she can muster. “Kelly Clarkson is the best.”

“I liked Jennifer last season,” Austin protests.

Lauren makes a face but nods. “Okay, yes, she can stay,” she says grudgingly. “She was cool.”

“Lauren’s favourite always gets kicked off early,” Stephanie whispers. “She’s the worst at it.”

“Shut up, I am not!” Lauren says. “Whatever, Clay Aiken fan!”

“Yeah, it’s time for bed,” Sid says, because the show is almost over and it’s clear that if they watch until the end a real fight is going to break out.

There’s the usual protests, but they seem to just be for the form of it; the kids trudge up the stairs easily enough. Sid does the same checking he would do if he were watching Taylor while his parents were out: Did you brush your teeth or is your toothbrush just wet? Did you put your clothes in the hamper, not on the bathroom floor? They’re good kids, and apparently pretty tired. Austin is already asleep by the time Sid and Zhenya are done reading a story to Alexa, and Stephanie turns out her light after they say goodnight.

When they poke their heads in Lauren’s door, she asks, “Hey, can I read for a few more minutes? I want to finish my chapter.”

Sid glances at Zhenya, who shrugs. “How many more pages?” he asks.

Lauren flips through. “Like ten,” she says.

“Okay, then lights out,” Sid says. “‘Night, Lauren.”

“‘Night,” she says back, already absorbed in her book.

“Good night. Sleep soon, or Mama not let us babysit,” Zhenya says. She rolls her eyes, but smiles and nods.

“Goodnight, Geno,” she says, and waves them out.

They head for the stairs. “We wait for Nathalie?” Zhenya asks.

“Yeah,” Sid says, because they should make sure she gets home safely. “Want to go back downstairs and watch a movie?”

“I pick,” Zhenya says firmly.

“You always pick,” Sid says, but he lets Zhenya put on the next Harry Potter movie. It’s really just background noise, given the number of times he’s seen it. Zhenya’s sprawled out over his half of the couch, slumping deeper with every passing minute. They’re shoulder to shoulder and Zhenya is getting heavier against him. Zhenya pushes the ottoman a little further away as he tries to stretch out his legs, and then Sid’s can’t comfortably rest on it anymore.

“Knock it off, you keep moving it,” Sid says.

“I want to lie down,” Zhenya grumbles. “Can’t get comfortable.”

“You’re already taking up all the room,” Sid says. Zhenya is already halfway onto the cushion Sid is sitting on. “What if I want to lie down?”

Zhenya rolls his eyes — a habit he’s definitely picked up from the kids — and says a few things under his breath in Russian about being spoiled, which Sid recognizes from the number of times it’s been thrown around the Russian breakfast table when Zhenya nudges the grapes in the fruit salad over toward Sid. Then Zhenya manhandles Sid until they’re both lying down. Zhenya is stretched out behind Sid, with a pillow underneath so he can prop himself up a little higher to see over Sid’s head.

“Now we both lie down,” Zhenya says, sounding pleased with himself. He feels warm and solid where he’s plastered along Sid’s back.

“I feel like I’m about to fall off,” Sid says, because the couch wasn’t designed to have two hockey players lie down on it at the same time.

Zhenya sighs deeply, which Sid can feel against his shoulders, and throws an arm over him. If Sid thought they were close before, it’s nothing compared how it feels when Zhenya pulls him in tight and leaves his arm there, secure around Sid’s waist. “Not fall off now,” Zhenya says quietly, right into Sid’s ear. “And shush, I’m miss Hermione explain everything.”

Sid finds himself fighting off a drowsy heaviness in his limbs. Zhenya’s breathing is slow and easy against Sid’s back and soon they’re breathing in sync. Zhenya shows no sign that he’s planning on moving, or that he minds that Sid’s mostly resting against him, and, well, if Zhenya’s doesn’t mind, everything is fine. It’s actually — it’s really good. He would have thought he’d feel like it was too close, even with Zhenya. But instead, after everything that’s happened today and the craziness of the last month, Sid feels safe, insulated from everything else.

He knows he dozes off, because he keeps blinking his eyes open to find he’s about ten minutes further into the movie. Maybe Zhenya is half-asleep, too, because his nose is buried in Sid’s hair and his breathing is so even. It’s not until Sid hears the sound of the garage door motor that he really wakes up. He blinks blearily.

“Zhenya, wake up,” Sid says, squirming a little. Zhenya’s arm is still firm around his waist and it actually tightens briefly.

Zhenya makes a disgruntled noise, but Sid can feel him stretching out a bit, and finally he lets go. Sid shivers as he sits up; he feels colder where Zhenya was pressed up against him.

“Hey,” Nathalie says, sounding tired and surprised to see them. “Boys, you didn’t have to stay up. You have a game tomorrow.”

“We wanted to make sure everything was okay, or see if you needed anything,” Sid says.

“Can take kids to school tomorrow,” Zhenya says. He’s mostly sitting up now, but his voice is low and scratchy.

Nathalie shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “I’m going over to the hospital as soon as I take the kids to school, but I really appreciate this, boys,” she says. “It means a lot.”

Sid is happy to do anything for Nathalie, who takes care of them so much, so he just says, “Anytime.”

Zhenya nods emphatically. “We even make kids go to bed at 8:30,” he reports.

Nathalie laughs. “Good,” she says. “Now, off to bed with both of you.”

It takes a while for them to make it up the stairs, and they basically collapse into bed after brushing their teeth.

“Hey,” Zhenya says, as Sid plugs in his phone and sets the alarm.

Sid glances over to where Zhenya’s hand is out. For a second, Sid thinks Zhenya wants his phone. But Zhenya flaps his hand impatiently and Sid realizes he wants a high five.

“We good babysit team,” Zhenya says as Sid slaps his hand down over Zhenya’s.

“For sure,” Sid agrees, smiling.

Mario comes home the next morning, and he doesn’t look any different. Maybe a little more tired, but otherwise the same as always. But he must feel different, because he’s a scratch for their next game, and listed as day-to-day.

It’s when he withdraws his name from consideration for the Olympic team that Sid really starts to worry.

***

In the middle of December, they arrive at practice and learn the entire coaching staff has been fired.

“Did you guys know?” Colby whispers, nodding at Mario, who is standing off to one side.

“No,” Sid says, equally stunned. “And — he wouldn’t. We don’t talk about that stuff at home.” In fact, unless it’s about the kids, they rarely talk about hockey at all.

Their new coach arrives in short order, and Michel Therrien is plainly not there to be any player’s friend. Where Olcyzk was expansive and open, Therrien is contained and stern. There’s a different atmosphere to the locker room, to practice, but Sid’s been through a lot of coaches. He can adapt.

Zhenya, though — Zhenya seems to thrive. Zhenya nodded along to a lot of what Olcyzk said, and did his best, but with Therrien, Zhenya seems to be really listening.

The new coaching staff isn’t the only thing on Sid’s mind. The Olympic rosters for the Turin games are going to be announced soon, and he knows his name is in the mix. He gets question after question from the media about it, and he knows he’s the focus of a lot of debate. Pat has told him everything is up in the air, but oh, how Sid wants it. It would be amazing, to play with Sakic and Gagné and Draper.

Zhenya likewise wants to play for Russia. He’s proud of his country, and it comes out when they watch a special on the Russian Five. They won the gold medal in 1988, and it’s not hard to see why.

“When I’m kid, I want to play Olympics like them,” Zhenya says. On the screen, Larionov passes to Fetisov, who passes to Makarov, who puts the puck home in a wide open net. It’s precise and beautiful, and Zhenya’s expression is yearning.

For Zhenya, though, the question of the Olympics is complicated.

“Do you think they’ll call?” Sid asks one night while they’re brushing their teeth. “The national team, I mean.” Zhenya’s been spending more time with their PR guy and George on Russian media requests in the last week.

Zhenya lifts his shoulders in a short, angry shrug, then spits toothpaste in the sink. “Maybe,” he says. He grimaces. “Maybe not, if Magnitka make trouble.”

“But — it’s the Olympics,” Sid says helplessly. He can’t imagine the Penguins, for example, telling Team Canada that he wasn’t available.

Zhenya’s lips twist unhappily. “Sound like nobody want me unless they need.”

“They should call,” Sid says, and squeezes Zhenya’s shoulder. “They’re not going to do better than you.” And they’re not. Leaving Zhenya off the team would be dumb.

“Canada most dumb,” Zhenya retorts, “if they don’t call you.”

Sid shakes his head. He really doesn’t know, not one way or the other. He just wants it, and all he can do is keep playing his best to show them he’s ready.

On December 20th, Zhenya gets a call. They’re both sitting on the couch, Sid with a book and Zhenya with the sleek laptop he bought. Zhenya checks his phone and looks a little like he might be sick.

“You going to answer it?” Sid says gently.

Zhenya sighs, opens his phone, and says hello in Russian. What follows is a very tense, solemn conversation, and Zhenya says yes, yes, of course, okay, thank you for the opportunity, but there’s no joy in his expression. He looks miserable, and Sid puts his book aside and scoots closer on the couch.

Zhenya closes his phone and looks very close to pitching it across the room.

“Hey,” Sid says. He wraps his arms around Zhenya. “You okay?”

“I’m — not on team, I’m — extra,” Zhenya says heavily.

“Alternate,” Sid supplies. He wonders if the national team is deliberately twisting the knife.

Zhenya sighs and tucks his chin over Sid’s head. “Going to be bad,” he says. “Lot of questions. Barry say Magnitka, Olympic team, big fight.”

Sid has no difficulty believing that. He just hugs Zhenya a little tighter; it’s all he can do.

The next day, the Canadian roster is set to be announced at a primetime press conference. Sid tries to keep his mind off it. He goes in to Mellon in the morning with Zhenya to get a workout in, then to the mall to buy some Christmas presents. He keeps his phone in his pocket, and tries not to look at it too often as they debate gifts for the kids. But it doesn’t ring, doesn’t ring, and doesn’t ring. They get home, and there’s still no call.

They eat an early dinner with the whole family. Mario doesn’t say anything, and Sid knows he wouldn’t even if he knew. There’s a rule about phones at the table, but just this once, Sid keeps his in his pocket. He barely tastes dinner at all.

And then it’s only an hour until the scheduled press conference and Sid breaks. “They would have called, already, wouldn’t they?” he asks Mario. “If I was going.”

Mario looks at him steadily. “Probably,” he says gently.

Sid tells himself it’s dumb to be upset, to be disappointed. He’s only eighteen. Everyone is saying he’s too young.

Mario pulls him in for a hug and tucks him under his chin. Sid feels small, but not in a bad way. He rests his face against Mario’s shoulder and feels his eyes prick with tears.

“Next time,” Mario says into his hair. But 2010 seems an eternity away.

“Yeah,” Sid says. When he pulls back, he looks away, because he really doesn’t want to cry over this — not in front of anyone, but especially not in front of Mario. He doesn’t want to give anyone more reasons to think that he’s just a kid. “I’m going to head upstairs,” he says, and doesn’t wait for a response before he goes.

He still watches the press conference. Gretzky announces name after name, and he knows it’s not going to happen, but when they finally announce the alternates, that’s when he knows it’s over. He’s not going to Turin.

Zhenya finds him curled up on the couch with his arms wrapped around his knees, watching what’s shaping up to be a wild game between the Oilers and Canucks. He sits down next to Sid.

“It’s fine,” Sid says eventually. “Next time, maybe.” He swallows around the lump in his throat.

Zhenya is quiet for a moment. “Sorry,” he says.

“It’s fine,” Sid insists. His phone rings. It’s his dad, and he knows he has to answer. He retreats to the kitchen before he picks up.

It’s hard to keep his cool. They talk about Taylor and his mom and his grandmother first, like his dad is trying to ease into it, and the whole time all Sid can think is, When are we going to talk about it?

“Did you watch?” his dad finally asks, after they’ve talked about the repairs he’s going to have to make on the deck when spring comes.

“Yeah,” Sid says. There’s an awful moment where he thinks his dad’s going to go through the whole roster and talk it out, but his dad just says, “Well.”

Sid fights the urge to apologize. “Yeah,” he says. He’s going to have to figure out something to say about it, but he’s hoping he’ll go into Mellon tomorrow and someone will have written something for him and he can just memorize it and say it again and again. But that’s tomorrow. Tonight there’s nothing to say.

“You’re playing your best,” his dad says, more gently than Sid can handle right now, and he bites down on his lip, hard. “That’s what matters.”

“Yeah,” Sid says again. He knows it’s absolutely not how his dad meant it at all, but it sounds a lot like, You’re playing your best and that’s still not good enough.

“Your mother sends her love,” his dad says, a little awkwardly. Sid can hear her talking in the background, but he can’t make out what she’s saying. “You just focus on the game in front of you.”

“Right,” Sid says. “I will.”

“And we’ll see you in a couple of days,” his dad adds, and now he seems like he’s on firmer ground. “Your sister hasn’t talked about anything but coming down to see you.”

“You mean Stephanie,” Sid says, something almost like a smile twitching his lips up.

“Well, also you,” his dad says, and chuckles. “Get some rest, kiddo.”

“Okay,” Sid says. “See you soon.” His dad hangs up, and Sid goes back to the living room and drops down on the couch. On the TV, Ryan Smythe scores and the Oilers are up by one. Ryan Smythe is going to Turin. He’s played for Edmonton for over ten years.

Maybe Sid’s just a kid after all, dreaming he’s ready.

Zhenya goes to bed before him. Sid stays up to watch the rest of the third — Edmonton scores again, Vancouver gets one back but it’s not enough — and then turns off the TV and gets ready for bed.

The lamp between their beds is turned on low, and Zhenya is under the covers and maybe asleep. His eyes are closed, anyway.

He’s all the way on the right side of his bed. Sid stands awkwardly between their beds and dithers, wondering if it’s a coincidence or an invitation or what. He should grow up, he tells himself. He should be too old for this. He should just get on with it, and do what his dad says — focus on the game on Friday.

Zhenya sighs, and it’s not a sleep noise. “Sid,” he says.

Sid jumps a little, but decides to get in. He gingerly lifts up the corner of Zhenya’s covers, crawls into his bed, and turns out the light.

He tries not to take up too much room. It’s Zhenya’s bed, after all. He tries to be still, because Zhenya probably wants to fall asleep. Sid’s not sure he will. This feels like the kind of night where he ends up staring at the ceiling for a long, long time.

Zhenya sighs again and curls his big body around Sid so they’re cocooned in sheets and blankets and darkness. Zhenya coaxes him closer and tucks Sid’s face against his shoulder.

With all the distractions of the day gone, all Sid is left with are his failures. He works so hard but he’s still not good enough. Not for the Penguins, not for Team Canada. He’s so frustrated. And tomorrow, he’s going to have to answer questions, and people are going to ask him if being left off the team will change how he plays, and he’ll have to answer the right way, and then they’ll ask him about Mario, and he’ll have to answer that the right way, too. They’ll ask him if he really thought he was ready, if he thought he had it, and he’ll have to not snap that he’s doing his best, he’ll have to not say that part of him worries they were right to leave him off.

He takes a few uneven breaths. When he trusts his voice not to shake too much, he asks quietly, “Did I have a shot?”

Zhenya rubs his back in slow circles. “Yes,” he says firmly. “If you Russian, you play. Bad luck Canada — too many players.”

“Players better than me,” Sid says.

“Maybe,” Zhenya allows. “But you ready.”

He thought he was, too. He believed it. He listened to the people who said he could make a difference. Tears leak from his eyes into Zhenya’s t-shirt.

“You ready,” Zhenya repeats, still rubbing Sid’s back. “Don’t listen if they say you not.”

He doesn’t want to cry over this, but now that he’s started, he can’t stop. He tries to do it as quietly as he can, tries to not sob for breath, and Zhenya murmurs softly in Russian until he’s done.

They lie there for a few minutes. Zhenya’s t-shirt is wet under his cheek. It’s probably pretty gross.

“Sorry,” Sid whispers.

Zhenya makes a disgruntled noise. “Don’t say sorry,” he says. Then he says, “Be right back,” and gets out of bed.

Zhenya turns on the light in the bathroom and Sid hears water running in the sink. Then the light is off again, and Zhenya’s footsteps pad across the bedroom floor. The bed shifts again as he gets back in.

Zhenya finds Sid’s face in the dark with his hand. And then he’s pressing something cool and damp and rough to Sid’s face. A washcloth.

“Clean face,” Zhenya says. “Then put on eyes.”

Sid thinks about arguing, but he doesn’t, just wipes his face and folds the washcloth and lays it over his eyes.

“Thanks,” Sid says. He feels better, and he really didn’t think he was going to, tonight.

“This summer, my mama do for me a lot,” Zhenya says. “I’m worry a lot. Sad.” He pulls Sid into his arms again. “I read your letters all the time. It help. So now you don’t — don’t say sorry. Don’t thank.”

Sid doesn’t know what to say to that, but he doesn’t have time to formulate a response, because Zhenya holds him tighter still and whispers in his ear, “You my Sidnyusha. I’m always have your back.”

Sid feels his face go hot again under the cooling washcloth. “Zhenya,” he says helplessly.

Zhenya takes the washcloth away. “You sleep now, okay?”

He’s still not sure he can, but he’d say yes to anything Zhenya asked right now. He’ll try. “Okay,” he says.

“Good,” Zhenya says. And it turns out Sid doesn’t have to try so hard after all; the day catches up with him in a hurry and he slides into sleep.

***

They decorated most of the house early in December. Nathalie directed them all in hanging the garland on the bannisters and putting the lights on the tree that they spent the better part of an hour choosing. They had to bring out a stepstool for even Zhenya to help string lights on the top, which is ridiculous, but Sid can’t deny that the tree looks pretty majestic in the formal living room, the tree skirt tucked beneath it and accumulating presents at an alarming rate. Apparently they’ll wait until both sets of grandparents arrive on Christmas Eve to put all the ornaments on. Right now it looks a little bare during the day, but when it’s all lit up in white in the evening it makes Sid want to lie on the floor like a little kid and let it twinkle at him.

Zhenya seems to take each new tradition in stride. He listens carefully to the litany of things the kids share with him when they find out it’s Zhenya’s first North American Christmas. They’re horrified when he tells them his family doesn’t make a big deal out of Christmas, but settle down when he explains how Russian New Year’s Eve goes. Alexa pats his knee and says, “As long as you get presents.”

But Zhenya is delighted when the kids make a special point to include him in all their crafts and baking. They make Sid and Zhenya build a gingerbread house; Sid spends a lot of time stopping Zhenya from trying to eat their house. And then all the decorations for their house.

“We can make gingerbread if you want some, this stuff is like cardboard,” Sid says.

“You take long time to make me cake from summer,” Zhenya says, stealing some more gumdrops. “I get gingerbread in March?”

“You’re gonna get coal in your stocking, that’s what you’re gonna get,” Sid says, elbowing him.

After they’re done trying to noogie each other, and Sid has frosting in his hair and Zhenya has it all over his shirt, Sid explains about coal in the stocking and they finally finish their lopsided house. The kids’ houses all look better than theirs, which of course means Nathalie puts theirs dead centre in her little sideboard display for all their holiday guests to see. Stephanie adds two little Sour Patch people in front of the door and Austin decides that Sid is the red one and Zhenya is the green one, because “the red one is shorter.”

“Good, very true,” Zhenya says solemnly.

“They’re the same size!” Sid protests. Zhenya reinforces the point by pressing the red one a little deeper into the frosting.

“There, I fix,” he says. It’s a good thing there isn’t any more frosting or Zhenya would have a face full of it.

Zhenya doesn’t spend all his time with Sid and the Lemieuxs. Zhenya and Max discovered a mutual love of pool while on the road, so now Geno-and-Talbo pool nights are a thing. It’s nice to see Zhenya getting closer with some of the other guys, and to be honest — Sid is not great at pool and he’s a terrible loser, so it’s better to leave them to it.

Their last game before their short Christmas break is against the Flyers, but at least it’s at home, so they don’t have to deal with the cheering of the Philly crowd when they lose, 4-5. There’s no time to dwell on it, though; Sid drives straight from his post-game interviews to the airport to pick up his family. He listens to the station that’s been playing Christmas music non-stop since Halloween to take the place of the normal stream of talk from the passenger seat. It feels a little strange driving somewhere without Zhenya in the car.

He has to do a couple of loops around the Arrivals lane because the police officers politely shoo him along when he tries to wait by the doors. On his third loop, he sees Taylor waving her arms at him like a flight controller. Next to her, his father is trying to organize their luggage into a neat pile. They have a surprising amount of baggage for the few days they’ll be down, but when he helps lift them into the car — with Taylor wrapped around his midsection — they’re pretty light.

“Careful, your presents are in there,” his mom says with a smile. She leans in to kiss Sid on the cheek. “It’s good to see you, baby.”

“Hi, Mom,” Sid says. He’s already happier. She hugs him tightly and Taylor squirms her way into the hug too. Sid breathes the cold air in and some of the tension eases out of his shoulders.

When his mom and Taylor finally let go, his dad moves in. “You look good,” he says, clapping Sid on the shoulder. “Heard it was a tough game.”

“Yeah,” Sid sighs. Their last three games have been tight and close but ultimately all losses. Sid is ready for the new year and, he hopes, a new leaf.

“We need to check in at the hotel. I printed out directions, I’ll navigate for you,” his mom says firmly.

She’s obviously sleepy, but Taylor campaigns to be allowed to go home with Sid to sleep over with Stephanie.

His mom rolls her eyes. “You’d only fall asleep on the way over,” she says. “Sidney, are you sure you’ll be okay to drive back to the Lemieuxs’ house? I know you have to be tired after the game, honey, we appreciate you coming out to get us.”

“I’m okay,” Sid says. He pulls into the hotel parking lot.

“Well, you be sure to call us when you get there,” his mom says. “Or if you end up needing directions.”

“I will,” Sid promises. He helps them with the luggage, but his parents send him off immediately after.

“We’ll see you tomorrow,” his mom says.

“Hey,” Taylor says sleepily, looking at her watch. “Merry Christmas Eve.”

In the car, Sid again turns the radio up loud to keep him company. When he gets home, he heads up the stairs as quietly as possible, mindful of Mario and Nathalie’s parents in the guest rooms. Sid feels a little guilty about that; he and Zhenya are taking up their suite.

He calls his mom quickly and fishes in the fridge for a Gatorade; he drinks most of it before heading quietly into the bedroom. The lamp is on, and Zhenya is sleeping slumped against the headboard with the den’s dog-eared copy of Holes next to him on the bed. Sid doesn’t want to wake Zhenya up, but he also doesn’t want him to get a crick in his neck, so he nudges Zhenya until he murmurs, “No practice, Sid,” and flops down into a more comfortable sprawl.

Sid bites down on a laugh. He tugs the blankets up to make sure Zhenya’s warm and settled and heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He slips into bed, turns out the light, and, even though he’s sure Zhenya is asleep, whispers, “Good night.” Sid falls asleep to the familiar rhythm of Zhenya’s breathing.

***

Sid’s alarm wakes him up the next morning. Zhenya makes a sad Wookiee noise and pulls the covers over his head. Sid lies there for a moment and contemplates doing the same, but he knows his family is waiting so he hauls himself into the shower.

Downstairs is already bustling. Nathalie and Mario’s parents flew in the day before, and the kids are all up and bouncing around; Sid waves and says good morning on his way out the door. The drive to the hotel is easier in the daylight, and when he calls up to the room, his mom says they’ll be right down.

From there, they’re off to breakfast. He and Taylor both get enormous waffles with maple syrup — “Vermont,” Taylor sniffs in disdain — and strawberries and whipped cream. It’s not quite like home, but he’s with his family, and that’s what matters.

They do some holiday sightseeing around Pittsburgh and a little family skate at an outdoor rink. People recognize him, but are kind enough to wait until he’s off the ice to approach for autographs. He likes signing for the kids the best. One little boy hangs back from the cluster of kids who wait remarkably patiently for him to sign things. He’s clutching a stuffed bear, and when he’s the last one left, Sid hunkers down and says, “What’s your bear’s name?”

The kid looks tempted to hide behind it, but visibly musters up the courage to say, “Mr. Puff.”

Sid nods and says, “Do you think Mr. Puff wants me to sign his shirt?”

The kid looks at the bear, shuffles forward, and holds it out. Sid takes his time signing before handing it back. “Merry Christmas,” he says softly.

“Merry Christmas,” the boy says in a rush, and then turns tail and runs back to wrap his arms around his mom’s legs.

Sid gets up again and looks back to see his family watching. “Sorry,” he says. “We can head to the movie now, if you want?”

“Don’t apologize, honey,” his mom says. She looks perilously close to tearing up.

They go see The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Sid remembers his mom reading the book to him, and he read it to Taylor one winter break. Maybe the movie isn’t quite like he remembers the book, but it’s pretty good. Then they go to dinner, and from there, back to the hotel to open presents.

It’s a big change from the year before, both because Sid isn’t leaving his family on Christmas Eve to compete, and also he got maybe a little carried away when buying gifts. For his dad, there’s a new set of golf clubs, already shipped to Cole Harbour. For his mom, a bracelet that he braved the fanciest, stuffiest jewelry store to buy. For Taylor, a summer horseback riding camp that she’s always wanted to go to.

They all seem to like their presents, particularly Taylor, who shrieks in his ear while she tries to strangle him with a hug. Taylor gets a few presents from their parents, but the rest are at home in Cole Harbour — “Only so much room in our suitcases,” his mom says with a smile. Sid gets socks and underwear and a wooden box.

“Did you make this?” he asks his dad in surprise. His dad nods; he’s been doing more woodworking in the last few years, but this seems especially nice. Sid opens it and finds that it’s filled with cards covered with his mother’s careful handwriting. When he flips through them, he realizes she rewrote every card out of her recipe box.

“Since you have that nice kitchen,” his mom says.

Taylor’s present is a small but neat cross-stitch ornament of a penguin. It’s terribly cute. “Thank you,” he tells her, and gives her a big hug.

“You can put it on your tree here,” she says. He’s reminded all over again what an adjustment this is for her, too — that it’s not a given anymore that he’ll be able to come home for Christmas, that he might need his own tree and his own ornaments.

He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that he has neither, except for the little cross-stitch penguin. Next year, maybe. “It’ll always be the first one I put on my tree,” he promises.

And then Sid chickens out. He wants to give his parents his last present but he’s nervous about it. So they watch Rudolph on the hotel TV, and Taylor curls up with Sid on her bed. Soon she starts to fall asleep, and Sid takes that as his cue.

“Come on, bedtime,” Sid says.

“When’s Santa coming?” Taylor mumbles.

“When you’re asleep,” Sid says. “Santa doesn’t work different in Pittsburgh.”

“Oh,” she says. Sid coaxes her under the covers, and she faceplants into her pillow.

“She’s just like you,” his mom says fondly. “Other kids ask to stay up, and you both just want to go bed.”

“That hasn’t changed,” he says, smiling.

“Nathalie said lunch is at one tomorrow?” his mom says. He nods. “Well, have a safe drive back, sweetheart. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he says. He wishes he could let his parents find out from the bank and not tell them directly, but he knows that’s not the right thing to do. The right thing is to hand them the envelope with the proof of their mortgage paid in full.

“It’s for you and Dad,” he says, and bites his lip.

Her brows furrows, but she opens the envelope and her face goes slack with surprise. “Troy,” she says, and her voice wobbles. He gets up from the armchair, crosses the room, and takes the paper from her hand.

He opens and closes his mouth without a sound, and then his dad — his dad — starts to cry.

Sid doesn’t know what to do with that, not at all. His parents both clutch him tight. He knows his parents never intended for him to overhear them worrying about being behind on mortgage payments, but he did, and he knows that when it was a choice between paying bills and paying Sid’s skating coach, or clinic registration, or tournament fees, they often went without so that Sid could keep going with hockey.

He can’t ever pay them back for everything they’ve done. But he can do this, and he can play his very best, and he’ll have to hope that’s enough.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispers.

“Oh, baby,” his mom says, and his dad just hugs him tighter.

He drives back to the Lemieuxs and is careful not to make too much noise as he comes in. As he suspected, the house is quiet; everyone is napping before midnight Mass. Everyone except Zhenya, that is, who is sprawled on the couch watching Die Hard.

“This is the best Christmas movie,” he tells Zhenya, who makes room for him on the couch.

Zhenya looks at him like he’s demented.

“Just watch, you’ll see,” Sid says. He snuggles in to Zhenya’s side a little, and Zhenya’s arm slides off the couch to curl around his shoulders. After a few minutes, Sid says, “How was your day?”

“Good,” Zhenya says. “Lots of rest, and talk to some friends. How is family?”

“Good,” Sid says simply.

“You give parents big present?” he asks. Zhenya was the one who suggested Sid call Pat for help when he first mentioned paying off his parents’ mortgage.

“Yeah,” Sid says. “I didn’t want it to be a big deal, but it was kind of a big deal.”

“My parents cry when I buy house,” Zhenya says. There’s a melancholy note to his voice. Even if Christmas isn’t a holiday Zhenya particularly cares about, with everyone else’s family coming to visit, Zhenya has to be missing his.

Sid puts his head on Zhenya’s shoulder. “Mine too,” he says.

Zhenya’s arm tightens around his shoulders, and after a moment, he lays his head on top of Sid’s.

***

Sid wakes up to the kids arguing in whispers about who gets to wake up Zhenya. He turns his head to look at the alarm clock.

It’s six a.m.

“If you value your lives, another hour at least,” Sid calls, his voice rough with sleep.

“But Sid,” Austin whines.

“Go back to bed,” Sid says, and pulls the covers over his head.

That just gets him a dog and Austin and Alexa on his bed. Tara, at least, seems happy enough to settle down to nap against Sid’s back.

“But if you get up, we can open presents,” Alexa says.

“There is no way your parents are up,” Sid says, pulling down the covers just enough to make a face at them.

Alexa and Austin trade shifty looks.

“Didn’t you go to midnight Mass? How are you awake?” Sid says. And then a pillow hits him in the face.

He rolls over to see that Zhenya moved just enough to lob one of his pillows over. “See?” he whispers to the kids. “Another hour. Go back to bed, unless you want to wake him up.”

“I told you it wouldn’t work,” Alexa mutters to Austin, and the kids clamber off Sid’s bed. Tara remains behind, though, a solid weight against his back. And usually when Sid’s up, he’s up, but Zhenya’s started to snore again, and Sid thinks he’ll close his eyes for just a few minutes.

He wakes up a little later when the bed shifts under him, and he wonders if Lola is joining them. He reaches out a hand blindly and is surprised when it lands on a person instead of a dog.

“Morning,” Zhenya says. Sid opens his eyes to see Zhenya sitting up against the headboard with a cup of tea. Sid’s hand is resting high on his thigh.

“I thought you were a dog,” Sid says, still confused with sleep.

“No, that Talbo,” Zhenya says, looking far more pleased with himself than he usually is first thing in the morning.

“What time is it?”

“Almost eight,” Zhenya says. “Kids be back soon.”

Sid doesn’t even want to know how he knows.

“I make you tea,” Zhenya says. He nods toward the nightstand between their beds.

Sid groans. Tea means sitting up, and also, the nightstand is so far away. Zhenya laughs at him and puts a hand in his hair. “Poor baby,” he says.

“This is why I don’t go back to sleep,” Sid grumps. “It makes me all — like this.”

Zhenya makes a fake sympathetic noise and reaches over Sid to put his mug on the nightstand. As soon as Sid hears the clink of the mug against the wood, Zhenya drops on top of him, completely boneless.

“Jesus,” Sid groans. Zhenya might look gangly, but that doesn’t mean he’s not heavy.

“You look cold,” Zhenya says, burying his face against Sid’s chest. “I’m blanket.”

Sid squirms because Zhenya’s elbow is in his stomach. Tara huffs out an annoyed breath and hops off the bed.

“You scare off puppy,” Zhenya says. He sticks his hand over the edge of the bed and waves it around, hoping to lure Tara back in for pets.

“You did that, you — oaf,” Sid says, scraping the bottom of the insult barrel. He’s actually pretty comfortable, though. Zhenya’s heavy and warm on top of the blankets. It’s easy to let his eyes slip shut again, let his breathing fall back into a slow rhythm until Zhenya says, sounding suspicious, “Hey, you sleeping again?”

Sid murmurs a negative, though if there hadn’t been loud, repeated knocking at the door with a chorus of purposely off-key Christmas caroling, he might have dozed right off.

“We wish you would get up and open presents,” comes a warbling refrain of Lemieux carolers, and Sid groans out a laugh.

“Okay, okay,” he calls, trying to shove at Zhenya to dislodge him. “We’ll be right down!”

Zhenya obnoxiously nuzzles his neck before levering himself up. “Time for shower?”

“Nope,” Sid says. “Pyjamas for everyone. We’ll clean up after.”

There’s coffee waiting when they get downstairs. The kids impatiently herd them to the loveseat and look at their parents expectantly.

“It’s after eight,” Stephanie says.

“And everyone is awake,” Austin adds.

“Can we open presents now?” Alexa says.

“Well,” Nathalie says, and waits a few beats, clearly just to mess with them. “I suppose. Youngest first.”

In short order, Zhenya has a knit Steelers hat from the family, which goes immediately on his head, and a signed Polamalu jersey from Sid, which he pulls on over his t-shirt. There’s a really ridiculous Pirates tricorn for Sid, which he tries to set at a jaunty angle to the shrieking laughter of the kids. And from Zhenya, a box of fishing lures.

“I think, we go fishing trip?” Zhenya says tentatively.

“Absolutely,” Sid says, and hugs him.

The kids empty their stockings. Then they’re put to work cleaning up the wrapping paper while the rest of them head to the dining room for breakfast. Sid ends up next to Mario’s mother; he tries his best to translate the flow of French for Zhenya’s benefit. It’s really hard to keep up, and Sid’s level of respect for George and Sergei skyrockets.

After breakfast, Sid and Zhenya head back upstairs to shower and get dressed. Sid’s not really sure what the expected dress for today is, so he just assumes it’s like Thanksgiving. He’s deciding between two button-downs when his phone chimes with a text.

It’s from Jack, a simple Merry Christmas! that Sid responds to in kind, adding, Call you tomorrow? They’ve been meaning to catch up for a while. Sid smiles when he gets a text back that says, not before 10 or ill end u.

Finally, his family shows up for Christmas dinner. Taylor hugs Sid hard and babbles out what she got from Santa before disappearing with Stephanie.

“Are you having a good Christmas, honey?” his mom asks.

“Yeah,” Sid says, watching Zhenya laugh and try out a few words in French on both grandmothers, who beam at him in response. “Yeah, I am.”

***

“What up,” Jack says. Sid snorts.

“What up yourself,” Sid says. “Did you have a good Christmas?”

“I’m never eating again,” Jack says blissfully. “I mean, at least for another hour. Is your family still there?”

“Yeah,” Sid says. “I’m pretty sure Taylor is still around here somewhere, anyway. She and Stephanie are joined at the hip.”

“Like you don’t know what that’s like,” Jack says, and Sid can hear the smile in his voice.

“You started it,” Sid reminds him.

“I meant Zhenya,” Jack says. It’s weird to hear Jack call him that, but then again, Sid only remembers to call him Geno to the media and strangers.

“We’re not always together,” Sid says. Which is true — Zhenya has dinner with the Gonchars, plays pool with Max, and watches Steelers games with a rotating cast of teammates.

“But you’re together a lot,” Jack says. “And he’s still cool with you, right?” Sid called Jack the day after he sort of came out and freaked out at him a little. “Or do I need to come to Pittsburgh to lay a beatdown?”

“He’s cool,” Sid says. “The guys — they’ve been great. Really.” He pauses for a moment. “It would be awesome if you could come for a visit, though,” he says. “I was really hoping we could hang out this season.”

“Me too,” Jack says, but the Pens didn’t play Detroit and they couldn’t make it work. “But — maybe spring break? I could cut out of class on Friday and drive to Pittsburgh?”

“Really?” Sid says. “Wait, am I—”

“You’re not playing — it’s toward the end of the Olympic break,” Jack says. Yeah, that still stings, to know he’ll be staying in Pittsburgh and not playing in Turin.

“That would be great,” Sid says. Jack looks up the date so Sid can write it down on his calendar.

“So if Zhenya is cool, and your team is cool, you gonna rethink the no-dating rule?” Jack asks. He’s conspicuously casual, like they’ve never had a blowout fight about it.

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea,” Sid says.

“Look, I get — okay, like I’ll never really understand how it feels, but there’s got to be a middle ground,” Jack says. “I know Pat told you to be careful, so don’t pick up people in bars, but if someone’s got a friend and you hit it off — maybe see where it goes, is what I’m saying.”

“Oh yeah, that’ll happen,” Sid snaps. “How many gay friends do you have who aren’t me?”

Jack blows out a frustrated breath. “Sid,” he says. “I just — I want you to be happy. If you can honestly tell me you’re happy with that one sad dirty mag that you didn’t even buy yourself, then okay.”

Sid opens his mouth to insist that he’s happy, but what comes out is, “I’m not — I’m not ready.”

“All right,” Jack says easily. “Just think about it, okay?”

“Okay,” Sid says, though even that feels like too much.

“Just promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Buy some new porn. Variety, dude,” Jack says.

“You’re the worst,” Sid accuses.

“Do you know what you can buy online?” Jack singsongs to him. “Anything. Discreet packaging is your friend.”

“Oh my god,” Sid says. But he mentally files it away to investigate later.

***

They play Toronto at home on the 27th, after which Sid has to say goodbye to his family, who head back to Nova Scotia. And then it’s New Year’s Eve. Zhenya has been buzzing for days about the party at the Gonchars’ that they’ve both been invited to. Sid knows that a bunch of their teammates have something else planned, but Zhenya’s done Thanksgiving and Christmas with Sid — now Sid can do New Year’s with Zhenya.

“Do we bring something?” Sid asks, because he has this feeling like his mom would know if he showed up empty-handed.

Zhenya stops rifling through the shirts in their closet. It’s gotten a little ambiguous whose side of the rack is whose. “I can ask,” he says.

Ksenia mercifully assigns them to bring pop and ice, which is easy enough to pick up on the way over, even if the store is a zoo. They’re among the first to arrive at the party, which means that Sergei gives them a sneak preview of his stash of fireworks.

“Sparklers, obviously,” he says. There’s a huge heap of them in the plastic tub the fireworks are stored in. “And these — harder to find this time of year, but they had a few left.” Going by the packaging, it’s brightly coloured, probably dangerous, and definitely awesome.

They’re interrupted by the doorbell, and Sergei hurries off to answer it. Zhenya picks up a box of sparklers. He’s got a soft smile on his face.

“Last year, big surprise,” he says. “Good surprise.”

Sid smiles too. When he thinks of that night, he goes a little warm. “I hoped it would be.”

Zhenya puts the sparklers down and closes the lid back on the tub. “Come on,” he says. He puts his hand to the small of Sid’s back to urge him forward. “We get drinks and start eating.”

Start is the right word. The dining room table is already practically groaning under the weight of dishes crowded on top of it, and as more people arrive, they have to do some creative rearranging to fit all the food they bring.

“What if I eat all of this myself?” Sid says, taking another bite from his second piece of black bread with butter.

“Fight you for it,” Zhenya says. He makes a happy noise around his mouthful of salted mushrooms and waves at Max the skating coach, who just came in.

There’s a lot of Russian being spoken — not exclusively, but enough that Sid’s glad for the practice he’s had at team breakfasts on the road and the times he’s been able to do a little studying on his own. It’s still really difficult, and he understands more than he can say, but it’s not like there’s a lot of heavy conversation. He feels like he’s keeping his head above water.

Also, one of his primary conversation partners is Natalie, so that helps. He carries her around on his hip for a while, and gives her little bites of cheese and Olivier salad and clementine slices when she asks for them. There are a few other kids, but she’s the youngest, and obviously feeling shy around so many people.

“Pretty dress,” Zhenya tells Natalie in Russian, when he finds his way back to the table for more food. “Are you dressed up for Grandfather Frost?” Zhenya told Sid and the Lemieuxs all about getting visits from Grandfather Frost and the Snow Maiden on New Year’s Eve. Grandfather Frost evidently looks a lot like Santa Claus. There seems to be chocolate involved, and maybe a song? Zhenya wasn’t enormously clear on that point.

“Is he coming here?” Natalie asks, her eyes wide.

“Maybe,” Zhenya says. He winks at Sid and disappears into the kitchen.

There’s a big commotion when someone tromps in dressed in red robes; it takes Sid a moment to realize that it’s George under the fake white beard. There’s a lady with him that Sid doesn’t know, in the Snow Maiden’s blue robes and fur hat. Natalie wriggles in his arms and he sets her down so she can run to see them.

“Here, Sid,” Zhenya says in his ear. It’s a good thing Sid didn’t jump in surprise, because Zhenya’s holding two shot glasses full of something clear and probably deadly. In the crush, Zhenya’s half-wrapped around him as Sid tips his shot into his mouth and swallows. “Good?” Zhenya asks.

“I’m going to be so drunk,” Sid sighs.

Zhenya shakes his head. “Still early. Keep eating, not so bad.”

They do keep eating, and drinking, and Sid relaxes enough to try a little of his Russian on George and Max. At some point, Natalie is put to bed. The other kids are flagging but trying to make it to midnight. More people arrive, and the house is really stuffy — a few windows are cracked open, but after yet more vodka, Sid feels overwarm. He tugs on Zhenya’s sleeve, and Zhenya follows him out the back door into the yard.

It’s a big yard with a nice deck and a swing set covered in a dusting of snow. There’s a treehouse off to one side, and Sid wanders over to look up at it. He puts his hand on the ladder, and it feels sturdy, but he’s not dumb enough to test it when he’s had so much to drink.

“Look fun,” Zhenya says. He smiles down at Sid. “You having a good time?”

“Yeah,” Sid says. He feels like his smile is too big for his face. “Great. Nice to get some air, though.”

Zhenya laughs at him and pats his cheeks just to be a jerk. Even out in the cold, Sid’s face still feels hot.

“Midnight soon,” Zhenya says, leaning against the tree so Sid is bracketed by the ladder on one side and Zhenya on the other.

“Yeah,” Sid says. He ducks his head. “I kind of wish we brought our own sparklers, so we could light them together. Like last year.”

Zhenya makes a noise of agreement. Sid looks up, and there’s enough light from the house and the moon to see Zhenya’s expression. It’s soft and happy and affectionate, and Sid thinks — that’s for me. That’s for me.

It makes him feel brave enough to say, “I wished for this last year.”

He’s close enough that he can see Zhenya’s eyes widen slightly. “Wish for hockey together?” he asks.

Sid’s brow furrows, because, well, yes, but. He finds the penguin pendant under Zhenya’s shirt with his fingertips. “Not just that,” he says.

Zhenya looks down at where Sid’s hand is resting on his chest. “Still can’t believe,” he says, almost to himself. “Here we are.”

“Here we are,” Sid agrees. It’s amazing, it’s wonderful, and he’s so lucky. “Happy New Year,” he says in Russian, and it sounds so much better than when he said it last year. They’ve both come a long way from that night.

Zhenya is close and warm, and he leans down, his big hands cupping Sid’s jaw. “Sidnyusha,” he whispers. He leans closer still, his lips hovering close to Sid’s, and for one breath-stealing moment, Sid thinks Zhenya means to kiss him, really kiss him.

Sid’s heart races. He shuts his eyes.

Zhenya presses a kiss to Sid’s cheek, not high on the cheekbone like last time but closer to the corner of his mouth. Sid clutches at Zhenya’s shoulders for balance; he feels dizzy from emotion and vodka and the feeling of Zhenya’s lips lingering on his cheek. He opens his eyes again when Zhenya pulls back a little, and he doesn’t know what Zhenya sees in his expression but Zhenya makes a soft noise and then goes in to kiss his other cheek, less tentative. Sid shivers a little, because it’s cold and because Zhenya’s lips are moving against his skin, and oh, Sid wishes he wouldn’t stop, wishes Zhenya would wrap his arms around Sid and kiss him for real.

They break apart when they hear the door out to the deck slide open. The sound of the party floods the yard momentarily before the door slides shut again.

“We should go back inside,” Sid says reluctantly. It must be close to midnight, after all. But he doesn’t think it’s his imagination that Zhenya isn’t eager to let him go.

And he doesn’t let go of Sid for long, because Sid misjudges the step back up onto the deck a little and Zhenya slips an arm around his shoulders to steady him.

“I think I’m really drunk,” Sid says, surprised by the realization.

“You drink more, it get better,” Zhenya says with a shrug, and Sid knows it doesn’t make any sense, but it seems like a good idea anyway.

They shove some of the endless spread into their mouths to combat the alcohol they’re putting in their system, but their efforts are foiled by the glass of champagne they’re handed by the Snow Maiden, who passes by in a blur of blue and glasses.

“Aren’t you not supposed to mix liquor and wine?” Sid asks, even though he’s totally going to drink it anyway.

“No, beer,” Zhenya says, squinting like he’s really thinking about it.

“You’re young, what do you care?” George says, appearing out of the crush at Zhenya’s elbow. He’s missing the beard but still wearing the robes. “This is the time to make those mistakes and fix it with grease in the morning.”

Sid doesn’t want to think about his inevitable hangover yet, so he tries to open up another clementine. The key word being tries, because if it was a little bit difficult earlier, it’s basically impossible now.

Zhenya chuckles and steals the orange away. Sid would complain if it didn’t result in perfect little clementine wedges. “It’s okay, I do for you,” Zhenya says, sweetly condescending.

“Shut up,” Sid says. He holds out his hand for another piece only to have Zhenya push it right against his lips.

“See, you can be most lazy now,” Zhenya says soothingly.

“I’m not lazy,” Sid insists around the orange wedge Zhenya pops into his mouth. He goes to wash it down with some champagne, but it turns out his glass is already empty. “Oh, whoops.”

He looks around for the Snow Maiden with all the glasses, but she’s nowhere to be seen. Zhenya sighs deeply and throws his arm over Sid’s shoulder, his hand flat against Sid’s sternum.

“I have to peel, have to share drink,” Zhenya says, but he pulls Sid close as the countdown starts loudly throughout the house. Sid can feel the vibration of Zhenya counting all along his back and remembers to count himself just in time for “Three, two, one —”

The cheers are loud and there’s kissing all around them but Zhenya just tips the glass to Sid’s lips, offering him the first drink.

“Happy New Year,” Zhenya says, quiet and warm and right in Sid’s ear.

Sid spends the first few seconds of the new year gulping down champagne, trying to keep up with Zhenya’s pour, until Zhenya pulls the glass away and chugs the rest of it in one swallow. He puts down the glass, pulls Sid around to face him, and wraps his arms around Sid tight. Zhenya drops a kiss into Sid’s hair, right at the crown of his head, and Sid sighs happily. The champagne is making his head feel fizzy, so he slips his arms around Zhenya and leans into him, trusting Zhenya to keep them upright.

“Happy New Year,” Sid murmurs into Zhenya’s collarbone.

There’s a clear movement of people for the doors, because Sergei’s fireworks aren’t going to light themselves. But at the same time, Sid is really good where he is, snuggled up in Zhenya.

“Sparklers, Sidnyusha,” Zhenya whispers into Sid’s hair.

Sid hums and reluctantly lets go of Zhenya, who is probably the best hugger Sid knows. Zhenya keeps an arm around Sid on their way outside. He hands Sid the lighter before holding out both the sparklers for Sid to light.

“Tradition for us now,” Zhenya says, tracing their numbers in the air.

“Yeah,” Sid says, smiling as he tucks himself a little closer in to Zhenya’s side. He likes the sound of that, of things they’ll do together, with luck for years to come.

Anything else he might say is cut off by a whining hiss and a loud pop, followed by the most impressive display of amateur fireworks Sid has ever seen. It’s a surprisingly long show, and it’s cold enough that Sid is doubly grateful for Zhenya’s arm around him, Zhenya’s cheek resting against the top of Sid’s head.

When the fireworks die down and there’s been an appropriate amount of clapping, everyone heads inside. Some people leave, presumably to relieve babysitters or to pick up their teenagers, which mostly means that there are more bottles of champagne for Sid and Zhenya to finish. It feels like his glass is never empty, which is ironic, considering he didn’t have any champagne of his own for the toast. He tells Zhenya this, maybe a couple of times, because eventually Zhenya just keeps feeding him orange wedges.

Sid doesn’t think that much time passes, but Sergei walks through a suddenly empty living room with his arms full of Gatorade bottles, stares at them, and sighs. Sid has to admit he’s probably not at his best, sprawled on Sergei’s floor by the New Year’s tree with his head in Zhenya’s lap, a pile of orange peels balanced on a napkin on his chest.

“So, you’ll be needing a guest room,” Sergei says. And even if he did call them a cab, Sid definitely doesn’t want to go back to the Lemieuxs’ this hammered.

“Yeah,” Sid agrees. “Thanks, Gonch.”

“Well, don’t thank me yet,” he says, watching as Zhenya tries to pick up the orange peel napkin without losing any of them. “There’s only one bed left, so you guys will have to fight it out.”

Sid shrugs. “It’s not a problem,” he says, glancing up at Zhenya. “Right?”

“You gonna snore,” Zhenya says, sounding resigned. “Steal my blankets.”

“You steal the blankets,” Sid shoots back, even though it doesn’t matter, because Zhenya makes the whole bed warm, blankets or no blankets.

“I don’t care how you sleep in it.” Sergei sighs. “Come on, this way.”

Zhenya nudges Sid. “You gotta get up first,” he points out, and he’s right, but Sid’s limbs are all heavy and limp.

Sid frowns up at Zhenya. Moving seems extremely unlikely at the moment.

“I gotta do everything?” Zhenya asks Sid.

“No,” Sid says, but it sort of sounds like yes. The two of them get up somehow; Zhenya mostly drags Sid upright.

“Unfortunately for you two, there aren’t any guest bedrooms on the first floor,” Sergei says, ushering them along.

“Oh, no,” Sid says, staring up at the obstacle in his way. “Stairs.”

“Oh, yes,” Sergei says unsympathetically.

It’s sheer luck that all three of them make it up the stairs without injury, but the bedroom Sergei shows them into has a bed and that’s all that Sid cares about. His eyes are heavy, his head heavier.

“You two going be okay?” Sergei asks, putting a couple of the Gatorade bottles on the nightstand.

“Yeah,” Sid says. He nods and starts unbuttoning his shirt. “Thanks, Gonch.”

“Go to bed, old man,” Zhenya says, waving Sergei off. “Thank you for the leftovers in morning.”

“You better wake up before noon, then, or there won’t be any left,” Sergei warns him. “And remember, we have to fly to Toronto tomorrow afternoon.”

Sid and Zhenya groan in unison.

“Exactly,” Sergei says. “Goodnight!” He bustles out and Sid flops against the bed.

“I’m too tired to get undressed,” Sid says, rubbing at his face with his hands.

“I’m not do that for you,” Zhenya says, which of course immediately makes Sid think about Zhenya undressing him. The flush in his cheeks isn’t just alcohol anymore.

“You worry about yourself,” Sid mutters, because Zhenya’s belt is stupidly complicated, and he’s reaping the consequences of that now, fumbling at it as Sid watches. In the time it takes Zhenya to get his belt off, Sid manages to shuck off his pants. He tosses off his undershirt because he’s still overheated.

The bed is smaller than the one at home and feels even smaller when Zhenya climbs in. Their knees knock together awkwardly as they try to get comfortable and make the most of the space they have. In the process of getting his pillow into the perfect position, Sid accidentally brushes noses with Zhenya.

“Goodnight,” Sid whispers. He’s a little surprised by how close they ended up in the bed, but he doesn’t have any objections.

Zhenya chuckles and leans in to brush their noses together deliberately. “Goodnight, Sidnyusha,” he says. He repeats it in Russian, and that sounds even sweeter.

The last thing Sid thinks before he passes out is that he could really get used to this.

***

The next morning is misery. Misery and leftover salad.

Sid has some vague memory of waking up in the middle of the night and downing Gatorade. But it wasn’t enough. He and Zhenya huddle sadly around the kitchen table, drinking tea and eating leftover Olivier salad. Sid’s feeling a little dubious about food in general and that much mayonnaise in particular, so as soon as his headache has faded to a still terrible but manageable throb, he and Zhenya make their goodbyes and head out to Sid’s car.

“Gonna die,” Zhenya says, his expression woeful. “But still hungry.”

“Me too,” Sid says grimly. He drives to the only purveyor of greasy food that’s guaranteed to be open on the morning of New Year’s Day: McDonald’s.

They go through the drive-through and park in the lot, where they work their way through a bag of food and wash it down with coffee. Sid still feels half-dead and pathetic but marginally more functional. Some guy does a double-take when he sees them, but he must be there for the same reason. He leaves them to eat their hashbrowns in peace.

They get safely back to the house. But it is too much to hope that Mario would let them escape upstairs without comment. He restrains himself to a raised eyebrow and a, “You might want to sit in the rear of the plane.” Which — right. Sid really, really hopes he doesn’t puke on the flight.

Thank god they both packed the day before, so that all they have to do is shower and change into their suits before heading back out the door. It’s not until they’re waiting in the private terminal for their flight — delayed due to the weather, it seems — that Sid starts to wonder about the night before. Zhenya is slumped in the seat next to him, looking every bit as hungover as Sid feels, but he hasn’t acted any differently this morning. As drunk as they were, he might not remember much. In fact, Sid isn’t sure if anything really happened the way he remembers it. Was he reading too much into stuff? Did he really want Zhenya to kiss him, or would he have wanted anyone to kiss him when he was that drunk?

He doesn’t have any good answers. He steals a couple of glances at Zhenya’s mouth and tries to imagine kissing him in the cold, sober light of day.

It’s — well.

Obviously he could do worse. Zhenya can make amazingly dumb faces, but Sid knows how his lips feel, soft and just a little chapped. And he has nice shoulders, and he’s so tall, and everyone in the Penguins locker room knows that Zhenya is very well-hung.

So, theoretically: he wouldn’t mind if Zhenya kissed him. But Sid hasn’t gotten where he is by letting thoughts like that distract him. Jack was an aberration; Sid’s known for a long time that he shouldn’t look for what he wants on his team. It’s not smart, it’s definitely not safe, and the stakes are so much higher now.

He looks at Max, who looks even rougher than Zhenya, and tries to imagine kissing him. He doesn’t think he could get past the goatee. Or, well, Max in general.

“Why you make big frowny face at Talbo?” Zhenya murmurs.

“I’m not,” Sid says immediately.

“You need more water,” Zhenya concludes, and heaves himself to his feet before Sid can argue. He comes back with water and Gatorade. “Here, drink this, stop make bitchy face.”

“I’m not making a bitchy face,” Sid says, but he drinks the water.

Colby and Flower are watching them with entirely too much interest. “You’re so weird,” Flower says with gleeful amusement, which is just the height of hypocrisy.

“Don’t argue,” Zhenya scolds when Sid opens his mouth to do exactly that. “Drink, finish.”

Sid does it, but a little sulkily.

“How do you do that?” Colby marvels.

Zhenya nearly puffs out his chest as he slings one arm over Sid’s shoulder. “He listen to me,” Zhenya says, and he sounds smug.

Colby and Flower are both clearly waiting for Sid to throw a shitfit, but — so what? So what if he listens to Zhenya? Zhenya likes looking out for him, and Sid’s happy to let him. He relaxes into Zhenya a little more and drinks his Gatorade until they’re ready to board.

4. Chapter 4

Summary for the Chapter:

See end notes for more specific content warnings.

Metallurg’s lawsuit is dismissed the same day that Zhenya is officially called up to Russia’s Olympic squad.

They had a practice in anticipation of their game against the Rangers the next day, but they’re on a bit of a homestand and the mood was fairly relaxed, so Sid knows something is up the moment Zhenya looks at his cell phone, shoulders stiff and expression stormy.

He answers the phone in Russian, and Sid’s listening comprehension is leaps and bounds ahead of where it used to be, but one end of a quick conversation with very little spoken on Zhenya’s side is hard to follow. It’s just a lot of yeses. Zhenya’s crooked frown doesn’t give anything away, either. At one point he glances at his phone like maybe the call dropped, but he’s still nodding along after, so obviously not.

Zhenya’s still on the phone when Sid hears his ringtone. He fumbles to get his phone out of the pocket of his hoodie, which he left over the back of the couch in the living room. He only glances at the number, just enough to know he doesn’t recognize it.

“Sidney?” a voice asks on the other end of the line.

He frowns. “Yes?” Sid asks.

“JP Barry,” Barry says. “Is Geno with you? Never mind, of course he is. Put him on the phone.”

“Um, he’s already on the phone,” Sid says. “It’s — he’s talking in Russian, so.” Sid thinks it might be the national team, but he’s not sure.

“I’ll wait,” Barry says. “Just put him on as soon as he’s off the phone.”

“Is —” Sid knows Barry probably can’t tell him what’s going on, even if he wanted to, but — “Is everything okay?”

“Better than that,” Barry says, but he won’t add anything further.

Luckily, Zhenya finishes his phone call after a minute of Sid awkwardly wondering if he should try to make small talk with Barry. He looks at Sid curiously when Sid holds his phone out to him, but takes it.

“JP?” Zhenya says, surprised. “National team call you, too?” There’s a pause and Zhenya adds, “No, Kharitonov hurt his ankle, I’m playing.”

Sid feels a twist in his stomach, excitement for Zhenya with a traitorous little flash of jealousy. But this is going to be hard for Zhenya, and Sid knows it. Zhenya will need all the support he can get.

“I—” Zhenya’s face crumples, and Sid panics until he remembers that Barry said everything was fine. But that still leaves the question of what on earth Barry is telling Zhenya.

“Really — really over?” Zhenya asks. “I can call?”

There’s the bare minimum of polite goodbyes and then Zhenya is hanging up. He takes his own phone out of his pocket, and his hands are shaking as he dials.

“Are you okay?” Sid asks. Zhenya starts like he forgot Sid was even in the room.

“Lawsuit is over,” he says, putting the phone up to his ear. “Safe to call my parents.”

Sid knows how much Zhenya has worried about his parents since he left, how much it bothered him to not be able to talk to them. He knows Zhenya wants to apologize for leaving without a word. One night, after they turned the lights out, Zhenya confessed his fears about his family being harassed. They never really talk about privacy, because for the most part, it’s a moot point with them living in each other’s pockets. But Sid knows he wouldn’t want an audience — even Zhenya — if the situation was reversed, so he slips out into the living room and shuts the door behind him on Zhenya’s choked, “Mama?”.

He tries to read a book, but he keeps having to go back and reread; he turns the page and realizes he has no idea what he just read. After ten minutes or so of this, Sid gives up and decides to actually make dinner rather than reheat leftovers stolen from the fridge downstairs.

Well, that’s the idea. He opens the fridge and the cupboards again and again, but there’s only option that readily presents itself: Kraft Dinner. He looks through all the recipe cards his mom wrote out, but he definitely doesn’t want to try something new or go to the store tonight.

And maybe it’s boring, but he knows he can cook some chicken and vegetables, and, well, everyone does love Kraft Dinner.

He finishes everything and sort of dithers over whether or not he should start without Zhenya, but the food is hot now, and it’s only been about an hour since Zhenya called. After half a year of dinners, Sid’s gotten pretty good at figuring out how much food feeds them both, so once he’s eaten his fill, he loads a plate for Zhenya and puts it in the fridge.

There’s a Mythbusters marathon on. He turns the volume down so the sound of them trying to shred a plane doesn’t disturb Zhenya and curls into the corner of the couch under the afghan Mario’s mother knitted them for Christmas. He’s warm and full, and he starts feeling drowsy halfway through the second episode.

But then the door to the bedroom opens and Sid’s instantly awake. Zhenya looks rough — his eyes are a little red and his hair looks like it’s been through a storm.

“Hey,” Sid says. “There’s dinner in the fridge.”

“Thanks,” Zhenya says, his voice low and hoarse. He reheats his plate and comes over to sit with Sid, so close that Sid’s toes are tucked under Zhenya’s thigh. He methodically demolishes his plate and then puts it on the coffee table.

Sid’s incredibly curious about what Zhenya and his parents talked about and if everything is all right, but he knows he has to let Zhenya come to it in his own time. So Sid just turns up the TV a little and they watch. Zhenya rests his hand on top of Sid’s calf and absently strokes his thumb against his ankle. He looks preoccupied.

When the episode is over, Sid says, “I’m going to go to bed.” He hesitates for a moment, wondering if he should ask if Zhenya is coming too, but Zhenya stands up and offers Sid a hand.

Zhenya sticks close as they get ready for bed and it reminds Sid of that first night, when neither of them wanted to let the other out of their sight. Sid wonders if they’re going to talk about it, but when they walk out of the bathroom, Zhenya goes to get in bed, shoulders slumped. Sid can’t stand to see him look that quietly upset. And he knows he feels better when Zhenya is close — he’s let Sid lean on him in every way. If Sid can, he wants to be there for Zhenya in return.

So he takes a deep breath and says, “Would you like to share the bed tonight?”

Zhenya looks so relieved. The tension drops out of his shoulders, and he wraps Sid up in a hug that’s fierce and tight, like he needs it. Sid squeezes back just as tightly. Zhenya’s breathing sounds a little shaky, but when he finally lets go, his eyes are still dry. He tugs down the blankets and nudges Sid to get in first.

They’ve slept pretty close before, but when Zhenya turns out the lights, he just lies there on his back, and Sid can practically hear him staring at the ceiling. Sid knows how hard it is to turn off those worries, so he inches closer. When Zhenya shifts just a little bit toward him, Sid thinks he knows what Zhenya needs but isn’t asking for. Sid takes another deep breath and scoots in so he can curl one arm around Zhenya’s chest and lay his head on Zhenya’s shoulder. He feels Zhenya take in a breath, and then another, and then Zhenya’s hand comes up to cup the back of Sid’s head and he slides his fingers through Sid’s hair.

Zhenya is warm beneath Sid and it’s so cozy under the blankets that Sid starts drifting off almost right away. Their breathing slows and syncs up and the feeling of Zhenya’s chest rising and falling lulls Sid to sleep.

***

When Sid wakes up, the first thing he realizes is that he’s been drooling, his mouth slightly open and luckily pressed into the pillow, and his cheek smushed up against Zhenya’s shoulder. His arm is still flung over Zhenya’s chest and his leg is hooked over Zhenya’s like he’s a body pillow. He realizes Zhenya’s awake when he hears the sound of him texting someone and then putting the phone back on the nightstand.

“Morning,” Sid manages to say, though it comes out as a whisper.

“Morning,” Zhenya says just as quietly, although his voice isn’t rusty with waking up. “I’m going to Turin, going to meet parents there, we buy tickets yesterday already.”

“How are they?” Sid asks, because there’s not really a lot to be said about the national team or any of that — they asked and Zhenya’s going. But Zhenya’s parents and their opinion of his choices have been weighing heavily on Zhenya’s mind for the last five months. If they’re flying out, though, their conversation can’t have been that bad.

“Mama too understanding, Papa says I make good decision,” Zhenya says, like it’s the worst thing they could have said. “Only talk about how happy they be to see me now, how proud.”

Sid rests his chin on Zhenya’s shoulder and holds on a little tighter. “They have a lot to be proud of,” he says. Zhenya makes an annoyed noise.

“Have to ask my brother, find out how bad it was,” Zhenya says. “They just say they miss me, that’s the worst, but I don’t think that all.”

Sid thinks back to those summer months of sending emails without any response and worrying about Zhenya but mostly just wanting to talk to him. “It would be the worst part,” Sid says, and when Zhenya looks down at him, confused, Sid goes on, saying, “Missing you would be the worst part for me, too, if you left.”

Zhenya tugs Sid in until he’s almost completely on top of Zhenya, hugs him, and buries his face in his hair. “I’m miss you most in Turin,” Zhenya says.

Sid’s voice catches in his throat for a moment, but he manages to say, “I’m going to really miss you, too.”

“You go to Florida with Army and Talbo?” Zhenya asks.

It’s not a bad idea, to get out of town for a little while and enjoy the beach. But Sid doesn’t want to go clubbing, he doesn’t want to deal with Max’s well-meaning attempts to set him up, and he doesn’t want to drag the other guys down. “No, I’m going to stay home,” Sid says.

Sid can feel Zhenya’s frown pressed against his temple. “Lonely,” he says, sounding dissatisfied.

“It’ll be good,” Sid says, trying to convince himself and Zhenya at the same time. “I’ll watch trashy TV and get in some workouts. The kids will be around, too.”

“I’ll call,” Zhenya promises. “Parents want to say hi, too.”

Sid suddenly feels nervous. He’s worried about them liking him. “Are you going to invite them to Pittsburgh?” he asks.

Zhenya hums thoughtfully. “Next season, maybe. Have a house then, they stay for a while,” he says. He pauses, but goes on to say, “I think about before, but would you share house with me?”

“Yes,” Sid says. He doesn’t even have to think about it. “Of course.”

“Good,” Zhenya says, sounding happy and a little reassured. “We look when season’s over. Get big yard for dog.”

“Sounds good,” Sid says, and smiles against Zhenya’s collarbone.

***

They drop a game in Philly, and it stings worse because it’s Philly, and also they haven’t won a game in 20 days. It’s frustrating, and losing a home and home to Philly, of all teams, to make a ten game losing streak has everyone on edge. It feels like Sid’s shoulders are one solid mass of tension and he’s looking forward to faceplanting onto his bed, but there’s still a light on in the living room when he and Zhenya trudge into the house.

Mario hasn’t been coming on any of their road trips, understandably, and he hasn’t been on the ice since a game against Buffalo at home that went to OT. Sid knows Mario’s doctors advised that he get as much rest as possible, so Sid is surprised to see him waiting up for them.

“Hey, boys,” Mario says, motioning them in. “Rough night.”

“Yeah,” Sid says. He drops onto the couch and Zhenya sits down right beside him. Sid’s too tired to beat around the bush, so he asks, “Everything okay?”

Mario takes a deep breath and sighs. “I wanted to let you both know before the press conference tomorrow,” he starts and all kinds of possibilities spin through Sid’s head before Mario says, “I’m retiring. Again. For good.”

It seems inevitable and yet impossible; Mario looks just as strong as ever. He’s their captain, he’s Mario Lemieux.

Some part of Sid believed he’d play forever.

“Nathalie and I talked it over, and I spoke with Craig today,” Mario says, looking down at his hands. “I’m sure they’ll ask you for comment, but you don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to be prepared.”

Sid can’t imagine having to retire once, let alone twice, to be the kind of player Mario is and have to walk away. “Is there anything we can do?” he asks. Zhenya nods to show his willingness to help, too.

Mario thinks about it for a moment and says, “I know that you both already have a lot on your shoulders, but you’re going to have people looking to you more than before. If you’re offered an A, I want you to take it.”

Sid looks at Zhenya, who nods. “Okay,” he says, though he’s not entirely sure either one of them would be offered any such thing. They’re still rookies, after all.

***

Mario’s right. The expectations for both of them increase. They spend more time with the media, more time with the coaching staff after practice, so much that Sid feels like whatever progress he’s made on adapting to the rigors of the NHL have disappeared entirely. He’s back to hockey, hockey-related activities, food, and sleep. If he didn’t need to eat, he honestly thinks he’d forgo it and just sleep any time he wasn’t playing.

When he and Zhenya go to bed, he crashes hard, which is why he’s actually angry at his body when it stubbornly refuses to do what he needs one night and pass out. He’s so tired, but all he can manage is a fitful doze. He lies mostly awake, stares at the ceiling, and wonders if he should go to the living room and read for a bit, or get a drink of water, or jerk off.

He’s stopped from doing any of those by the rhythmic, unmistakable slide of sheets in the other bed, and his first reaction is helpless irritation. Now he can’t do anything. Now he has to wait for Zhenya to finish and then wait longer for him to fall asleep. Sid clenches his teeth once in frustration before forcing himself to relax. Really, the only surprising thing is that it’s taken this long for him to overhear Zhenya. Sid confines his jerking off to the shower, or picks times when Zhenya is out of the house or busy with tutoring. Sid’s a sound sleeper, though — Zhenya could be getting off every night after Sid falls asleep and he’d never know.

The mattress creaks and Sid hears a sound, like a click, and then Zhenya lets out a shuddering exhale of breath, and the noises are slick now, which means Zhenya must be using lotion. Or lube, he supposes. He hasn’t seen any around, but it could have been under Zhenya’s mattress, like Sid’s lone magazine is stuffed under his.

Zhenya groans a little, and Sid’s irritation starts to melt away. He can’t help but imagine Zhenya’s big hand wrapped around his big dick, and if he’s that hung when he’s not even hard, Sid can only dream of what he looks like when he is. And he shouldn’t think of Zhenya like that, because that’s definitely asking for trouble, but he can’t help getting hard when Zhenya’s breathing picks up. Zhenya hisses a little and Sid wonders exactly how he’s working himself, if he likes just one hand, if he likes to roll his palm over the head, if he’s used so much lube that everything is slippery or if it’s just slick enough that he gets a little friction too.

The jerking off noises get faster, and Zhenya gets a little louder, small choked-off noises escaping him, and Sid reaches down to the waistband of his boxers and leaves his hand resting there on his stomach. He’s achingly hard now, and he’s torn between wanting to leave the room and wanting to jerk off, too, without Zhenya realizing. But if he couldn’t leave earlier, he definitely can’t leave now, and not just because he doesn’t want to make Zhenya feel weird, either. He feels rooted to the spot; his face is warm and he’s so turned on that even shifting a little is a tease.

He can’t stop thinking about Zhenya’s hands. His hands are big, and his fingers are long, and Sid wonders how much of his dick sticks out when Zhenya wraps one hand around it, if it’s just the head or if it’s more, if Sid could fill his mouth with Zhenya’s dick and still not bump his lips against Zhenya’s fist, if —

Zhenya makes a soft, aspirated groan, and Sid closes his eyes, imagining Zhenya striping his face.

There’s a different rustling from the other bed, the sound of Zhenya grabbing some tissues from the nightstand. Sid has his eyes closed tight because he’s already desperate to come, but he can’t touch himself until Zhenya is asleep. There’s a big pleased sigh that grates on Sid’s nerves, because unlike some other people in the room, he’s anything but relaxed.

Time seems to stretch out and he knows he hasn’t waited long enough when his fingertips creep beneath the waistband of his boxers, so he just lets his fingers play along the vee of his hip, tracing over the sensitive skin, so close to where he really wants to be touched. There’s not much point in pretending that he isn’t into big guys, and athletes in particular, and no matter how much he knows he shouldn’t, all he can think about is how exactly Zhenya fits that mould. His imagination has been fired by the way Zhenya touches him, the way his hands feel on him, and how Zhenya’s body fits against his. Sid doesn’t have anything to compare it to, but it’s the closest he’s come to someone touching him with intent in a long time, and that’s the thought that has him reaching for the lotion tucked next to the magazine under his mattress.

With his hand slick and warm on his cock, he can’t stop thinking about that, about big, hotter hands wrapped around his dick instead, sure and in control, and Sid has to bite his lip to stop from making a sound at the sheer relief of finally touching himself. It’s almost too much and it feels so good that Sid wants to make it last, and he thinks that maybe someday, someone will want to touch him like this, will want to wring every last moment of pleasure out of every deliberate movement. So he slows down until he’s barely stroking, easing himself away from the edge as he cups his balls and wondering if he might go a little further tonight. He generally sticks to his usual page in the magazine, but there’s one picture with these two guys, one on his hands and knees, the other one snugged up behind him, body perfectly angled to show off where he’s palming the first guy’s ass cheek, his other hand teasingly placed just beneath his asshole, thumb almost pushing into the rim. It always makes Sid’s cheeks burn and his heart pound with curiosity and arousal.

He’s been too scared to try it, but there’s no way to know if he’s into getting fingered until he tries. And maybe he won’t like it, and he doesn’t have to keep going if he doesn’t, but, well, the idea of long fingers, slick with lube, pressing in and fucking him deep makes him feel almost dizzy with want. So he slips his hand down lower. The angle isn’t easy, but just rubbing a finger over his hole feels better than he could have guessed. He rubs his palms together to get both of his hands slick and starts jerking off again as he rubs his hole. It’s a good thing that he’s using his left hand on his dick, because he would come right away otherwise.

It feels so good and Sid wants more — he barely slips the tip of his finger in and he comes harder than he ever has. He can only hope Zhenya is asleep, because the noise he makes couldn’t be anything but an orgasm, the moan pulled out of him. He’s breathing hard and so satisfied, but — well.

The next day, Sid finally takes Jack’s advice and places a very discreet order online.

***

People make a big deal about Sid’s routines and superstitions, but in the weeks preceding the Steelers going to the Super Bowl, Zhenya gives him a run for his money. It’s almost a relief when the day finally comes and he doesn’t have to worry about looking wrong at Zhenya’s terrible towel, or whatever. The Scuderis host a big party where everyone asks him why he’s wearing a beat-up old Shattuck tee, and Sid has to explain over and over again that Antwaan Randle El went 10 for 10 in receptions and even scored a touchdown on a punt return when Sid was wearing it and Zhenya’s insisted on it for every game since then.

The game is pretty tight after a slow start. A Seattle touchdown is called off for pass interference and the room shrieks in delight. The Steelers have an awful first quarter, though, and Zhenya clutches at Sid’s knee the whole time. He thunks his head down on Sid’s shoulder when it looks like they’re going to blow another drive, but although there’s a hideous moment of suspense, the Steelers score and manage to end the half in the lead. Zhenya watches the Stones play with a look of grim determination. He frowns when Sid gets up, but seems appreciative enough when Sid comes back with beers for them both.

“Make Talbo go get next time,” Zhenya advises, nudging Sid until he’s back in exactly the same position he was in before he got up.

“You tell him that,” Sid says, and settles in.

He’s nearly pulled into Zhenya’s lap by the force of his hug when the Steelers score again barely a minute into the quarter. Zhenya happily shit-talks in a mix of English and Russian, but when Seattle scores and cuts the lead down to 14-10, he’s silent again, leaning in toward the TV like he can will the Steelers to win by proximity. Sid puts a hand on his back and pats softly over the tense muscle.

The rest of the quarter is tense, but on a seemingly routine reverse, Randle El throws the ball in for a touchdown and Zhenya goes apeshit, tackling Sid into the couch.

“See, I tell you, lucky shirt!” he shouts in Sid’s face, clutching him tighter.

Seattle just can’t get it together after that, and with three seconds left Roethlisberger takes a knee and the Steelers have won the Super Bowl.

Zhenya shouts himself hoarse, shakes Sid until he’s nearly dizzy, hugs everyone in the room, and drinks beer like water. He’s practically delirious with joy and Sid is half worried he’s going to run out into the streets to find someone else as stoked as he is — no one else at the party is a diehard fan like Zhenya — but he seems to be content here. He keeps his arm around Sid’s shoulders and grins like a loon.

Sid thinks Zhenya still has a joy hangover when they get called into Therrien’s office the next morning.

The meeting is less than five minutes long, and it’s to give them an alternating A. Therrien says, “You’ve both really stepped up — keep it up. Crosby, we’ll start with you having the A at home. Malkin, you’ll have it at away. Everything clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Sid says reflexively before he even really registers what Therrien said.

“Thank you,” Zhenya adds, and that’s that. Seconds later, they’re standing in the hall outside Therrien’s office, feeling a little steamrolled.

“Holy crap,” Sid breathes out.

The A looks good on Zhenya. More importantly, it looks right. It stands out under the strong red lights at MCI Center when they’re lined up for the anthem. Zhenya brings his penguin necklace to his lips before tucking it away. It’s a solid game, and Sid can admit to himself that it’s good to knock Ovechkin down a peg in his own house. A comfortable 6-3 win puts everyone in a good mood before the Olympic break.

Zhenya gets right into bed as soon as they get home. Sid’s really glad he made him pack before they left for DC.

“You want me to drive you to the airport tomorrow?” Sid asks, setting an alarm for an hour that seems ugly to him and might be impossible for Zhenya.

“Yes, please,” Zhenya mumbles, face down in his pillow.

“We’re getting up at 4,” Sid says firmly.

Zhenya makes a low, mournful noise, but he nods.

***

Zhenya clutches his huge travel mug of grossly sweet tea and blinks blearily out the windows at the snow dusted trees as they drive to the airport. And although Zhenya’s still at the non-verbal stage of waking up, Sid is grateful to have this time, to have a few extra minutes with him before he leaves. Sid’s sure he’ll manage to fill up his time somehow, but he doesn’t think he and Zhenya have been apart for more than ten hours at a time since August. He already feels a little strange about the idea of Zhenya being gone for nearly three weeks. And he doesn’t know exactly when Zhenya will return — it all depends on how far Russia goes in the tournament.

It isn’t until Sid’s in the departures lane, hazard lights blinking as he puts the car into park so Zhenya can get his suitcases, that he realizes just how badly he’s going to miss Zhenya.

“Hey,” Sid starts, but there’s nothing to say — Zhenya has to go and Sid has to stay, so he just reaches over the gear stick to pull Zhenya into a hug. The car is quiet, the snow is falling gently outside, and Sid has Zhenya to himself for a few more moments. He wants to remember the feeling of being held tight until Zhenya can hug him again.

“I’ll call when I land,” Zhenya promises.

“Okay,” Sid says, trying not to sound as miserable as he feels. He can’t bring himself to tell Zhenya to bring back the gold, but he does say, “I’ll be watching. Play your best.”

“Always,” Zhenya says. He still doesn’t let go.

Sid knows it’s time, though. He draws back; as their cheeks brush, Sid turns his head a little and his lips graze Zhenya’s cheekbone.

“Travel safe,” Sid says. He feels a little stupid, but Zhenya leans back in, raises a hand to cup Sid’s face, and very deliberately kisses his cheek.

“For luck,” he says. He rubs his thumb along Sid’s cheek, just once. Maybe he’s as unwilling as Sid is to say goodbye, because he only says, “I’ll see you later, Sidnyusha.” Then he gets out of the car and takes his bags to the curb before Sid can even think to help.

Zhenya waves for a moment and heads through the doors, not waiting to see if Sid waves back. It isn’t until a police car flashes its lights at Sid that he drives away.

***

Later that same day, a package arrives.

There is nobody in the foyer to see Sid pick up the ordinary-looking box with the ordinary-looking return address. He does not run up to his room, although he does take the stairs two at a time and locks the door behind him. He takes the box straight into the bedroom, and locks that door too, and then he takes a deep breath and opens the box.

There’s a beginner’s guide to fingering, because the internet is really not as helpful as Sid would have liked; half the search results are about guitars and the other half are about convincing girls to try it. There’s a DVD that Sid had gotten on a whim, the one titled with the least horrifying play on words in the jocks genre. There’s a sample pack of lube, because Sid has no idea what kind of viscosity he prefers, so it seemed best to try everything.

And then there’s a set of three dildos that range in size. They don’t look much like any dick Sid has ever seen, but the reviews all said it was a good set for beginners, so Sid is willing to at least give it a try if the whole fingering thing goes well.

He opens the guide first and starts reading carefully. It all seems to boil down to use plenty of lube and go slow, and he can handle that. He wiggles out of his pants and his underwear, puts down a towel on the bed — good tip, he might not have thought of that — and opens a new magazine.

He means to go slow, he really does. One finger goes in pretty easy, and he slowly thrusts it in and out while looking at a spread of two guys in a shower, one of them on the balls of his feet while the other guy is fucking up into him, and their expressions both say it feels so good, and oh, Sid wonders. It’s not long before he thinks he can handle two fingers, and then his wrist is sort of cramping up so he figures he’ll just try the smallest dildo, just to see.

It feels different than his fingers, but still good, and he can get it a little deeper. He’s so hard he’s leaking, and the first time he accidentally brushes his prostate, he lets out a shocked moan. It feels spine-meltingly good. The angle is elusive, though, and he blows out his breath in frustration and strokes his cock a few times before he tilts his hips and tries to find it again. When he does, it doesn’t take much — he fucks himself right at that angle and thrusts up into his hand and comes hard. He’s panting and staring open-mouthed at the ceiling in surprise, and all he can think is that he wants to do it again.

He looks over at the other two dildos lying on the bed, the medium and large of the set, and licks his lips.

***

Sid received a text when Zhenya arrived at Newark to get on the NHL charter, and Zhenya promised to call when he got to his room in the Olympic village. Sid’s not really waiting by the phone, but he doesn’t want to miss Zhenya’s call, and after dinner there isn’t much to do other than watch TV, even if he’s idly stroking his stomach and thinking about the bedroom a little.

He’s in the middle of a show about Ancient Egypt when his phone starts ringing. He nearly drops the remote and phone as he scrambles to mute the television and answer at the same time.

“Hello?” he says, a little breathless; he’s hanging half off the couch with the phone to his ear.

“Hello,” Zhenya says, sounding tired but happy. “I’m looking at mountain, nice view from window. Terrible roommate.”

There’s a loud scuffle and a familiar obnoxious voice shouting something about how Zhenya never had it so good. “Why do they keep making you room with Ovechkin?” Sid asks.

“Punishment,” Zhenya says. “After lots of plane time, then this. Tell me nice thing.”

Sid thinks about all he’s done today and his cheeks flush immediately. “I didn’t do much today,” Sid says, pretty unconvincingly.

“Lazy day?” Zhenya asks, sounding pleased and a little wistful. “You eat dinner already?”

“Yeah, Nathalie made chowder,” Sid says.

“Your favourite,” Zhenya says, which, Nathalie does seem to make it when Sid’s having a rough week. It’s a little telling that she thought to make it tonight.

“I might practice making the recipes my mom gave me,” Sid says, because he can’t just work out and jerk off for two weeks. Even if he sort of wants to.

“Cook for me?” Zhenya asks.

“I always cook for you,” Sid says, but it’s not a complaint.

“What you going to learn first?” Zhenya says. He must be tired, but he seems happy enough to just talk about nothing. So Sid keeps chattering on, talking about recipes, and Zhenya tells him about the only thing his mother ever taught him how to make: her secret borscht recipe.

“I make for you some time,” Zhenya promises. “But when Mama come to Pittsburgh, she cook everything, you can try lots of Russian food.”

Zhenya talked willingly about his parents a handful of times before getting to call them when the lawsuit was dropped, and since then, he can’t stop. He’s so excited for them to come to Pittsburgh that Sid is looking forward to it, too. “When are they getting in?” he asks.

“Tomorrow morning,” Zhenya says. “Have to call you, say hi.”

Sid is still nervous about talking to Zhenya’s parents, but then again, he was nervous about his parents meeting Zhenya, so. “What are you doing tomorrow, or—” Sid pauses, trying to figure out the time difference. “Today?”

Zhenya hums, sleepy-sounding. “Take nap, practice later,” he says. “Late at home. Bedtime?”

Sid thinks about what’s waiting in the bedroom. “I might stay up a little while yet,” he says.

“Not too late, or you get grumpy,” Zhenya says. “Only I like when you grumpy.”

“I don’t get grumpy,” Sid says, even though he totally does.

“No, is cute,” Zhenya says patronizingly, but also as if he really does just like when Sid is in a mood. “Cross arms, wrinkle nose.” He says a word in Russian that Sergei uses to describe Natalie right before a tantrum; it basically means sulky.

“I do not,” Sid says. He can feel his nose wrinkling up.

“I always fix,” Zhenya says. “Go look in freezer.”

“What, you telling me to cool off?” Sid jokes, but he’s curious. When he opens the freezer door, he sees a strange bright orange stack just behind the ice cube trays. It’s a huge pile of Reese’s, which Sid will have to ration carefully.

“You find? Look for ugly Flyers colour,” Zhenya says.

“I see them,” Sid says. He smiles as he pulls out a package. “Everyone is making my favourites tonight. Thank you.”

“See, no more grumpy,” Zhenya says, in that warm tone he uses for goodnights and early mornings. It’s something private that makes Sid feel like Zhenya might come wrap his arms around him from behind.

“Just sleepy,” Sid says, yawning. He’s up a lot later than he normally is already, and he demanded a lot from his body today.

“Go to bed, sleepy,” Zhenya says quietly, like he’s curled up behind him instead of half a world away.

Sid yawns again. “Goodnight, Zhenya,” he says.

“Goodnight, Sidnyusha,” Zhenya says, low, just for Sid’s ears.

Sid hangs up the phone, eats two peanut butter cups standing over the sink, and gets into bed alone.

***

Sid is just finishing up a quick workout before lunch when his phone rings. He smiles when he sees it’s Zhenya.

He wipes his face off with a towel and brings the phone up to his ear. “Hey,” he says. “How was your day?”

“Good,” Zhenya says. “Tomorrow first game, Slovakia. You watching?”

“You know I will,” Sid says. He sits back down on the bench and tucks the phone between his ear and shoulder. “I’ll be bored after Canada beats Italy.”

Zhenya laughs and Sid’s smile grows even wider. “You mean need good game after boring Canada game,” he says. “But that not why I call. Mama and Papa get in this morning, we talk lots and Mama says she wants to say hi.”

“I —” Sid starts, but there’s already the sound of someone talking in the background and the phone being passed.

“Hello?” the voice on the other end of the line is a little hesitant, but determined. “Sidney?”

“Good mor — evening, Mrs. Malkina,” Sidney says, stumbling over the time difference but using his best Russian. “It’s nice to talk to you.”

“It’s nice to talk to you, Sidney,” she says in return, and Sid can hear Zhenya saying, “Slower!” in the background. “My Zhenya talks about you all the time.”

“Oh,” Sid says, startled but pleased. His ears burn a little. “He is —” Sid flounders for a minute, trying to think of how to describe all the things Zhenya is to him, let alone in Russian. He finally just says, “He’s the best.”

She laughs. “He says the same about you.”

“I’m glad you —” Sid starts, trying to talk around the butterflies in his stomach. It doesn’t help that he hasn’t spoken Russian since their last road trip, almost a week ago. “Visit? Zhenya is so happy about it.” He’s pretty sure his grammar was a mess, but he hopes the sentiment came through.

“Next we will come visit you,” she says. She says something excitedly about the fall that he doesn’t quite catch and Zhenya again says, “Slower, Mama, Sid is still learning!”

“We will practice,” she says. “So we can talk a lot when we come.”

“I want to, very much,” Sid says, and he means it, even if he is definitely going to need some more actual lessons with Zhenya’s tutor before then.

“Here, talk to Papa,” she says, handing off the phone.

“Hello, Sidney,” he says. He sounds so much like Zhenya that Sid might be hard pressed to tell them apart. “It’s good to meet you, a little.”

“The same for me,” Sid says. He’s about to ask about their trip when Mrs. Malkina takes the phone back and asks Sid about himself and his family in quick succession.

Before Sid can even start to stumble through his answers, Zhenya grouses that it’s his phone, his friend.

“Everyone get to talk to Sid but me,” Zhenya mutters when he finally gets the phone back.

“I talk to you all the time,” Sid says, but he thinks he understands what Zhenya means. Sid’s never been the type of person who needs their cell phone at hand, but the past few days he hasn’t let it out of his sight. It still feels like one of those days where they’re both out of the house running separate errands; it’s a little surreal to think Zhenya is on a different continent from him again.

“Not the same,” Zhenya grumbles.

“Well, call whenever you want, then,” Sid says. “It’s not like I’m doing anything, really.”

There’s silence on the other end for a moment, like maybe Zhenya is thinking over his answer, so Sid adds, “You know I like to hear from you.”

“I like to talk to you too,” Zhenya says quietly, even though Sid doesn’t think his parents can really eavesdrop. “Call you later?”

“Yeah,” Sid says. Thinking about their quiet bedroom, he adds, “Please?”

“Call you before bed,” Zhenya promises.

Bedtime for Zhenya will probably be before dinner for Sid, but it’ll be good to have another chance to talk to Zhenya before his games begin. “Talk to you soon,” Sid says.

“Not soon enough,” Zhenya says. Sid hangs up with a smile.

***

Zhenya calls Sid at least once a day, although he doesn’t hear from him right after their loss to Slovakia. But Sid gets wildly excited calls after Russia’s wins, and he doesn’t even care that he has to wake up at 5:30 in the morning to watch Zhenya’s game against Kazakhstan. Zhenya scores halfway through the second, and it turns out to be the game-winning goal and the only goal of the game.

Obviously, he watches all of the Canadian games, too, sometimes with Mario and the kids, who complain bitterly about having to go to school when there’s Olympic hockey to be watched. It feels like all the Olympics before, watching on the couch, surrounded by lots of opinions about line combinations and the strength of different national programs.

But he watches Zhenya’s games on his own. It feels more personal to watch Zhenya play, and Sid finds himself leaning forward, breathless any time Zhenya is on the ice. During Russia’s game against Latvia, Zhenya scores with a beauty that makes Sid’s mouth go dry. There’s a close up on Zhenya’s face after he slams himself into the glass, roaring with pride in that way that Sid’s very familiar with, and Sid has so many emotions swirling in the pit of his stomach. It feels strange to see Zhenya celebrating a goal with another team, but Sid watches the replay greedily; he wants to see that beautiful catch and release again and again.

Latvia scores a late goal, but it’s hard to begrudge a 9-2 win for not being a 9-1 win. Russia is 3-1, and regardless of how they play against the US in a few days, they’ll be going on to the elimination rounds. With the buffer of an extra day before their next game, Sid is pretty sure Zhenya will be celebrating a little with his teammates.

Sid turns off the TV. The house is quiet. He’s been naggingly aroused all morning, and he definitely has a little time to himself.

He hasn’t bothered fucking himself with the smallest dildo very much since he worked his way up to the medium, although he used it as a plug the other day to keep him stretched until he was ready to go again. It didn’t take very long, though, since he spent the time between looking at the same website he ordered from before. He’s comfortable with the medium dildo, and he’s been using the largest one like a reward; if he goes beyond his full workout, he’ll spend some time working himself up to the biggest toy. But even that’s been a little, well, unsatisfying. And he knows what he likes to look at, which seems to be translating directly to what he wants to be fucked with, so he pushes through his embarrassment and looks for the most realistic thing he can find, something just a size up from the largest he already has. By the time he puts the order in, he’s practically bouncing on the dildo, grinding his hips down just thinking about the package on its way.

He tries not to check the website for shipping updates, because he already paid for the fastest available method, but it’s hard to be patient when he’s fingering himself open, teasing himself with the medium dildo and wishing he had something better to work himself up to already. It’s still a stretch, though, and by the time he has the base of the dildo pressed all the way against his ass, he’s breathing like he’s been running and biting his lip to try to keep quiet.

And that’s when his phone rings. He’s startled into reaching for it, and the movement pushes the head of the dildo just that much deeper, driving a moan out of him.

It’s Zhenya, because of course it is, and he freezes for a moment, trying to decide what to do. He’s not going to miss the call, but — should he take the dildo out or leave it in? Which will be more distracting?

He’s not sure, but he’s out of time. He’s naked, hard, and has a toy filling him up when he flips the phone open and says, “Hey, good game.”

“We play good,” Zhenya agrees. His voice is hoarse, probably from shouting. “You see my goal?”

Sid shivers thinking about how good it was, and he has to put his hand over his mouth so Zhenya doesn’t hear his surprised, loud exhale when the dildo nudges him just right. “Yeah,” he says, when he thinks he has himself under control. He still sounds breathy and weird, even to himself, so he works harder to keep his voice normal when he says, “You played really great.”

“Play even better next time,” Zhenya says. It’s cocky, but Sid doesn’t doubt him — Zhenya’s production has increased steadily over the course of the games and he’s getting more shots on goal. But it’s the confidence in his voice that has Sid biting his lip again.

“Just crash the net, you know you can sneak one by Esche that way,” Sid says, because Zhenya scored on him that exact way the last time they were in Philly. Sid’s a little worried to find that neither talking shop with Zhenya nor the embarrassment of getting interrupted does anything to decrease how turned on he is. In fact, listening to Zhenya talk about scoring right in his ear is probably making it worse.

Sid’s obviously not going to do anything while he’s on the phone with Zhenya, but he forgets what he’s got inside of him for a moment, shifts his hips, and he has to tamp down on a gasp. Zhenya doesn’t show any signs of being in a hurry, either, leisurely talking about how Esche comes too far out of his net to handle cleared pucks, how he thinks there’s an opportunity there.

“Yeah,” Sid agrees. He takes a deep breath to try to calm himself down, but instead it just reminds him how full he feels. “Their D is slow, you’ve just got to skate hard to get past them.”

“So slow, all old,” Zhenya says, and it’s shit talking, but he’s right. “You see, we beat US, just like today.”

“You’re playing really great,” Sid says. He’s sort of repeating himself, but it’s something Zhenya could stand to hear more often. “They’re really lucky to have you.”

“I come home soon,” Zhenya says, in the quiet, sweet tone Sid likes best. “Score with you.”

Sid’s first thought is not related to hockey at all, and he squirms helplessly. “You’d better,” he says, and he sounds so obvious to his own ears, but he can’t make himself end the call before Zhenya does.

There’s some yelling that sounds like Ovechkin and Zhenya yells back for him to fuck off, which, stupidly, turns Sid on even more.

“I have to go,” Zhenya says reluctantly. Sid is disappointed and relieved at the same time.

“Call me later?” Sid asks, because he really does want to talk to Zhenya, just not now. Well, he does want to talk to Zhenya now, too, that’s the problem.

“Later,” Zhenya agrees. It sounds so good, Zhenya’s voice still all shredded, and Sid shudders.

Sid flips his phone shut and drops it onto the bed. He has to get off as soon as possible.

He works the dildo in and out, as deep as he can get, and jerks off with his other hand, making all the noises he worked so hard to keep in, thinking about Zhenya’s voice, so intimate over the phone. His mind lingers over Zhenya promising they’ll score together and Sid doesn’t think he’s felt this desperate to come maybe ever. He’s right on the brink of a toe-curlingly good orgasm that he knows is going to leave him boneless and panting.

He tries to fuck himself with the dildo through it, but he can’t. His muscles go tense and it’s so good it’s almost unbearable. It feels like he comes and comes, shaking through it, and when it’s finally over, his whole body feels like it’s melting into the bed. Sid stares up at the ceiling, blinking and trying to remember how to move.

Nearly ten minutes later, when he thinks he can convince his body to move, he decides he might be able to get himself into the tub. He shifts a little to find a comfortable position to sit on the edge while he waits for it to fill and runs the water about as hot as he can stand it; he plans to soak until it gets too cold.

Sinking into the water is deliciously good. He doesn’t think he’s had a hot bath in a long time — plenty of ice baths, but those are only to be endured. He usually rushes in and out of the shower, either trying to rinse off the sweat from a game or workout, or trying to be considerate of sharing his space with someone else. The bath is so relaxing that his lids are heavy, and he worries a little about falling asleep. But when he tries to think of something to keep him from nodding off, all that comes to mind is how he got off right after talking to Zhenya. Not to mention talking to Zhenya while he was in the middle of — well, Zhenya did interrupt him. And he didn’t do anything when he was on the phone, really. So there’s nothing to be weird about.

But thinking about what happened afterward has Sid’s hand drifting over his stomach, rubbing along his abs down toward his dick, which is getting hard again. And from there, thinking about getting fucked in the tub is a pretty natural progression. He thinks about holding onto the edge of the tub for leverage, water sloshing over the sides. He slips his hand even lower, playing with his rim, and when he gives himself only a fingertip, he realizes that he’s still sensitive; his ass feels used. He’s been so careful, but today he just went for it — he’s a little tender now, and the thought of getting fucked hard enough that he can feel it later makes him dizzy.

He’s so relaxed, though; he thinks if he’s gentle, he could still finger himself for a while. He only gives himself one finger, but he tries to get it in deep enough to brush his prostate. It’s difficult, though. His finger is not quite long enough at this angle, but the way his hips twist chasing after it is frustrating in the best way. He can only imagine what he looks like, the water sliding off his skin as he tries to get himself off. And even though Zhenya is in Italy, he’s interrupted Sid once today, and his mind fixes on that idea, of Zhenya coming into the bathroom and finding him like this.

Maybe Zhenya would like what he sees, and strip down right there, throw his clothes all over the floor before getting into the tub with Sid, pull Sid into his lap and use his long fingers and clever hands to get Sid just right. Zhenya’s hands are big, so big, and they’d be able to stretch Sid open easy now — Sid’s already worked himself open once, so it would hardly take any time at all. And then Zhenya would just lift Sid up and sit him down on that big cock of his, probably even bigger than the toy Sid ordered yesterday, and fuck, Sid has no idea how much of that he could take, but Zhenya would take his time, working him down slow with his hands on Sid’s hips until he could take it all. Just thinking about being stuffed full of Zhenya’s dick makes him so hard he gives up on trying to finger himself and jerks himself off fast, the sound of his hand splashing in and out of the water echoing obscenely in the bathroom.

He comes for the second time in maybe an hour and lies in the tub, totally wrung out. But the water cools and it’s a little gross with the jizz in it, so he takes a hot shower to warm himself back up. He just barely touches himself, because he seriously can’t get off again right now, no matter how much he might want to.

Sid tosses the towel that was on the bed into the hamper and gets back into bed. He snuggles into the comforter, ready to get in a good nap before Zhenya calls again later.

He resolves to stop thinking about Zhenya while he’s getting off, because once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, but three times is a pattern.

And that kind of pattern is not safe, it’s not smart, and it doesn’t matter how good it was.

***

Sid does do things while Zhenya’s gone that aren’t jerking off. It just seems like none of it takes up that much time. He works out at least once a day, has meals with the Lemieuxs, reads a book on the Crusades, and plays with the dogs, but he still has a lot of time on his hands. Even the cooking only occupies an hour or two, although he’s getting pretty good at making his mom’s meatloaf, which he thinks Zhenya will like.

Part of the problem is that there’s no hockey for him to play, even though he goes to Mellon for optional skate a couple of times. But he’s starting to realize how much of his day he spends with Zhenya, and not just because of the things they do together because they’re on the same team. He chooses to do things that Zhenya will want to do too; he does all kinds of things he normally wouldn’t just to spend more time with a guy that he already spends pretty much all his time with.

It’s not a bad thing; he loves hanging out with Zhenya. But it does mean that without him, there’s suddenly all this free time that Sid doesn’t know what to do with. It doesn’t help that basically everyone else he knows in town is off partying in Florida, and even now, mindlessly watching Antiques Roadshow for the third hour, an arm dangling off the couch, he doesn’t think he would rather be in Florida with them.

Sid finds himself missing the way Zhenya takes up room on the couch, crowding their feet together in the middle. He even misses the few times Zhenya’s bundled them together so they can both lie down. Sid also misses the way Zhenya always manages to make him laugh, sometimes in spite of himself, and he feels dumb, because he talked to Zhenya six hours ago, and Zhenya is probably going to call in another hour; that’s more frequently than they talk some days when Zhenya is right here in Pittsburgh.

Sid sighs and feels sad and then annoyed at himself. Zhenya will be home in a week, although the fact that Sid’s counting down the days is probably a sign of further codependence or something. But it’s when Sid realizes he’s actually missing the way Zhenya bitches about his English homework that he stomps away to go work out again, although he makes sure to take his phone with him to the gym.

Zhenya calls him between reps. The only thing that makes Sid feel better about his moping is that Zhenya seems to miss him just as much.

“Italy smell weird,” Zhenya complains.

“It smells bad?” Sid asks.

“Not bad, just weird,” Zhenya grumbles. “Not like home.”

“Well, home smells weird right now, too,” Sid says, heading upstairs to stretch out on the couch and watch the snow fall outside. “Lauren and Stephanie tried this weird recipe to make — I don’t even know what, some kind of science project thing — and they microwaved it and the whole downstairs reeks.”

Zhenya sighs. He sounds a little wistful when he says, “Our room okay? I leave candy, not know you need air spray instead.”

“No, I’m okay,” Sid says. He feels stupidly pleased that Zhenya wants to look out for him even when he’s not there. “You’re really not missing out though, it was foul.”

There’s a long silence. Sid worries the call dropped, but he hears a door shut and Zhenya finally says, “I’m missing you.”

“Me too,” Sid says, probably too quickly. “I miss you a lot.” He has the terrible thought that if he misses Zhenya this badly after nine days, what will a whole summer apart be like?

There’s not a lot for either of them to say to that, because Zhenya will be back when he gets back, and, short of calling each other even more than they already do, there’s nothing to be done about it.

“I’m home soon,” Zhenya says, a little wretchedly.

“I know,” Sid says. He thought it would make him feel better to know that Zhenya felt the same way about being apart, but he hates hearing Zhenya sound like that. “I’ll come get you at the airport. Just — I’ll see you soon.”

“Soon,” Zhenya sighs out. He says goodnight in Russian that’s sweet, verging on sugary — it should make Sid want to chirp him, but instead he says his own goodnight and tries not to sound as needy as he feels. He doesn’t want to be the first to hang up.

But when he gets in bed, there’s too much space. What Sid really wants is to look across the room, see Zhenya lifting the corner of his blankets up, and crawl into bed with him. But that isn’t happening, so Sid grits his teeth and steals all of Zhenya’s pillows instead.

He tucks some behind his back and saves one to wrap himself around. After some fussy arranging and rearranging, Sid sighs, tucks his face into a pillow that smells like Zhenya’s shampoo, and goes to sleep.

***

Russia beats the US, 5-4, and Zhenya has three points: two assists and a shorthanded goal just like the one they talked about. Zhenya speeds down the ice on a 2-on-1 with Kasparaitis from the Rangers. He dishes it over to Kasparaitis, who shoots it right back across so Zhenya can hammer it home. It’s slick and showy and Sid squirms every time they show it.

It’s a tight game. Every time Russia pulls ahead by two, the Americans manage to bring it back to one, and then they tie it. But then Zhenya breaks out of his own end, tears through the neutral zone, and fires it through three US players to Ovechkin, who snipes it in like he always seems to do. Sid watches every replay breathlessly. God, Zhenya is just so good.

The US ties it up again, but there are ten minutes left, and Sid knows how much can happen in ten minutes of hockey. As if to prove it, just a little over a minute later, Zhenya passes to Datsyuk, who passes over to Kovalev, who holds and waits for Datsyuk, who wipes out right in front of them all and clears a path for Kovalev to score.

There’s still a lot of hockey to play, but despite a Russian power play and the Americans pulling Esche, the final score is 5-4, Russia. Even though they didn’t need the win, going into the elimination rounds off a victory like this is certainly a boost.

The only problem is, Russia’s first elimination match is against Canada.

Sid and Zhenya dance around the subject and mostly stick to talking about how well Zhenya played, but Sid does say, “Play your hardest,” before they hang up, which doesn’t make him feel bad at all. Even when he played against Zhenya, he wanted Zhenya’s best game and wouldn’t have been satisfied with anything else.

The game is at 2:30 in the afternoon Pittsburgh time and Nathalie insists that no one is skipping school to watch it, firmly backed up by Mario. Sid doesn’t tell the kids that his dad would have let them, although Sid missed enough school actually playing hockey, anyway.

The kids get home in time for the third period and they’re excited to see the game is still 0-0. But less than two minutes into the period, Bertuzzi goes to the box for interference so embarrassingly far behind the play that it seems almost inevitable that there’s a whiffed attempt on a clear. The puck is snatched away and passed around until it ends up on Ovechkin’s stick, and he does what he always does and fires it in past Brodeur.

The kids wail and wonder if they’re cursed, but it’s just a 1-0 lead, which might as well mean nothing in a game like this, with penalties handed out left and right and yet no consistency in how they’re issued. Brodeur gets left out to dry; he gets seemingly no breaks between incredible saves to keep Canada in the game. Both teams are playing all out like it’s the gold medal game and there’s been bad blood brewing the whole game, so it’s almost unsurprising when a fight breaks out when there’s only a minute left and they still haven’t pulled Brodeur.

Sid would just really prefer if Zhenya wasn’t right in the middle of it. They play it a couple of times, but no one tries to explain anything; all he knows is that he sees Lecavalier punch Zhenya in the face and then there’s a scrum. Lecavalier drops and Zhenya is way too close to him, and then the refs are breaking everything up. There’s a big conference between the refs. The result of it is that Lecavalier goes in the box for two minutes for roughing, and Zhenya is sent off with a match penalty.

“What?” Austin says, sticking his face up in front of the television like he can figure it out if he just looks closer.

There’s no explanation. Thirty seconds later, Pronger takes a dumb penalty after Kovalev steals the puck from him, and ten seconds after that, the puck is in the back of the Canadian net. Everyone slumps against whatever they’re sitting on, because sure, something could happen, but it doesn’t look likely.

Canada is out in the quarterfinals.

“Well,” Mario says into the silence.

Sid’s filled with a conflicting mess of emotions — disappointment for his country, worry about Zhenya, and being a little glad Zhenya’s Olympics aren’t over. But there’s a couple of big questions there. What does a match penalty in the last minutes of a game mean in the Olympics? Moreover, what the hell happened?

And Sid can’t help but wonder whether he could have made a difference if he’d gone, or if he would just have been another stunned-looking player in a Canadian jersey looking at the joyous crowd of Russians and wondering what went wrong.

He thinks about it for a long time up in their room, phone in hand as he waits for Zhenya to call, and eventually he comes to the conclusion that he’ll never know what would have happened if he’d played. But he wishes he’d had the chance to try, to represent Canada to the best of his ability.

The call doesn’t come and doesn’t come. The minutes tick toward midnight in Turin, then past it. Undoubtedly, Zhenya would have been held up after the game, more so than usual, but by one a.m. Zhenya’s time, Sid decides to take matters into his own hands. If Zhenya’s asleep, he won’t pick up, which is fine. Mostly Sid wants to congratulate him and tell him good night, and even if he gets Zhenya’s voice mail, Zhenya will get the message in the morning and know Sid tried.

It rings and rings, so Sid gears himself up to keep his message short, but on what must have been the last ring, Zhenya picks up.

“Sid,” Zhenya says. He sounds wary and tired.

“Hey,” Sid says, a little surprised. “Did I wake you up?”

“No,” Zhenya says. “I’m up. Not tired yet.” He doesn’t sound like the angry mess he always is after a big loss, but he doesn’t sound like a guy whose team just advanced in the Olympics, either.

“You played a good game,” Sid says, because he did, he made chances and got shots on goal.

“You mean until I get kicked out,” Zhenya says heavily, like it’s what he expected Sid to say this whole time.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Sid asks. He’s extremely careful with his tone, so it’s just an honest question. “You don’t have to.”

Zhenya blows out a loud breath. “He’s after me all night, just piss me off,” he says ruefully. “We shove, he punch, fight starts, everyone there. I’m not thinking, I bring back knee, almost kick him.”

Zhenya’s been told a hundred times over by everyone to keep his temper in check. And everyone knows you never kick at someone, especially if they’re down. Sid takes a deep breath. “Almost?” he asks, because he certainly didn’t see even that.

“Almost,” Zhenya says firmly. “Stupidest. I’m not play against Finland.”

“They already told you?” Sid asks, surprised.

“No, but coach think so,” Zhenya says. He sighs.

Finland just squeaked by in their game against the US earlier. Sid hasn’t seen many of their games, just highlights and the one they played against Canada, but they went 5-0 in the prelims. Then again, Sid would definitely say their bracket was easier than the Russians’, so he’s not sure how they stack up.

“Well, we’ll just have to wait and see, then,” Sid says, even though he can’t imagine it, having to sit out while your chance at the gold could slip through your fingers.

“Can’t believe I do, so stupid,” Zhenya mutters.

Sid can’t deny that it was a stupid move, but Zhenya beating himself up about it isn’t going to help. “All you can do is be ready for the next game,” Sid says, grateful that no matter what, there will be a next game for Zhenya.

“I know,” Zhenya says, sounding hangdog. “Wait and see.”

“Yeah,” Sid says, but he can’t leave it like that, with Zhenya sounding so defeated already. “But whatever happens, you’ve always got me.”

Sid can hear Zhenya breathing on the other end of the line, thinking it over. “You got me?” Zhenya asks.

“Yeah,” Sid says again. “I’ve got you and you’ve got me.” He plays with the edge of the pillow he has in his lap.

“I’m okay, then,” Zhenya says. He sounds settled and much more positive than he did just a minute ago. “Whatever happen.”

There’s a lot of trust implicit in that. Sid has to swallow before he can say, “You should go to bed.” They were sweet last night, but this time Sid is as affectionate as he knows how to be when he says goodnight, whispering the Russian phrases into the phone.

And Zhenya returns it, even sweeter, and Sid can’t hug Zhenya, so he clutches the pillow tight.

***

Sid really hoped that there would be a big, easy win against Finland to relieve some of the guilt he knows Zhenya is feeling, but there’s not even a tough win or a close loss — Russia gets blown out of the water in a 4-0 nightmare. There’s no way that one person could turn that around, not even a player like Zhenya, who sometimes seems to reverse the course of a game through sheer strength of will.

Zhenya is unhappy when they talk after the game, but he seems focused on bringing the bronze home.

“Not best medal, but I’m bringing one home,” he says, sounding more like himself, more like he believes he can win.

“I’ll be waiting,” Sid says.

But the Czechs score in the first and again in the second. Kovalchuk gets pulled for a game misconduct in the second and Zhenya gets called for interference in the beginning of the third. Sid hopes and hopes no one scores while he’s in the box. The Russians kill the penalty and for a moment there it looks like they might get a lucky break as the Czechs get called for too many men, but even two power plays almost back to back don’t jumpstart their offence. Datsyuk goes in on a ten minute misconduct call and Sid knows anything can happen — but they pull Nabokov and the empty netter is less than a minute behind it.

The handshake line is quick. Sid wishes that Zhenya was coming home tonight, but he knows Zhenya’s not leaving until after the closing ceremonies. At least he’ll be able to spend some more time with his parents, even if Sid selfishly wants him back already. There’s a last slow pan of the Russian players and Sid can’t stand the way Zhenya is hanging his head. Sid’s sick of everything about this Olympics, even the 18 on Zhenya’s back. He knows the Pens have their share of problems, but he hopes Zhenya is as eager as he is to get back to their team, to play together again.

Sid is expecting Zhenya to need a little time, to process it on his own before he talks about it, so he’s surprised to get a call right before dinner.

Sid stops on the stairs to answer. “Hey,” he says.

“My plane get in 7 in the morning, not tomorrow, 27th,” Zhenya says. “Coming home.”

“Okay, let me go get some paper, and then give me the flight number,” Sid says. He starts moving again, heading down to the kitchen and its notepad by the phone. “Where are you stopping?”

“Late flight, want to get parents to airport, stopping in Paris,” Zhenya says. “Still early night for you, I call you from Paris?”

“Yes,” Sid says. Of course he wants Zhenya to call. “Okay, I’m ready, give me the number?”

They talk for a little while. Sid tucks himself into the doorway of the formal living room, out of the way of Alexa setting the table. Stephanie comes in to let him know that dinner is ready, but makes a “whoops” face when she sees Sid is on the phone and pantomimes in increasing ridiculous ways “tell Geno we love him!” before heading into the dining room.

“The kids miss you,” Sid says. “They’ll be really happy when you’re home.”

“Going to be happy to be home,” Zhenya says, sighing. “You going to be happy when I’m home?”

“You know I will be,” Sid says. He’s smiling stupidly just thinking about Zhenya being back in one more day.

“You eat all those Reese’s without me?” Zhenya asks. “Maybe I stop in Paris airport, buy more in case.”

“I thought those were all for me.” Sid says. Besides, he ate them all in the first week Zhenya was gone. Maybe a trip to the grocery store wouldn’t be a bad idea tomorrow. Or a couple of loads of laundry. “But sure, pick up some French stuff.”

“I already buy you Italy chocolate, now you want French chocolate? Greedy,” Zhenya says, but he sounds pleased. “Lucky I share.”

“Yeah,” Sid says. He wonders if Zhenya is smiling that quiet, crooked little smile Sid likes best. “I’m pretty lucky.”

“I’m going to bed, lots of time with Mama and Papa tomorrow,” Zhenya says. “Get woke up by drunk Sanja later, I’m sure.”

“But soon you’ll be home,” Sid reminds him, reminds them both.

“Soon,” Zhenya says. He tells Sid goodnight, and it’s even better when Sid thinks about how Zhenya will be telling him that in person in two days.

***

Sid spends most of the day on Sunday running errands, doing things that he’s forgotten to do for the past two weeks while off his normal routines. He does the laundry and tries not to be embarrassed about how many towels and sheets are in there. He gets some groceries and pretty much scoops anything Zhenya has ever picked for himself into the cart. He makes meatloaf, which is always better the second day in sandwiches. After both beds are made, he wonders if there’s anything else that needs to be done. Which is when he realizes the box full of his toys is just sitting out in the middle of the floor. He shoves it under his bed, face burning. He’s going to have to be more careful about using them — no more midday marathon fingering sessions, that’s for sure, at least not without making sure Zhenya will be very much out of the house.

Well, maybe he’ll do something tonight, since Zhenya will be back in the morning. When he glances at his calendar, he notices that Jack is driving in the day following. He was so wrapped up in missing Zhenya that he’d forgotten how soon Jack was coming to visit.

He sends Jack a quick email to let him know he’s excited he’s coming out to Pittsburgh, and asks him to call or text when he leaves Ann Arbor. It’s a shame that Jack’s spring break wasn’t until now, because Sid certainly could have used the company during the Olympic break, but he’s glad that Jack will get to meet Zhenya and see a game or two while he’s here.

Nathalie cooks a roast for Sunday dinner and sends Sid up with all the leftovers; she laughs and says, “I’m sure Geno will help you with these.”

He’s just finished putting away the leftovers when he his phone rings and Zhenya’s Italian phone number flashes up for what Sid hopes is the last time.

“Hi,” Sid says, parking a hip against the kitchen counter. “Are you in Paris?”

“This airport garbage,” Zhenya grumbles.

“Is everything okay?” Sid asks, suddenly worried.

“Nothing open!” Zhenya complains. “Last time I eat before closing ceremony. Maybe dying.”

Sid takes a deep breath, relieved and a little amused. “Well, they’ll have to feed you on the plane, right?” he says.

“Forever. Good thing I pack your chocolate, otherwise I eat all now,” Zhenya says.

“Just a few more hours,” Sid says. He makes a mental note to fill a thermos with Zhenya’s terribly sweet tea tomorrow morning and to be ready to stop at McDonald’s in a pinch. “You must be tired. What is it, two in the morning?”

“Very late,” Zhenya sighs dramatically. “Very hungry.”

“How much longer are you there?” Sid asks, trying to figure it out from the flight time.

“Another hour,” Zhenya grumps.

He happily listens to Zhenya complain until Zhenya’s phone beeps with the warning that he’s almost out of minutes.

“Have my real phone, call when we land,” Zhenya promises.

“I’ll be there,” Sid says.

He’s glad Zhenya will be home in a few hours, but as he settles into bed that night, he has to admit he’ll miss sprawling out over his bed completely naked and fingering himself until he can take the toy that came in the mail just a few days ago. He’s still getting used to the stretch of it, the way it warms up until he can almost believe that it’s real. At least he thinks it feels real enough, and it makes it pretty easy to think about someone doing this to him, about being fucked by someone.

Some of the guys pick up with impressive regularity while they’re out and Sid wonders what it would be like if he could do that, if he could take someone home and get fucked any time he wanted. But it would be even better if someone knew his body the way Sid knows it now, if he could get fucked like this all the time. He wants someone who knows just want he wants and what he can take, but in the meantime, he gives it to himself. The bigger toy makes it easier to hit his prostate, and Sid determinedly pushes his hips down to get it as deep as it’ll go.

When he comes, he leaves the toy in as long as he can stand to. The first time he tried it, he took it out almost right after coming and gasped and felt empty. All the mellow laziness of it disappeared. So he takes his time, easing it out as gently as he worked himself up to taking it. He still feels a little unsatisfied, so he looks at one of his magazines until he thinks he could go again. This time is a slow, rhythmic grind, and the dildo goes in so easily that Sid flushes, but he can’t bring himself to truly care, because it feels incredible. It’s the quickest he’s ever tried to fuck himself after coming and he thinks he might really like it. He likes feeling a little over-sensitive and loves the way he can take it right away, no hesitation.

After he comes a second time and then plays with himself lazily in the shower, he finally feels satiated, at least enough to go to sleep. The last thing he does is set his alarm for early.

***

Sid actually wakes up a little before his alarm and jumps right out of bed, zipping through his shower and putting the last of the dishes in the dishwasher. He gets Zhenya’s thermos and a travel mug for himself, along with a couple of emergency protein bars in case Zhenya is starving when he gets off the plane.

The kids are starting to run around on the second floor, going in and out of the bathrooms and complaining about the fact that Mondays happen.

“Like, hey!” Lauren says when she spots Sid. “We could go with Sid to pick up Geno instead!”

Nathalie sticks her head out of the master bedroom door, a pair of huge curlers on top of her head, and laughs. “Absolutely not. Drive safe, Sid, say hi to Geno,” she says. “I’ve got to be out most of the day, but are you boys eating dinner with us?”

“Yeah,” Sid says. “Do you want us to pick anything up?”

“I think I’ve got everything,” she says. “You just pick up Geno.”

“Sneak me in the car,” Austin begs. His hair is still sticking straight up and he has pillow creases all over his cheek. “I have a quiz on adding mixed numbers.”

“Sorry, buddy,” Sid says, trying to flatten Austin’s hair back down. “You’ll do great.”

He gets on the road early enough that no one is heading down toward the airport, so he gets there way too fast. By now he knows better than to try to wait in the arrivals loop, so instead he waits at the Sunoco station, in the parking lot that specifically says not to wait there. He does buy gas, though, which he figures clears him.

He’s glad he thought to bring coffee, although after he drinks it he definitely dozes off for a little while. He’s startled into wakefulness by his phone.

“Hi,” Sid says, smiling.

“Good morning,” Zhenya says. “Snow just for me?”

“Only a little,” Sid says. There little flurries drifting along on the wind. “You just land?”

“Yes, captain say we good to go right to the gate,” Zhenya says. “If you leave house now, I’m through customs when you get here.”

“Oh, I’m —” Sid cranes his neck to look back at the airport. “I’m kind of already here?”

Zhenya chuckles. “Couldn’t wait?” he asks, his tone teasing.

“Nope,” Sid says. “So get a move on.”

“Yes, I’m go to captain, say, hurry, Sidney Crosby waiting,” Zhenya says, and Sid laughs. “I’m going fast as I can. Customs take a while, have to check bag, uncheck, recheck.”

“Well, tell me when you’re almost to the arrivals lane,” Sid says, even though he just wants to get Zhenya now.

“Soon,” Zhenya says. He sounds just as impatient as Sid feels.

Fifteen or so minutes pass before he gets a text from Zhenya that says out of customs and Sid guns it back around to arrivals, only to have to crawl through the lanes as slowly as he thinks he can get away with before he pulls to a stop in front of the Delta sign.

He’s pretty sure he’s about to get busted when the doors open and there’s Zhenya with his gear bag slung over one shoulder and his other bag stacked on top of his wheeled suitcase. Sid hopes he put on the hazards as he throws open the car door and races around to the sidewalk.

Zhenya looks tired and his hair is messy like he’s been running his hands through it, but the moment he sees Sid his face splits into a grin and he just lights up. Zhenya looks perfect, from the circles around his eyes to the stupid frayed cuffs of his jeans, and Sid is so happy to have him back he thinks he might burst. Sid can only imagine what he looks like, but he must be smiling just as widely. Zhenya drops his bags right on the ground and holds his arms open, taking one big stride to sweep Sid up and pull him in tight.

“Sidnyusha,” he says. Sid’s been listening to Zhenya right in his ear for the last two weeks, but the difference between the phone and Zhenya’s breath right there on his cheek is incredible.

“Zhenya,” Sid says, and there’s a lump in his throat that makes his voice come out shaky.

Zhenya squeezes him even tighter and moves his hands to cup the back of Sid’s head and card through his hair. He rests his chin on top of Sid’s head for a moment, then sighs deeply and buries his face in Sid’s hair. Sid can feel Zhenya relaxing against him, so he braces his legs and happily takes a little more of Zhenya’s weight.

Maybe they would have stayed there forever if an airport security car hadn’t come by. The officer looks a little regretful when she says, “Gentlemen, you need to load and go.”

“Sorry,” Sid calls. Zhenya still hasn’t made any move to let go. “Come on, let’s go home.”

“Home,” Zhenya says. He presses what is unmistakably a kiss against Sid’s forehead, and his lips are so warm against Sid’s skin. Then he lets go. “Maybe need McDonald’s first.”

Sid’s cheeks feel hot. He nods and helps Zhenya load his bags into the car. “Anything you want,” he says, and he means it.

The sound Zhenya makes when he sees the thermos on his seat makes Sid’s face flush even more, and Sid has to remind him to put on his seatbelt because he’s too busy pouring himself a cup of tea. “Good,” Zhenya sighs out, once he’s safely buckled in and sipping at his tea.

They do stop at McDonald’s, and Zhenya devours a couple of Egg McMuffins that he stuffs hashbrowns into. Sid gets some breakfast of his own, which Zhenya passes to him whenever they’re at a light. The house is quiet as they carry Zhenya’s bags in and up the stairs. No sooner has Sid put down Zhenya’s hockey bag than Zhenya drops the rest of his luggage and pulls Sid in again.

He holds on tight and nuzzles his face against Sid’s, his nose brushing against Sid’s cheek. “No hugs for two weeks, too long.” He squeezes Sid tighter, like he intends to make up for those two weeks, with interest.

When Sid thinks about it, he realizes Zhenya does touch him a lot, whether it’s a hand on Sid’s shoulder when he’s passing or bumping their shoulders together when they’re sitting next to each other on the couch. And that’s not including all the times they’ve sprawled all over each other on the couch or in bed, which seems to be Zhenya’s next destination, if the yawning is any indication.

“Need to stretch out,” he says. “Tiny plane seats.”

Sid is pretty sure any plane seat is tiny when you’re as tall as Zhenya is, so he nods. “You don’t want to get too off your schedule. Do you want me to wake you up in an hour or two?” he asks.

Zhenya looks a little wrong-footed and says, “Come nap, too.”

Sid’s only been up for a couple of hours, so he certainly doesn’t need a nap, but the idea of a couple of quiet hours tucked up warm under the blankets with Zhenya while the snow falls a little heavier outside is irresistible. “Okay,” he says. He lets Zhenya take him by the hand and tug him along to the side of Zhenya’s bed. Zhenya kicks his way out of his jeans before getting into the bed, so Sid takes off his jeans, too, and climbs in right after Zhenya.

There’s not a ton of space left over in a queen size bed when you put two hockey players in it, but Zhenya wraps himself around Sid, closer than they’d been hugging, even, and they fit just fine.

Zhenya’s chest is warm against Sid’s back, his breath already rhythmic and even, and his arm is draped over Sid with his palm against his collarbone. There’s just — no space at all between them. Zhenya is moulded completely against Sid, which makes it really hard not to think about how much and where they’re touching. Zhenya’s breath is hot against Sid’s neck and he’s most of the way asleep, so Sid definitely does not want to shiver and wake him back up, no matter how much it makes the skin there feel tingly and sensitive.

So he takes a slow, deep breath and tries to focus on his breathing as he wills himself to calm down. And though he snuggled with Zhenya’s pillows while he was away, they were no substitute for Zhenya himself. Sid likes the feeling of having someone else in the bed, someone he trusts. He must have needed some more sleep, after all, because he wakes up feeling better than he has in weeks.

At first he thinks Zhenya is still asleep, but then Zhenya strokes his thumb along Sid’s hip, so he must be awake. “Did you sleep?” Sid asks, his voice pitched low.

“Some,” Zhenya says. He’s still pressed against Sid. “Hungry again.”

“You could have gotten up,” Sid says. “There’s a lot of food in the fridge.”

Zhenya hums noncommittally. “What kind of food?”

“Normal food,” Sid says. “What do you mean what kind of food?”

Zhenya rubs his nose against Sid’s neck. “You said you practice cooking,” he hints.

“Yeah,” Sid says, biting down on a smile.

“Cook for me?” Zhenya pleads.

Sid makes a production of sighing like he’s just so put upon. But he gets up, and Zhenya follows on his heels into the kitchen. Sid pulls out the meatloaf and makes some sandwiches with it.

“You cook?” Zhenya asks, looking at the meatloaf still in the pan.

“My mom’s recipe,” Sid says by way of confirmation.

Zhenya takes an enormous bite of his sandwich and then is just ridiculous, making happy noises and pointing at the meatloaf and giving Sid a thumbs up. He starts in on a second sandwich while Sid is still halfway through his first.

“We’re having dinner with the family tonight,” Sid reminds him. “I think Nathalie’s making your favourite.”

Zhenya looks at the clock and then shrugs and finishes off the sandwich, apparently not concerned about spoiling his appetite. They decamp to the couch for a lazy afternoon. They’re periodically joined by a dog or two, but mostly it’s just the two of them cuddled up together. Sid even lets Zhenya have the remote.

In the middle of the afternoon, there’s an explosion of noise from downstairs that means the kids are home. Zhenya makes a noise like he remembered something, gets up from the couch, and disappears into the bedroom. He comes back with a large plastic bag with the Olympic logo on it.

“Presents?” Sid asks. Zhenya nods. “Where’s my present?”

“Later,” Zhenya says in nearly a purr. Sid knows Zhenya got him chocolate, but for a moment, it sounds like he’s going to give Sid something else instead. Sid shifts a little on the couch and tries very hard to think of something, anything else. It’s not easy, though, because he’s gotten used to getting off a lot, and now seemingly everything makes him think of sex.

He’s back under control by the time the kids knock loudly on the door. They barely wait for Zhenya to tell them to come in before tumbling in and swarming him.

“We missed you a lot,” Alexa proclaims, and wraps her arms around Zhenya’s waist.

“Sid was the saddest while you were gone,” Lauren says.

“But we were next saddest,” Austin says.

“Take us with you next time,” Stephanie begs.

“Maybe you play in next Olympics,” Zhenya says, ruffling up Stephanie and Austin’s hair.

“That’s so far away,” Stephanie says. “We’ll be in high school.” She pauses to think. “And still not old enough.”

“Maybe you can go next time, though,” Sid says. He hopes he’s not getting himself into trouble as he adds, “It’s in Vancouver, after all.”

“I bring you presents,” Zhenya says, which instantly derails the conversation. He makes a very stern face. “If you good kids while I’m gone.”

“We were so good, we didn’t break anything,” Austin says. The rest of them nod vigorously in agreement.

“Nothing?” Zhenya asks, impressed. Considering all of the sports-related property damage that occurs in and around the Lemieux house on a regular basis, it’s not an insignificant achievement.

“I got everything right on my spelling test,” Alexa says. “Pleeease, Geno.”

Zhenya opens the bag he brought out earlier, reaches inside slowly, and pulls out just as slowly — a creepy-looking stuffed Olympic mascot that makes Sid seriously wonder if the Olympic marketing committee had to undergo the same drug testing all the athletes did.

Zhenya distributes them. “That’s so weird,” Austin says gleefully.

“Awesome,” Stephanie agrees, looking at hers with horrified delight.

“The big ones hug you, very scary,” Zhenya says, and both Alexa and Austin look up instantly, their expressions longing.

That leads to a lot of bear hugs and giggling. Eventually, Nathalie yells up the stairs that it’s time for dinner. Zhenya reaches down into the bag to take out a bottle of wine.

“For Mario and Nathalie?” Sid asks as they follow the kids down the stairs.

Zhenya nods and looks doubtful. “It real expensive,” he says. “Means good, right?”

“I’m sure it is,” Sid says, even though he’s really not sure at all.

But evidently it is, because Mario accepts the bottle with a raised eyebrow, like he’s impressed. “Oh my,” he says. “This one’s best if it’s put away for a few years. We’ll open it up before the next Olympics, how’s that?”

Zhenya nods agreeably. He looks pleased that his gift passed muster.

“What did you get Sid?” Alexa asks.

“Guess,” Zhenya says.

“Chocolate,” the kids all say in unison, followed by accusations of jinxing.

Mario and Nathalie laugh, and Sid makes a face at being known so well. But there’s something good, too, about how well they’ve all come to know each other. And he doesn’t miss the look on Zhenya’s face when Nathalie brings out the roast chicken and the potatoes mashed with dill and sour cream. It makes this family, this place, feel like somewhere Sid really belongs.

Zhenya tells everyone all about the Olympics after dinner — well, a select number of sanitized stories that Sid’s already heard. Austin and Stephanie both just want to know more, more, more about what it’s like to play Olympic hockey, and Zhenya carefully emphasizes what an honour it was to play for his country, and elides the heartache of how he got there in the first place and what it felt like to go home without a medal. “And I see my parents,” he says. “Good to share Olympics with them.”

Sid thinks the kids would ask questions forever if Nathalie didn’t eventually send them off to bed. Zhenya’s starting to droop, too, so Sid hustles him upstairs.

And even though he’s probably jetlagged and physically and emotionally exhausted, there’s a spring in Zhenya’s step when he sits Sid down on the couch, goes into the bedroom, and comes out with a huge bag. Sid wonders if maybe Zhenya got him something else, too, but when he starts pulling things out Sid realizes it’s just a giant sack of all kinds of chocolate.

“Wow,” Sid says as more and more comes out of the bag. “Thank you, you didn’t have to — this is too much.”

There’s a fancy looking box that’s heavy with whatever is inside, bags of different little wrapped chocolates, and a jar of a spread that smells like Nutella. He hesitates for a moment, wondering if he should go for a spoon or just wait until breakfast and a piece of toast. But it’s his present, so he dips his finger in just enough for a taste, and it’s unbelievable.

“Did you try this?” Sid asks, holding out the jar to Zhenya. Nutella is good, but this stuff is even better.

Zhenya grins. “Good,” he agrees, getting a fingerful and licking it clean, seeming very pleased with himself. It’s a little distracting, so Sid turns back to the candy shop on the table to try something else. Pretty much everything has pictures of hazelnuts and chocolate on it, so Sid figures it’s a regional thing — but the mystery box is calling for him, covered in incomprehensible Italian without helpful pictures.

The box is filled with beautiful and decadent-looking truffles and chocolates and Sid just stares at it, because there are so many choices.

“What should I try?” Sid says, pushing the choice off onto Zhenya.

Zhenya evaluates the box for a moment before reaching in for one that’s shaped like a rose. “Open,” Zhenya says with an imperious raise of his eyebrows. He lifts the chocolate up to Sid’s mouth.

Zhenya’s thumb barely brushes against Sid’s bottom lip as Sid bites into the chocolate, which is rich and starts melting the moment it hits his tongue. It’s filled with a creamy liquid that must have some kind of liquor in it, because it burns in the best way, a little bit of heat lingering in his throat as he swallows.

“I pick good one?” Zhenya asks, watching him closely.

“Yeah,” Sid says.

Zhenya carefully surveys the box before picking out another one and holds it up to Sid’s lips, and Sid doesn’t resist. He accidentally gets a little of Zhenya’s fingertip this time as he takes the chocolate into his mouth, and this one is just as good; the filling makes him think of champagne.

Zhenya licks a stray bit of chocolate off his finger — the one Sid had in his mouth? — and smiles. Sid flushes but doesn’t take his eyes off him, smiling back helplessly.

***

The thing is, Sid honestly thought Jack and Zhenya would get along great.

They don’t seem to dislike each other, exactly — they’re both polite when Sid introduces them, and they’re friendly enough when they shake hands. Jack is good with people in general. He’s upbeat and outgoing in a way that Sid both admires and envies. Zhenya, likewise, can charm the birds out of the trees.

The first day, Jack does seem to try. He asks Zhenya questions, he tells some stories about Sid that Sid guesses are a little funny in retrospect, and he shares the tin of his mom’s chocolate chip cookies, which are Sid’s favourite. She sent them along for him.

“I tried to tell her you gave them up,” Jack says, grinning around a mouthful of cookie.

“Shut up,” Sid suggests. He smiles back and tries not to make stupid noises about how good they are.

“You should have seen him,” Jack tells Zhenya. “He finds out he’s going to Rimouski and he just lay on my bed and said he had to get serious about nutrition, so he was definitely not going to eat cookies anymore.”

“Shut up,” Sid says with a little bit of a whine. He’s only a little surprised when Zhenya curls an arm around his waist.

“He has two-cookie rule,” Zhenya says. “Two cookies okay.”

Jack blinks. “Good thing they’re your favourite, then,” he says. “Make those two count.”

Zhenya’s fingers tighten on Sid’s waist. “Your favourite?” he asks Sid. “What about black and white?”

They get black and white cookies at this deli they discovered, one that understands Zhenya’s extreme love affair with pickles and piles his sandwich high with them. The cookies were initially an afterthought, but the first time Sid had one, he was in love — they were light and buttery and reminded him of his grandmother’s shortbread.

“Well,” Sid says, stalling because he doesn’t want to be rude about Jack’s mom’s cookies. “You know I only like the chocolate half.”

“He make me eat vanilla half, give him chocolate,” Zhenya tells Jack, long-suffering.

“You like the vanilla better anyway,” Sid huffs.

Things don’t exactly go downhill from there so much as they just stay vaguely weird. The three of them grab a late lunch out, and Sid and Zhenya tell Jack about Pittsburgh, and he tells them about how it feels to be back in Ann Arbor.

“Draft by Carolina?” Zhenya asks at one point.

“Yeah,” Jack says, and Sid grips Zhenya’s thigh under the table to warn him off a delicate subject.

“Why not play there?” Zhenya asks, heedless.

“I made a commitment,” Jack says. He doesn’t look pissed — Sid knows what that looks like — but he does look stubbornly determined. “I said I would play for U of M, so I am.”

“Have you seen any football games?” Sid says, trying desperately to change the subject.

Jack’s jaw goes from tight to lax with surprise. “Since when do you care about football?”

“We see Steelers,” Zhenya says. That topic sufficiently occupies them through the rest of lunch — Zhenya is somewhat gracious in the wake of the Super Bowl victory, and Jack is self-deprecating about the Lions.

Jack doesn’t get to meet Mario yet, because he’s out of town at a charity thing, but he meets Nathalie and the kids and they get along just as well as Sid expected, because the Lemieuxs really are great and Jack really is good with people. He’s just not very good with Zhenya for some reason.

***

The next day, they play the Sens. Sid really wants to win, and especially wants to win in front of Jack, but it doesn’t work out. It’s another close game that they just can’t finish. At least when they go back to the house he doesn’t have to explain to Jack why he’s not great company and Zhenya is in full bear mode.

Sid is brushing his teeth when Zhenya comes up and hugs him from behind, and Sid just keeps brushing while Zhenya holds him, at least until he needs to bend over, spit, and rinse his mouth.

“Close,” Zhenya mutters in Sid’s ear when he straightens. “So close.”

“Yeah,” Sid sighs. He lets his head fall back onto Zhenya’s shoulders. “It’s going to happen,” he says, though even he is starting to lose faith.

Zhenya grumbles wordlessly and presses his face into Sid’s neck, and that’s when Jack sticks his head into the bathroom.

“Hey, do you —” Jack says. And then he stops.

Sid waits for Zhenya to let go, but he doesn’t seem inclined to move. “What?” he asks.

“Can I borrow your phone? Mine didn’t charge,” Jack says.

“Yeah, for sure,” Sid says. “Let me — come on, Zhenya.” He shrugs himself out of Zhenya’s arms and goes into the bedroom to get his phone off the nightstand. “Here,” he says, holding it out for Jack. There’s still the 87 sticker that Jack put on it.

“Sid,” Jack says, and then stops. He hesitates for a long moment. Then he just takes the phone. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Sid says. He watches Jack leave the room, and wonders what’s up with him.

Zhenya comes in soon after, and he’s still not disposed to talk, but he does manhandle Sid into another hug that Sid returns, his arms tight around Zhenya’s waist.

***

The next day, they show Jack some of Pittsburgh and come back to spend the afternoon outside with the kids, having what is probably the last epic snowball fight of the season. There was snow a week ago, and they’ve been warned that it could still snow again, but it feels like the last one, somehow, like the season is turning over. Jack’s little brother is a year younger than Alexa, and from the way he’s smiling, he’s definitely having a good time playing with the kids.

Sid thinks he’s escaped Jack trying to stuff snow down his back when Jack tackles him, and Sid goes down in the soft snow with an “Oof!” and a laugh.

“You’re so heavy, you weigh a million pounds, get off,” Sid complains, still laughing.

Jack pins him a little more securely, so that Sid is trapped on his back, which isn’t so bad — it means that Jack can’t shove snow down his collar.

“Maybe I’m never letting you up,” Jack says, waggling his eyebrows.

Sid squirms a little, trying to see if he can get free, but Jack knows all his tricks and just grips him tighter.

“Say ‘Jack Johnson is the best,’” Jack prompts him.

“Oh, please,” Sid says, even though he knows what’s coming next.

“You had your chance, Squid,” Jack says sadly. He reaches up Sid’s coat and tickles him until Sid is shrieking and trying to twist out of Jack’s grip. Sid succeeds in getting a thigh around Jack’s and flipping them, so that Sid is sitting on top, straddling Jack’s thighs and pinning his wrists down.

“You’re such a jerk,” Sid says fondly.

Mario calls them in for dinner, and Sid contemplates shoving snow in Jack’s face, but Zhenya offers Sid a hand. He takes it, and Zhenya pulls him up and brushes snow off his coat.

“You okay?” Zhenya murmurs in Russian. “Was he too rough with you?”

“I’m fine,” Sid responds, also in Russian. He’s a little surprised that Zhenya was at all worried — it was no worse than the horsing around he and Zhenya do.

“Ugh, thanks for the hand up, buddy,” Jack says as he gets up from the ground by himself, and Sid starts.

“Oh, sorry,” Sid says. “Come on, you don’t want to miss dinner.”

“Dinner with Mario Lemieux,” Jack says. “If I say something dumb, hide my body when I die of shame and tell my little brother that I was actually cool.”

“It’ll be fine,” Sid says, and gives Jack his best reassuring smile.

“Come on, dinner waiting,” Zhenya says. He herds Sid to the back door with a hand low on his back.

***

Sid and Jack do spend some time together, just the two of them — Zhenya has English lessons, and he’s being secretive, but Sid thinks he’s getting ready to take his driver’s licence exam. Sid doesn’t want anyone to feel left out or like a third wheel, but it’s a hard balance to strike.

The three of them watch a movie upstairs after dinner, with Sid in between Jack and Zhenya on the couch. It takes Sid a few minutes to work out what feels so weird, and then he realizes. He and Zhenya curl up together when they watch movies alone, and even when they’re with the Lemieuxs, Sid usually leans up against Zhenya and makes himself comfortable. But right now they’re barely touching. Zhenya has an arm along the back of the couch, but his fingers are just brushing Sid’s shoulder.

Sid shifts on the couch trying to get comfortable, since he can’t use Zhenya like a body pillow. It’s a whole twenty minutes before Zhenya settles his arm around Sid’s shoulders. That helps, but it’s not the same.

Maybe Sid’s the one being weird. After all, Jack and Zhenya are his friends, and he’s at home. There’s no reason for him not to curl up with Zhenya, except — well, Jack wouldn’t make fun of him. He just wouldn’t. But he can’t imagine Jack wanting Sid to cuddle up with him the way Zhenya does. Jack’s easy with his physical displays of affection, and he was always fine about being crammed in a bus seat with Sid or doing their homework on Sid’s dorm bed. Wrestling and roughhousing were likewise fine, and Jack’s never been stingy with hugs.

But there’s also a line, and they both know it. And Jack’s been careful not to cross it since the first and only time they kissed.

With Zhenya, Sid’s not sure where that line is, or if it even exists.

***

The game against the Canes is no better. Therrien pulls Sébastien after four goals, and puts Flower in, but it doesn’t help. They lose, 5-7. And the thing is — Sid knew very well why the Pens were in a position to select him in the lottery. But he hoped they could turn it around quickly.

Colby claps him on the arm after the media are gone. “What was that, point number 65, 66?”

“66, I think?” Sid says, wiping his face off.

Colby hunches down, his hands on Sid’s knees. “Bet you can crack a hundred,” he says.

Sid stares at him, and suddenly everyone in the locker room is looking, too.

“Twenty-one games left,” Sergei says thoughtfully.

“How about it?” Colby asks, raising his voice so everyone can hear. “Can we get the Kid to a hundred?”

There’s a murmur around the room, and for the first time in a while, Sid sees some of the guys smile.

“I help,” Zhenya says suddenly, surprisingly. “One hundred.”

“One hundred,” comes a rough chorus from the rest of the room, and Sid feels himself start to believe again.

***

Sid wakes up a little early the next day, very aware that it’s Jack’s last day in Pittsburgh. He doesn’t want to waste it. He hops in the shower right away — and unlike certain people he’s sharing a room with, he doesn’t take forever in the shower — so when he gets out he’s surprised to see Zhenya awake and dressed. Zhenya and Jack are staring belligerently at each other in the kitchen, their arms crossed stubbornly.

Sid doubts it’s about the coffee, which is still percolating in the pot, and he feels really unprepared to deal with this while his hair is still dripping wet and soaking the collar of his tee. But before he can say anything, Zhenya glances at Sid significantly, and stalks off into the bedroom.

“Dude,” Jack says. “That guy is—”

Jack breaks off when Zhenya comes back into the room with his coat. “I’m going to hang out with Talbo,” Zhenya says in Russian. Sid can’t help but feel that it’s because of whatever he and Jack were talking about. Maybe some of that shows on his face, because Zhenya’s cool expression softens a little and he lays his hand along the back of Sid’s neck, strokes through the hair there, and squeezes gently. “I’ll be home later.”

“Have fun,” Sid says, trying to keep his tone light.

Zhenya gives Jack a look and the barest hint of a nod; Jack rolls his eyes and waves.

The second Zhenya is out the door, Jack laughs, though it sounds a little bewildered, and pours them both a cup of coffee, doctoring Sid’s perfectly. He heads over to the couch and pats the seat next to him, so Sid comes, sits down, and takes his cup from Jack.

“So, I think we should talk,” Jack says.

Sid winces, because that never means anything good. “Yeah?”

Jack makes a little bit of a face and says, “I just — I want to be sure. We’re good, right?”

That wasn’t at all what Sid was expecting. “Of course we are,” Sid says. He pauses. “We are, right?” He knows this hasn’t been the easiest trip, but he’s really tried to show Jack a good time here.

“Yeah, of course, man,” Jack says.

“I mean, I know Zhenya’s been kind of a — jerk,” Sid says, feeling a little disloyal, even if he knows it’s true. Zhenya definitely could have worked harder to get along with Jack, but he just didn’t.

Jack laughs. Sid didn’t expect that either. “I get that,” Jack says.

Sid’s eyebrows fly up. “You do?” he asks.

“He thinks I’m going to break your heart,” Jack says with a shrug.

“What?” Sid asks, because — what?

“Well, I don’t know what exactly you told him, but I guess he figured out we, uh,” Jack pauses, clearly trying to think of a delicate way to say made out that one time kind of a lot. “But he thinks I’m leading you on. I haven’t been hitting on you, have I?”

Sid huffs. “No, you dork,” he says. “You’re my best friend, and you couldn’t lead me out of a paper bag.”

“It’s not my fault you’re directionally challenged,” Jack says, grinning at him like an asshole.

Sid puts his coffee down so he can lay the beatdown on Jack, who puts his down the second he sees Sid moving for the coffee table. They shove at each other for a minute, laughing stupidly, and it feels just the same as when they were back at Shattuck. He’d wish Jack could just stay if it wouldn’t be a complete shit show.

“You’re not off the hook, though,” Jack says, grabbing Sid in a gentle headlock. He noogies Sid just enough to be annoying and lets go.

“Ugh, what?” Sid says, trying to straighten out his hair.

“I wasn’t sure what to think when you first told me about Malkin,” Jack says, using that same carefully even tone from before. “I’ve heard you get pretty gushy over guys’ hockey, and pretty gushy over just —guys. But when you talked about him, it wasn’t — it wasn’t like anybody else.”

Sid squirms and picks up his coffee for something to do with his hands. Zhenya isn’t like anybody else, and Sid would never argue otherwise, but it’s weird to hear Jack say it.

“I was worried you were setting yourself up for failure, there,” Jack says, so gently. “And I’ll give you this, as crazy as you are about him, I think he’s just as crazy about you. But I don’t know if it’s in the same way you are about him.”

Sid opens his mouth to protest, but he’s not sure what to say. “It’s not like that,” Sid finally says. “We’re friends.” The word feels a little weak, but it’s the least inaccurate one.

“No, we are friends,” Jack says. “Like, I unironically love you, dude, but what you guys are, that’s not friends.”

“What makes you say that?” Sid asks. He’s a little wary, but also genuinely curious. He knows the other guys on the team shake their heads over him and Zhenya, but aside from some chirping about codependency, they mostly just roll with it.

“Where to start, jeez,” Jack mutters, mostly to himself. “I don’t know. I’ve never spooned you.”

Sid feels himself go red. The only time they’ve done that while Jack was here was after the Sens game. The Olympics were still looming in their minds and both of them needed a little extra comfort after their first game back was such a close loss. Zhenya caught Sid’s hand as he went to get into his own bed and looked so miserable that Sid didn’t even let him ask, just climbed in and tucked himself up close. Jack was lying out on the couch when Sid got up, absorbed in a book, and it never occurred to him that Jack might have seen them.

“We — he was gone and we just. We missed each other,” Sid says.

“You haven’t seen me in months,” Jack says. “Did you want to get into bed with me?”

“No,” Sid says reluctantly.

“And it’s not just in bed,” Jack says, seriously. “He touches you all the time and you let him. You let him hang all over you.”

Sid frowns. It sort of sounds like Jack thinks that Sid doesn’t want Zhenya touching him, or is just tolerating it, which — is really far from the truth. He thinks back to the couch and how he held himself back, instead of curling up against Zhenya like he normally would. “He doesn’t hang on me,” Sid says, feeling a little defensive. “And I’m not letting him, I want him to.”

Jack’s eyebrows fly up. “You want him to,” he says.

“I’m just—” Sid starts. He knows he’s still blushing, which isn’t helping, but it’s important that Jack understands just how much Zhenya means to him, how much Zhenya does for him. “There’s a lot of stress. Zhenya gets that, and he’s, he’s there for me. And I know it’s hard on him too. So yeah, that’s a part of it.”

Jack looks like he’s taking that in. Finally he says, “I can only imagine what this is like, what kind of pressure you’re under. I’m really glad that you’ve found ways of dealing with it. But—” Jack sighs. “What’s going to happen when he doesn’t have this much time for you? Like when you guys move out?”

It’s on the tip of Sid’s tongue to tell Jack that they’re going to be living together next year too, at least, when Jack says, “What’s going to happen when he gets a girlfriend?”

Sid blinks. His first thought is: nothing would change. Because Zhenya sometimes makes out with girls in bars, and he did say there was a girl back home that he missed, but none of that has really affected the two of them in any noticeable way. But if Zhenya started really dating someone — that would be different. It’s not like he would never see Zhenya, but he thinks about how often he saw Flower before Véronique moved to Pittsburgh and how often he sees him now. It’s not that he thinks it’s a bad thing — he really likes Véronique and certainly Flower has been happier since she came. But the idea of seeing Zhenya as much as he sees Flower makes Sid feel anxious and his chest hurt. It’s not something he even wants to think about.

Jack looks sympathetic, but like he sort of expected this. “What do you want from him?” Jack asks.

Sid thinks about it. “I want everything to stay the same,” he says, fiddling with his coffee cup.

“How do you think a boyfriend would feel about that?” Jack asks.

“You know I’m not going to get a boyfriend,” Sid says, but it sounds a lot less certain than it normally does, even to his own ears.

“Because you’ve already got one at home,” Jack says.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Sid says. It feels weird to even have to say it.

“Well, he sure acts like it,” Jack says. “He doesn’t think I’m good enough for you — I don’t think he thinks anyone is good enough for you.”

“He said that?” Sid asks, bewildered and a little weirdly flattered.

“Like if you thought he was a dick to me, any dude you ever try to bring home better be ready to deal with a 6’3” cockblock,” Jack says. “Who really likes to sleep with his boyfriend.”

Sid can’t say anything to that, because he has a sinking feeling that Jack is right. He can’t imagine any boyfriend who would be okay with Sid getting into bed with Zhenya, and it’s not like Sid didn’t know it wasn’t exactly the norm but it never seemed like a problem before.

“I’m not telling you what to do, what not to do, I just — you need to see what’s going on here,” Jack says.

Sid wishes he could just dismiss this as Jack seeing something that’s not there, but he knows Jack would only say this if it really needed to be said. He has Sid’s best interests at heart.

“Okay,” Sid says. He’s suddenly struck with what a crappy week this must have been for Jack and can’t help but worry that someday Jack is going to get tired of Sid’s — everything. He bites his lip. “We’re still good, right?”

Jack blows out a breath like maybe he was worried too. “Yeah, yeah man,” he says, pulling Sid into a hug. “We’re always going to be good.”

Sid’s never looked for it before, but Jack hugs him like a brother, like Taylor — not the brief hug of most guys hugging a guy.

It’s still not how Zhenya hugs him, and when he thinks of giving that up, it makes his throat go tight.

***

Sid helps Jack get his bags down to his car and tries to get him to take more than just a bottle of Gatorade for the road.

“Dude, it’s like a four hour drive, I’m not going on the Oregon Trail,” Jack says, grinning.

“Fine, fine,” Sid says. “Stop somewhere gross in Ohio.”

“That’s like, all of Ohio,” Jack says, making a face. His Michigan-bred hatred of OSU has apparently tainted the entire state for him.

Any further smack talk about Ohio is cut off by the loud purr of an engine. A gorgeous, sleek black convertible rolls up the drive.

“Holy shit,” Jack says reverently, watching the car pull up.

Zhenya rolls down the window. “Want to go driving?” he asks Sid, grinning. He looks extremely pleased with himself. “I pass my test, Talbo took me to go buy.” He strokes a hand over the steering wheel lovingly.

It’s still sort of baffling to Sid that Zhenya can just go buy a Ferrari, but it’s not like he spends his money on much of anything. And the car is unbelievably beautiful — he can only imagine how it handles on the road.

“I not even let Talbo in the car, want you to have the first ride,” Zhenya says, running his hand invitingly over the leather of the passenger seat.

“Go on,” Jack says, nudging Sid forward. “I’ve gotta get on the road, anyway.”

“Oh,” Sid says, starting guiltily. He almost forgot Jack was waiting. “Are you sure?”

Zhenya revs the engine of the car and puts on his sunglasses.

“Yeah,” Jack says. He raises his eyebrows at Sid significantly. “We’ll get together soon. If nothing else, you’ve gotta play the Wings some time, right?”

Sid laughs and goes in for a hug when Jack opens his arms. “Yeah, and we’ll have to make some time this summer,” he says.

“Malkin,” Jack says as he lets go of Sid. “Take care, drive safe.”

Zhenya nods, a slightly annoyed twist to his mouth.

Jack can’t go anywhere until Zhenya moves the car, so Sid gets in. The leather is obscenely soft under his hands.

“Wow,” Sid breathes as he buckles his seatbelt. It’s an incredible car.

“You like it?” Zhenya asks, though he looks like he already knows the answer.

“Yeah, it’s just — wow,” Sid says again.

Zhenya laughs and puts the car in drive. “Where you want to go? Or just drive?”

Sid leans back in his seat, lets his legs stretch out in front of him, and says, “Just drive.”

***

He assumed Zhenya was driving without a plan, just in the direction of the city, but he takes the West End Bridge and drives them into a residential neighbourhood.

“Are we going somewhere?” Sid asks. He’s a little confused and not really ready for the ride to be over. It’s stupidly fun to ride in the car around the snowy-fresh, beautiful city.

“You see in a minute,” Zhenya says, somehow even more pleased with himself.

They park in a little lot and Sid’s eyebrows go up. “Are we getting out of the car?” he asks. He’s wearing a jacket, but not the kind he’ll want if they’re going to spend a lot of time outside.

“You don’t trust me take you somewhere nice?” Zhenya asks, but his tongue is poking out of the corner of his mouth, so he’s giving Sid grief for fun.

“This better be awesome,” Sid says. He rolls his eyes and opens the door.

They follow a little path over a tiny hill and all of a sudden there’s Pittsburgh, the rivers icy and bright, the bridges and buildings sparkling.

It’s their city, his and Zhenya’s. It’s perfect.

It’s home.

And Sid heard everything Jack said, but in this moment, he doesn’t care. He hoped all last summer that he and Zhenya would be here together, and they are, and it’s nothing short of a miracle. He wraps one arm around Zhenya’s waist and leans in.

“Let’s stay,” Sid suggests quietly.

Zhenya puts his arm around Sid’s shoulder. “Get cold,” he says.

“No, I mean — let’s stay here. Let’s be Penguins together until we retire.”

“Like Mario,” Zhenya says. When Sid looks up, a soft smile is curving Zhenya’s lips. “Let’s be like Mario and Jagr. Hold Cup together. Next year.”

Sid thinks they’ve got a little further to go before they can hoist the Cup, but he appreciates the sentiment. “Okay,” he says.

They look out over their city for a while longer before they head back to the car.

***

It feels like ever since Jack said his piece, every day Sid notices something new about the way Zhenya treats him. But at the same time, people are trying to catch up and spend some more team time after the break, and it makes Sid wonder if they’re so out of place, after all. Maybe it seems weird to Jack that Sid and Zhenya are so close at home, but there’s tons of casual affection thrown around the locker room. Brooks always offers to refill everyone’s water bottle. Sergei and Konstantin stretch out back to back. And Max seems to live with his arm around someone, usually Flower.

So maybe the way Zhenya treats him isn’t that weird, in context. Yes, there are little things that are different, like the way Zhenya will order for him — and choose exactly what Sid wants — if he’s in the bathroom when the waiter comes at a team dinner. It might be a little more intense than most people’s relationships with their teammates, but then, he and Zhenya spend all their time together. It’s probably better that they’re really close instead of constantly at odds. It’d be weirder at this point if they didn’t know each other so well.

Sid decides not to let it bother him, which goes pretty well until they play the Caps a few days later and Ovechkin catches Sid in the hall after their morning skate.

“Hey, Sid,” Ovechkin says. Sid is ready for another round of his weird brand of teasing and bizarre affection, but he looks really — serious?

“Ovechkin,” Sid says. He fights the urge to cross his arms or do anything that suggests he’s uncomfortable.

“I want you to know I’ve got your back,” he says in Russian. Sid wonders if he’s completely misheard, but Ovechkin goes on. “And sorry about the ‘mistress’ thing.”

Sid feels completely lost. It isn’t until Ovechkin asks, “Should I use English?” that Sid realizes it’s not that he can’t understand, it’s just that Ovechkin isn’t making much sense.

“No, I heard you,” Sid says. “But, what?”

Ovechkin shakes his head. “I know I’ve made it pretty clear how funny I thought you and Zhenya were and I want to apologize. I didn’t understand at all,” he says.

Sid would think this is some kind of prank, except Ovechkin looks so sincere. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sid says slowly.

Ovechkin rolls his eyes. “I know, okay?” he says. “It doesn’t take a genius.”

“I don’t know what you think you know,” Sid says, switching back to English.

“He spent the whole Olympics missing you and trying to pretend he wasn’t miserable, and every time we had a minute he was in the bathroom on the phone to you, calling you pet names,” Ovechkin says.

It’s not like Sid wasn’t miserable himself, or that he didn’t know that Zhenya missed him too, but it’s different hearing it from someone else. He’s going to say something when Zhenya appears down the hall, frowning deeply.

“Oh, good, Zhenya!” Ovechkin says, which only makes Zhenya’s frown edge closer to a scowl.

“Is he annoying you?” Zhenya asks Sid.

Ovechkin looks genuinely hurt. “I was trying to apologize!” he says. “I think you’ll be very happy!”

“Come on, time to get dressed,” Zhenya says, drawing Sid away. “Don’t listen to anything he says.”

Ovechkin doesn’t try to talk to either of them during warmups, and he and Zhenya bang into each other with the same enthusiasm they usually do. Sid’s not sure what to expect from him, but there’s just the usual solid hits.

They lose, 3-6, which sucks, although Sid gets a few pats on the back for the assist he got. When they get back to the locker room, there’s a really expensive-looking bottle of champagne waiting in Sid’s stall. Attached is a note in Russian that says, “Congratulations!”

“What’s that?” Colby asks, leaning in over Sid’s shoulder.

“It’s from Ovechkin,” Sid says, or at least he assumes it is.

“What an asshole,” Colby says, obviously concluding that it’s Ovechkin’s commentary on the game and not commentary on how he thinks Sid and Zhenya are — Sid isn’t going to think about it.

“Good thing you’re underage and I’ll have to drink that,” Max says, taking the bottle out of Sid’s stall and tossing the note in the trash with a snort.

Zhenya snags the bottle out of Max’s hands. “Nice try, Talbo,” Zhenya says, slipping it into his duffel.

“Does Papa Lemieux let you drink? I’m appalled,” Max says, hand to his chest like he hasn’t given Sid shots every time they go out.

“He’s from Montreal, he knows it’s important that his boys learn how to drink early,” Flower calls in French from across the locker room. “Or they end up puking on my shoes, like you.”

They continue chirping each other as Sid heads for the showers and are still going strong when he comes back out. The team gets back to Pittsburgh late, but Sid and Zhenya are both stupidly wired when they get back to the house. After they change into pyjamas, Zhenya cracks open the champagne.

“Least he can do, after he annoy me whole Olympics,” Zhenya says. He looks for champagne flutes, but they don’t even have any wine glasses. “Fuck it,” he concludes, and passes the bottle for Sid to take the first drink.

Sid doesn’t have a lot of experience with champagne besides drinking way too much of it at New Year’s, but this is crisp and dry, so Sid’s prepared to forgive Ovechkin for his weirdness. They stand in the kitchen and pass the bottle back and forth while Zhenya roots around in the fridge for leftovers.

Sid hopes he’s not drinking more than his fair share while he’s waiting for Zhenya to find something he wants, but it’s either drink or watch Zhenya’s shoulders work under his tee and the curve of his ass in his sweats as he reaches for a container toward the back.

Zhenya finally surfaces with his arms full: a container of the green beans from yesterday’s dinner, a carton of strawberries, some cold cut turkey, and some cheese. “Mario Kart?” he asks.

“Yeah, for sure,” Sid agrees. They eat the food between rounds, because Mario Kart requires both hands. Yoshi and Donkey Kong zip through the races until Zhenya tells Sid to do time trials while he calls his mom.

Sid eats most of the strawberries between trials while Zhenya is on the phone in the bedroom. He knows strawberries and champagne are a pretty common duo but he didn’t think he would like it so much. He only just remembers the clementines they ate with the champagne at New Year’s, and they were good, but he thinks he likes the strawberries better.

He’s gotten nowhere near his best time when Zhenya comes back and plops down on the couch next to him. Zhenya picks up the champagne bottle and frowns at it. “You not save me any?” he asks.

“There’s some,” Sid says, although it’s probably only a mouthful or so.

Zhenya just hums, but he’s smiling so he’s not mad about it. “Well, go on, finish,” he says, still smiling as he tips the bottle up to Sid’s lips. There’s a little more than a mouthful, but Sid manages to take it all, swallowing quickly.

Sid licks his lips to make sure he catches every drop and Zhenya gives him a sleepy, thoughtful look.

“Time for bed,” he says decisively.

Zhenya is right there at Sid’s elbow as they brush their teeth, and close at his heels as they walk into the bedroom. He pulls Sid in close, finally, between their beds and says, “Bed?”

“Yes,” Sid says. Zhenya is warm and solid and holding him up a little. Maybe a lot, because when Zhenya chuckles Sid can feel it vibrating under his cheek.

Zhenya has to do most of the maneuvering to get them into bed and Sid ends up kind of flopped on top of him. Sid barely manages a goodnight before his eyes drift shut, and he falls asleep with Zhenya’s hand stroking his shoulders. He knows it’s probably not a good idea, but Sid can’t see the harm in appreciating what he has while he has it — he’ll take everything he can get for as long as Zhenya wants to give it.

***

March turns to April. They’re mathematically eliminated from the playoffs, but at least they’re winning about the same amount as they’re losing. It probably says more about their season than anything else that everyone is excited about just breaking even. Sid’s inching closer to 100 points; his four-point night against the Panthers pushes him to 91. Sid knows they’ve got some rough games ahead, but he thinks he really might make it. Zhenya breaks 80, too, with a filthy backhand that makes Sid envious and excited all at once.

It’s been kind of a slog. They go from Jersey to Florida to play back-to-back games. After Florida, they’ll head to Philly before they finally go home. There are six games left in the season and Sid wants to win them all.

Tampa plays tight. But Therrien tells them to keep taking it to the net, and finally Max squeaks one under Burke’s pads. It’s the only goal of the night and therefore a shutout for Flower, who beams at everyone. Max shouts, “We’re going the fuck out tonight, boys!” as soon as they reach the locker room.

Sid’s a little frustrated with himself, a little worried about his four-game goal-scoring streak getting snapped. He hopes he won’t go cold with just nine points to go. He took a hard hit during the second, but that’s no excuse.

“Are you in there, hello?” Max calls sweetly in French. “We are going to get you drunk and a hunk. Talbo is making it happen tonight, my little cabbage!”

“God save us,” Flower says, walking by.

Max seems to take his self-appointed “mission” very seriously. He robs someone — probably Flower again — of a shirt he decides is acceptable, and Colby literally slaps Max’s hands away when he tries to gel Sid’s hair.

“I thought you were trying to make him look good,” Colby says, giving Max’s hair a pointed look.

“Stop being jealous of my flow,” Max says.

“Here,” Colby says. He gets a tiny dab of gel and pushes Sid’s hair back from his face. “There you go, Creature.”

They head out in a big group to wait for cabs, and it’s actually surprisingly chilly. Sid sort of wishes he had a jacket, but he’d just have to ditch it when they get to the club, since it will inevitably be sweltering inside. They have a day off tomorrow, which everyone is planning on spending out on the beach, so most of the guys are going, not just the regular crew of young, unmarried guys. Colby is shooting the shit with Ryan Whitney and Sid is half paying attention when Zhenya appears at his side.

“Hey,” Sid says, trying to use Zhenya as a windbreak.

It’s not effective. Zhenya actually backs up a step so that he can give Sid a long, appraising look.

Sid’s about to crack and ask if his hair looks dumb when Zhenya just says, “Pretty,” thoughtfully but sincerely.

“See?” Max says, throwing an arm around Sid’s shoulders. “See? I told you you looked slammin’ tonight. Who’s the fucking man now, Armdog?”

Colby rolls his eyes. “Please, his hair would have looked like an oil slick jizzed in it,” he says. “You put on gel like a 14-year-old on his first date.”

The shit talking continues until the cabs arrive, but all Sid can think about is Zhenya calling him “pretty” — not in a demeaning way, or like an insult, but like it’s an undeniable truth. He’s abruptly glad for the cold wind because he’s sure his cheeks are flushed from thinking about it.

They make it in to the club more because they’re athletic, okay-looking, and early than because they’re hockey players. It’s pretty much the opposite of going out in Canada, or even some of the bigger northern cities in the U.S. After the second shot Max gives him, Sid has the thrilling realization that no one knows or cares who he is.

He gets nominated to go get a fresh pitcher of water, because even though most of them came out to work up a good buzz, they still just played a game and need to hydrate. It takes a while to get a bartender’s attention, probably because Sid looks obviously underage no matter what Colby and Max do. But he manages to catch one between rounds of daiquiri making and finally gets his pitcher, only to turn around and almost spill it all over some guy.

“Sorry, did I get you?” Sid asks, glancing up — and up some more.

The guy is easily over six feet, and built enough that he’s probably some kind of athlete, or was. He puts a hand on Sid’s bicep to keep him steady and Sid feels a shiver go down his spine.

“I wouldn’t mind even if you had,” he says with a grin. “That’s all you’re drinking?”

Sid looks down at the pitcher then back up. The guy has really nice blue eyes. “I mean, I can’t — I’m getting it for my friends,” Sid says, and feels sort of young and dumb.

“Let me know if you change your mind about that,” he says. He slides his hand down Sid’s arm before he completely lets go and leans against the bar.

“Um, yeah,” Sid says. He walks back to the table on autopilot. He glances back for a moment when he’s almost to the table, out of the crush of people around the bar, and the guy is still looking at him. He grins a little wider when he realizes Sid caught him looking.

When he makes it to the table, Max yanks the pitcher out of his hands and hisses, “What are you doing, turn around right now!”

“What?” Sid says.

“That guy watched your ass like a hawk the whole way here, go talk to him,” Max insists, shoving Sid right back toward the bar.

Luckily the guy is still there — still there and watching with a pleased expression as Sid heads back over.

“I was hoping you’d be back,” he says. “What can I get you?” His hand is already in the air, flagging down one of the bartenders.

“Shots?” Sid says. He tries to be decisive, but ends up still sounding a little unsure.

“My kinda guy,” he says. “You care what kind?”

“Not really,” Sid says. And that’s how he ends up getting taught how to take a tequila shot in a Tampa club by a guy named Andy.

“Lick it,” Andy says, licking along the crescent of skin between his thumb and index finger. He pours salt over it, puts the shot in his other hand, and takes the lime in the salted hand. “Slam it, suck it.”

The words are only slightly dirtier than the way Andy licks the salt off, pours the shot down his throat, and sucks on the lime wedge, his lips wrapped around the rind.

“See, nothing to it,” he says, licking his lips.

“Yeah,” Sid agrees, breathless and absolutely high on the fact that he’s flirting with a stranger just because he can.

“Is this your first?” Andy asks. He lowers his lashes and adds, “Your first tequila shot, I mean.”

“Yes,” Sid says, although he thinks they both know what they really mean.

Andy grins. “So let me help you out,” he says. He licks his hand again, salts it well, and holds it up to Sid’s mouth. “Lick it.”

Sid has a moment of giddy panic, wondering if he’s about to really do this, but he leans in. Even though he tastes nothing but regular salt, his tongue is running over someone else’s skin. It feels reckless and daring, and he wants more.

“Slam it,” Andy says right in Sid’s ear as he lifts the shot to his lips. Sid lets the shot slip down his throat the way Zhenya taught him. “Now, suck it.”

Sid closes his lips around the lime and bites down into the fruit. The sharp tang of the lime eases the burn of the liquor, and he watches Andy the whole time. He lets himself be a little showy about it, and Andy bites his lip like he wishes Sid was sucking something else.

“Another?” Andy asks, looking like he really wants Sid to say yes.

Sid nods and smiles as Andy flings his arm out to get the bartender’s attention again. He has the guy make up a tray with two more shots each, and while they’re waiting, he finds out that Andy is in college and only in town for a few days to interview for med school. He likes baseball.

Sid doesn’t want to say he plays hockey, just in case, so he talks about how he used to play baseball in high school. Andy laughs and says, “I’d have loved to see you in those pants.”

They take the tray to one of the little tables further from the dance floor, which is also further out of the line of sight of the table where Max and the guys are. Andy takes Sid’s hand and leads them there; he rubs his thumb along the back of Sid’s hand as they walk.

“Help me out this time?” Andy asks, gesturing to the salt.

Sid figures it’s only fair, considering he took his last shot with Andy’s hand. He’s just about to raise his hand to his mouth when Andy reaches out, takes Sid’s hand, and licks carefully right where he licked his own hand. Sid feels hot all over, and not just from the tequila.

Andy pours the salt and then licks Sid’s hand clean. He lingers, picking up every trace of salt, and Sid shivers. Andy takes the shot and sucks the lime, and all Sid can think about is how Andy’s tongue felt on his skin. They do the rest of the shots pretty quickly, and Andy gets closer with every shot, until he’s pressed right up against Sid and they’re out of tequila.

“Do you wanna get some more?” Sid asks, because if they get more drinks he can keep licking salt off Andy’s hand, but Andy grins and lets his hand trace down Sid’s neck and over his collarbone, following the v-neck of his borrowed shirt.

“I’d rather have something else,” he says, tugging Sid in close by his belt loops and reaching for his hand again.

Sid has no idea what exactly will happen, but he knows he wants more, so he says, “Yeah,” and lets Andy lead him down a dim hall. He thinks maybe they’re headed for the bathroom, but instead there’s a tiny alcove where there were probably payphones a few years ago. There’s nothing there now, and Andy backs him up against the wall and leans in so close that Sid can feel the heat radiating off him.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” Andy says. He bends down to kiss Sid, slow and wet.

Sid’s entire experience of kissing is one afternoon in his dorm room, but this is already better — there’s nothing tentative about it, none of the starting and stopping he and Jack did. Andy knows what he wants, which is apparently to kiss Sid breathless, his hands firm on Sid’s hips, his fingers brushing against Sid’s skin where his shirt is riding up a little.

Sid loves it, loves the way he has to stretch up into it a little, the way Andy has a hint of stubble that scratches over Sid’s lips as Andy kisses along his jaw. Andy moves to his throat, where he presses sucking, amazing kisses. There’s a faint scrape of teeth and Sid has been half-hard since Andy licked salt off his hand, but he’s wildly, dangerously turned on now. He absolutely refuses to come in his pants, so he takes a deep breath, reaches for Andy’s face, and kisses him until he feels like he’s on steadier ground.

Andy smiles against Sid’s mouth, and it makes Sid feel so good that Andy likes it, that he’s having a good time. Sid fights the urge to grind his hips against Andy’s — he doesn’t want to seem too eager or inexperienced, although he has a suspicion that Andy knows and really doesn’t mind. When Andy’s hands slide from Sid’s waist to the small of his back, Sid shudders in his arms.

“Do you wanna — I have a hotel room close,” Andy says in Sid’s ear. One of his hands slips even lower and he squeezes Sid’s ass hard enough that Sid can really feel it through his jeans.

Yes is right on the tip of Sid’s tongue. He hasn’t been able to do more than finger himself in the shower since Zhenya came back from the Olympics. He’s been fantasizing about getting fucked with increasing desperation, and he’s pretty sure if he asked, Andy would be happy to fuck him into the mattress.

But if he says yes, he has to tell someone on the team, or text Colby at the very least to tell him the name of the hotel, maybe even Andy’s name to be safe. He has to leave the dark, private feeling of this club, get in a cab, and walk through the lobby of a strange hotel. The thought of doing any of that makes him freeze.

“I can’t,” he says. His mind spins with all the dangerous things he’s already done, and Pat’s voice echoes in his head. He can’t — won’t — risk losing what privacy he has, not even for this.

“No?” Andy asks, not pushy, but like he just wants to be sure. He’s already starting to step away.

“I’m sorry,” Sid blurts out. His stomach is churning with delayed fear and tequila.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Andy says with a rueful smile. “Your friends are probably wondering where you are.”

Andy couldn’t have known, but that only makes it worse, because they absolutely are wondering where Sid is. “Yeah,” Sid says. “I — I should go.”

He hopes the hall connects up with the one where the bathrooms are, because he bolts that way, not back toward the dance floor. Fortunately, it does. He figures he can splash some water on his face and give himself a moment to calm down before he goes back to the table, and also, he hopes, take enough time that he won’t run into Andy on his way.

The bathroom isn’t brightly lit by any means, but it’s more than bright enough to show Sid that there’s no way he’s going to be able to hide what happened. There’s a trail of red, unmistakable marks down his throat that he’s sure are only going to get darker. His lips were a chirp-worthy subject before, but now his mouth is so red, and his lips are bruised and puffy. He’s obviously been well-kissed and he just looks like a — like a mess.

But there’s nothing he can do about it, so he might as well head back to the table now. He’s still a little turned on, but he’s also pretty freaked out. He made out with a total stranger in a club — he doesn’t even know Andy’s last name — and anyone with a camera phone could have already sold the story to every sports news network on this continent by now.

The guys are right where he left them, although Max is missing and Zhenya is in his place, which is probably good. He doesn’t think he could deal with Max’s well-meaning but terrifying enthusiasm right now.

“Sid!” Zhenya says happily, throwing an arm around Sid’s shoulders. Zhenya’s clearly been doing his fair share of drinking; he’s relaxed and leaning into Sid.

“Hey,” Sid says. He tries so hard to make it sound normal, but Colby is frozen with his drink halfway to his mouth and Flower is staring at him like he’s got every last detail of what happened written across his forehead.

“You need a drink?” Zhenya asks, already reaching for the pitcher full of beer.

Sid almost refuses, but he thinks having the beer to hold in his hands might stop them from shaking. “Yeah, thanks,” he says.

Zhenya goes to hand it over and for a moment Sid thinks he’s gotten away with it, but Zhenya stops cold. He reaches out like he’s almost going to touch one of those hot, faintly throbbing spots on Sid’s neck, but he drops his hand and looks at Sid, concern all over his face. “You want to go to hotel?”

Zhenya doesn’t mean anything like what Andy asked, but at the same time it’s so close that Sid jumps a little, startled. “No,” he says, which is probably what he should have been saying all along. “I want a beer.”

“Okay,” Zhenya says. He shoves into the booth to clear a space for Sid and passes him the cup he poured. After a moment’s hesitation, he puts his arm along the top of the booth, like he’s not sure whether Sid wants to be touched.

But the thing is — Sid does, and that’s part of the problem. He pushes in close to Zhenya, his nerves humming with arousal and fear, and Zhenya drops his arm around Sid’s shoulders to cuddle him as close as Sid wants while they drink their beer. And bit by bit, Sid relaxes, because he’s with his team, he’s with Zhenya, and everything is going to be okay. He just — he has to be careful, like Pat said. No more making out with strangers in bars.

He rubs one of the marks on his neck. It’s a little tender, and, okay, it was a bad idea, but Sid can’t stop thinking about it. He could have gone home with a guy tonight. He could have found out what it’s like to blow someone, he could have found out how it feels to get fucked by someone not himself. He shifts against Zhenya, and the warmth of Zhenya’s side against his makes him think of being pressed against the wall, and oh, he still wants it.

He drinks another beer instead, which is when Max comes back from wherever he was.

“Sid!” he says joyfully. “Did you —” he stops and switches to French. “You did! Way to go — you got more action than me, dude.”

Flower rolls his eyes and smacks him on the arm. “Of course you struck out — all those ladies, they’re like 10s, right? You’re a 4. On a good day.”

“Lies,” Max says, then reconsiders. “French doesn’t help as much in Florida,” he concludes sadly.

“What’s going on?” Colby asks.

“Max is ugly,” Flower sums up. He pours Max a beer.

“Oh, okay,” Colby says, and he goes back to talking about golf with Whits.

When Sid finishes his beer, Zhenya says to the table, “I’m taking him back to the hotel.”

Nobody asks who he’s talking about — Sid’s almost always the first to head back.

“Switch rooms with me, G,” Colby says. “Throw the duffel on my bed into your room.”

“Okay,” Zhenya says. “Up, Sid, let’s go.”

It feels nice outside; the wind is cool against Sid’s overheated skin. They don’t have to wait long for a cab. Sid tips his head back and lets Zhenya handle telling the cab driver where to go, and paying him when they get to the hotel. Zhenya gets Sid up to his room and picks Colby’s bag up off his bed. “Be back,” he says. He takes Sid’s key with him.

Sid yawns and wanders into the bathroom to fill a glass of water from the tap. In good lighting, the hickeys are even more obvious, and his lips are still swollen. He goes through the motions of getting ready for bed; he brushes his teeth, uses the bathroom, and pulls his clothes off and piles them on a chair. He slides into bed wearing just his boxers, and pulls the sheet up. He still feels too warm for blankets.

Sid touches his neck again. He traces along the skin and breathes in sharply when he brushes one of the marks. If things were different — really different — maybe he could have brought someone back to his room. If things were different, if he had someone he really trusted, he could be having sex right now and he wouldn’t have to worry. If the person fucking him really cared about him, he could just enjoy it, and he could do his best to make it good for the other guy, too. He thinks he could do that — if nothing else, Sid kissed someone tonight who wasn’t his best friend, and he seemed into it.

He remembers, abruptly, that Zhenya called him pretty. And he’s not sure if Zhenya just flubbed an adjective, or if he thinks, objectively speaking, that other people would also find Sid attractive.

But lying there in bed, touching himself lightly through his boxers, Sid thinks — what if Zhenya meant it? What if Zhenya looked at him like he wanted to take Sid home? He laughs a little, because Zhenya takes him home all the time, but not like that. Zhenya takes him to bed all the time, but not like that. Not like he’s going to pull Sid’s boxers off, kiss him until he’s gasping, and finger him until Sid’s ready for his cock.

The door clicks open, and Zhenya comes back in with his bag, which he throws in the armchair next to the other bed. He gives Sid a quick glance and strips out of his clothes.

Part of Sid wants to ask Zhenya to come sleep with him so he can have the warmth of Zhenya’s body wrapped around him. But the other part of him really, really wants to get off, and he can’t do that while Zhenya’s in the bed. He’ll wait until Zhenya’s asleep — he’s been doing that since the Olympics, and okay, maybe he hasn’t always timed it right, but neither has Zhenya. And, well, it’s not like he minds hearing Zhenya get off. Not at all.

Lately he’s been wondering if Zhenya isn’t timing it wrong on purpose. A couple of weeks ago, Sid thought Zhenya was asleep and jerked off quickly and maybe not the most quietly, but he’d been so wound up. No sooner had he come than he heard the rustle of sheets, and he was contemplating an apology when he realized Zhenya wasn’t waiting for him to fall asleep first. He wasn’t worried about Sid hearing. If Sid hadn’t just come so hard he might have gone for it again.

Here and now, Zhenya climbs into bed in his boxers and looks over at Sid.

Sid realizes he’s touching his neck again, and Zhenya has a complicated expression on his face. Finally, Zhenya just says, “‘Night,” and clicks off the bedside lamp.

“‘Night,” Sid says belatedly.

He waits, palming his dick through his boxers. There’s a damp spot, which is unsurprising given how turned on he is. If he can’t have someone’s dick, he wishes he at least had one of his toys, even though there’s no way he could fuck himself without waking Zhenya up. It feels too good, and Sid could never be quiet through it.

He means to wait at least five minutes, he really does. But when he slips a hand inside his boxers, he’s hard and leaking and it feels so good to take himself in hand. He tells himself he’ll just be really quiet. He bites his lip and strokes himself slowly, spreading the slick precome down his dick.

There’s no noise from Zhenya’s side of the room, which Sid hopes means he passed out. Sid sighs a little and starts jerking off in earnest.

And then he hears Zhenya roll over, and has to shut his eyes against the sudden flood of light, and he thinks oh crap, Zhenya was totally awake. He’s about to say something when he realizes Zhenya is up and digging around in his bag. Earplugs, maybe? But then he hears the click of a cap, and Zhenya lobs something over onto Sid’s bed.

Sid blinks as his eyes adjust to the light, and he realizes it’s lube. And Zhenya is looking at him, one hand cupped like he already squeezed some out for himself. Sid’s hand is still on his dick, and Zhenya looks at him for a long moment before he carefully gets back into bed, and turns off the lamp.

Sid lies still for a moment, listening to the slick noises of Zhenya lubing up his dick, and thinks am I doing this?

He finds the tube with his fingertips, shoves off his boxers, and squeezes some of the lube out. It’s maybe a little too much, but it’s dark and he can get a hotel bed messy if he wants to. He slicks up his dick, and — oh god, he can hear Zhenya, and Zhenya knows Sid can hear him. Zhenya threw him lube. Zhenya wants him to get off, too.

And when he hears Zhenya groan, Sid thinks no need to be quiet. No need to pretend. He squirts out more lube and pulls his knees up, spreading them, and moans when he rubs his hole and slowly presses one finger in.

He’s had more, he can definitely take more, and god, he wants to. He wants someone to give him as much as he can take, he wants to be good at this, good for someone, the best for someone. He can hear Zhenya panting and jerking off a little faster than before, and god, what if Zhenya was making those noises while shoving his dick into Sid? What if he could make Zhenya feel good, what if Zhenya could get him just right? He puts another finger in and mewls with frustration when he can only brush his prostate.

Zhenya groans, almost as if in response, and Sid tries to get a better angle, tries to reach a little deeper. He’s still jerking off slowly, and he’s so hard and it’s so good, and even though he’s fucked himself better, he’s not sure he’s ever been as desperately turned on. Every time he manages to get the right spot, he moans, and Zhenya echoes him. They get into a rhythm, and instead of being distracting, it’s like Zhenya’s encouraging him, like Zhenya’s getting off on Sid’s noises as much as Sid is getting off on his. If only Zhenya had gotten into bed with him, after all, if only Zhenya would slick up his long, big fingers and give them to him, if only Zhenya would stuff him full of his cock and fuck him senseless.

Sid starts to come, his ass tightening around his fingers, and he can’t help the high-pitched, vulnerable whine that escapes him, because he’s been wound up all night and it’s so good and he’s coming all over his stomach. He can hear Zhenya swear under his breath, can hear how fast and hard Zhenya’s working himself, like he’s just as desperate to come as Sid was. He hears Zhenya groan in rhythm with the slick noises and the shifting of the sheets, and even though Sid’s lying there, blissful in the afterglow, he wonders if those are the same noises Zhenya would make before he came inside of Sid, if he would thrust into Sid long and hard and bury himself in deep.

Zhenya groans, long and low, and the room is quiet except for their breathing. Sid feels liquid, and he idly draws his finger through the come on his stomach. He thinks about getting a tissue, or a washcloth, but he can’t bring himself to get up. His eyelids feel heavy, and he’s practically on autopilot when he whispers, “‘Night.”

There’s silence, and Sid curses himself because that was probably the wrong thing to do. He probably should just have gone to sleep and not said anything. Not if he wants it to happen again.

He really, really wants it to happen again, but with Zhenya, he never knows where the lines are.

But Zhenya murmurs, “‘Night, Sidnyusha.”

So apparently they haven’t crossed any lines tonight. Or at least, none that matter to Zhenya.

***

Sid wakes up with dried come all over his stomach, lube faintly tacky on his hands and body, and a hangover. He groans into his pillow and hesitantly looks over; Zhenya’s still out cold. Normally he would let himself drowse or maybe even sleep some more, but he really doesn’t want Zhenya to catch him on his way to the shower.

The whole time he’s in the shower all he can think about is what’s going to happen this morning between them. Last night was unbearably hot — Sid can feel himself getting hard just thinking about the slick sounds and deliriously dirty noises they both made, and he cranks the shower closer to cold. When he gets out, he wipes off the mirror so he can evaluate the damage. He can’t imagine the hickeys have gotten any better since last night, when they were painfully obvious.

They’re a dark purple, still red around the edges. Sid groans. Maybe if he were wearing a collared shirt, it would come up high enough to cover them, but he doubts it. They’ll practically be on display today, at least if he doesn’t want a farmer’s tan. He heads out of the bathroom, towel securely wrapped around his hips. He expects Zhenya to still be asleep, but instead Zhenya is leaning against the headboard, blinking himself awake.

Sid stops dead, watching Zhenya’s expression closely, acutely aware of being wet and mostly naked while Zhenya stares right back.

“You done with bathroom?” Zhenya asks.

“Oh, um, yeah,” Sid says, going for his bag to start getting dressed. The sheets are pooled low in Zhenya’s lap, and Sid already knew Zhenya came last night, but it’s a totally different thing seeing the evidence. If Sid keeps looking he’s going to have to make an excuse to shower again, so he focuses on finding his swim trunks and a t-shirt. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of Zhenya’s cock as he leisurely walks into the bathroom like he has all the time in the world.

Sid hears the shower turn on as he flops down onto his bed, hands over his bright red face. He knew Zhenya was, well, proportionate, to say the least, but there’s a world of difference between knowing that from the locker room, and watching Zhenya walk by like he doesn’t mind if Sid gets an eyeful.

His phone beeps with a text from Colby, and Sid reminds himself that he has to get dressed, not jerk off.

Luckily, the aspirin he took are starting to kick in. If they hadn’t, he’s not sure he would be able to tolerate all the bright sunlight on today’s beach-centric agenda. When they join the guys out at the hotel’s pool and lounging area, Zhenya volunteers to put sunscreen on Sid’s back. It’s nothing Zhenya hasn’t done before, but it feels different when Sid was all of two seconds from moaning out Zhenya’s name as he came last night.

Sid watches closely to see if Zhenya treats him any different than yesterday, but nothing seems out of the ordinary. Zhenya gets them lunch, elbows Max away from their french fries, and sets them up on a pair of loungers when a bunch of the guys go to play some kind of bastardized water polo in the pool. Sid flips over a lot, trying to tan evenly, or at least burn evenly, as is typical of his first sunning experience of the season, but Zhenya just keeps on his back, sitting up, not even lying down.

“I’m going to fall asleep and burn,” Sid sighs out slowly.

“When you want to turn?” Zhenya asks. “I can get you up.”

Sid knows that, that’s the problem. “Maybe a half an hour?” Sid suggests.

“Put on more sunscreen then,” Zhenya says.

Sid hums his agreement and, pathetically, looks forward to it. He doesn’t think it’s in his imagination, either, that when he wakes up, Zhenya is a lot more thorough about rubbing in sunscreen than he used to be. It’s more like a massage that just happens to involve sunscreen, but Sid is in no way complaining, even if he has to take a dip in the pool before lying out on his back.

It’s a good, relaxing day. Sid’s pretty sure no one can tell that he and Zhenya more or less got off together last night. Colby moves back into the room and, really, this is the best it could have possibly gone. Nothing is different — isn’t that what he told Jack he wanted?

The next morning, Sid has breakfast with Sergei, Konstantin, and Zhenya as usual. Zhenya offers him half his bacon for no particular reason, and stretches out his arm along the back of Sid’s chair. It probably says something about them that neither Sergei nor Konstantin bats an eyelash at this, even if Sid feels hyperaware of Zhenya’s hand touching his shoulder. Zhenya knows how Sid feels when they have to go to Philly, and he tends to stick a little closer, be a little sweeter, like he can counteract the aggressive, demeaning hatred of a whole fanbase on his own.

Sid supposes at least one good thing came of the night before last — he’s so busy thinking about him and Zhenya that there’s simply no room to worry about the Flyers.

***

The game is rough and shitty and they lose, 4-3. It always stings a little worse in Philly.

“Two points,” Colby reminds him. “Ninety-three.”

“There are only four games left,” Sid points out. He’s exhausted and he’s fretting. What if they all put their effort behind him to bring something good out of this season and he lets them down anyway?

“You’ll do it,” Zhenya says, stone cold certain. His hand is warm on Sid’s shoulder and Zhenya’s belief got them this far, so Sid nods.

“Just seven more,” he says.

Zhenya rubs a hand over Sid’s gross, sweaty curls and smiles at him. “We go home, get you some more,” he promises. He keeps close the whole way home, solid and easy to lean on, so Sid lets himself drowse against Zhenya’s shoulder on the short little flight back to Pittsburgh.

Sid can feel himself relaxing and leaving the loss behind him as they drive home. The tension seeps out of his shoulders as they pull into the driveway. They’ve been gone for almost ten days and it feels good to be in their room, to fall into his own bed.

Sid is about to drop off when he remembers what happened the last time he and Zhenya shared a room. Zhenya slips into bed and turns out the light, but he doesn’t say goodnight, which makes Sid frown a little until he hears a familiar click.

Sid unthinkingly makes a little noise; Zhenya turned out the lights and got out the lube and he has to know Sid isn’t asleep. There’s a quiet little grunt from Zhenya and Sid really hopes he stuck his lube under the mattress and not in the box with his toys last time he used it, or he might have to ask Zhenya for some this time. Luckily, it’s just where he usually puts it. His body went from zero to sixty just from hearing Zhenya’s breathing speed up, but Sid’s too tired to really go for it, so he slicks up and teases himself by going as slow as he can stand.

It’s almost enough just imagining the way Zhenya’s hips might flex up, chasing the stroke of his hand. Sid catches himself making punched out little noises when he rubs the palm of his hand over the head of his cock. Without the lazy power of the buzz he had when they did this the first time, it’s a little harder to let himself really get loud. But the way Zhenya’s breath comes harsher and he groans, rough and short, when Sid hums throatily on an upstroke is incentive to try harder.

Last time, he wondered if making noise helped Zhenya get off, but he’d been a little drunk and a lot desperate, and in no condition to test that out. This time is different. So when he presses up hard behind his balls, he really lets himself moan and waits to see if anything happens in response.

There’s a deep, resounding groan that sounds like it would vibrate right through Sid if he and Zhenya were pressed chest to chest. Sid grins and does it again, using one hand to jack himself while he slips a finger back to just rub over his hole. When Sid sighs out a noise that sounds a little dirty, even to himself, there’s an answering moan from the other bed.

And for all that he thought he wasn’t desperate to come, he has to get his fingers a little wetter, needs at least a finger if he’s going to be loud enough to keep drawing those sounds out of Zhenya. Each noise he earns makes him a little hotter, until he’s two fingers deep and gasping for breath. He wishes he could get one of his toys — they’re so tantalizingly close by — but he doesn’t know what would happen if he stopped before he came, and he’s close enough that if he just gives himself another finger he’ll come, even if he won’t be as full as he wants.

He’s waiting for Zhenya to come, wanting it to push him over, but Zhenya seems like he can stay at this pace forever and Sid can’t. He has to give himself three fingers. When he gets himself just right, he can’t help the long, drawn-out, “Ah!” as he tips over the edge, working himself hard to make his orgasm last as long as it can.

And that must have been what Zhenya was waiting for, because he hears Zhenya’s head thump hard against his pillow and he says something just too low and fast for Sid to catch, his breathing harsh and uneven. It makes Sid shiver and wish he could feel Zhenya panting in exhausted satisfaction against his neck.

Sid means to get up and get a washcloth, a tissue, anything, but he barely manages to say, “Goodnight, Zhenya,” before his eyes close.

Zhenya’s goodnight is quiet and tired, but it’s so sweet-sounding that Sid shivers again. He stretches into it before he falls asleep.

***

They take the game against the Rangers and Sid gets four points, which bumps him to 97. Then they lose the first half of a home and home to the Isles and Sid gets no points, and he’s so worried he won’t be able to make it to 100.

He whispers it to Zhenya on the plane home because he doesn’t want anyone else to hear. Zhenya frowns and looks so determined as he cups Sid’s face in his hands. He says, “I will get you there.”

Sid bites his lip. There are only two games left, but — “Do you promise?”

“For you, for the team,” Zhenya says, nodding.

“Okay,” Sid says.

When Zhenya turns out the lights that night, it’s the fifth time Zhenya has all but invited Sid to get off. And this time, Sid is prepared: he stashed a toy and lube under his pillow. He’s nervous at first that Zhenya will be able to tell that he’s doing anything other than jerking off, and if so, whether that will make this weird. But when he slides the toy in and moans, Zhenya mutters something that sounds like encouragement under his breath. Sid’s a lot less hesitant after that, working his hips down on the toy just like he likes best until he’s so close to coming he can hardly stand it. Zhenya comes a second after Sid does, and he feels like they’re almost perfectly in sync.

Which is maybe why Sid feels so centered. When he walks into Mellon on game day, he feels confident and ready. He assists on Hilbert’s goal in the first, then Tomas’ in the second, and no one has to tell him he’s at 99. The Isles take a stupid penalty and Coach Therrien sends their power play unit over the boards.

Zhenya gives him a look as he takes his place for the faceoff and everything about the way he’s positioned is perfect; if Sid can win the faceoff and get it to Zhenya, Snow will never know what hit him.

It’s like he sees it all a second before it happens — the puck drops, Sid snaps it over to Zhenya and it’s in the back of the net.

“Sid!” Zhenya roars his name, slams into him, and holds him so tight he can feel it through the pads.

Malone bangs into them next, and Sergei and Brooks are only a moment behind. Mellon is practically shaking with the screaming of the crowd.

“Thank you, thank you,” Sid blurts out into Zhenya’s chest because he’s been terrified he wouldn’t be able to do this for the team, but he did it. They all did it.

Zhenya lets go just enough that he can tap hard at the A on Sid’s chest. “I always know you can do it, you’re the best.”

The rest of the game is a blur. They score twice more and win, 6-1. Sid is the first star of the game. Someone asks if he knows he’s the youngest player ever to notch 100 points in a season and all Sid manages to stammer out to anyone is, “I want to thank the team.”

When Sid makes it to the locker room, there’s a hissing pop and something splashes him in the face. He belatedly realizes it’s champagne when he licks his lips.

There’s a bunch of shouting and he gets hugs and backslaps from the whole team. Everyone keeps congratulating him. Zhenya takes his gloves and his helmet, putting them carefully in Sid’s stall just the way Sid would so that Sid can take the puck, still cool and a little damp.

“This isn’t an individual accomplishment,” Sid says. “I couldn’t have done this without everyone in the room and I just — thank you.”

There’s a loud cheer and Sid says, “One more game, guys!”

Max yells, “200!” and Flower throws a towel in his face, but everyone is laughing and smiling and that’s what Sid cares about.

They’re all reluctant to leave the locker room, but the equipment staff is bustling anxiously around trying to get everything ready for the plane, so they all get showered and out of their way. Sid’s about to go hunt down Zhenya, who he thinks maybe went to bike a little more, when Coach Therrien catches him.

“Sidney, a word?” he asks, gesturing toward his office.

“Sure,” Sid says. He instinctively feels nervous.

“My congratulations, again,” Therrien says, and Sid nods, waiting for the real reason Therrien called him in. “I want you to captain the team next season.”

“What?” Sid asks, voice cracking.

“We’ve done acceptably with this rotation of alternates, but it’s time we had a captain again,” Therrien says calmly, but like he expects no argument.

“Sir, respectfully,” Sid says, swallowing. “I really don’t think it’s the right time. I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

Therrien stares at him for a long moment, like he’s waiting for Sid to change his mind. He says, “There was really nothing for them to play for after March. But they played for you. I expect you to think about that.”

“I will,” Sid says. He doubts he’ll be thinking about anything but this offer tonight.

“Then go. I’ll see you in the morning,” Therrien says, motioning toward the door. Sid practically jumps up in his haste to be anywhere else.

“Sidney,” Therrien says. He waits for Sid to turn and face him before he says, “I’ll be asking again in September.”

Sid nods and goes straight for the training room. He nearly runs into Zhenya, who was clearly looking for him.

“Ready to go home?” Zhenya asks.

Sid nods. He feels too off-balance to talk.

“You okay?” Zhenya asks, tipping Sid’s chin up. He looks worried and annoyed, like he’s going to go yell at anyone who made Sid upset.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Sid says. He lets Zhenya herd him to the car.

They’re both quiet on the drive home, but they laugh when they get to their door. There’s a giant poster board sign on it that says, “HAPPY 100, SID!” in carefully coloured bubble letters with penguins and pucks doodled everywhere.

“Cute,” Zhenya says, grinning at Sid, who feels a little choked up. He had a message on his phone he just barely managed to hear over the locker room din, Taylor screaming in the background as his father and mother said how proud they were. He was a little sad that he couldn’t share tonight with his family, who have done so much to get him here, but the sign reminds him that his family is bigger than it used to be.

“I love it,” Sid says. He reaches out to touch where they all signed their names.

Zhenya puts his arm around Sid and squeezes him gently. “Come on, bed for us. Early flight,” he says.

They get ready for bed quietly, brushing their teeth side by side before they strip down. They’re both too tired to hang up their suits. Their game day suits for Toronto are already packed, anyway, and those are the last suits they’ll need this season.

Zhenya slides into bed and Sid doesn’t wait for him to offer or ask, just climbs in right after him. He reaches out as Zhenya is reaching for him. When his nose is carefully tucked against Zhenya’s collarbone and Zhenya has mostly pulled Sid on top of him, Sid finally takes in a deep breath and tries to breathe out slow and even.

Maybe he doesn’t manage it, because Zhenya rubs his back in steady, soothing circles and presses a kiss into Sid’s hair before he asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Coach called me into his office,” Sid says. He’s stupidly anxious about even saying it out loud. “He wants me to take the C.”

Zhenya’s hands don’t pause for a second. He keeps stroking between Sid’s shoulder blades. “What you tell him?”

“No,” Sid says. His voice is muffled as he presses his face into Zhenya’s chest. He thinks it was the right choice, but he still feels weirdly like he’s letting the team down and being ungrateful.

Zhenya hums thoughtfully. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay?” Sid says incredulously. He looks up at Zhenya, who is still so calm.

“Your choice,” Zhenya says. He coaxes Sid into relaxing again, although Sid’s shoulders are still a tense mess.

Sid wonders, though, why Therrien didn’t offer it to Zhenya, what Zhenya might have done if he had. “Would you — if Coach asked you, what would you say?”

There’s a pause, not like Zhenya is trying to think it through, but like he’s trying to think of how to say it. Zhenya’s taps his fingertips along Sid’s spine. “I would say no, too,” he says finally.

Sid breathes out. He’s relieved to hear the same answer, but then he stops and asks, “Why?”

“Because I think you make the best captain,” Zhenya says with no hesitation.

Zhenya looks down at him, steady and sweet, and Sid can hardly breathe. “How — how can you be so sure?”

The corners of Zhenya’s mouth turn up. “One year ago, I wonder how you’re so sure about me. You tell me I’m ready, you tell me to come here, but I almost stayed in Russia. Lots of reasons to stay. Only two reasons to go.”

Sid feels his brow furrow. Zhenya smiles at him, and it’s a smile Sid knows so well, one he first saw in a hallway in Helsinki. He had no defences against it then, and he’s no better off now.

“NHL is my dream,” Zhenya says. He leans his face closer. “But you, you’re the best, and I know I have to be here with you. Because you say I belong here, and I think — I belong with you.”

“What if I’d gone to Anaheim?” Sid asks.

“You never,” Zhenya says. “You belong here with me, too.”

That makes Sid melt enough to confess, “I was ready to write you letters forever, if I had to.”

“We get trade,” Zhenya says. “I get to you somehow.”

The idea is ludicrous, although he believes Zhenya would have tried. There are so many reasons why it would have been completely impossible, but Sid’s heart doesn’t care in the slightest.

He loves Zhenya, so much.

“Well, you don’t have to worry,” Sid says when he finds his voice. His fingertips skate over Zhenya’s penguin necklace, and he clasps it tight in his hand. “We’ll be Penguins forever, right?”

“Yes,” Zhenya says. He kisses Sid’s forehead. “Together.”

Sid’s heart feels too full, and he doesn’t know what to do about it. For tonight, at least, he thinks he can love Zhenya as best as he can, and let the morning come.

***

They lose their last game, but they play well, so the mood in the locker room is one of satisfaction, not heavy disappointment. Therrien keeps his post-game remarks short, thanks them all for their hard work, and tells them to rest and get ready for next season. They get on the plane shortly after, and as they take off, Sid thinks: this is it. He’s finished his rookie season in the NHL with 102 points.

Zhenya is more thoughtful than brooding. He has 90 points on the season, but Sid thinks that with steady linemates, he can do even more. Sid would bet on it, and he’s already so excited to think of what Zhenya will do next season.

The next day, Max calls, texts, and emails everyone to come out. It’s a place they went to pretty regularly during the season, one where they don’t get bothered too much and everyone can unwind a little. Well, Max seems to get wound up when Zhenya smokes him at the pool table, but mostly everyone can relax.

“I quit, he’s the worst,” Max says.

“You’re the worst,” Zhenya retorts on his way to the bathrooms.

Max has a speculative look in his eye that Sid doesn’t like at all. “You know, you really should end the season with a bang.” He waggles his eyebrows, like Sid will miss the innuendo.

Sid rolls his eyes. “Get real. Look at where we are.”

Max pauses to consider that. “A fair point,” he allows. “But hypothetically. So I’ll be better prepared next season.”

“What? No, Max,” Sid says with a groan.

“Come on,” Max wheedles. “What about that guy at the bar in the blue shirt?”

Sid sighs. He knows Max is going to be like a dog with a bone, and it’ll be over if he plays along a little. “Um, he’s fine, I guess.”

“You guess,” Max says sceptically. “We can do better than that. Plaid shirt?”

Zhenya comes back as Sid is looking the guy over. “What’s going on?” he asks.

“I’m trying to figure out Sid’s type,” Max says. “Come on, Sid, gut reaction. Yes or no?”

“I don’t know,” Sid says. “I mean, he’s tall, but.”

“Aha!” Max says, looking like he’s two seconds from making notes on napkins. “So, okay. You like ‘em tall. Like, just taller than you, or like G, here?”

Sid bites his lip. Suddenly Max isn’t the only person looking at Sid. Colby and Zhenya seem really interested in his answer, and even Flower is staring at him over his beer. Sergei casts his eyes heavenward, like he wants to be anywhere but here, and Sid sympathizes. “I mean, definitely taller than me, but —” he pauses because he already feels exposed, and if he actually mentions Zhenya in relation to things he’s attracted to, he’s pretty sure he’ll explode from how obvious he is.

“So tall tall,” Max says, interpreting Sid correctly. “Oh, what about the guy, crazy tall, down there, Pirates hat on?”

“Well, he’s tall,” Sid say, acknowledging that Max is trying. “And he’s um, got nice shoulders?” It’s sort of surreal. He’s been so careful to keep his personal life and preferences under wraps, and now their whole little table is thoughtfully analyzing Sid’s physical preferences in guys. But Max looks so happy that Sid guesses he can indulge him.

“So, you like some muscle on your guy, okay,” Max says, almost to himself.

Zhenya snorts and pushes his way into the booth, putting his arm along the back of the booth when there’s hardly room for him. His hand is heavy and warm on Sid’s shoulder, and Sid’s warm all along his side where he’s tucked against Zhenya. “Chicken legs,” Zhenya says, and rolls his eyes dismissively.

“Oh, yeah,” Max says, a rueful twist to his mouth. “And zero ass. What about asses, eh?”

Sid downs his drink. If they’re actually going to talk about this, he needs to be much drunker.

“I mean, no one’s ass is beating that,” Colby says, waving at Sid. “Like, the Creature is bootylicious.”

There’s a round of good-natured laughter, and Sid knows how to take a friendly chirp about his ass, since he’s been hearing them for years.

“What kind of booty do you need?” Max asks. There’s a disturbingly sincere expression on his face and he reaches across the table to pat Sid’s hands.

Sid pours himself another beer. “I mean, there should be an ass,” he says noncommittally.

“So, Talbo, so far you’ve figured out that Sid likes tall guys with muscles, and not having any butt is a deal breaker,” Flower says. “What are you going to ask about next? Dick size?”

Max waves a hand around carelessly. “Big, obviously,” he says.

Sid knows he’s absolutely scarlet. It doesn’t help that Zhenya’s arm has moved so that it’s actually around his shoulders.

“Obviously?” Flower says, grinning.

“Why waste time with a little dick like yours?” Max shoots back, grinning even more widely than Flower.

Flower kicks him under the table and Max tries to noogie him; Colby moves cups hurriedly so no one knocks over a beer, and Sid hopes they’ve dropped the subject.

“Children,” Sergei says reproachfully, rescuing some empties.

“Sorry, Dad,” Max says. He tries for an innocent expression and it’s a complete failure. “Flower, you shit, stop distracting me. What about the blond at the pool table? That’s an okay ass, he looks like he works out.”

Before Sid can even say anything, Zhenya’s arm tightens around him and he says, “Ugly. Mean face, like he hates dogs, babies.”

Colby busts out laughing. “Wow, G, tell us how you really feel.”

Max crosses his arms and gives Zhenya a look. “Sid?” he asks pointedly.

“I mean, I don’t know,” Sid says. He’s not ugly, but since Zhenya pointed it out, there is a pretty unfriendly expression on his face. “I don’t know about the dogs and babies, but he doesn’t seem…very approachable.”

“See? Mean,” Zhenya says.

“Okay, what about the guy who just came out of the bathroom?” Max says, and they all turn to look.

The guy is actually — wow, really hot. He’s tall and pretty well built and he’s got a great smile he uses on his friends as he gets back to the bar.

“Talbo,” Zhenya says, in dire tones. “He’s wearing Dilfer jersey.”

“A what?” Max asks, bewildered.

“Browns fan!” Zhenya says, absolutely disgusted.

“Oh, like Sid cares about that,” Max says. He clearly knows he hit the nail on the head with this guy.

Zhenya looks down at Sid expectantly.

Sid looks at the guy again, and the truth is — in a different place, in a different situation, he might honestly go for it. “I’d talk to him,” he says finally.

Max fist pumps. “I am so good at this. Even with dudes!”

“He has a girlfriend,” Zhenya says, displeased. And sure enough, the guy is leaning over to peck a woman on the lips. “No good.”

“This is just theoretical,” Max says defensively. “Obviously Sid isn’t going to go talk to anyone here.” He looks at the guy some more, with a critical look on his face. “But don’t worry, next season I’ve got you covered. Like, when we go to the West Coast, maybe.”

“He deserves more than one night stand,” Zhenya says sharply.

The table goes quiet. Sid half wants to crawl under the table and half wants to ask Zhenya to repeat that.

“Easy, G, no one’s saying he doesn’t,” Colby says.

Sergei’s eyes narrow. “No harm in looking,” he says coolly. “Sid’s single. He should look.”

Zhenya’s fingers tighten around Sid’s shoulder, but he says nothing to that.

“One thing at a time,” Max says. “I’m just getting warmed up, here. Like, I need a few practice runs before I start looking for boyfriend material.”

“Is this the time to mention that I have a friend?” Colby says.

Sid puts his head down on the table and groans.

***

Sid’s still drunk when they get home and get into bed, and Zhenya probably is, too — and thank god, because they accidentally left one of the bathroom lights on, and it’s not much, but Sid can see enough of Zhenya’s dick to be glad that neither of them is completely sober. And Zhenya must be drunk, because he’s louder tonight than he’s ever been. At first Sid thinks that he’ll just jerk off, but Zhenya’s noises are so good.

Sid brings his knees up and works a finger in, sighing as he does. It doesn’t take long for him to give himself two, and god, he’s aching for it. He wishes he could push the sheet off, put a pillow under his ass, and let himself work up to his biggest toy. But Zhenya would see — Sid’s got to be backlit, since his bed is closer to the bathroom.

He pushes a third finger in and thinks about the guys he looked at tonight, thinks about whether they’d look at him and see something they liked. He clenches around his fingers and wonders how that would feel for another guy, if they’d tell him he was good, if they’d want to fuck Sid until he comes, if Sid’s orgasm would feel so good they’d come, too.

He plants his feet a little better and pushes up into his next thrust. He can get it a little deeper like that, and he groans when he thumbs the underside of his cock and gets his fingers as deep as he can.

“Fuck,” Zhenya gasps from the other bed. Sid’s hips snap up in response and he chases that angle but it’s not enough, it’s not, he needs —

“So good,” Zhenya murmurs, and when Sid looks over, he can see the outline of Zhenya’s cock and his hand moving over it. His covers must be pushed down — Sid can’t see everything, but even just imagining riding that instead of his fingers makes him moan. He thinks about swinging one thigh over Zhenya’s hips and easing down, writhing on his dick and then riding it hard.

He’d be — god, he’d be stretched wide over Zhenya, and maybe — maybe Zhenya could sit up and kiss him while Sid ground down and took everything, until he could feel Zhenya’s thighs underneath his ass. He wonders, too, if Zhenya jizzes a lot when he comes, if Sid would be a mess, if Zhenya could pull out and come all over him, too.

He’s so close, and he’s been making noise, and Zhenya’s been making noises in return like they’re in sync, and it’s enough that Sid can imagine that Zhenya might sound like that if he worked his cock in, maybe he’d think Sid felt tight and good, maybe he’d tell Sid he’s so —

“Oh, fuck,” Sid whimpers, because he’s riding the edge and he can’t thrust his fingers in as fast as he wants, he wishes — “Fuck me,” he pleads hoarsely.

“Yes,” Zhenya says, and Sid cries out and comes so hard, and he can hear Zhenya groan and when he turns his head, he sees Zhenya’s hand slow and then stop.

Sid eases his fingers out because his wrist is a little cramped, but he wishes he didn’t have to. He wishes — he wishes Zhenya was going soft inside him, he wishes he knew what it felt like to have Zhenya come inside him.

“‘Night, Sidnyusha,” Zhenya says eventually, and he sounds so sleepy and satisfied.

“‘Night,” Sid whispers back. He stares at the ceiling.

He’s beyond fucked, and not the way he wants to be.

Notes for the Chapter:

warnings: voyeurism, two characters engage in undernegotiated but consensual mutual masturbation while intoxicated

5. Chapter 5

They spend the remaining few days until locker cleanout mostly on the couch. They’re both exhausted, and if Sid wants to do nothing other than cuddle with Zhenya on the couch, he feels like he’s earned it. They fall asleep on each other more often than not, and Sid is determined to enjoy the way Zhenya fits against him while he can have it. They’ll be off to Worlds soon, and then home for the off-season. Maybe Zhenya will get back together with the girl he left behind. Maybe he’ll meet someone new.

Jack was right. Sid can’t count on having this forever. He can only appreciate it while it lasts.

On locker clean-out day, there’s media in Sid’s face as per usual. There are questions about the Calder, about being the youngest to reach 100 points in a season, about Worlds. Sid can answer most of them in his sleep.

“What’s the experience been like, being named alternate captain?” a reporter asks, and Sid knows exactly how to answer that question too. But when he’s finished, someone else says, “If you were offered the C, you’d be the youngest captain in NHL history. What would that mean to you?”

Sid knows to be really careful answering that — one wrong move and an edited soundbite will be all over the news. “I think anytime someone is offered something like that, it means your coaches and your team are really behind you. And I think that’s something we’ve really been working on this season — coming together as a team. Hopefully we’ll keep building on that next year.”

When the reporters are gone, most of the guys are still milling around. Sid manages to catch Colby. “Did you find a place for next year?” he asks. Colby was making noises about wanting a place more convenient to both Mellon and the Southpointe practice ice.

“Oh, yeah,” Colby says. “My real estate lady was great — she found me a good place, pretty close to the highway, but not too close, you know?”

“Awesome,” Sid says. He hesitates before adding, “Can you give me her number?”

Colby stops dead. “Aw shit, are you moving out of Mario’s?” he says, delighted. “They grow up so fast! Had enough of the roommate thing?”

“No,” Sid says. “But we can’t really get a dog until we have a yard.”

“You what,” Colby says faintly.

“I mean, even little dogs should have some space to run around, but I think we’re getting a big one,” Sid says. At least, Zhenya has been making noises about every big dog they see on Animal Planet shows. Sid wants a dog that can still fit on the couch with him.

“Okay,” Colby says slowly. He pulls a business card out of his wallet and hands it to Sid. “You guys are looking to rent a place together?”

“Oh, no, Geno wants to buy a house. Yard for a dog, room for his parents when they come to visit,” Sid says. He turns to look for Zhenya, but he seems absorbed in conversation with Sergei. Or actually, Sergei seems to be doing all the talking, and Zhenya looks angry and resentful.

Colby catches him by the shoulder. “Stay out of that, Creature,” he says firmly.

“But—”

“Nope,” Colby says. He doesn’t let go of Sid’s shoulder. “Have some fun this summer, eh? Call me any time. At least once a month.”

“Sure, Mom,” Sid says, but he can’t deny that it warms him to think that Colby cares and wants to stay in touch.

“I mean it,” Colby says, and hugs him. Sid hugs back just as tightly.

There are more hugs from the rest of the guys, and promises to text or call.

And then that’s it. Sid’s stall is empty. The season is really, truly over.

He hoists his bag up onto his shoulder and looks over to where Zhenya is waiting. He’s got a sulky look on his face, but he nods once and picks up his bag, too. They leave Mellon together.

***

Zhenya’s still in a funk when they get home, but after an entire season together, Sid knows when to give Zhenya some space. He didn’t honestly expect Zhenya to take the end of the season so hard — it’s true that it didn’t end in a Cup or even a playoff berth, but they did what they could and Sid hopes it’s only up from here.

Sid breaks the news to the kids that night that he and Zhenya are going house-hunting.

“You’re leaving?” Austin says. Sid hadn’t quite expected that note of distress in his voice.

“We’re not going far,” Sid says hastily, darting a glance at Zhenya. “It would be nice to stay in the neighbourhood.”

Zhenya’s been quiet all through dinner, but he says, “You come visit. Maybe you guys come help us pick out dog.”

“A dog?” Alexa says, her expression instantly going from bereft to excited.

Zhenya keeps the conversation firmly dog-centric, which gets them through dinner, but afterward, Sid is the one feeling melancholy. When they head back upstairs, Zhenya sighs. “We’ll miss them,” he says.

“Yeah,” Sid says. It’s hitting him all of a sudden — they’re moving out, they’re heading to Worlds, and they’re separating for the summer. And maybe that’s for the best. They’ll spend time with their families, and Sid will remember how to love Zhenya without his heart aching for more. They’ll be best friends, they’ll start their second season together, and everything will be just fine.

Zhenya says goodnight almost immediately after he gets into bed that night, which is just as well — Sid’s not in the mood, and Zhenya doesn’t seem to be either.

The next morning, they meet Colby’s realtor. Melissa is just as great as Colby said — friendly, professional, and apparently willing to deal with the fact that he and Zhenya don’t have a clue.

“You want to stay in Sewickley?” she asks.

“Yes,” Sid says immediately, and then looks at Zhenya. “We do, right?”

Zhenya nods in easy agreement.

She clicks the mouse a few times. “How many bedrooms?” she asks.

Sid looks at Zhenya again. Maybe they should have talked about this before they made an appointment. “Um, well — one for me, one for you, one for guests? So, three?”

Zhenya looks startled, and then his mouth looks pinched.

“Or do you think four?” Sid hazards. Four seems like a lot, but if it’s what Zhenya wants, he’s willing to go along with it.

“Whatever you think is best,” Zhenya says. It doesn’t sound passive-aggressive or anything, but Sid can’t shake the feeling that Zhenya has a definite opinion that he isn’t sharing.

“So let’s say a minimum of four, but if it’s a really great place, you’ll look at three?” Melissa suggests.

Sid nods gratefully, because at least someone knows what they’re doing here. With help from Melissa and no help at all from Zhenya, who seems determined to defer to Sid’s judgment on everything despite Sid not having any idea at all what Zhenya wants, they eventually make it through Melissa’s checklist.

“Okay,” she says. She’s too professional to look grimly determined, but Sid can sort of sense it there under the surface. “I’ll get together some places for us to look at, which should help us narrow it down from there. I also know you’re on a pretty tight schedule here if you want to make a decision before you leave for…Worlds, right?”

“Right,” Sid says. “I mean, our schedule is pretty open, I don’t know if that helps.”

“It really does,” she says, smiling. Sid’s glad they made something easier on her. “How about this — you guys go have lunch and plan to come back here around two. I’ll have a couple of places lined up that we’ll go look at, but while you’re at lunch, I want you each to think of the three things that are your highest priorities and what things are dealbreakers.”

“Sure,” Sid says. Zhenya nods. They can at least manage small, concrete tasks, he hopes. “That sounds great, thank you.”

“Thank you, see you later,” Zhenya says, and stands up.

They get in the car and Sid sighs, wondering how on earth they’re going to make any real decisions when just talking about their hypothetical needs went so terribly.

“You okay?” Zhenya asks.

Sid is actually kind of annoyed with Zhenya, because he has no shortage of opinions and usually no problem making them known. What’s he supposed to do — tell Zhenya to stop agreeing with everything he says? But he thinks for a moment and finally says, “I want you to get what you want, not just what I want. This is your house.”

Zhenya shrugs. “I want what you want, whatever you think is best,” he says. “Besides, I already buy a house for my parents. Mama says I like fanciest, not best. So maybe you don’t listen so much to me.”

Sid almost argues instinctively, but Zhenya is smiling now, so he just says, “Well, you should like your own house.”

“I’m not picky, like you,” Zhenya says, the smile turning into a smirk. “So if you like it, I’m sure it’s okay.”

“I’m not picky,” Sid says. It’s a well-worn argument, but he feels strangely relieved to be having it, like a weird tension he hadn’t consciously realized was there has suddenly disappeared. “And you have to choose lunch, then.”

“Picky, bossy,” Zhenya says on a sigh. “I need pickles.”

“I’ll give you pickles,” Sid mutters nonsensically. He puts the name of the deli in the GPS that Nathalie and Mario gave him.

Zhenya gets his pickles, a whole small plate of them, since their usual waitress is at work and she brings them over pretty much the second she sees Zhenya. Because she clearly likes Zhenya best, Sid makes him ask her for some paper and a pen.

“I think Melissa not mind if we just know list,” Zhenya says, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, right,” Sid says, rolling his eyes. “You’d just pick three things off the top of your head, then.” He makes two headings on the paper and writes Sid on one side and Zhenya on the other.

“So what are your three most important things?” Sid asks, pen ready.

Zhenya looks around like maybe their food will appear and get him out of this, but he eventually says, “Good yard with a good fence, for puppy.”

“Right,” Sid says, putting down 1. Large fenced-in yard. “Two?”

“Nice guest room for Mama and Papa,” he says promptly.

2. Guest suite goes down next and Sid wonders where they’re going to find a house with three master suites, essentially. “One more,” Sid says.

Zhenya fusses with his napkin and moves the sugar packets. Sid wonders why getting Zhenya to say what he wants is like pulling teeth. “A pool would be good,” he finally says. “But I don’t need it.”

“This should be things the house has to have,” Sid says.

“Unless you let me put you down on the list, I’m good,” Zhenya says. Sid looks up to find Zhenya watching him, eyes unreadable, even though he still has the same little smile on his lips.

Sid feels his face go hot and he writes down 3. Pool. There’s no reason to write himself down — he’s a sure thing.

Zhenya starts eating his pickles and gestures to Sid’s side of the paper with one of them. “Now it’s your turn, can’t copy my list,” he says.

Sid frowns, but the first couple of things come easily enough. He puts down 1. 3 suites and 2. 3 car garage. He has to stop and think about the last one for a moment, but eventually he comes up with 3. Driveway gate.

“That’s it?” Zhenya asks, staring at Sid’s list.

Sid looks it over. “Yeah,” he says.

Zhenya frowns and points to Sid’s number 1. “That’s close enough, you copied. Pick something good.”

It’s not, but Zhenya isn’t going to drop it, so Sid thinks about it until their sandwiches arrive. “Well, maybe a fireplace,” Sid finally says, thinking about his grandparents’ house and watching the fire for what felt like hours. “But it’s your house, it doesn’t really matter —”

Zhenya reaches across the table, steals the list and pen, and writes down fireplace right in the middle. “Good,” he says, satisfied. “A little bit surprised you didn’t write ‘hockey rink.’”

“Ha ha,” Sid says, even as he wonders if he could.

They eat their sandwiches slowly since they have plenty of time before they have to be back at Melissa’s office, and sign a few autographs and take some pictures with a group of kids who come in. Zhenya’s smiling a lot more, no sign of the grumpy funk he’s been in since locker clean-out, and Sid can feel himself relaxing further in response.

***

Melissa takes them to see three houses that evening. They’re all overwhelming in different ways: one has a “butler’s pantry” that Sid doesn’t even understand the purpose of, one has a gazebo and a bocce ball court, and the last one is just huge. She doesn’t seem offended when Sid says no to all of them; she just takes their lists of must-haves and promises to call in the morning.

“This is good, really,” she assures him. “I think I have a lot better idea of what you want now. Even a no tells me something.”

“Thank you for being so patient with us,” Sid says.

She laughs. “I didn’t expect you to choose a house on the first day,” she says. “In fact, I would have been worried if you had.”

Sid has a sneaking suspicion that Zhenya would have bought the first house he walked into if Sid hadn’t come with him. That was the one with the inexplicable pantry, so it’s probably for the best.

They head home, because the kids extracted a promise from them to eat dinner with the family; they’re already leveraging guilt to get Sid and Zhenya to do anything they want. It’s fun listening to the kids talk about summer camps and complain about standardized testing. Mario pulls out a bottle of a great red, and it’s exactly the kind of night Sid is going to miss most next year, chatting around the dinner table until the kids insist it’s time to watch the movie they rented.

When they get to the living room, though, Zhenya doesn’t head for their usual spot in the corner of the sectional. Instead, he sprawls out over part of the carpet and is promptly used as a pillow by Austin and Stephanie, and then Tara comes over to huff loudly and flop over all of them. Sid certainly can’t begrudge him that, though, and Alexa comes over and squishes herself next to Sid until she’s comfortable. It doesn’t seem comfortable to Sid, but it makes him think about how Taylor used to tuck herself between him and the arm of the couch whenever possible, and it’s nice.

When the movie is over, Mario and Nathalie send the kids up to bed, and Sid and Zhenya head up, too. Sid’s feeling mellow and relaxed from the wine, and he leans against Zhenya’s side on the couch as Zhenya flips channels before settling on a special about dog breeds.

“Fluffy,” Zhenya says with satisfaction as the show focuses on Newfoundlands.

“That’s really big,” Sid cautions him. Zhenya doesn’t look remotely deterred.

The show continues. The wine and house-hunting catch up with Sid and his eyes fall shut. He only wakes up when Zhenya nudges him and says, “Go to bed, Sidnyusha.”

“I’m awake,” Sid insists.

“Bed,” Zhenya says.

Sid sits up and yawns. “Are you coming?” he asks.

There’s a pause. “Not yet.”

Sid feels a tinge of disappointment. “Oh,” he says. “Goodnight, then.”

“‘Night,” Zhenya says.

Sid brushes his teeth and climbs into bed. When did it start feeling so weird to go to bed alone?

He leaves the bedside lamp on, even though he knows Zhenya could find his way to bed in the dark.

***

They see four more houses the next morning. Zhenya likes them all except the last, and Sid likes the third one the best.

Zhenya tells Melissa he wants the third house. He doesn’t seem to get that it’s a big deal.

“Don’t you want to think about this some more?” Sid says, his voice sounding strangled.

“What to think?” Zhenya says. “Five bedroom, five bath, big yard, big garage, gate.”

“Right,” Sid says. “But —”

“Fireplace,” Zhenya says, like it’s his ace in the hole.

“But —” Sid says again, helplessly. Melissa is politely looking somewhere else, but then again, she’s probably seen a lot of this.

“You like it, I like it,” Zhenya says. He’s turned in toward Sid and standing so close that Sid has to look up to meet his eyes. “We live there together. Easy.”

He’s right about that — Sid can so easily see them living there together. That’s the problem.

“Sidnyusha,” Zhenya coaxes.

Sid can’t calm the anxious butterflies in his stomach, but he says, “Well, if you’re sure.”

Later that afternoon, while Zhenya is off at the Gonchars’, Sid finds Mario in his office.

They talk a little about Sid going home to Cole Harbour for a few days before Worlds, but finally Mario says, “What’s going on, Sid? You’re about to climb out of your skin.”

Sid tries very hard to sit still. He lasts ten seconds before he fidgets again. “What if it’s a bad idea? Living with Zhenya, I mean.”

Mario’s eyebrows go up. “You’ve managed in closer quarters for an entire season.”

“Right,” Sid says. That’s true. They’ve — managed, sure. But things will be different in the new house. There won’t be any more talking after they’ve turned out the lights. They won’t be brushing their teeth side by side.

“I don’t want anything to change,” Sid says.

Mario sighs. “That’s not the way life works,” he says gently. “Things change, whether we want them to or not. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad.” He lets Sid digest that for a moment, and then says, “If it’s not working out — there’s always a room for you here, Sid. Always.”

“I thought you said everything changes,” Sid says. He’s not trying to be contrary, but nothing feels solid under his feet right now, and he hates it.

Mario gets up from his desk and pulls Sid in for a hug. “Not this,” he says.

Sid presses his face into Mario’s shoulder and closes his eyes.

“And I think things would have to go pretty bad to change how Geno feels about you,” Mario adds.

“What if it’s me?” Sid says. He can’t manage more than a hoarse whisper. “What if I feel different?”

“You might be able to care about him more,” Mario allows. “I don’t think you could care about him less.”

Sid’s terribly afraid that he’s right.

***

Zhenya keeps saying goodnight the second they go to bed, and he’s not cold, exactly, but he doesn’t hold out an arm to invite Sid to snuggle on the couch, either. There’s a weird hesitation between them, because Zhenya used to be a reliable constant, and now Sid feels like he keeps tripping over new lines between them. He’s trying to be considerate, he’s trying to be a good friend — he’s trying to get used to what might be their new normal, but it’s not coming easy. It’s not easy between them at all anymore.

It’s almost a relief to pack for a few days in Cole Harbour before Sid is due at Worlds. He’s packing up the rest of his things, too, in preparation for the new house.

“Need buy furniture when we come back,” Zhenya says, watching Sid sort through the closet. It’s hard to pick out which clothes are actually his, and Sid hesitates when he picks up a Malkin shirt that he wears to bed all the time.

He puts it to the side, and resumes looking through the shirts. “Either then or when we come back before training camp,” he says.

Zhenya makes a noise that a stranger might construe as agreement, but Sid knows it actually means that they’re going to pillage a furniture store or three the minute they’re home from Worlds.

“Listen,” Sid says. He clears his throat. “So I know we’re not in the same bracket, but. I think this is going to be different than World Juniors. I mean, I don’t really have anything to compare it to. The Olympics was different, right?”

Zhenya half-shrugs, then nods.

“So I think we shouldn’t talk to each other when we’re on different teams,” Sid says.

“We’re not playing each other until quarterfinal, maybe,” Zhenya protests. “Nobody going to care if we hang out a little.”

Sid thinks about playing with Shanahan, Comrie, and Cammalleri. This isn’t Juniors. And he’s always been held to a higher standard.

“I care,” Sid says finally.

He’s prepared for Zhenya to roll his eyes, or make fun of him, or even to huff.

He’s not prepared for Zhenya to look so hurt.

It’s on the tip of his tongue to take it back, but Zhenya turns and stalks out of the bedroom, and Sid stands in the closet and looks blankly at the doorway.

He packs the Malkin shirt in with his clothes.

***

The remainder of the day is strained and tense. Sid sticks to the bedroom and Zhenya stays out in the living room; they barely cross paths. Sid is packed and ready for Nathalie to drive him to airport early the next morning. But everything else feels undone, and all he wants is to curl up with Zhenya on the couch, say he’s sorry, and tell him they’ll sneak around together like they did at Juniors.

But he can’t. And he doesn’t know what Zhenya is so upset about, anyway — Zhenya’s the one who’s been pulling back. Sid can go two weeks without talking to Jack. Zhenya shouldn’t be getting so worked up over two weeks without Sid.

When it’s time for bed, Sid thinks about being apart again, and remembers how terrible the Olympics were. All he wants is to stay as close as Zhenya will allow and try to forget how everything is changing, and not for the better.

He brushes his teeth and heads into the bedroom. Zhenya is already in bed, curled on his side and facing the wall. Sid stares at the expanse of his back, and for the first time in a long time, he’s unsure of his welcome. He missed Zhenya when there was an ocean between them, but he never expected to miss him when he was right there.

Maybe he can sleep next to Zhenya just once more. And then he’ll give it up. He’ll stop. Just tonight, to get a good night’s sleep and not tear himself up about the hurt look on Zhenya’s face or his own guilt. But the covers are tight around Zhenya’s shoulders, and Sid doesn’t know how to cross that distance.

“Zhenya,” he says quietly.

“Thought you said we not talk,” Zhenya says.

“At Worlds,” Sid says.

Zhenya rolls over so that he can look at Sid, and the lamp is turned down low but there’s no hiding the fury on his face. “So you get to decide when we’re friends, when we’re not?”

Sid’s mouth falls open. “No! Zhenya, it’s not like—”

“You say we not talk, fine,” Zhenya spits out, and rolls back over again.

Sid stands in the space between their beds, and then grabs his pillow and retreats to the couch in the living room. It’s not what he wanted at all, curling up alone and feeling sick with regret. Maybe he shouldn’t have even bothered packing, not if Zhenya is this upset with him. Maybe he should stay at Mario’s.

He’s been thinking everything would be fine as long as they were still friends, but maybe that won’t be enough. Maybe Sid’s always been a little in love with Zhenya, from that first letter sent off with blind hope, and there’s never been any just friends to go back to.

***

When Sid gets his suitcase out of the room, Zhenya is either still sleeping or aggressively faking it. Either way, Sid goes downstairs without saying goodbye. The house is quiet; none of the kids is up yet, and only Nathalie is in the kitchen, making herself a cup of coffee.

“Morning,” she says, pulling down another travel mug. “Want me to pour for you?”

“Yes, please,” Sid says. He tries to organize his equipment and suitcase into a manageable pile. His sticks look a little precarious on top, but it’ll do.

“Here you go,” she says. She puts on the lid before she turns to look at him. She frowns. “You okay? You don’t look so good.” Nathalie presses the back of her hand, cool and gentle, against his forehead.

“I’m okay,” Sid says. He’s probably too old for it, but the gesture is comforting anyway.

“You don’t feel like you have a fever,” she says slowly. She lowers her hand and presses it against Sid’s cheek, cupping his face. “But you need to take care of yourself, okay? Drink lots of water on the plane — don’t get dehydrated.”

Nathalie doesn’t mother them, not really, but she’s always made it clear that she cares a lot. Sid nods because he doesn’t trust his voice to be steady. He feels like he’s on the edge of some kind of probably overdue emotional outburst and he doesn’t want to upset her.

She keeps sneaking little glances at him on the drive to the airport, lips pressed thin in what’s not quite a frown. When they pull into the departures lane, she gets out too, and as soon as Sid has all his things set on the curb she hugs him tightly.

“Travel safely. Let us know when you get there, okay?” she asks.

“Okay,” Sid says. Nathalie’s hug is uncomplicated and kind and Sid knows that this won’t change. He has to let go before he won’t let go.

Nathalie smiles. “We’ll see you soon. Good luck at Worlds,” she says.

He thanks her, and thanks her for the ride, too. He usually worries about making it through security on commercial flights, but it turns out there’s hardly anyone here. Even after he checks all of his bags and assures the baggage check attendant that the sticks are fine, they just need a separate tag, he has plenty of time at the gate to sit around and think.

And no matter how they left it last night, Sid can’t go without saying goodbye, so he spends the thirty minutes before his flight writing and rewriting a text. He finally just sends Good luck.

But it sounds so cold, so impersonal. Before he can think better of it, he sends I’ll miss you, too; he almost immediately wishes he could take it back, although it’s true. He turns off his phone even though they haven’t told him to yet and tries to settle into his seat. He hasn’t been on a plane without Zhenya since the preseason and he’s absurdly grateful no one shows up to sit in the seat next to him.

He must be more tired than he thought, because he sleeps most of the way to Toronto. There’s only a short layover, and Sid checks his phone nervously, but there’s no response. But it’s still early, so maybe Zhenya hasn’t woken up yet. It’s sort of an overcast day, not raining, just grey and quiet, and that’s not helping Sid’s mood at all. There’s not much to see on the flight between Toronto and Halifax, either, so Sid drowses fitfully; he still feels a little groggy when he gets off the plane.

His dad offered to take the morning off and come pick him up, but Sid promised he could get a cab just fine. It’s sort of surreal, though. Being back in Nova Scotia makes him feel younger, and it’s hard to remember that he’s not 16 and coming back from a tournament somewhere. He’s an NHL player who’s finished with his season. A cab from the airport would have been an unthinkable expense even a year ago, and now, as the cab zips along the highway and eventually into familiar neighbourhoods, he realizes he could buy a house of his own up here.

The driveway is empty when the cab pulls up in front of his parents’ house; both of them are at work and Taylor’s at school. He thanks the cab driver, pays him, and juggles his bags up to the door to let himself in.

He expects to feel relieved, happy to be home, and he is glad to be here, since it means he’ll get to spend time with his family. But this isn’t what he thinks of as his home anymore — and all the packed boxes in Mario’s guest suite are waiting for a house that he’s not sure he should move into.

Sid puts his equipment in the garage and drags his suitcase up to his room, which is just the same as it was when he left in August. He keeps waiting to feel better, but he doesn’t. His throat still feels thick and tight, and the house is so quiet his ears are ringing.

He climbs into bed, clutches a pillow tight against his chest, and tries to breathe through it. This is the first time he’s been really alone in months, and it feels like everything is weighing down on him so heavily, the expectations people put on him, the questions he’s had to answer, and the captaincy waiting for him in September with the promise of more of the same. And there’s no one here to put a hand between his shoulder blades where they’re so tight and tell him it’s okay, to tell him he’ll be there too, to pull him into a hug. He’s been letting Zhenya carry so much of this, so much of him, and he feels Zhenya’s absence like a sick hollowness in his stomach.

Thinking about Zhenya only makes it worse. His choked, wet breaths turn to tears, his body shuddering as he tries to breathe, hiccuping, his eyes shut tight. He cries until he can’t anymore, until his face is hot and his head is throbbing. It makes him think about the night they announced the Canadian team for the Olympics, when Zhenya brought him a cool, damp washcloth for his eyes and held him close.

There’s nobody for him now. Maybe he was right, after all, all those months ago — hockey is all he can have.

***

He must have fallen asleep, because he wakes up to the sound of the bus stopping in front of the house. There’s just enough time for him to get up and check in the mirror that he doesn’t look like he’s been crying — he doesn’t look great, but he can probably blame it on the flight.

“Sid?” Taylor shouts from downstairs.

“Up here,” Sid calls, voice a little froggy.

He can hear her barrel up the stairs and he manages to open the door before she tackles him, still wearing her backpack.

“I missed you, dork,” she mutters.

“I guess I sort of missed you too,” he says. He’s glad he’s all cried out, because otherwise this totally would have made him lose it.

It’s only been a couple of months, but Sid doesn’t think that he’s imagining she’s taller. Her face is a little leaner, more baby fat melting away. It’s awful to remember that time doesn’t stop while he’s away. Every time he comes home, she seems more grown up and less his baby sister. He figures the only way to fix that is to go get under Grandma’s afghan on the couch and have her to tell him all about what she’s been doing since the last time they talked.

He makes her get up and come with him to the kitchen after a little while, and she wrinkles her nose in disbelief when he tells her he’s going to cook dinner.

“You sure about that?” she asks as she sits down at the kitchen table.

“You are going to literally eat your words,” Sid says. He opens up the fridge to see what’s in there.

“I can’t literally eat a word,” she sing-songs.

“Can you eat meatloaf?” he shoots back.

Taylor’s eyes widen and her eyebrows rise. “You can make that?” she asks.

“You’ll have to see, won’t you,” Sid says. He’s pretty confident in his ability to make it now, even without a recipe. He made it almost every other week, because Zhenya would eat half of it in practically one go.

Taylor helps by peeling the potatoes even though she hates it. He’s in pretty good shape when he hears a car in the driveway — the meatloaf only has about another ten minutes and the potatoes are ready to go. He’s just about done with the salad, too, and the kitchen isn’t even that messy.

“Wow, something smells good,” his mom calls from the front door.

“I helped!” Taylor yells before Sid can say anything.

“Hi, Mom,” Sid says. He goes over to give her a hug as soon as she gets in the kitchen.

“Hi, baby,” she says, squeezing him tight. “And what did you help with, Miss Taylor?”

“Sid made meatloaf,” she says.

His mom turns to look at him with an expression Sid can’t really figure out, so he explains, “I hope it’s okay, I’ve been using your recipe, and I think I’ve got it right, I mean, it won’t be as good as yours, but —” he breaks off because she starts crying and he has no idea what’s wrong. “Mom?”

“I’m — thank you, honey,” she says, pulling him into another hug. “And I’m sure it’s even better than mine.”

His dad comes in the door a couple of minutes later. He’s happy to see Sid and pleased about dinner; fortunately, he doesn’t cry too. Dinner is really nice; Sid did just fine with the meatloaf and his mom won’t stop telling him how good it is. They tell him all about neighbours and relatives and there’s none of that ringing quiet from earlier.

He only has a couple of days before he has to leave for Latvia. He spends as much of it as he can with Taylor and gets some extra sleep and good workouts in while she’s at school. He spends his remaining time staring at his phone and trying not to think about how he hasn’t heard from Zhenya.

Taylor valiantly offers to skip school so that she can go with Sid to the airport for his flight to Toronto to meet up with the rest of the team, but she’s shot down by both parents.

“Well, you tried,” Sid tells her while they’re lying on the floor the night before Sid has to go. His flight is pretty grossly early, so they have about the same bedtime.

“Ugh, we’re watching a movie tomorrow,” Taylor complains, her head heavy where it’s resting on his stomach. “I wouldn’t be missing anything!”

“Sorry,” Sid says, playing with her hair. “But I’ll be back later this summer. And you’ll be out of school then, so we can hang out all the time.”

“That’s not until forever,” Taylor says. “But when you get back, maybe — maybe we can go skating together? Shoot some pucks?”

Sid’s a little surprised. Taylor’s always enjoyed watching hockey, and would help Sid set up drills and play shinny as soon as the pond froze over, but it’s still an unusual request. “What, you don’t want me to come horseback riding with you?” he asks. He’s teasing, but if she wanted, he totally would.

“Oh my god, you’d be the worst, I like horses, why would I do that to them?” she says. “No, but for real. Will you?”

“Of course,” Sid says, because those are two of his favourite things in the entire world. “Seriously, I would love to.”

“Thanks,” Taylor says, sounding quietly happy. And because that’s about as mushy as either of them can stand, he tickles her until she wheezes and she’s yanked his hair but good.

***

They were all told to arrive at the Toronto airport by 9 a.m., which means an early flight out of Halifax, so Sid’s still yawning when he turns his phone back on in Toronto as his plane is taxiing to the gate.

He’s not really expecting anything, because it’s been days, so he doesn’t let himself think that the 1 new message is from Zhenya. But when he goes into his inbox, there are two words:

good luck

He doesn’t know what he was hoping for. It’s not like he can even imagine anything that Zhenya could say in a text that would fix this, although he can think of a couple of things that would make him feel better. And it’s not that different than what he sent Zhenya, but — that’s it. He stares at his phone, wondering if maybe Zhenya will text him again, but it stubbornly doesn’t vibrate.

He heads up to the sign and sees Patrice Bergeron talking with Carter and Richards. It feels a lot like World Juniors. Sid’s supposed to be rooming with Patrice, so that’s good — he wonders if they’re going to be on a line together again. There’s certainly no love lost between him and Carter and Richards, but they’re not Penguins and Flyers right now. They’re Canadians.

“Sid!” Patrice calls out, smiling.

“Aw, hey, Croz,” Carter says, with a grin that doesn’t even look smug.

“Nice of you to show up,” Richards adds, also remarkably civil. “Us young guys have to stick together. Shanahan is like, a hundred years old, I bet he tells us to get off his ice.”

Brent Seabrook appears at Sid’s elbow. “I gotta room with Calder. He’s gonna make me go to bed at nine and throw his shoes at me. He already warned me,” he says.

“Better than what you did to me at Juniors,” Richards says. “Lucky I’m with Cartsy this time.”

“I’m with you,” Patrice says to Sid. He pats the seat next to him for Sid to sit down. “Never any trouble.”

“He’s the baby, he doesn’t even know how to get into trouble,” Carter says.

Sid sort of wishes that was true. But he can at least joke, “Well, Talbo tried his hardest.”

“Oh, fuck, man, that pain in the ass,” Richards says, almost admiringly. That kicks off rounds of shit talking and stories about Max that almost make Sid think he’s back in Pittsburgh.

***

They fly all day, and, thanks to time zones, all night; they land just shy of seven in the morning, local time. Sid does sleep for a fair amount of the flight, but he knows adjusting is going to be a bit of a struggle, so he’s glad they have a couple of days before their first game. When they land, he goes to check his phone and realizes that won’t do him any good over here. If Zhenya texted after the flight left Toronto, Sid won’t know until he’s back in North America.

He’s glad he’s rooming with Patrice, who is solid and quiet and basically takes care of everything, even leading the way to their room. Sid’s pretty sure that all the teams are in this hotel, due to its proximity to the arenas, but he doesn’t see a hint of anything Russian.

It’s actually really relaxing being in a tournament. There’s a schedule and it’s concrete and all Sid has to do is show up and play. There are line combinations to try, new coaches to listen to, and new playing styles to adapt to. It’s a little weird not being on the ice with the Pens, and it’s definitely weird to have Carter patting Sid’s helmet affectionately when he snipes one past Auld in practice, but it’s good. Better than that, it’s distracting.

There’s also a fair amount of downtime, much of which is spent on team bonding. Patrice seems happy to hang out with Sid, sitting between the veterans and the younger guys. He’s a considerate roommate, too, although his expression when he slips away into the hall to talk to his girlfriend makes Sid wistful and a little jealous. Sid can’t help but wonder if that could be him and Zhenya trying to carve out time for each other in between practices, if he hadn’t tried to put more distance between them—.

But Sid’s not here for that. He’s here to play hockey, and even when nothing else feels right, hockey does. He has two goals in their first game, a win over Denmark. The A on his jersey reminds him that people expect more from him than just goals, and he wants to do his best. He was a little surprised to get the A, but then again, he’s one of four rotating alternate captains.

Shanahan does not tell Sid to get off his ice. If he resents having an 18 year old as his alternate, it doesn’t show; instead, he says, “Keep it up. They’ve got their eye on you, kid.”

Sid’s unlikely to forget that.

***

Sid sees the back of Zhenya’s head the next morning in the banquet room the hotel has set up for breakfast. He’s sitting at table with people Sid doesn’t recognize, but they’re all in Team Russia tracksuits, so they’re presumably KHL players. Zhenya’s hair is sticking up a little on one side, and Sid’s fingers twitch with the urge to smooth it into place.

The next time he sees Zhenya is later that afternoon, when Russia takes the ice against Kazakhstan. Zhenya’s wearing 71 for this tournament, and it trips something weird in Sid’s heart. It was easier to think of Zhenya as an opponent when he wore a different number. But watching him follow someone else out onto the ice feels wrong, stings in a way he didn’t expect.

He presses his lips together and keeps watching the game.

It’s pretty brutal for the Kazakhs, not that anyone assumed it would be otherwise. Russia comes out not just to win but to dominate. Within a minute of the game starting, Russia draws a penalty and Zhenya passes to Ovechkin. Thirty seconds later, the puck’s in the back of the net. Sid certainly doesn’t envy the goalie who has to face that power play unit, since they go back on a minute later and score again. Russia keeps piling on the goals, although Kazakhstan manages to score on a power play of their own. Sid can’t help but track Zhenya whenever he’s on the ice, making opportunities for his linemates and powering over the bigger ice like he belongs there. They go to intermission up 4-1 and just pull away from there — Zhenya has three points in the second alone, 2 assists sandwiching a short-handed goal that makes Sid’s mouth dry. The final score is 10-1 and Sid feels a little envious watching Zhenya celebrate with his teammates.

When Sid gets back to the room, Patrice is nowhere to be found and Sid is still pretty wound up from watching the game, riding along on the giddy high of a blowout. He does some stretches, some light workout techniques that he can manage in the room, but he still feels antsy. He wants to talk hockey, to tell someone about the game, and he wishes he could congratulate Zhenya on a game well played. But he was the one who decided that they wouldn’t talk, and he probably shouldn’t break his own self-imposed rules.

Out of boredom, Sid looks through all the furniture drawers. He finds a battered notepad with the hotel name printed on it. And it’s not like he and Zhenya are never going to talk again. He wouldn’t want to forget any of the details of the game, not give Zhenya credit for a great play or forget to mention something. So he writes it all down, his impressions of the game, how well Zhenya played on the international ice. The pad isn’t that big, so he writes smaller than he normally does and takes pains to make it neat.

When he’s done, he laughs at himself; he thought he was done writing letters to Zhenya. He could just pass it to him, or slip it under his door — writing isn’t talking, exactly — but the thought of Ovechkin getting it stops that train of thought. So Sid just puts it away in the little folder he keeps his travel itinerary and passport in.

Canada plays Norway, and Sid’s line seems to be really clicking — he and Patrice are tied for the scoring lead in the tournament, and Boyes, their other linemate, is a good guy and fits well with them. It’s a solid win, 7-1, although Sid personally wishes he hadn’t taken that hooking penalty in the first. He says as much to Patrice, who laughs and claps Sid on the shoulder.

“I think you’re doing just fine, penalties and all,” he says.

Zhenya’s game against Belarus is much closer, and he’s clearly frustrated throughout the game. His head stays low and angled down with Ovechkin, the two of them arguing or maybe just annoyed with all the penalties the refs are calling. Zhenya goes in for tripping in the second while Russia is down 1-2, and Sid can see him fuming — if Belarus scores again, he’ll be a tower of uncontrollable rage. But Russia kills the penalty and Zhenya comes tearing out of the box and circles the ice like a shark. He makes the Belarus goalie work for it, but it’s other team members who pull them even, early in the third — Russia pulls ahead with 6 and a half to go. Sid worries it’s almost too early, giving Belarus too much time to work with, but Russia holds on to the lead and they win, 3-2.

Sid knows Zhenya, knows how he is after close wins like this, where it feels more like you almost lost than like you just won. Normally Zhenya fumes until he pushes up close to Sid on the plane, or, if they’re home, he slumps against Sid on the couch. Sid doesn’t know what Zhenya will do without him — will he stay tightly wound and angry at himself? Will he do some extra minutes on the bike and work it out? Or will he find someone else to lean against? Even the thought of that turns Sid’s stomach. None of this occurred to Sid during the Olympics, but now it’s all he can think about. And when he cycles through the same thoughts for the fourth time, he gives up and writes them all down on the same little notepad. When he’s done, he thinks about ripping it up and putting it in the garbage, but instead he tucks it away with the first note.

Sid and Patrice head to the lobby to meet up with the team so they can shuttle over to the other arena for the US-Canada game. When the elevator stops on the floor below them, the doors open and there’s Zhenya and Ovechkin.

Sid feels a moment of unthinking happiness before he’s struck with embarrassed panic. He doesn’t know why he didn’t think this would happen, because it feels inevitable now, both of them just staring at each other. It was bad enough catching glimpses of him in the makeshift cafeteria and watching him from the stands. Now, face-to-face, Sid aches with how much he misses Zhenya, and chokes down a greeting and an apology.

Zhenya is the first to move. He makes his way into the elevator, leans up against the wall, crosses his arms over his chest, and stares right at Sid, jaw clenched tight. Sid feels sick and wishes he could look away. There’s no longer any need to guess at how Zhenya feels. He’s obviously still hurt and angry.

“Bergeron,” Ovechkin says, startling Sid into looking at him. “Sid.”

“Ovechkin,” Patrice says, gamely taking up his share of the conversation, although he looks confused. “Malkin.”

Sid doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth and he barely manages a nod for Ovechkin. He glances over to see if Zhenya is still looking at him and is met with the same barely contained hostility.

“Good game against Norway,” Ovechkin tells Patrice.

“Thanks. You guys have been doing well, too,” he says, not even pretending that he’s not watching Sid and Zhenya as he talks to Ovechkin. “Who do you play next?”

Sid almost blurts out the answer, and Ovechkin rolls his eyes at Sid like he knows. “Slovakia,” Ovechkin says. “You?”

“Playing the US later today,” Patrice says.

“Oh, maybe we’ll come watch,” Ovechkin says brightly. He shoots an obnoxiously sweet look at Zhenya, whose jaw clenches. “Zhenya was saying he wanted to see that.”

Sid stares at Zhenya, and for the first time Zhenya looks away.

Ovechkin sighs loudly. “Don’t you think you’re taking this a little far?” Ovechkin asks Sid in Russian, his tone surprisingly short.

“Sanja,” Zhenya snaps, glaring daggers at Ovechkin.

The elevator doors open and there’s a moment where none of them are sure what to do. Sid wants to stay and wants to bolt in equal measure.

“I’m only trying to help,” Ovechkin says, shrugging his shoulders and walking out first. He turns just long enough to say, “See you later,” to Patrice and heads for the cafeteria.

Zhenya sticks an arm out to hold the elevator door, gesturing for Patrice and Sid to go ahead. Patrice seems only too happy to get out, and it’s so strange, being so close to Zhenya and feeling so off-center. Zhenya follows Sid out, and as he steps over the threshold, he feels Zhenya’s hand, warm and familiar at the small of his back. They’re in step with each other for only a moment, but it’s long enough that when Sid steps forward he feels the loss of that warmth and comfort keenly.

He looks back at Zhenya, who is still just a step out of the elevator, letting Sid go on without him. He can’t figure out the expression on Zhenya’s face at all anymore.

“Sid,” Patrice calls, not impatiently, but firmly, and Sid has to walk away. He feels Zhenya’s eyes on his back all the way across the lobby.

***

The game against the US is as tough as they expected it to be. They’re both 2-0, and a win here means playing the third-seeded team from Group A in the qualifying rounds, not the first. The Americans are playing well, especially their goalie, who stands strong through two power plays. Auld trips up one of the Americans and they go on the kill, but they clear it out quickly and well. Sid’s just starting to breathe easier, getting back into the rhythm of 5-on-5, when Kessel catches a rebound and slips it in past Auld.

“Ah, shit,” Patrice breathes out in French.

They try to even it up before the end of the period, but they can’t make anything happen on the power play and Sid eats post on a wrister he thought was going to sneak under Bacashihua’s glove. Things are tense but grimly determined in the locker room. Shanahan knocks his stick against Sid’s on his way out and says, “Head up, kid.”

The second starts out fine, but 6 minutes in, they take a penalty, and thirty seconds later, another. They push through the 5-on-3 and kill the first penalty against Hamhuis, but then Stuart and Ryan Malone get into it. Sid feels sort of weird about it, because Stuart is his teammate now, but Ryan is his teammate, too. They draw coincidental minors and Coach Habscheid loses his shit in a very restrained way.

Schultz finally gets out of the box and Coach shouts, “Crosby, your line, go,” so they scramble over the boards. Boyes catches the puck in the neutral zone and dishes it over to Patrice. Sid can see the whole play perfectly — if he can just get the puck, he can get behind the D, it’s all there, he just needs the puck.

He yells for Patrice, who barely looks at him as he sends the puck over in a hard pass. When Sid’s across the blue line, he widens his stance, using his leg to protect the puck. He backhands it in five hole and it hits the back of the net hard.

“Fuck, yes!” Boyes shouts and slams into Sid. Patrice and Robidas skate in to join the hug, as does Schultz a moment later.

It’s great, it feels like a fresh start, but for all that the US takes four penalties the rest of the period, the score stubbornly remains 1-1.

Brooks takes a penalty for kneeing in the third that, were they at home, Sid would be annoyed by, but here and now it means that Cammalleri can put a shot down low on Bacashihua and Shanahan can finish the job, tapping it into a wide open net to put them up. There’s whooping and fist bumps all around, although Sid feels a pang of regret as he watches Brooks skate back to his bench. He’s certainly not sorry they scored, but even though Sid’s been playing against teammates and friends for years, it never gets easier.

They hang on through three penalties late in the period, and as the final buzzer goes, Sid takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. The media makes a big deal about it — the youngest and the oldest on the team scoring the only goals of the game — but Sid is just glad they won. In the media scrum, he honestly attributes the win to the team, especially their penalty killing unit, who went 7 for 7.

After they finally wrap up, he’s happy to throw himself onto his bed, and most of the guys are similarly hoping to rest up tonight, even though they have tomorrow off.

“Good job out there tonight,” he tells Patrice. “This was a big win for us.”

“Sure was,” Patrice agrees easily. He goes on in that same easy tone, adding, “You know what we’re going to talk about instead, though?”

Sid blinks, confused, but before he can ask, Patrice says, “We’re going to talk about me being trapped in an elevator making small talk with Alex Ovechkin while you refused to talk to your best friend, who came to watch you play anyway.”

“Zhenya was there?” Sid asks, completely surprised. He’s been going to watch Zhenya play, but he didn’t think Zhenya would be doing the same.

“Sitting with Ovechkin. Speaking of which, what the hell did he say to you in Russian? Malkin looked ready to tear his head off,” Patrice says.

“I thought it would be better if we didn’t talk at Worlds. Ovechkin said I was taking it too far,” Sid says.

Patrice’s eyebrows go up. “Why did you decide it was necessary not to talk to him? If you tell me it’s because you might play against him, I won’t believe you. I remember North Dakota.”

Sid remembers Patrice interrupting him and Zhenya talking at Juniors last year and flushes. All he can come up with — since he has to leave out the part where he’s in love with Zhenya — is, “I didn’t want anyone to think I wasn’t taking this seriously.”

Patrice’s expression softens a little. “Nobody would think that,” he says. “It’s obvious that you give it your all on the ice.”

Sid’s shoulders relax enough that he realizes how tense they were. “I thought it would be distracting,” he admits, which is true enough.

The sympathetic curve to Patrice’s smile suggests that he also hears what Sid isn’t saying: that it’s just as distracting, if not worse, not talking to Zhenya. “You can’t live on hockey alone,” he says gently.

Sid opens his mouth to insist that he certainly can, but he stops. Because it’s true, he can, and he’s been doing it since he arrived in Latvia.

But he doesn’t want to.

***

Sid’s still mulling over the conversation he had with Patrice when he goes to watch Russia play Slovakia the next day. Patrice offers to go with him, but seems to understand when Sid politely declines, and he doesn’t press the issue. It’s not that Sid’s mad at Patrice or anything, but he’s always felt a little weird about watching Zhenya play. He doesn’t like an audience for the way he leans in closer when Zhenya’s on the ice, the way he holds his breath when Zhenya takes a shot.

The game starts out well; Russia scores on a power play. But only a few minutes later, the Slovaks pull even. Zhenya skates away, looking annoyed. No one likes being on the ice when the other team scores, and it happens again a little later, a pass intercepted on its way to Zhenya that ends up being a shorthanded goal that has to really irritate him. Russia fails to convert on two overlapping power plays and Sid can see frustration building. They keep sending Zhenya out, and he has to be tired, but he finally gets a break when Russia goes on the penalty kill. Sid hopes Slovakia doesn’t score again — 1-3 isn’t an insurmountable deficit, but it’s hard to dig yourself out of that.

The puck gets flipped over the glass and there’s a stoppage, although it’s not a delay of game call. Russia takes the opportunity to clear the ice. With no hockey to distract him, Sid watches Zhenya talk to Ovechkin on the bench, and keeps watching him as Zhenya looks around the rink like he’s looking for something — and when Zhenya looks right at him, Sid realizes Zhenya was looking for him.

They’re sent out a moment later and Russia immediately pushes down into the Slovakian end. But the Slovaks gain possession again pretty quickly and they take it out to the neutral zone — except Zhenya robs a Slovakian player and takes it straight to the net. The goalie comes out to poke check Zhenya. And for a moment, Sid thinks it worked, because Zhenya is down on his knees, but then he’s sailing over the goalie and — holy shit.

Zhenya swats the puck in from mid-air and scores. It’s so good that Sid can’t hold back a cheer. Zhenya is on his back for a moment before he springs up and his teammates catch him in a messy hug. The play was so incredible that Sid can barely believe it, and he watches the replay on the screen as they show it again and again. He glances back down to where the hug is breaking up and sees Zhenya staring up at him. Zhenya skates off, and Sid finds himself biting his lip for a totally different reason.

The rest of the game is sort of a clumsy back and forth and they’re tied at 3-3 going into the third. The teams go on power play after a power play; it’s like the penalty box has a revolving door. So Sid doesn’t pay much attention when Russia goes on their fourth interference call in a row, but suddenly they’re putting real pressure on the Slovakian goalie, and after a melee in front of the net the buzzer goes off and Russia has scored. It’s not pretty, but it’s a game winner and it’s another game closer to the elimination rounds.

Sid catches Zhenya’s eyes one last time before he gets off the ice, and while Sid watches, Zhenya brings his necklace to his lips and kisses the charm. He doesn’t look angry, or happy his team won — he looks a little like he did just before he scored, fierce and defiant.

It keeps Sid rooted in his seat as the players leave the ice. He doesn’t know exactly what it means, but he knows what Zhenya looks like when he’s determined.

***

Sid only catches a little of Zhenya’s next game; it’s right before his in the same arena, so he watches part of the first before getting warmed up. The arena is already more packed than it has been for any game Sid has played there so far, and he guesses that it must be the home crowd waiting for the Latvian national team to play next.

He hears that Russia shut Ukraine out, but nothing more than that before they take the ice. Sid’s played in front of loud crowds before, but the Latvian fans are deafening.

It doesn’t help their team, though. Latvia takes nine penalties in the first period, and the game is an 11-0 bloodbath. Even if Zhenya stayed to watch Sid, there’s no way Sid would have been able to find him in the crowd. The fans are angry, throwing garbage and even shoes on the ice, and Sid is happy to get out of there.

Team Canada has a few days off before their next game and they only have one practice scheduled in the middle of them. Patrice asks Sid if he wants to do a little sightseeing; they spend the morning at the War Museum before Patrice drags Sid off to lunch and then to St. Peter’s Church. It’s nice. Most of Sid’s past tournaments were scheduled so tightly that there was hardly any time to go anywhere.

Sid and Patrice go up to the lookout at the top of St. Peter’s, eschewing the elevator for the stairs on the grounds that it’s kind of a workout. The city is beautiful below, the afternoon sun bathing it in light, and maybe Ovechkin was right — maybe Sid did take it too far. He could be sharing this with Zhenya right now.

Instead, the only time he sees Zhenya before their next games is at breakfast, where he and Ovechkin are at a table close by. They’re the only NHL players on Russia’s team — the rest are all from the KHL, and Sid remembers what a source of tension that was at the Olympics. He wishes Zhenya didn’t have that uncomfortable look on his face, like he’d rather be almost anywhere else.

But it’s not like Sid can do anything to help. There’s one thing he knows for sure — no one at the Russian table would appreciate him stopping by to tell Zhenya he’s playing well. Zhenya catches his eyes once as Sid is about to leave, and they look at each other for a long moment before Zhenya’s gaze slides away.

Sid’s next game is right after the Russians play, again — he only gets to watch a few minutes before he has to go get ready. Tension is high among the coaching staff, many of whom have Canada’s loss to the Czechs in the finals of last Worlds on their mind.

So it doesn’t help that they’re down 0-3 13 minutes into the first, and it seems like none of the bounces are going their way. But a couple of minutes later, Robidas scores, and it’s just a two goal lead. They can come back from that. Two minutes into the second, Richards scores, and Sid can feel it — they’ll tie it up any minute now. He dishes the puck over to Boyes, who has a Czech D-man in his face, so he drops it back to Hamhuis, who blasts it into the back of the net with a slap shot from the blue line.

Sid feels like they’re getting their feet back under them when the Czechs score again and it completely knocks the momentum out of them — they can’t get anything started in the last minutes of the period and it ends 3-4. So Sid goes out for the third, and as they’re getting on the ice, he tells Patrice, “Just get me the puck.”

Sid wins the faceoff and sends it over to Boyes, who pushes it up to Patrice, already in the neutral zone. They have to claw their way into the Czech zone but Sid sneaks over to the side of the net. Patrice fakes once before passing hard to Sid, and then he just has to tip it in.

“You’re insane,” Patrice says, coming in to tap Sid’s helmet, but he’s grinning and the game is tied. Then Pettinger and one of the Czech d-men get into it and they’re both sent off to the box. Sid is just trying to wait out the 4-on-4 when Auld mishandles and suddenly the Czechs are up 5-4.

Sid wants to get out there, make something happen, maybe even it up again, but he takes a stupid hooking penalty and spends the next two minutes in the box instead of on the ice. At least they kill his penalty fairly easily and mostly keep it away from Auld, who still hasn’t completely shaken off the last goal.

A little later there’s some kind of miscommunication on Shanahan’s line and suddenly Erat is tearing up the ice with another Czech player on a 2 on 1. With almost six and a half minutes left, it’s 4-6.

They don’t come back. Canada loses their first game of the tournament.

“There’s no time to be upset about it,” Habscheid says in the locker room. “You have a game to win against Finland tomorrow. Get some sleep and be ready.”

When Patrice slips out of the room to call his girlfriend and tell her goodnight, Sid sits down at the little desk in the room and writes about how he wishes he could have seen the end of Zhenya’s game, that he wishes he could have seen Zhenya score. He writes a little about Canada’s game, too, but Habscheid is right; they’ve got to let it go. So Sid tucks the note away with the rest of them, a neat little stack of things he can’t say now, and goes to bed.

***

Everyone’s hoping to get back on track against Finland, and it’s pretty clear that everyone came to win from the moment the puck drops. Gameplay is fast and furious until Ruutu takes an interference penalty. The power play is clicking, and Sid feels like if they just cycle through quickly, they can distract the goalie, sohe sends it over to Boyes, to Patrice, who, quick as a whip, has it behind Niittymaki.

One of the Finns complains to the ref about who knows what, because it’s as good a goal as you can get; he gets sent off on a ten minute misconduct that has a couple of the guys chuckling. They get another power play that, unfortunately, they can’t capitalize on, and then take a boneheaded too many men penalty that has Habscheid swearing.

Carter’s PK unit heads out and Sid sees it almost before it happens — Jokinen makes a bad pass and Carter grabs it and tears down the ice with it. It’s just him and Niittymaki and there probably isn’t a more advantageous matchup, because Carter has every opportunity to know how his own goalie will react. Sure enough, he gets a shorthanded goal that puts Canada up 2-0.

But there’s not a lot of time to celebrate, because right after the penalty expires, Koivu scores. Still, 2-1 isn’t a bad way to go into the intermission, and they get plenty of opportunities right away in the second, even if it’s hard to actually get shots on goal. Canada gets a power play that doesn’t amount to much, and the refs seem happy to call everything this game. Canada goes on the kill a minute later.

Sid’s buckling in to hold his breath when Carter burns across the ice for another shorty.

“Jesus fuck, Carts!” Richards cheers. “Niitty is gonna kill you when we get home!”

The game gets choppy after that, penalties flying left and right — Sid even spends a couple minutes in the box after he gets tired of Ruutu trying to clean his clock and shoves him after a shitty hit. Niittymaki goes out with an injury and the other Finnish goalie comes in, and there’s a fight, and more penalties — but they go to the third still 3-1.

The third starts out with yet more penalties, and halfway through the period, the Finns get a power play goal that seems almost inevitable. Sid can in no way fault Denis, though; he is standing tall through a barrage of Finnish shots. The Canadian D is tired and a little slow after all the penalty killing.

“Fuck this,” Patrice says firmly. “Let’s go score.”

And they do. Patrice feeds Sid the puck and he can see the lane, see where Boyes will be in the few seconds it will take for the pass to cross the ice. Sid doesn’t think; he just sends it over, right onto Boyes’ stick for the goal, simple as that.

“Sick, Croz, just sick,” Boyes says appreciatively as Sid skates over to hug him.

“Good goal,” Sid says in return, accepting helmet taps from Patrice and Stuart as they join the hug.

There are some more penalties before the Finns go empty net. But the final score is 4-2, and Canada will finish on top of their group.

They shower and start clearing the locker room. Patrice comes and bumps shoulders with Sid.

“I heard Russia tied with Sweden,” he says, giving Sid a meaningful look. “I thought you might want to know.”

Sid wants to know a lot more than that — how the gameplay was, if Zhenya scored, who’s fourth in their group now to play Russia in the elimination round, who must be in first. But all he says is, “Oh, thanks,” though he suspects his tone is nowhere near nonchalant.

***

Canada has the day off to rest before the start of the elimination rounds, and Sid knows some of the other guys are going to explore the city a little bit, but he already saw the things he most wanted to see. Honestly, he’d rather have a light workout and a lot of naps than go rambling around Riga again.

Patrice feels the same, so they get in a workout during the morning, and then settle in to watch random things on the TV in their hotel room. They have small twin beds, which Patrice has already accidentally rolled off of once. It’s really nothing like the places they stay on NHL roadtrips, but it makes Sid think of his bedroom back in Cole Harbour. All things considered, it’s not so bad, and Sid’s not so changed by the NHL that he can’t appreciate a clean, warm bed while it’s raining buckets outside.

He thinks wistfully of Zhenya, though. He wonders if they’ll ever curl up on the same hotel bed again to watch TV together, or if that’s something they won’t do anymore. It would be nice if Zhenya were here with him — sure, they’d have to seriously maneuver to fit on the bed together, but they’ve done it before, and Sid likes being pressed close against him and resting his head on Zhenya’s shoulder. They’d probably make up their own story to what seems like a really weird Latvian soap opera.

“Are you getting any of this?” Patrice says when it looks like the wedding is being called off.

“Um, no?” Sid says. He squints at the screen, like that will help it make more sense.

Patrice snorts. “Well, I just wondered, because apparently you know Russian.”

“They’re not related,” Sid says absently.

“See, exactly. How many other languages do you secretly know?”

Sid rolls his eyes. “It’s not a secret. I studied French for the Q, and Russian for —” he stops and feels himself flush, because he can’t in any way deny that he learned it for Zhenya.

Patrice gives him a look that says busted.

“Besides, this probably wouldn’t make any sense even if it was in English,” Sid says, figuring distraction is the better part of valour. “I thought they were brother and sister but now they’re making out, so.”

“Maybe they are,” Patrice says with a shrug. “But they’re undercover and have to pretend to be married.”

Sid laughs. “No one else is in the room!”

“They’re under surveillance,” Patrice says confidently.

For the rest of the show Patrice makes increasingly unbelievable interpretations of what’s going on and Sid laughs until his stomach hurts. It’s funny and uncomplicated and Sid thinks he might call Colby, later, because this is exactly the kind of thing Colby would find hilarious. And Colby said he wanted to hear from Sid in the offseason and Sid — he likes having friends. He might not be able to figure out his relationship with Zhenya, but Sid doesn’t think he’s bad at friendships in general. He’s got Jack, and everyone on the team — Colby, Flower, Max, and even Sergei, although he thinks Sergei would probably huff indignantly at that. Sid’s never had a problem making friends on his teams — Patrice is great, and he’s even a little fond of Getzlaf.

But he made friends with Zhenya long before they wore the same jersey, and that’s — that’s not nothing. That’s pretty out of the norm for Sid. And if they could be friends then, he hopes they can be friends when all this is over. Zhenya said he’d always have Sid’s back. Maybe it’s time to trust that he meant it.

***

After the performance he gave against the Finns, Sid is unsurprised but pleased to have Denis in the net against Slovakia, and he stands strong against a lot of pressure. Sid’s a little surprised at how penalty-free the game is. He starts to think this will be one of those tight, low-scoring games, especially considering that the Slovakian goalie has a killer glove that just snaps up shots. So it feels especially dangerous late in the first when Hossa passes back to one of the Slovakian D-men, who manages to rifle it past Denis.

Things are tense throughout the second, with the Slovaks keeping the game in the neutral zone and trying to hold on to their lead. But almost 15 minutes in Shanahan takes it hard to the net, Krizan gives up the rebound, and Cammalleri is in just the right place to tap it under his pad. The game is finally tied. They gain some momentum and keep putting shot after shot on Krizan, but it’s like he sees them coming the whole way.

Over halfway into the third Habscheid sends Sid’s line out to take a faceoff in the Slovakian zone. Sid catches Patrice on the way there and says, “Get to the net, wait for the rebound. If we can’t score on the first attempt, we’ve got to catch him on the second.”

If he can win the faceoff, maybe he can throw it back to the point — Hamhuis has a good shot and he’s not afraid to use it, and if Patrice is in place, they might get lucky.

They do, just the way Sid planned, he wins the draw, Hamhuis takes the shot, Krizan makes the block, and Patrice grabs it and fires it in with a wrister off a fucking spinorama, practically.

“Holy shit!” Sid yells in Patrice’s face.

“You’re a fucking genius,” Patrice shouts back in French. “Fuck, let’s do that again!”

And they do. Hardly a minute and a half later, Sid backhands in a rebound off Patrice’s shot and Canada is up 3-1.

“Good shift,” Boyes says, grinning.

Patrice laughs. “Yeah, we’re doing all right.”

“Fucking showoffs,” Richards yells at them happily. “Come on, Carts, can’t let them have all the fun.”

Clearly he meant it, because eight seconds later, Carter scores.

“Fuck me,” Seabrook says. “What was that, three goals, two minutes?”

“I don’t know but I fucking love it,” Patrice says.

The Slovakian team seems stunned after that and can’t get their feet under them. Canada wins, 4-2, and goes on to the semifinals.

When Canada gets off the ice, they find out the result of the US/Sweden game: Sweden smoked the US, 6-0, and Canada has to play the Olympic gold medalists in three days. Everyone is talking about going to see the other quarterfinal games tomorrow. A few are planning on Belarus versus Finland, but most agree that Russia versus the Czechs is the game to see.

“Don’t have to ask which you’re going to, do I?” Patrice says quietly.

“Not so much,” Sid admits. He feels a little weird about going with everyone else, but it’s not like he can go and not sit with his team.

“I’m happy to sit next to you, but I’m not cheering for Russia,” Patrice warns him, and Sid cracks a smile.

***

Sid is ready for a grudge match the next afternoon — Russia clearly wants to move on in the tournament anyway, but to do so by knocking out the Czechs, who beat them out for the bronze at the Olympics, would be an added bonus.

They start out on the right foot. Two and a half minutes in, Zhenya passes to Ovechkin, who is totally open across the ice, and Ovechkin fires it in; he catches an edge immediately and celebrates on his back like a turtle. Zhenya’s assist was gorgeous, and Sid eagerly watches it again on the Jumbotron. There’s an insane number of penalties in the first, including a number of Czech penalties, even a four-minute double minor, but they go to the first intermission still at 1-0.

“You want me to get you something?” Patrice asks, which is maybe the first time in minutes Sid’s noticed that anyone else is there.

“No, I’m okay, thanks,” Sid says.

Patrice pats his shoulder. “Remember to breathe,” he says mildly.

It’s hard advice to take after the Czechs score on the PP in the second period. That’s followed by another rash of penalties that provide both teams with ample opportunity to score. There’s a scrum, which Sid expected; he’s just glad Zhenya, who is clearly getting frustrated, isn’t involved. They go into the third still tied, and Sid thinks the next team to score is going to win the game.

Sid’s right, but it doesn’t go the way he hoped. The Czechs score quickly, and Sid’s heart sinks. The Russians pull even a minute later and Sid thinks maybe he was totally wrong — but Ovechkin gets called for interference and the Czechs score again on the power play. Time starts ticking down and Sid leans closer and closer, willing the Russians to score.

They don’t pull their goalie, and with just over a minute left, they send out Zhenya’s line. Sid whispers, “Come on, come on, come on.”

Zhenya wins the draw and sends it over to Ovechkin, who pushes it back to the point. The D-man throws a shot on goal and their linemate is in just the right place to catch it and redirect it into the net to make it 3-3.

Sid throws his hands up in the air, shouting loudly, and then sheepishly looks at Patrice, who is smiling indulgently. Carter and Richards look a little bemused.

He hopes that maybe they can capitalize on that and catch the Czechs with a last-second stunner, but it goes to overtime. They all settle in for the long haul in OT; Sid doesn’t expect anything much to happen right away. Vyborny takes the faceoff for the Czechs, and then Sid sees it — “Oh, no, no, no,” he says, as Vyborny pushes through to pass to one of his linemates, who gets Sokolov down and that’s it.

The Czechs celebrate happily, but Sid’s eyes are fixed on Zhenya, who sits on the bench, his head slumped down, until he takes the ice for the handshake line.

Russia is out, and all Sid wants — all he wants — is to go find Zhenya outside his locker room.

Patrice is eyeing him like he knows just what Sid is thinking, but he says nothing as they make their way out of the arena and back to the hotel.

It’s pure coincidence that Sid runs into Ovechkin in the lobby after dinner.

It hurts to look at Ovechkin. He looks tired to his bones, and heartsick, and Sid can all too easily imagine Zhenya looking the same.

“Hi,” Ovechkin says. “Good game yesterday.”

“Thanks,” Sid says. “Sorry about today — it was close, and you played really well.”

Ovechkin shrugs one shoulder. “Not enough,” he says. He switches to Russian to say, “We’re in room 305. If you’re done being ridiculous, Zhenya could probably use a visit from his Sidnyusha.”

Sid feels his cheeks heat.

Ovechkin shakes his head and offers a ghost of a smile. “Plane leaves in the morning. Better go now.”

Sid doesn’t quite run to the elevator, but he does walk quickly and with purpose. Ovechkin’s right — he has to go now, he has to say he’s sorry, he has to hug Zhenya and tell him it will be okay. He remembers Zhenya from after the Olympics, and no matter what, he doesn’t want Zhenya to feel alone right now.

Sid steels himself to knock on the door. He listens for footsteps, but there aren’t any. He knocks again, in case Zhenya is in the bathroom or asleep and just needs an extra minute to answer.

Still nothing. Which means Zhenya isn’t in his room or he’s not answering.

Sid knocks one more time, just to be sure, and then sighs and goes back to his room. Ovechkin said they were leaving tomorrow morning. If Zhenya is out with his team or in someone else’s room, he might not come back until late. Sid’s about to write a quick note to slip under Zhenya’s door when it occurs to him that he can do better.

All of the game notes he took, all of the things he wanted to tell Zhenya are on an almost embarrassing number of pages. He adds one more page, and he writes I’m sorry and I was wrong and I missed you so much and his room number. He folds the pages up, puts them in an envelope, and writes Zhenya’s name on it.

He’s not entirely sure Zhenya will read it, or read it in time, or if it’ll even help fix anything if he does. But Sid has to try. Zhenya’s the most important person in his life, and even though things are weird and not as easy as they were, Sid still needs do everything he can. Even if Zhenya doesn’t love Sid the way Sid loves him, even if Zhenya doesn’t need Sid the same way Sid needs him, Sid has to try.

He has to hope that Zhenya hasn’t decided that Sid’s more trouble than he’s worth.

He knocks again on the door of room 305, just in case, but there’s still no answer. So he slides the envelope under the door — has to carefully cram it under, actually, because the envelope is just a little too fat to fit easily.

And then he goes back to his room to wait.

And wait. And wait. It’s close to midnight when Patrice sleepily asks if Sid minds turning off the lights. Sid’s been trying to read a book instead of staring anxiously at the door, but he concedes defeat. He puts his book on the nightstand and clicks off the light.

He keeps hoping for a knock on the door right up until he falls asleep.

***

Sid wakes up the next morning and stretches lazily in bed. He slept a long time, but it’s hard to get all the rest he needs in a tournament like this. Patrice is still snoring lightly when Sid gets up to use the bathroom.

His heart stutters when he sees a folded sheet of paper on the floor by the door. His hands shake a little when he opens it, and there’s only a short sentence in Cyrillic letters.

Bring home gold, it says.

His throat feels tight — it’s not nothing, but he hoped for more. And that’s Sid’s problem, because he wants everything from Zhenya, and he’s going to have to find a way to be happy with what Zhenya wants to give.

He puts the note in his luggage. When he gets back to Pittsburgh, he’ll put it with the rest of Zhenya’s letters, in the shoebox that he’ll put in the closet of his room in Zhenya’s house. They found their way to each other once in Pittsburgh; they can find their way back again.

***

The Russians aren’t at breakfast, and Sid overhears someone say they left earlier this morning. Sid tries not to mope visibly, but Richards ruffles his hair on his way out, so he thinks he might not be succeeding. But at least there is still hockey, and he can throw himself into their last practice before the semifinal against Sweden tomorrow.

Anything can happen. Sid has to keep reminding himself of that when it seems like Sweden can score at will and Canada has to work so hard even to get chances. Sweden scores early, and then again on a power play, and it’s 0-2 before even five minutes have passed. Canada gets a chance of their own on the power play, but nothing comes of it and Sid’s really starting to worry. Finally, a minute later, Calder scores off of Richards’ assist. The teams keep trading penalties and goals and end the period 2-3.

Sid can see Denis trying to get his cool back during the intermission, but he just can’t shake the first. Sweden scores twice in the first three minutes of the second. It’s not just Denis’s fault — it’s never just the goalie’s fault — but he gets pulled anyway. Sid feels the same pang of regret he feels every time he sees his own goalie get pulled, because it means that the team needs to be better.

A couple of minutes later, Canada goes on the power play, which Sid hopes gives Auld more time to warm up. He needs it; they go on the penalty kill a little while after that. Auld stands tall, though, even if time seems to be relentlessly ticking down toward the end of the second. There’s less than a minute left, and Sid knows that if they go into the intermission down three, it’ll feel impossible. But two is doable — if they can just score now, they can change the momentum in their favour.

So he takes it hard to the net. He doesn’t have a shot, but he doesn’t give up; he shoves the puck between the goalie’s feet and it crosses over the goal line. The horn blares and he throws up his arms, and that’s when he feels the impact. There’s a stick and gloves right in his face and the stick is hard against his cheekbone as someone takes him right to the boards.

Sid’s still trying to figure out what happened, blinking against the pain, when he realizes there’s something going on around him. Patrice crouches over him and says, “Sid?” in an urgent tone as the angry shouting continues nearby.

“I’m okay,” Sid says. He sits up. He’s pretty sure it’s nothing a bag of ice won’t clear up.

“Are you sure?” Patrice asks. Wow, he looks really worried.

Sid looks around and sees the trainers getting ready to come out, and he shakes his head, which — doesn’t feel great. But he’s okay. “I’m fine, I can get back to the bench,” he says.

Patrice helps him up. Sid notices that Calder is shouting in Kronwall’s face with Hamhuis trying to pull him back. Daley is shoving at someone, too.

“They can’t fight anyone,” Sid says, ready to skate back and say so, but Patrice just keeps an arm around him and skates him to the bench.

“They’ve got this,” Patrice says. He hands Sid over to the trainers, who start trying to shepherd him down the hall.

“The period’s not over,” Sid protests.

Habscheid shouts, “Jesus, Crosby, go!”

They do a couple of tests and keep him in the locker room long enough to make sure he doesn’t have a concussion. He must pass, because they let him go out for the third. They start out 4-on-4 and then Canada goes on the power play. There’s all kinds of people in the box. Everyone he’s next to on the bench gently checks in with him, so it must have looked even worse than it felt. But what matters is that they score: Williams passes to him, he dishes to Patrice, and Patrice fires it past the goalie.

When Sid’s back on the bench, Richards says happily, “Can’t keep you down, can they?”

Sid laughs. “Quit chatting and go tie it up.”

Richards salutes. “Yes, sir,” he says, skating off.

And they get close, they get so close, but then there’s only ten minutes left. Then five. They go empty net with a minute and a half left, but they can’t tie the game.

They head back to the hotel, eat a post-game meal, and go to bed. No one came here to win bronze, but it’s the only choice now, because all of them know that failing to medal is unacceptable.

So they’ll go to sleep, wake up, and play one last game, as hard as they can.

***

Sid doesn’t know how to describe the game against Finland. He in no way thought it was going to be easy, but nothing about their previous game against them suggested that there would be almost 30 penalties over the course of the game. It’s just 0-1 for the first, and that’s not great, but the game is so disjointed because of all the penalties that Sid’s not really surprised. But then it’s the end of the second and it’s 0-3. And Sid had to watch it go from 0-1 to 0-2 from the box. He resolves not to take any more penalties.

But the game ends 0-5, and Sid is just — stunned.

He does his media on autopilot. The reporters are surprisingly gentle, like they can’t believe it happened either. They ask him how he’s feeling after the hit yesterday and what his plans for the offseason are. They don’t keep him too long, though, which is a small mercy. He gets cleaned up and packs up his gear, and they head back to the hotel for a dinner that Sid barely tastes and sort of resents needing to eat at all. He just wants a long shower, and sleep, and to get on a plane back to Pittsburgh.

He gets his long shower — he offers it to Patrice first, but Patrice says he has to call his girlfriend to tell her when to meet him at the airport.

Sid badly wants to call Zhenya to ask for the same. He just wants to go home.

When he gets out of the shower, he thinks fuck it. He’ll wear his Malkin shirt to sleep in if he wants to. He’s still toweling his hair dry when he steps out of the bathroom and sees Zhenya sitting on his bed.

“Zhenya?” he says blankly. To say he’s surprised to see Zhenya is putting it mildly; he wanted to see Zhenya so badly that he half wonders if he’s imagining this.

Zhenya’s right leg is bouncing almost imperceptibly. “Worlds over,” he says.

Sid winces. “Yeah,” he says heavily.

“We talk now? We friends again?” Zhenya asks.

“I never stopped being your friend,” Sid says. He has to stop and swallow against the tightness in his throat. “You — you know that, right? I’m sorry, Zhenya, it was dumb, and — I didn’t think it would make you that mad. I thought it’d be easier for both of us.”

“It was dumb,” Zhenya agrees. He still looks unhappy.

Sid looks down at his feet. “I’m sorry we couldn’t win. I let you down again.”

He hears the squeak of the bedsprings as Zhenya stands, but he only looks up when Zhenya puts his hands on Sid’s shoulders and shakes him gently. “I don’t care about that. You played so hard, you played your best.”

“You, too,” Sid says. It’s important that Zhenya hear that.

“I know,” Zhenya says. “You write that in your letters. I see you at all my games, but you don’t talk to me, you make me crazy.”

“I’m sorry,” Sid says again.

Zhenya sighs. “I’m sorry, too,” he says. “I’m kind of a meanie.”

It startles a laugh out of Sid. “Maybe a little,” he allows. Zhenya’s hands are still warm on his shoulders, and he’s rubbing one thumb back and forth. “I thought you went home already.”

“I’m not going anywhere without you,” Zhenya says.

Sid stares at him in surprise, and Zhenya — Zhenya steps closer, so that Sid has to crane his neck up to keep looking him in the eye.

Zhenya lifts one hand to cup Sid’s cheek; his thumb brushes just under the vivid bruise there. “I get a new hotel room, because I can’t leave until I talk to you. And you say no talking during Worlds is best, and I want to give you best, even when I hate it.” He strokes an errant curl away from Sid’s eye.

Sid has no idea what to say to that. He thought he would stop feeling bad about it after Zhenya accepted his apology, but maybe not.

“I hate it so much, I miss you so much,” Zhenya says. “I think — maybe you don’t need me.”

“I do,” Sid says in a rush. “I need you.”

Zhenya leans in closer. “How much?” he asks softly.

“More than anyone,” Sid says, just as softly. He thought it might hurt to say, but it’s true. He’s needed Zhenya for a long time, now.

“Why?” Zhenya asks. “Because we’re teammates, friends?”

Sid takes in a deep breath. “Because I love you.” He squeezes his eyes shut. He needs to be honest with Zhenya if they’re going to get past this, but he doesn’t think he can stand to see Zhenya’s expression. It might be one of shock, or pity, or both, and Sid doesn’t think he could bear it. “It’s — it’s okay. It doesn’t have to be — we can still be friends.”

“I don’t want to be your friend,” Zhenya says.

Sid flinches. He knew Zhenya might not take it well, but he didn’t think it would go that badly. He opens his eyes, but Zhenya doesn’t look upset. He looks like he’s going to — like he might —

“Sidnyusha,” Zhenya murmurs, and kisses him.

Sid’s thought a lot about what it might be like to kiss Zhenya, but not about how it would feel to have Zhenya kiss him this slowly and carefully. Sid kisses him back, and he’s shaking because he wants this so much, he wants so much for Zhenya to want him.

When they break for air, Sid waits in anxious silence. He doesn’t know what this means, not really, and Zhenya might not either. But Zhenya goes to kiss him again, and Sid pulls back and says, “Wait.”

Zhenya stops. He looks confused. “Not good?”

“No, it’s just — this is serious for me,” Sid says. “So if you’re not — if you don’t — then we should stop.”

Zhenya narrows his eyes. “You think I’m like asshole in Florida? Like Jack?”

“Well,” Sid says. He’s tempted to defend Jack, but Zhenya is still holding him close and he can feel the heat of his body all along his own.

“I want best for you,” Zhenya says. “I want you to be happy. I try to be — better friend, but you stop being happy.”

“I’m always happy with you,” Sid insists. “I don’t need — you’re fine the way you are.”

“Seryozha says I’m bad friend or bad boyfriend,” Zhenya says. “And I think he’s right. Not fair to you.”

“What do you mean?” Sid says. His brain is still stuck on boyfriend.

“If I’m your friend, I’m shitty friend, because I know you’re best but don’t want you to get boyfriend. If I’m boyfriend — still shitty, because I don’t tell you I love you.”

Sid stares at him wide-eyed.

“I love you,” Zhenya says. “I love you the most, and I want to be good boyfriend, so if you love me —”

Sid goes up on his toes and kisses Zhenya hard. Whatever Zhenya might have been about to say is lost as Zhenya pulls him tight and they kiss, and it was slow and sweet earlier, but it’s desperate and a little frantic now. Zhenya mutters, “Love you, love you,” when he kisses a line up Sid’s jaw to his ear. Sid’s trying to kiss whatever part of Zhenya’s neck that he can reach, and he’s barely managing to hold himself upright with one hand fisted in the back of Zhenya’s shirt while Zhenya’s hands are just — everywhere, and it feels so good, and Zhenya loves him, he loves him.

They kiss some more, and it’s a little sloppy but so good. At some point, Zhenya backs him up against the wall and puts his knee between Sid’s. Then Zhenya sucks what is probably going to be a monster hickey underneath Sid’s ear while Sid makes noises high in his throat. He’s had months of detailed, explicit fantasies, and none of them came close to preparing him for how good this would feel. He feels like he could just kiss Zhenya forever, and get totally lost in it, and he’d like to do just that, except Zhenya is encouraging him to ride his thigh, and every time they have to breathe, Zhenya keeps panting out these things that are making Sid lose his mind.

“Like that?” he whispers in Sid’s ear while he rocks his thigh against Sid’s dick. Sid moans because of course he does, and Zhenya croons, “Just like that, Sidnyusha, make you feel good—”

The knock that comes at the door takes them both by surprise; Sid accidentally scratches Zhenya’s neck when they both jerk toward the sound. “Bergie, come on, let’s go!” a guy calls through the door.

Sid sighs and lets his head tilt back against the wall. “Wrong room!” he calls back, which, okay, is a lie, but seriously.

“Sorry, man,” the guy says.

“No, it’s fine,” Sid says.

Zhenya huffs incredulously. “Tell him to go away,” he mutters.

“Don’t be rude,” Sid admonishes. Zhenya responds by kissing his neck again. “Patrice is going to — ooh — come back.”

“Soon, yes,” Zhenya says, sounding annoyed. “I tell him to go away for long time. He says one hour.”

Sid tries to get a look at the clock. He’s pretty sure their hour is nearly up, and it’s brutally unfair. “Stop for a second, I can’t think,” he tells Zhenya. Zhenya stops, and looks both smug and also like he’s ready to resume kissing at a second’s notice. “Maybe — maybe you can get on the same flight back with us tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” Zhenya says. “Or — maybe we stay here a few days.”

Sid licks his lips. “And do what?”

Zhenya’s eyes are half-lidded. “Anything you want.”

“Yeah, okay, let’s do that,” Sid says.

6. Chapter 6

It’s hard to pack and kiss at the same time.

“I thought you wanted to call the hotel,” Sid says, which is a little unfair because he’s the one who just dragged Zhenya down for another kiss.

“Yeah,” Zhenya says. He pulls away with gratifying reluctance to go pick up the phone.

Sid resumes packing, although basically he’s just shoving dirty clothes in and crumpling his suit, and he really doesn’t care. He’s packing up his shaving kit in the bathroom when Patrice comes back.

“Hey,” Patrice says casually.

“Hi,” Sid says. He fights the urge to cover the really ridiculous hickey just below his ear.

Zhenya hangs up, comes over, takes the shaving kit out of Sid’s hands, and shoves it into his suitcase.

“Packing early?” Patrice inquires.

“Um,” Sid says. “I’m going to stay here a few extra days.”

“Oh?” Patrice says, clearly fighting a smile.

Sid fidgets a little. “Yeah, so — could you let them know I’m not flying back tomorrow?”

“You sure?” Patrice asks him in French.

Sid looks over at Zhenya, who looks like he is really trying to be patient, and is just failing so hard, and Sid loves him. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Have a good time, then,” Patrice says. “Be safe.”

Sid flushes red, and bites his lip before he says in French, “You won’t say anything, right?”

“You don’t need to ask,” Patrice says, and pulls Sid in for a hug. “Go, be happy.”

“Thank you,” Sid says, and hugs him back just as tightly. “Thank you.”

Patrice pulls back, and Zhenya is still watching them and looking increasingly impatient. “Take him someplace nice,” Patrice says to Zhenya, who bristles.

“Of course,” Zhenya says. He zips up Sid’s suitcase. “This is everything?”

Sid does one last check, but everything seems to be in his suitcase and hanging bag. There’s just his gear bag and his sticks, and that’s that. Zhenya shoulders his gear bag and Sid allows him to carry his sticks too, which — it really must be love.

They get a taxi outside without having to wait. They manage to cram all the bags in the trunk but have to put the sticks in the backseat with them. Once they’re buckled in, Zhenya reaches for Sid’s hand, and all Sid can think is that Zhenya loves him. That, and also that they are almost definitely going to have sex.

He really, really hopes so, anyway.

They stop at the front desk to get new keys because Zhenya called earlier to upgrade his room.

It’s — completely insane. It’s a suite, and it looks like it belongs in a palace. Someone must have brought Zhenya’s bags up, because Sid recognizes his suitcase in the corner. He puts his suitcase and hanging bag with it, and Zhenya drops his gear and carefully lines his sticks up against the wall next to Zhenya’s. It’s a little reminiscent of Mellon, where their sticks are always side by side.

Sid licks his lips nervously, because they’re not in the heat of the moment anymore. He’d like to get back there, and not think too hard about it, but he can’t stop wondering what he’s supposed to do now.

Zhenya solves the dilemma by sitting on the couch and turning on the TV. “Come sit,” he says, and Sid sighs in relief. He can do that. He’s missed snuggling with Zhenya on the couch, and, honestly, if they don’t do anything else tonight, Sid will be happy to have this.

Zhenya flips channels and settles on something vaguely nature-y, maybe about redwood trees. He stretches out on his back on the whole length of the couch, and Sid hesitates for a second, until Zhenya holds out an arm in invitation. Sid cautiously lies down, mostly on top of Zhenya, their chests pressed together and Sid just off to Zhenya’s side enough that he can rest his head on Zhenya’s shoulder.

“Good?” Zhenya asks. Sid can feel the question rumble through Zhenya’s chest.

Sid squirms a little bit to get more comfortable, and then it’s perfect. “Yeah,” he says. “You?”

Zhenya hums contentedly and strokes one hand up and down Sid’s back. It’s soothing, for the most part — but when Zhenya scratches lightly down his spine, it does something else to Sid entirely. He’s got one arm across Zhenya’s chest, his hand on Zhenya’s shoulder — and it occurs to him that there’s nothing to keep him from lightly touching Zhenya’s neck, running his fingertips through the short hair at the base of it. Sometimes Zhenya takes in a breath, and Sid wouldn’t call it a gasp, exactly, but it’s a reminder that things are both the same and different.

“Missed this,” Zhenya murmurs. He’s got one hand in Sid’s hair, and it makes him nearly purr.

“Me too,” Sid says. “A lot.”

“Missed you,” Zhenya says. Sid feels Zhenya brush against his cheek, and it feels both daring and completely natural to pick his head up off Zhenya’s shoulder and kiss him. Sid doesn’t mean to keep kissing, necessarily, it’s just that Zhenya is here and he wants to kiss him and he can. When Sid goes to pull back, Zhenya makes a sound of discontented protest and follows his mouth up, pressing kiss after kiss to Sid’s lips until Sid settles back down against Zhenya and lets Zhenya kiss him.

It starts out sweet, almost chaste, Sid just enjoying how Zhenya will suck on his lower lip. Then Zhenya runs his tongue along Sid’s lip and coaxes Sid’s mouth open. Sid’s made out with people before. Sometimes it was frantic and sometimes it was awkward and exploratory, but no one’s ever kissed him just for the sake of kissing. Zhenya, though — Zhenya kisses Sid like he wants to do it forever. It’s a little sloppy, a little messy, and Sid doesn’t want him to stop. He wants, and he feels wanted, but he doesn’t feel like he has to rush. He’s seen Zhenya kiss before, and it seemed so obvious that Zhenya was enjoying himself. Now, on the receiving end of Zhenya’s attention, Sid finds himself appreciating that a lot more. Because he doesn’t have to wonder if Zhenya likes kissing him, not when Zhenya smiles against Sid’s mouth and strokes his hands along Sid’s sides.

“I wanted this for so long,” Sid says, his mouth barely a centimetre from Zhenya’s.

“How long?” Zhenya asks, and kisses under Sid’s jaw. It feels — more, a little tender and Sid thinks Zhenya must have gone for the hickey he was working on.

Sid’s hardly sure of the answer himself. He doesn’t think there was a time he wouldn’t have wanted Zhenya to kiss him. “New Year’s?” he guesses. “When did you—?”

Zhenya smiles against Sid’s throat, like just thinking about it makes him happy, and Sid’s breath catches. “When we go driving, after Jack leave,” he says. He kisses Sid’s cheek, brushes their noses together, and leans back. “Your cheeks all pink from cold, saying you want me to stay — stay with you always.”

Sid thinks back to the way Zhenya kept him close against the icy wind while they looked over the skyline. He can’t help but wonder what it would have been like if Zhenya had kissed him then. “We could have been doing this for months,” Sid says, pursing his lips in regret.

Zhenya laughs and kisses the expression right off his face. “You say no to dating, not even looking,” he says. “I think maybe you still love Jack, and I want you to get what you want, always. Even if it’s not what I want for me.”

“I wanted you,” Sid says. “Even though I knew it wasn’t smart, even though I thought there was no way you wanted me too.”

“You think I don’t want you?” Zhenya asks. “I give you lube so I can hear you jerk off.”

Sid’s cheeks go red. “I thought maybe — it was just easy, convenient,” he says. “You know, not having to wait until I went to sleep.”

“You do that with Army?” Zhenya asks calmly.

“Ew, what, no,” Sid says. Zhenya raises his eyebrows like his point’s been made, and — okay, yeah.

“You like what we did? I like listening to you,” Zhenya says. He runs his hands down Sid’s back and lingers at the swell of Sid’s ass. “I want to see, want to come over and touch you everywhere.”

“Yeah?” Sid asks. All those fantasies about Zhenya fucking him open come flooding back. He squirms a little and realizes that Zhenya is hard against him, and all those thoughts about Zhenya’s dick could be a reality.

“I want to know what makes you sound like that,” Zhenya says. He sighs. “I wanted to make you sound like that. Like you need it.”

“I want you to,” Sid says. He arches up so he can grind his hips down, surprised at how easy it is, at how he can make Zhenya’s mouth fall open. “I do need it.”

Zhenya shoots him a look that makes Sid wish they were both naked already. His hands slip down to palm Sid’s ass, and they’re so big and they feel so good. “Come here,” Zhenya says, his voice low and inviting, and Sid doesn’t need to be told twice.

He leans down to meet Zhenya, whose slides his hands over to cup Sid’s hips as they kiss, slow and so good. Zhenya fucks his tongue into Sid’s mouth like it’s a preview. It’s still not rushed; in fact, it’s dreamily perfect, all heat with no worry that Zhenya isn’t interested.

Sid trusts Zhenya when he says he wants him, and he tries not to overthink it. He wants to touch Zhenya, so he does; he runs his hands all over Zhenya’s chest. He wants to feel Zhenya’s cock where it’s hard for him, so he grinds down, letting their cocks rub up against each other through their pants. And Zhenya said he liked to hear Sid, so when Zhenya lets his mouth wander along Sid’s cheek and jaw, Sid feels free to let him know how much he likes it, gasping when Zhenya rolls his hips up into Sid’s, moaning as Zhenya nips at his jaw.

Sid thinks he could come just like this. His eyelashes flutter as Zhenya’s fingertips flirt with the waist of his pants and Zhenya starts in on a hickey just below the first. The sharp sting feels good, and Sid lets out a noise close to a squeak.

Zhenya pulls back. “Sid,” he pants out. “Are you — is this okay?”

Sid blinks down at him. He thought he’d made it clear that he was absolutely okay with everything that was happening. “Why did you stop?” he asks, almost whining.

Zhenya takes a deep, unsteady breath. “Are you still a virgin?” he asks.

Sid stares at Zhenya for a moment. Who just asks like that? “Yes,” he grumbles. He doesn’t see what it matters. How much experience could Zhenya have, anyway? “Wait, are you…have you ever done anything with a guy before?”

Zhenya shrugs. “I think about it,” he says. “But no, just you.”

Sid bites his lip. He got this far — and then no further — with Jack. He was just disappointed then, but if Zhenya doesn’t want him, he’ll have to go live as a hermit or something.

“Hey,” Zhenya says, tipping Sid’s face up and kissing him gently. “I’m not change my mind. Not about you.”

Sid kisses him again, a little more desperately, because he just needs — “Show me?” Sid asks.

Zhenya cups Sid’s face and returns the kiss, long and slow. “Yes,” he says. “In bed, though. Up.”

Of course, even once they manage to stand up, they spend the whole way to the bedroom bumping into furniture because they won’t stop kissing. Zhenya tucks his fingers in Sid’s belt loops and he shoots Sid a questioning look as he reaches for Sid’s fly.

“Yes,” Sid says, trying to lift Zhenya’s tee over his head. But they can’t do both, so Zhenya grabs the hem of it and shucks it off. Sid’s mouth waters. The cut of Zhenya’s hips is obscene, and he’s been so careful not to look too long that just getting to look his fill gives him a sharp spike of want.

Zhenya unbuttons Sid’s jeans, unzips his fly, and works his jeans down over his hips. He lowers them down until Sid can step out of them, so that he’s just in his boxers and the worn, soft tee with Zhenya’s name and number on it.

“You wear this to bed all the time,” Zhenya says, eyes half-lidded as he looks over Sid. “Right in my arms, making me crazy.”

Sid’s always liked wearing Zhenya’s shirts, and knowing that it got Zhenya hot makes it that much better. “Well, if it bugs you that much,” Sid says, giving Zhenya his best attempt at a seductive look, “you could always take it off me.”

He must be better at seductive than he thought, because Zhenya nearly tackles him to the bed before pulling the shirt off him and then leaning down to kiss just above the waistband of Sid’s boxers. Zhenya’s mouth is so close to Sid’s dick, and it’s hard and leaking enough to get the fabric wet. Sid guesses if Zhenya isn’t bailing out now, he’s probably really into it.

“Zhenya,” Sid says. He’s been seriously dying to see Zhenya’s cock. “Let me take off your pants.”

Zhenya laughs, but he obligingly stays still long enough for Sid to pop the button and pull the zipper down. He leans over to kiss Sid hard and dirty and then stands up. He’s suddenly way too far away, but Sid’s complaints die on his lips because Zhenya grins at him, shimmies out of his jeans, and hooks his thumbs in the elastic of his waistband.

“You want these off too?” he asks, still playful, but with an underlying hint of seriousness.

“Yes, please,” Sid croaks out.

Zhenya smirks and turns around before he skins out of his boxers; all Sid gets to see is his ass as he heads to the bathroom.

“Hey,” Sid protests. That’s not what he wanted and Zhenya knows it.

“Just a minute,” Zhenya calls back happily.

Sid blows out a breath and flops back to stare at the ceiling. He’s annoyed that he finds this hot, too. He runs his hand up and down over his dick, just teasing himself a little through his boxers while he waits for Zhenya.

“So nice,” Zhenya says and Sid looks over to see Zhenya standing at the foot of the bed. “All for me?”

Sid props himself up on his elbows to see better, and wow — the glimpses he’s caught here and there have not done Zhenya justice at all. He licks his lips. He’s certainly thought about giving head before, but he never thought he’d want to the way he does now. Just thinking about the fat head of Zhenya’s dick stretching his mouth wide makes him feel overheated.

He drags his eyes back up to Zhenya’s face, and that incredibly smug smile should be a turn-off, but instead Sid wants him even more. Zhenya crawls back into bed, something clutched in his hand. He sprawls out next to Sid, all lean lines of muscle and long limbs that Sid knows are surprisingly strong.

Zhenya hooks a finger in Sid’s boxers and kisses up his neck until he can whisper into Sid’s ear, “Can I?”

“Yeah,” Sid breathes.

Sid has to lift his hips and wriggle his way out of his boxers, even with Zhenya’s help, but he keeps getting distracted by the way Zhenya looks at every little bit of skin he reveals like it’s precious. When Sid’s finally naked, Zhenya looks at him, eyes greedy and hot, and Sid thinks that they’re not going to have a problem at all.

“Pretty,” Zhenya says, and Sid squirms.

“I’m not —” Sid starts, and then Zhenya runs a finger down his cock and he gasps.

“Pretty,” Zhenya insists. “All of you.” He strokes Sid’s thighs, the vee of his hip, and back up his chest, and then leans down to kiss him. Sid thought that rubbing up against each other with clothes on was good, but it has nothing on being naked and having all of Zhenya to touch, warm skin under his fingertips and the cool weight of Zhenya’s penguin necklace pooled at Sid’s throat.

“I want — can I —” Sid says, and he pushes at Zhenya’s shoulder. Zhenya obligingly rolls over on his back. Sid feels not close enough, so he curls up all along Zhenya’s side and slides one thigh between his, propping himself up on one elbow so he can be close and touch and see as much as he wants. “Is this okay?” he asks as he traces the curve of Zhenya’s shoulders with his fingers.

Zhenya looks a little dazed. “Good,” he says. “You — whatever you want.”

Sid kisses him because his mouth is right there and he wants to. He likes feeling the rise and fall of Zhenya’s chest beneath his hand as they kiss, and he likes the way he can feel Zhenya inhale sharply when Sid brushes a fingertip over his nipple.

Sid breaks the kiss long enough to ask, “Is that good?” He thinks Zhenya’s groan means that it is, so he does it again, and his nipples are hard now like it’s chilly, but it’s not, it’s all Sid doing this to him. He lets his hand wander lower down Zhenya’s stomach, and Zhenya twitches a bit like he’s a little ticklish. Sid keeps his eyes on Zhenya’s when he finally, finally touches Zhenya’s dick.

Sid lightly strokes his fingers down Zhenya’s dick. “Is this okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Zhenya says. He gasps when Sid cups the heavy weight of his balls in his hand. “I think — I think about a lot.”

Sid bites his lip and lets himself touch the precome at the tip of Zhenya’s cock. It’s not like Zhenya’s dick is all that different from his — maybe in size and shape, and Zhenya’s got a bit of a curve, but he knows in general what to do, so he does. When he wraps his hand around Zhenya’s cock and strokes him gently, Zhenya moans. He reaches for something on the bed and hands it to Sid.

He squints at the writing. “Is this—?”

“Kind of — lotion, massage oil,” Zhenya says. “We get lube later.”

“Yeah, okay,” Sid says. He tips a bit out onto his hands. It’s a little thinner than his usual, but it’s slick and when he spreads it down Zhenya’s cock and then gets a good grip, he thinks it’s going to work just fine. “What do you like?” Sid asks, jerking him off slowly.

“Little — little more tight,” Zhenya says. He steals the oil back and then he nudges Sid so he can wrap his hand around Sid’s dick, and Sid breathes in sharply, because that feels —

“Oh god,” Sid says helplessly. He imagined how Zhenya’s big hands would feel, but the reality of it is making his brain melt, and he doesn’t mean to stop jerking Zhenya off but he can’t think, not when Zhenya is looking at him like that, eyes dark and lips parted.

Zhenya rolls them over so that Sid’s on his back and Zhenya is between his legs; Sid gets even more distracted when Zhenya wraps a hand around the both of them. Everything is slick and hot and Sid moans when Zhenya rubs his thumb over the head of their cocks, and all he knows is that he wants more, so he pushes his hips up into Zhenya’s grip.

“Sound good,” Zhenya purrs. He leans forward to brace one forearm on the bed so he can kiss Sid again. He kisses Sid’s neck and ear, and Sid keeps thrusting his hips up into Zhenya’s hand until Zhenya groans and lets go. Sid makes a protesting noise but then there’s more oil everywhere, and Zhenya rubs his cock against Sid’s stomach and urges Sid’s legs around his waist, and Sid’s got that, he digs his heels into Zhenya’s ass and thrusts up to meet him. Zhenya’s panting against his neck and moving his hips a little faster, and he mutters, “Fuck, good, come on—”

All Sid can do is hang on. He clutches Zhenya’s shoulders while his cock slides against his abs, and it’s — it’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened to him, and Zhenya’s dick isn’t even in him and it’s this good. “I — more, I —”

Zhenya swears and reaches down with one hand to grab Sid’s ass to pull him even closer. His slick fingertips are so close to where Sid wants them, and Sid comes, mouth open as moans his way through it, and he tries to keep his eyes open because Zhenya is watching him, but they flutter shut as he comes between them.

“Sidnyusha,” Zhenya says urgently, kissing his jaw but staying still. “Sidnyusha —”

Sid opens his eyes, and Zhenya looks so desperate for it, so desperate for him. Sid tightens his legs around his waist and says, “Yeah, do it.”

It’s overwhelming, because he’s still so sensitive from coming, but Zhenya is rutting more against his hip, going faster now. His hair is damp and curling and he bites his lip as he chases his own orgasm, and when he comes, he’s holding Sid tight and panting against his mouth in what might be a kiss if he weren’t shaking and coming all over Sid.

They lie there for a few moments, and Sid pets Zhenya’s hair, his neck, his shoulders. He feels good.

He wants to do it again right now.

“Zhenya,” he says, and Zhenya makes a noise into his shoulder. “Zhenya,” he says again, and presses a kiss against his temple.

“Five minutes,” Zhenya mutters.

Sid is sticky and slick and covered in both their come, and he feels like they’ve just gotten warmed up, really. But if Zhenya wants five minutes, he’s prepared to give him that. And anyway, Zhenya is warm and heavy on top of him, and it’s delicious. Sid feels a little drunk on the realization that he did this to Zhenya, that he made him feel this good, that Zhenya did himself on Sid and it was great.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sid can just see the minutes tick by on the alarm clock on the nightstand. He makes it a full four minutes before he starts running his fingertips along Zhenya’s spine. It makes Zhenya shiver a bit, and Sid shivers in turn, because Zhenya’s back is so long and he’s so big and Sid really, really hopes they’re not done for the night.

Zhenya hums right against the skin of Sid’s shoulder and turns to tuck his face into Sid’s neck. “Already?” he asks, and he sounds like he’s teasing, but he’s also kissing Sid’s neck. “Good first time?”

“Yes,” Sid sighs out as Zhenya sucks a kiss into the hollow of his throat. It was great. But it’s only made him want more, made him eager for a lot of other firsts. And he’s pretty sure Zhenya has had sex before, but he said that this was his first time with a guy, so Sid thinks maybe he should ask too. “Was it — you liked it, right?”

Zhenya props his elbow up against the bed so he can stare at Sid disbelievingly. “You almost killed me,” he says. He leans down to kiss Sid. “You’re so good, I’m so lucky.”

Sid can’t help but preen a little. He presses up against Zhenya, which reminds him that they’re still covered in massage oil and it’s definitely been five minutes.

“Can we — are you ready?” Sid asks. He can feel Zhenya’s cock lying across his stomach, and he’s not hard, but Sid is more than willing to fix that.

Zhenya huffs out a laugh against Sid’s mouth. “Eager,” he says like a compliment. He slips his hand in between them to where Sid can feel himself starting to get turned on. “I’m take care of you, just have to ask.”

“Please,” Sid says. He shivers as Zhenya slips to the side, and Sid turns to face him. He misses the warm, heavy weight of him, but Zhenya’s hands are on Sid’s cock. Zhenya cradles his balls with one hand, rubbing at the base of Sid’s cock with his thumb, while he gently strokes up the shaft with the other. Zhenya seems to know just how to play with him; he teases along the slit when Sid gets hard enough, and then so carefully runs the tip of his finger all around the crown of Sid’s dick.

“You like this?” Zhenya whispers. His eyes are still focused on Sid’s cock, and Sid can’t stop watching either, the contrast between the pink head of his cock and Zhenya’s fingers, still winter pale. “I wonder how you like to do for yourself; maybe you like to tease, make it last.”

Sid’s breath catches as Zhenya starts to really jerk him off, still slow, but firm and tight.

“Or maybe you give it good, not patient,” Zhenya goes on, and gives him these long, quick pulls, his hand just rough enough with callouses that Sid can really feel it. “Maybe you like to get it hard. I hear you, going so fast, begging. You remember, you say, ‘fuck me,’ like you want it bad, like you need someone to give it to you.”

He’s rolling Sid’s balls in his hand and Sid is fucking up into his grip and he wants to tell Zhenya how good it is, but he’s barely managing to breathe, there’s no way he’s getting out a whole sentence. But he remembers that night, remembers the way Zhenya groaned out, “Yes,” like maybe —

“I want to give it to you,” Zhenya whispers in his ear. “Want to give you what you need, always. You need it? You want my cock?”

“Oh, fuck, fuck, yeah,” Sid pants out, feeling like the words are being pulled out of him.

“I’m all yours,” Zhenya says. He kisses Sid hard and Sid comes right then. Zhenya keeps working him through it, like he wants to get every last shiver and shake out of Sid, every last drop of come, and he keeps going until Sid has to squirm out of his grip and whimper out Zhenya’s name.

“What you wanted?” Zhenya asks. He tips Sid’s chin up and his hand is slick with Sid’s come where it’s cupping his jaw and Sid moans into the sweet way Zhenya licks into his mouth. His fingers smell like sex and Sid wants to taste them.

So he catches Zhenya’s hand, and he’s tasted his own come before, but it’s completely different when he’s licking it off Zhenya’s fingers. He tried sucking some of the toys he ordered, and he liked the idea, but it was hard to get into with just the taste of silicon. But when he runs his tongue up two of Zhenya’s fingers and sucks them into his mouth and Zhenya looks like he’s having a religious experience, Sid absolutely understands why everyone makes such a big deal about it. It’s an insane rush, and Sid is suddenly a little nervous, because he wants to be good at this, wants to make Zhenya come in his mouth.

“Fuck, your mouth,” Zhenya groans out. “So — beautiful.”

Sid flushes, but he likes that he turns Zhenya on, likes that he can make Zhenya sound like this. He lets Zhenya’s fingers go with a last little lick to the pads and says, “Thank you,” because it was what he wanted.

Zhenya’s eyes are so dark. “I like making you come,” he says, and Sid feels a prickle of heat all over. “Don’t have to thank me.” He runs his hand over Sid’s stomach where it’s still shiny with oil and wet with come.

His cock is hard against Sid’s hip and Sid is about to ask Zhenya what he wants when Zhenya hums thoughtfully. “Got you all dirty,” he says. “Maybe time to get you clean again.”

“I don’t mind,” Sid says, maybe a little too quickly, because Zhenya smiles, slow and promising, like he knows exactly how much Sid likes getting dirty.

Zhenya stretches out obscenely, drawing Sid’s attention back to his dick. He rolls out of bed and Sid can still hardly believe that’s all for him, the tight curve of Zhenya’s ass, the strong lines of his back. Sid finds himself scrambling out of bed after Zhenya.

The bathroom is as palatial as the rest of the suite. It’s dominated by a huge tub in the middle that is flanked by a glass shower and what looks like a personal sauna. Sid doesn’t think it’s greedy to want to get fucked in all three of them.

Zhenya heads straight for the shower, and while Sid might have ideas for that tub, he definitely doesn’t want to wait for it to fill. He pokes his head into the sauna just to look; there seem to be any number of potential applications for those benches. He hopes they’re sturdy.

“Shower is ready,” Zhenya says, wrapping his arms around Sid from behind. Sid melts into it, letting his head lean back against Zhenya’s shoulder and wiggling his ass back a little until Zhenya’s cock is nestled between his cheeks.

“Thanks,” Sid says. He smiles as Zhenya kisses his neck.

“I have to take you there?” Zhenya asks, arms tightening around Sid’s waist, when neither of them makes any move to actually get in the shower.

Sid has a self-indulgent moment of wondering if Zhenya could, but he just says, “Well, unless you let go, I’m not going anywhere.”

Zhenya makes an annoyed noise and shuffles them along. Sid laughs, stupid with happiness. Their hips are bumping together and Zhenya’s dick is grinding up against Sid’s ass, and he’s not sure which of them is getting teased more, but he likes it.

The shower is steamy and perfect. Zhenya backs Sid up against the cold tile and kisses him dizzy. Sid takes a moment just to breathe, and Zhenya takes advantage of it; he soaps up a washcloth and rubs Sid down, taking so much care as he scrubs him clean. It’s sort of strange how intimate this seems, considering Sid just licked come off Zhenya’s hand, but he can hardly hear anything over the pounding of the water in the shower, and it feels like they’re the only two people in the world.

Sid wants to be even closer, so he steps right into Zhenya’s space and lets the water beat down on them both as he kisses Zhenya. When they have to break apart to breathe, he can feel where Zhenya is hard against Sid’s stomach, so he wraps a hand around Zhenya’s cock and starts jerking him off. Sid glances up at Zhenya. He presses a kiss to Sid’s temple, braces a hand against the wall and leans hard into Sid, whispering, “More, come on, baby.” Sid wonders if he heard right, but he can’t deny it’s a little bit of a thrill thinking about Zhenya calling him things like that.

“I want it, Zhenya, please,” Sid says, because he wants Zhenya to come, to feel as good as Zhenya made him feel. And he hardly noticed, but getting Zhenya off has gotten him hard again. Sid gasps in surprise when Zhenya gets a hand on him.

“Look at you,” Zhenya says, sounding pleased and wondering. “You always like this? Your pretty cock need attention all the time?”

Sid doesn’t get like this normally — he likes getting off as much as the next guy, but three times in one night isn’t exactly typical. So he’s left with the conclusion that this is all Zhenya, and decides to say so. “You’re making me like this,” he says, and Zhenya’s hand stills on Sid’s cock. “Don’t stop, please, don’t stop, I—”

Zhenya goes from teasing to serious in a second, practically growling against Sid’s cheek, “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come all over you, you want that? Tell me, Sid, fuck —” He comes against Sid’s stomach, and his back is blocking Sid from the spray, so Sid can enjoy being covered in Zhenya’s come. Sid slows down his strokes until he’s basically just petting Zhenya’s dick, waiting for him to get back to jerking Sid off.

“Zhenya, are you going to leave me like this?” Sid asks. He’s gone from smug to needy, because watching Zhenya pant against him, brain-dead from orgasm, is really good, but he’s pretty desperate to come, too.

Sid feels more than hears Zhenya’s groan, but his hand starts moving on Sid’s cock again, and Sid’s almost there, he just needs something to —

“Have to wear you out first, next time,” Zhenya mutters. “Maybe I suck that pretty cock of yours, that make you come, taste you like you taste me—”

Zhenya has shown Sid just how good he is with his tongue, and thinking about that all over his dick is too much; Sid comes all over Zhenya’s hand. They spend a moment breathing at each other, and Sid is grateful for hotel water heaters because the water is still nice and hot.

“And you just got me clean,” Sid says, when he can talk again.

Zhenya laughs and kisses Sid. “I don’t mind doing it again,” he says. He reaches for the washcloth on the floor, and if Sid’s body wasn’t solidly telling him to get dry and get to bed, he’d be more than a little interested in how Zhenya’s face is so close to his dick.

Zhenya does clean him up again, just as tenderly as he did the first time, and Sid is happy to clean him up in turn. It’s a little cool out of the shower, but they have been in there for a while. Sid is surprised to find the towel he reaches for is warm.

“Wow,” he says. He passes that towel to Zhenya and reaches for his own warm towel. “Did we steam up the whole bathroom?”

“I turned on the heater,” Zhenya says. He sounds pleased with himself and it’s so sweet and thoughtful. Sid has to stretch up to kiss him.

“Thank you,” Sid says, pressing a last little kiss to Zhenya’s lips.

They get about as dry as they can, and Sid sneaks little glances until he remembers he can look as much as he wants. He finds Zhenya watching him right back.

Zhenya drops his towel and reaches for one of the fluffy robes. “Come here,” he says. He holds the robe open, helps Sid into it, ties the belt, and finishes it with a kiss.

“Where’s yours?” Sid asks, looking for it.

“Sure you can reach?” Zhenya asks, his tongue poking out as he hands it over.

“You’re not that tall,” Sid says. He’s a little irritated by the way he wants to laugh and maybe make out a little. Zhenya being a jerk shouldn’t be a turn on.

Zhenya bends down a little anyway. Sid figures the only way to show Zhenya how not funny he is to kiss him, a lot.

And if it turns sweet, like he’s doing it just because he wanted to curl his hands up in the lapels of Zhenya’s robe and kiss him, so be it.

***

The sheets are a little messy, but not enough to deter either of them from getting into bed. When Zhenya pulls him in close, Sid knows it’s because Zhenya loves him, and he can press his face right where it belongs against Zhenya’s chest and tangle their feet together.

It’s nowhere near the first time they’ve slept together, but it feels better than it ever has.

Zhenya goes to put his face in Sid’s hair, but he makes a grumpy sound and rubs Sid’s back instead. “Hair still wet,” he explains.

“You wanted to take the shower,” Sid says, but he knows neither of them is complaining.

“I want to shower with you for a long time,” Zhenya says.

Sid frowns. “You shower with me all the time,” he points out.

Zhenya hums. “Don’t get to touch you there,” he says. “And seems like you like the shower a lot.”

“What do you mean?” Sid asks, tilting his face up to look at Zhenya, who actually has a little colour in his cheeks.

“I got up early one day, maybe March or April,” he says. Sid tries to figure out what Zhenya being up early in the spring and Sid and the shower all have in common, but then he remembers how he normally takes advantage of the fact that Zhenya is a late-rising heavy sleeper. “You touching yourself, here.” Zhenya rubs a hand over the curve of Sid’s ass and leaves his hand there.

“Oh,” Sid says. He looks down at the hotel crest on Zhenya’s robe, a little embarrassed about being caught. He was in the habit of fingering himself in the shower until he and Zhenya started, well, getting off together.

“I only catch a little look, and I walk away,” Zhenya says, and he sounds regretful more than anything else. “But you look so good, and I can’t stop thinking about it. And then we start listening, and you make these sounds, like it’s so good you can’t stop, and I’m wondering if that’s why you sound like that.”

“I, uh —” Sid starts, not sure why he’s surprised — they were living in close quarters, and Zhenya certainly fueled his fantasies. “I really like doing it. Fingering myself.”

Zhenya tips Sid’s face up so he can watch Sid’s expression. “You think you want someone else to do it? Can I?” he asks.

“We’re getting lube, first thing tomorrow, and you can finger me as much as you want,” Sid says.

They’re too tired to start anything, but Sid’s not too tired to kiss, and he kisses Zhenya again and again. They kiss until they are too tired, until their kisses are drowsy and clumsy.

“Hey,” Sid whispers. The room is silent except for Zhenya’s quiet breathing. “I love you.”

Zhenya squeezes him tight, like maybe he likes hearing it as much as Sid likes saying it. “I love you,” he says. He sounds so happy.

Sid sighs, tucks his face against Zhenya’s chest again, and falls asleep right away.

***

He wakes up feeling like a million bucks, except he’s starving, and the bruise on his face is turning a particularly unappealing shade of green around the edges.

He finds a fruit bowl and makes a phone call to a very nice member of the housekeeping staff who doesn’t judge him as he orders basically their whole breakfast menu and a bottle of champagne.

He carries the fruit bowl back into the bedroom with him, and sits up against the headboard, watching Zhenya sleep. Sid will have to wake him up when room service gets there, but he doesn’t think that anything will make a sleeping Zhenya easier to wake, not even love.

He’s still starving and he doesn’t want to fuss with seeds, or be anywhere that Zhenya’s not, so he peels a banana to eat. It’s not until he’s halfway through it, his lips wrapped around the ripe banana that Sid thinks about a method of waking up Zhenya he’s never tried before.

So he puts the banana on the bedside table and kisses Zhenya’s cheek. “Hey, wake up,” Sid whispers in his ear.

After Sid kisses his neck for a minute, Zhenya mutters, “Too early, baby,” and rolls over to drape himself on Sid.

“I ordered breakfast,” Sid says. He loves the feel of Zhenya on top of him, sleep-heavy and groggily amorous.

“Later,” Zhenya says, nuzzling his nose into Sid’s throat.

“I want to suck your cock,” Sid tries.

Zhenya blinks open his eyes and pushes back on his elbows. He pauses, clearly wondering if he’s really awake, and Sid leans up to kiss him.

“You want to —” Zhenya starts, obviously still trying to wake up.

“Suck your cock,” Sid finishes for him.

“Fuck,” Zhenya breathes out. “Yes, yeah, please.” He flops back over on his back and keeps trying to blink himself awake.

Sid can’t realistically expect Zhenya to be functioning for at least another ten minutes — and if he has his way, Sid will have made him come by then. The opportunity to practice giving head while Zhenya isn’t at his most scrutinizing takes a lot of the pressure off, so Sid feels relaxed as he opens up Zhenya’s robe, which was already loose.

He thought he was going to have to get Zhenya hard, but he’s already there, which Sid supposes is one reason waking someone up with a blowjob is so popular. He gently pushes down the skin around the head of Zhenya’s cock until it’s fully exposed and then gets in close. He props himself up between Zhenya’s legs and traces his fingers through the hair at the base of Zhenya’s cock. A lot of the guys in porn are either really hairy or totally hairless, and Sid loves how Zhenya isn’t either. It makes everything feel more real, and he appreciates it all, from the little patch of hair between Zhenya’s pecs to the wiry but soft hair Sid strokes before he jacks Zhenya’s dick a few times.

He’s watched a few blowjobs in the one DVD he ordered, but with the head of Zhenya’s dick right in front of his face he doesn’t feel like porn prepared him at all. But Sid learns best from doing, so he takes a deep breath and wraps his hand around the base of Zhenya’s cock. Zhenya is leaking, just a little, and when Sid darts his tongue out to lick along the slit, it tastes a little like his own come, but also different.

Zhenya groans and Sid is sort of surprised — he thought Zhenya was still half asleep, and he figures Zhenya has had a blowjob before — but it’s gratifying. So he ducks down a little to rest Zhenya’s cock against his lips for a second and then opens them enough to take just the head into his mouth. There’s a lot of swearing coming from the head of the bed.

“Is this — are you okay?” Sid asks, pulling back enough to look at Zhenya, who is wide awake and looks just as turned on as he did last night.

“Why you stop,” Zhenya asks plaintively. He frowns then sits up a little more. “Wait, you okay?”

Sid blinks. “Yeah?” he says. “So I can go back to —” he doesn’t say “sucking your cock,” but it’s what he means.

Zhenya rubs a hand over his face. “Don’t have to ask, anytime you want,” he says, staring back down at Sid.

It’s a little intimidating, but Sid gets Zhenya’s dick in his mouth again and Zhenya lets his head thunk back against the pillow moments later. It’s a stretch, but Sid loves how he has to work for it. He bobs his head a little, trying to find a rhythm. He knows he should probably pace himself, because his jaw ached for a little while when he practiced on one of his toys, and Zhenya is bigger than all of them, and it’ll probably take longer for Sid to get him off than he bothered practicing.

Or maybe not. Sid pulls up a little to suck on the head and tries tracing his tongue under the crown, and Zhenya comes in his mouth. Sid’s seen guys swallow and swallow in porn, but he doesn’t have that down yet, so he loses some come at the corner of his mouth and across his lips. Sid hums as he swallows and then licks his lips, automatically rubbing his thumb at the corner of his mouth and sucking it clean, too.

“Sorry, sorry,” Zhenya gasps out, but Sid, for all that he’s surprised, is pretty happy with how Zhenya got off just from that.

“Fuck,” Zhenya groans. He reaches for Sid and drags him up to kiss. “I’m sorry, I don’t warn you.”

“It was fine,” Sid assures him. Zhenya seeks out skin to touch, his hands slipping under Sid’s robe, and he shivers. “Was it okay? I mean, I know I’m not very good yet —”

“So good,” Zhenya says. “Can’t even tell you, I came so fast.”

“Yeah?” Sid asks. He doesn’t think he’s fishing for compliments; he just wants to know what Zhenya liked so he can get better at it.

Zhenya drops little kisses all over Sid’s face. “Your mouth, baby, so beautiful, so good,” he says. “I think about it so much, even better than I think.”

Sid doesn’t know how constructive that is as far as feedback goes, but he likes it a lot. “How much did you think about it?” he asks.

“You eat a lot of ice cream,” Zhenya says with a long suffering sigh.

“So do you,” Sid says. But then he stops and thinks about what Zhenya said. “You were watching me eat ice cream?”

“You like to lick spoon clean,” Zhenya says.

“Well, you touch everything like —” Sid starts, but he doesn’t have a good way to describe how Zhenya strokes his fingers over everything: the handle of his teacup, the bannister of the staircase, Sid if he’s in reach.

Zhenya grins. “Like it?” he asks, stroking his long fingers down Sid’s stomach. “I like touching you best.”

“Yeah,” Sid admits. He’s always liked how Zhenya touches him like a favourite fidget, playing with his hair, rubbing a thumb against Sid’s hip. It seemed absent-minded, like Zhenya wasn’t really thinking about it, but apparently it was more intentional than he thought. “It used to make me nuts when you’d —”

Zhenya just barely drags the tips of his fingers along Sid’s side. His grin is more like a smirk, now. “This?” he says, but clearly he already knows. “Have to find new ways to make you crazy now.”

“I think you’ll manage,” Sid gasps out as Zhenya traces a fingertip along the cut of Sid’s hip and reaches for the oil from last night with his other hand. Zhenya scoots them up the bed and drags over one of the pillows to prop himself up. Sid does his part by keeping balanced where he’s sort of sitting on Zhenya’s thighs.

There’s just enough room between them that Zhenya can get a slick hand on Sid’s cock, working him so good. Sid finds himself fucking into Zhenya’s hand, and it makes him think about what else he could do while practically sitting in Zhenya’s lap. He’s thought about riding Zhenya, but he’s never been so close to it, and Zhenya’s hand is even on his ass and slippery with oil.

Zhenya kisses Sid’s neck, and Sid feels him grin when he traces his fingers between Sid’s cheeks. Maybe Sid makes a little noise and that’s what Zhenya’s grinning about. Zhenya seems to know just how to play with the skin under the head of Sid’s dick, and Sid’s close. When Zhenya rubs his thumb over Sid’s hole, it’s almost exactly what Sid wants, and he comes all over Zhenya’s hand.

“Good?” Zhenya asks, biting gently at Sid’s jaw. Sid thinks he understands what Zhenya meant about his mouth, because just that little tease of Zhenya’s fingers was enough to totally undo him. He loves that he can slump against Zhenya and let Zhenya hold him up, that Zhenya can take it.

Sid almost has it together enough to kiss Zhenya when there’s a knock at the door. “Breakfast,” Sid explains, because Zhenya was probably still mostly asleep when Sid told him he ordered.

They mop up Zhenya’s stomach and get their robes into some semblance of order before they answer the door, but Sid doesn’t think they’re fooling anyone, even if the guy with their absurd cart of food is carefully blank faced.

Sid goes for the table, but Zhenya catches him by the belt of his robe and kisses him, a quick buss on the lips, and brings both Sid and the room service cart to the couch. Zhenya arranges them in a corner of the sofa so that Sid is practically in Zhenya’s lap.

“This isn’t really practical,” Sid points out, even though he can’t bring himself to care, especially when Zhenya holds a strawberry up to Sid’s mouth so he can take the first bite.

Zhenya finishes it off happily before offering another strawberry.

Zhenya keeps hand-picking all of Sid’s favourites out of the fruit salad and letting his thumb brush over Sid’s lower lip, and Sid concedes. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Oh, there’s champagne, too.”

They have to have a squirmy debate about which of them is getting up to get it — mostly because every time Sid tries to get up Zhenya pulls him back down to kiss some more — but eventually they mix the orange juice with the champagne and it’s so good. They manage to eat the eggs and the other hot things before they get cold, but they linger over the sweet pastries and the rest of the fruit.

Zhenya doesn’t bother with the glasses after they run out of orange juice. They pass the champagne bottle back and forth, which makes Sid think about the champagne Ovechkin gave them and he has to laugh.

“Giggly,” Zhenya says, burying his nose in Sid’s hair before he presses a kiss to his ear. “What’s so funny?”

It tickles, so Sid laughs some more, which means Zhenya does it again, nuzzling his cheek. “Remember that bottle of champagne Ovechkin gave me?” he asks.

Zhenya hums an acknowledgement but seems more interested in slipping his hand down into the v of the robe’s opening.

“He thought we were together then. He was trying to congratulate us,” Sid says. “I couldn’t figure out what he thought he knew or how he found out.”

“Sasha is a big nosy,” Zhenya says. He harrumphs into Sid’s throat before leaning up to kiss Sid.

“I think he means well,” Sid says. “I bumped into him here and he told me what room you were in.”

“When?” Zhenya asks, pulling Sid completely into his lap.

“After —” Sid starts, but he doesn’t want to bring up Russia’s game against the Czechs, so instead he says, “The night before I thought you were leaving, when I slipped the notes under your door.”

Zhenya squeezes him tight. “I wanted to talk to you so much that night,” he says.

Sid curls into him, slipping his arms around Zhenya in return. “Why didn’t you?” he asks.

“You said we don’t talk,” Zhenya says, and Sid can tell he’s not going to be living that down any time soon. “And Seroyzha says I’m not respecting your choices, so I’m trying to be better, and you’re playing so good that I’m not mess it up.”

“Okay, what did Gonch say?” Sid says, because Zhenya said something about him earlier, too.

“At locker cleanout, we talk,” Zhenya explains. It pings in Sid’s mind; he remembers Colby telling him not to interrupt Zhenya and Sergei’s conversation. “He tells me I’m little bit shithead, tells me I can’t shoot down all boys, unless I’m your boyfriend. And even then, being asshole. So I try to be a good friend, but…”

“But neither of us wanted to be friends like that?” Sid suggests.

“Yes,” Zhenya agrees. “And we still get the house, and I think, you have your own room, your own bed, no more sharing. And I hate it. Just like I hate that I’m going to Russia, you’re going to Canada, maybe you meet some boy, maybe Jack stop being idiot, date you.”

Sid is about to stand up for Jack, but Zhenya kisses the tip of his nose like an acknowledgment of what he knows Sid is going to say. “I know, but I’m always think he stupid, stupid to let you go.”

Sid decides to let that pass for the moment. “I didn’t want anything to change,” he says. “I wanted us to be just the same. But I thought that was the most I could have, that you would get back together with your girlfriend and you wouldn’t need me.”

“When you say, let’s not talk at Worlds, I didn’t want to need you,” Zhenya says. “I think, if you don’t want me, if you can say we just stop being friends, I’m fine too. But — I’m not fine. And I see your notes, many pages, and I know — you’re not fine, either. You write a note for every day, and I think — you’re so stubborn. You sign last one with ‘Sidnyusha’ and I know I love you and want you to be my Sidnyusha, always.”

Sid kisses him, slow and sweet, and he’s faintly relieved, because he wondered if Zhenya cared at all about his letters. Which reminds him — “You only sent one note back,” he says, and he recognizes that he’s pouting, but seriously.

“I can love you and still be little bit mad,” Zhenya says. He smiles. “And if I write more, just going to write ‘love you’ all over page and then you get really mad for distracting.”

Sid opens his mouth to deny that he’d do any such thing, and then has to shut it.

“But maybe you like distracting now,” Zhenya says. He rubs his nose against Sid’s, surprisingly sweetly for the way his fingers are flirting with the belt of Sid’s robe. “You’re distracting me a long time, thinking about how you sound late at night, and I’m hoping it’s a little bit for me, hoping you sound like that because you want me to hear.”

“Maybe I did,” Sid says, feeling a little daring. “You seemed to like it.”

Zhenya’s hand starts creeping up Sid’s thigh, gently parting the robe a little. “Fingers make you sound like that?”

And Sid thinks in for a penny — “Yeah, or a dildo,” he says.

Zhenya stares at Sid, wide-eyed, and Sid wonders if that was too much too soon, but Zhenya asks, “You have one?”

Sid realizes that’s not shock on Zhenya’s face, that’s interest. “I have a whole box of toys,” he says.

“When — where?” Zhenya asks, slipping his hands up Sid’s robe, stroking up his thighs.

“Under my bed,” Sid says, answering the easier question first. “And, you know, I was a little lonely while you were gone.”

“During the Olympics?” Zhenya prompts him. He’s clearly hoping for a story, so.

“Well, the box I ordered showed up the day you left, and I had all this spare time,” Sid says.

“You start out with dildo? Or fingers? First time you do it?” Zhenya asks. Sid is pretty pleased with the way Zhenya is looking at him, full of questions and so intent.

“Well, fingers, but eventually it wasn’t enough,” Sid says.

Zhenya’s eyes are dark and his fingertips are warm on the sensitive skin of Sid’s inner thighs. “You want more,” Zhenya says, spreading Sid’s legs a little.

“I bought a set, and when the biggest one wasn’t enough, I had to make another order,” Sid says, watching the way Zhenya licks his lips. “I had to do rush shipping so it would get home before you did.”

“How big?” Zhenya asks, spreading Sid’s thighs wider, until he can feel the stretch.

“Not as big as you,” Sid says, squirming until he can feel just how big Zhenya is, cock mostly hard under his ass.

He’s been teasing his way there, but Zhenya finally touches Sid’s dick in a leisurely grope, fondling his balls. And then he slips his hand underneath, fingertips tracing little swirling circles on the delicate skin until he brushes his finger over Sid’s hole. “You want that, maybe? Want my big cock in you?” he asks. Zhenya’s other hand wraps around his waist to splay his hand across Sid’s stomach, low and possessive.

The answer is yes, yes, obviously yes, but Sid hasn’t had anything since before Worlds and maybe a little caution is called for. “Fingers first,” Sid says. He lays his hand over Zhenya’s where it rests on his stomach, and traces Zhenya’s finger with his. Zhenya’s fingers are big and long and he’s thought so much about this. “Need to stretch to get ready.”

Zhenya groans and bends down so he can kiss Sid, licking into his mouth and kissing Sid dizzy. “Yeah, okay, good stretch.”

“We need lube,” Sid reminds him, when Zhenya rubs his hole a little more. “A lot — a lot of lube.”

Zhenya hums in agreement and kisses him some more.

“And condoms,” Sid says dreamily, thinking ahead to rolling one on Zhenya’s cock.

Zhenya’s brow furrows. “Can’t — can’t knock you up,” he says.

“Condoms,” Sid says firmly, giving him a look. “Go put on pants and buy some. And lube.”

Zhenya looks torn. “But —” he begins, and looks down at Sid’s lap, where his robe is all rucked up and his thighs are spread, making his hard cock obvious.

“Don’t you want to see if you can make me come with just your fingers?” Sid asks.

Zhenya swears and gently shifts Sid off his lap before getting to his feet “Stay — stay right here,” he says, and walks awkwardly to the bedroom. He comes back out dressed in pants and a t-shirt and a hoodie that almost hangs low enough to hide how hard he is.

“Hurry up and come back,” Sid says, still sprawled where Zhenya put him.

“Don’t move,” Zhenya says. He grabs a key card off the table and walks out the door with gratifying haste.

Sid lies there toying with the belt on his robe. Zhenya said not to move, but — it’s going to be easier on the bed. Thinking about Zhenya stretching out between his legs while fingering him makes the decision easier. He gets up, but pulls the belt out of his robe first and drops it on the couch.

He lets the robe itself fall in the doorway to the bedroom.

Once he has all the covers pushed to the foot of the bed, he climbs in and gets comfortable. He debates the merits of Zhenya finding him on lying on his stomach or on his back, but at least for this first time, he thinks he wants to be able to watch Zhenya’s face. He’s not nervous, not exactly, but it will be the first time that he won’t be in control, and — he just wants it to be good for both of them. He doesn’t think Zhenya’s done this before with a girl, but then again, not everyone is like Max, who insists on oversharing and is probably exaggerating anyway.

Sid props his hips up with a pillow, and then feels a little dumb, a little too exposed, with his legs spread waiting for Zhenya to come back. He’s just about to pull the pillow back out when he hears the door.

“Sid?” Zhenya calls. He sounds a little panicked.

“In here,” Sid says.

“Told you not to move,” Zhenya grouses and then comes to a halt in the doorway, plastic bag hanging from his fingertips, his jaw dropping.

“Welcome back,” Sid says in Russian.

“Fuck,” Zhenya says. He hurriedly strips out of his clothes before climbing into bed between Sid’s legs.

Sid tugs him down for a kiss, because it has been a whole ten minutes. “What did you get?” he asks, poking at the plastic bag resting on the bed beside him.

Zhenya opens the bag and pulls out a bottle of lube, and then another, and then another. “Don’t know what kind you like,” he says, looking apologetic.

The labels may be in another language, but the branding looks pretty similar. Sid picks out the bottle that he’s pretty sure is not his actual favourite, but a close second. He opens it and tests it between his fingertips, and — yeah, he’s pretty sure he’s right. “This one’s good,” he says, and hands it to Zhenya.

“I get condoms, also,” Zhenya says, pulling a box out of the bag. “For later.”

Sid shivers and licks his lips. “Have you done this before?”

Zhenya shakes his head. He looks — nervous?

“I can show you,” Sid offers. He feels a little weird about it, maybe a little shy, but — well, Zhenya always has to see a drill done before he gets it. He’s a visual learner. Sid can work with that.

Zhenya still looks a little nervous, but there’s interest there, too. “Show me how you like?” he asks, thumb rubbing the crease of Sid’s thigh.

“Yeah,” Sid says. He wonders if it’s weird to just get to it, but he’s been hard for a while, and he knows what he’s doing, so. He takes the lube back from Zhenya and squeezes some out on to his hand, and then plants his feet a little more firmly on the bed, wiggles his ass into a better position, and reaches down to touch his hole.

Zhenya is kneeling between his spread legs and staring. His mouth hangs open as Sid rubs lazy circles.

“You just have to go slow,” Sid says, teasing himself with a fingertip before gradually easing it further in. He knows how to relax now, how fast he can go. But it’s been a few weeks, and besides, it can’t hurt to take his time while Zhenya watches. “And use a lot of lube,” he says, taking his finger out to put more on and pushing right back in.

Zhenya nods, his eyes still fixed on Sid’s ass.

Sid adds more lube and another finger, and Zhenya starts stroking his thighs, his ass, all while watching intently. “Feels good?” Zhenya asks.

Sid twists his fingers, trying to get them deeper, but there’s a reason he broke down and ordered toys. “Yeah,” he sighs. “But — my fingers aren’t really long enough to reach.”

“Reach?” Zhenya echoes.

Sid blinks. “Yeah, you know —” and then he realizes Zhenya probably doesn’t know. “There’s, um — a really good spot. But it’s kind of hard to get.”

“Long fingers better?” Zhenya asks, and his hands are holding Sid’s thighs now, spreading his legs a touch further.

“I don’t know,” Sid says. “You want to try?”

Zhenya licks his lips and nods. He grabs the lube and puts — okay, maybe too much on his finger, but Sid’s not going to nitpick. Sid eases his fingers out, and Zhenya darts a look at his face before carefully stroking his fingertip over Sid’s hole. He looks up at Sid again. “Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Sid says. “You can put one in.”

“Slow,” Zhenya says, almost to himself. And he carefully pushes his finger in, and that’s — that’s different, because it’s not Sid dictating the pace or the depth, and Zhenya’s finger is wider and longer. It sends something shivery up Sid’s spine.

“Good?” Zhenya asks, hand stilling. Sid squirms a little on it, and Zhenya’s eyes widen.

“Mmm,” Sid says. “You can — you can move it.”

Zhenya pulls his finger out and thrusts it in again, achingly slowly, watching Sid’s face the entire time.

“I thought about you doing this,” Sid confesses.

Zhenya stills before resuming his slow, careful pace. “Think about it a lot?”

“Yeah,” Sid says. He pushes up a tiny bit to meet Zhenya’s next thrust. “I knew I shouldn’t think about you, but you called me one time while I was — you know, and then I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

Zhenya’s eyes are dark. “When?”

“Olympics,” Sid says. Zhenya speeds up a little, clearly more confident.

“You doing this?” Zhenya says, twisting his finger a little. “While we talk?”

“N-no,” Sid breathes out. “I had — a toy in, and you called, so I — just talked to you.”

Zhenya presses his face against Sid’s inner thigh and draws in a shaky breath before kissing there. “Wish I’m there,” he says. “Whole time in Turin, wish you with me. Wonder what you do when I’m gone.”

“I did me,” Sid says, and Zhenya groans. “I did me a lot,” Sid says. “Give me another finger — I can take it.”

Zhenya adds more lube and pushes two fingers in, still taking his time. He’s been pressing his finger in as deep as he can, but he’s starting to experiment more, pulling almost all the way out before pushing all the way back in, and trying short little strokes, and twisting his fingers a little bit.

“Try, um — try this,” Sid says. He holds his palm out and crooks his fingers.

Zhenya looks thoughtful, and then —

“Ah!” Sid moans in surprised pleasure. He was expecting it, but still.

“That’s good spot?” Zhenya says, and does it again, like it’s no big deal, which — even with bigger toys it was always the angle that was the problem, and Sid’s gotten better but it’s still been hit or miss.

Sid chokes out a cry, and Zhenya looks amazed and so, so hungry, and then he gives it to Sid, thrusting his fingers in and out, fast and hard and curling them just right, and all Sid can do is thrash and moan. When he comes, shaking and sighing through his orgasm, Zhenya looks exultant.

Sid lies there panting, come cooling on his stomach, and Zhenya still has his fingers inside him.

“That’s the noise,” Zhenya says in satisfaction.

“Hmm?”

Zhenya kisses his thigh again. “When we jerk off together, you make that noise. You do that?”

Sid tries to get his brain working. “Yeah,” he says.

“Sounds good,” Zhenya says, and he gives Sid a wolfish smile. “Sounds better now, though. Was it good?”

“So good,” Sid assures him.

Zhenya moves his fingers just a little. It feels like too much, and Sid makes a surprised noise. Zhenya stills.

“Can I do again?” Zhenya asks uncertainly.

“Any time you want,” Sid says.

Zhenya licks his lips. “Right now?”

Sid lifts his head up enough to look at Zhenya’s cock, which is hard and flushed. “Don’t you want—”

“Would rather touch you,” Zhenya says, which is pretty hot, but Sid seriously doesn’t think he can right now.

“Come kiss me,” Sid says instead. He can see Zhenya hesitate over pulling out his fingers, so he says, “Slowly.”

Zhenya eases his fingers out gently, but Sid still can’t help the breathy hitch in his voice as he says, “Just like that.” He doesn’t have to wait long, because Zhenya climbs up to lie on him, kissing his way there.

“You okay?” Zhenya asks, with a short, sweet peck of a kiss. “You really like it?”

“Of course,” Sid says, kissing Zhenya more. “I usually can’t come without jerking off, too.”

Zhenya’s expression shifts from smug to intrigued as Sid watches, and he thinks Zhenya is certainly going to try to change that. “You want more next time?” he asks.

Sid’s not sure he’ll survive more, but, “Absolutely,” he says.

“So tight, though,” Zhenya says, kissing his way to Sid’s ear. “Have to go slow, stretch you good. How many fingers you normally take?”

Sid shivers. It’s a thrill to talk about it so plainly. “If I’m going to use a toy, three, usually,” he says. Zhenya makes an appreciative noise and Sid adds, “I’ll need more if you’re going to fuck me.”

Zhenya’s hips twitch against Sid’s thigh, reminding him that even if he came in a spectacular fashion, Zhenya is still waiting.

“But my fingers are smaller than yours,” Sid says, thinking about Zhenya’s big, clever fingers. “So maybe three of yours. You’ll have to take your time.”

Zhenya groans and kisses Sid’s throat. “Go so slow, get you ready,” he says.

“Well, not too slow,” Sid says, thinking about how good Zhenya had given it to him with just two fingers. “But maybe you want it slow?” He rolls a little onto his side so he can get a good grip on Zhenya’s dick, trying to find the lube with his other hand.

Zhenya finds it first and gets Sid’s hand nice and slick. “Can be a little fast,” he says, nudging his cock against Sid’s hip. And Zhenya has been so patient that Sid doesn’t want to tease him or draw it out. He kisses Zhenya and jerks him off until he comes, adding to the mess on Sid’s stomach.

They lie there for a little while. After Sid mops up with some tissues, Zhenya pulls him close and they cuddle together to stay warm, since they’re both too lazy to get the blankets from the foot of the bed. Zhenya seems to like draping himself all over Sid, anyway, so it’s not like it’s a hardship for anyone. Zhenya also cards his fingers through Sid’s hair, which leaves him drowsy and pliable, even if his toes are a little cold.

Sid is just thinking that a nap might be in order when it occurs to him to wonder if they have to be out of the room at some point in the near future. “Hey, how long do we have the room for?” he asks.

Zhenya rubs his face against Sid’s shoulder. “Relax, I ask for whole week,” he says.

“A week?” Sid asks, surprised.

Zhenya looks up. “Too much?” he asks. “Don’t have to stay, I just think I want to spend time with you. Just you.”

“We’re staying,” Sid says firmly. The more he thinks about it, the more he likes this idea, a week with just the two of them, no schedules, nothing to do but be together. But — “We should probably call home, though. I don’t want anyone to worry.” He called home just once, to let his parents know he arrived safely, and he’s pretty sure they would be upset if they called, thinking he was back in the States, and there was no answer.

“We call Mario later,” Zhenya says, snuggling up like he’s also ready for a nap. “Still too early at home.”

Sid glances at the bedside clock and counts back the seven hours he’s pretty sure is the time difference. Yeah, if he calls now, the phone call will probably start with, “What’s wrong?” Even if he’d gotten on the plane with the rest of the Canadians he wouldn’t be home yet, so there’s nothing to worry about.

The room is a little too chilly, even with Zhenya on top of him, so he makes Zhenya get up so he can grab the blankets. He ignores the grumbles that don’t stop until they’re snuggled up like before, just actually warm. Sid’s eyes drift closed. He falls asleep to the sound of Zhenya’s even breathing.

***

If the light coming faintly through the curtains is accurate, it’s much later when Sid wakes up again. Zhenya is idly kissing Sid’s neck. Sid smiles, still amazed that he’s waking up in Zhenya’s arms.

“Hi,” he says, turning so he can kiss Zhenya on the lips.

“Hello, sleepy,” Zhenya says. “Big smile. What are you thinking about?”

“You,” Sid says, sliding a hand across Zhenya’s shoulder. “Us. I’m really happy, Zhenya. You make me really happy.”

Zhenya kisses him deeply, generously, and it’s so good it makes Sid’s toes curl. “You make me happy,” Zhenya says. He wraps Sid up in a giant hug, his cheek pressed against Sid’s sternum. “But you still have to call Mario.”

“What?” Sid huffs out.

“You live there first, he likes you best,” Zhenya says, smiling into Sid’s chest.

“You’re older,” Sid tries. He really doesn’t want to have to tell Mario they decided to stay in Latvia for an extra week to have sex. But Mario will ask questions, so Sid will have to tell him they wanted to sightsee, and he can’t lie to Mario, so they’ll actually have to leave the hotel room and go see things. At least one thing.

“Two years in the SuperLeague,” Zhenya says. He squeezes Sid’s ass and kisses him until Sid would agree to almost anything.

Which is how he ends up on the phone telling Mario that neither of them is on their way back to Pittsburgh.

“Churches,” Mario says, audibly disbelieving.

“There’s supposed to be a really nice waterfront, too,” Sid says, dredging his brain for things he talked about with Patrice. “And a zoo.” He has no idea if there is a zoo, but it sounds pretty plausible. Maybe they’ll buy a guide book.

“Well, take care of each other,” Mario says. “Have you booked your return tickets?”

“Uh, no,” Sid says, feeling increasingly obvious and unprepared. “But we’ll call when we know.”

“You do that,” Mario says, a hint of humour creeping into his tone. “Be good, boys.”

“We will,” Sid promises.

Zhenya didn’t bug Sid while he was on the phone with Mario, but apparently his patience is all gone by the time Sid gets his parents’ answering machine.

“Hey, Mom and Dad, Hi, Taylor,” Sid says, trying to nudge Zhenya away from where he’s kissing the ear not pressed up against the phone. “I just wanted to let you know that Geno and I are staying in Latvia a little longer — there was some sight-sightseeing we wanted to do.” Zhenya palms Sid’s hip and kisses his shoulder.

“Knock it off,” Sid whispers, his hand over the receiver, before continuing in a normal tone of voice. “We’ll be back in Pittsburgh in a week and I’ll give you guys a call when I get home! Love you, bye!” Sid squeaks on “home” because someone’s hand is slipping down his stomach toward an area that has no place being touched while he’s on the phone with his parents.

“You are in so much trouble,” Sid says as soon as he’s sure the receiver is back in the cradle.

Zhenya grins. “Taking too long,” he says. “Shower going to get cold.”

“If it didn’t run cold last night, I don’t think it will,” Sid says. He just barely tilts his head to the side so Zhenya can kiss his neck.

“We can try,” Zhenya says persuasively. He rubs Sid’s shoulders in a massage that makes him totally melt, and he lets Zhenya kiss his neck all he wants.

***

They don’t manage to outlast the shower, but they do eventually get clean, after getting a little dirty first.

“Dinner downstairs,” Zhenya says, even as he kisses Sid in a way that’s totally counterproductive as far as wanting to get dressed goes.

“Is it as fancy as the room?” Sid asks. He cracks open his suitcase for the first time and wishes they’d packed his stuff a little better.

“You look good wearing anything,” Zhenya says. “Even if you look best not wearing anything.”

“Unless I’m going to dinner naked, you better help me find something we didn’t shove dirty socks into,” Sid says.

His suit’s a little wrinkly, but he makes do, and it’s early enough that Sid doesn’t think the restaurant will be very crowded. Zhenya looks good; his suit is nicely pressed, and the teasingly open collar of his shirt, missing its usual tie, is distracting.

The restaurant downstairs is as fancy as Sid suspected it would be. It sort of looks like a really expensive cave. But they have good food, which is all Sid cares about. Zhenya even orders a bottle of wine with dinner, and while a bottle of wine between him, Zhenya, Mario, and Nathalie is never a big deal, when it’s just him and Zhenya, it goes a lot farther.

It’s nice, playing footsie with Zhenya under the table and enjoying a good steak and drinking a good bottle of wine. It’s — it’s a date, which sort of floors Sid. He’s eaten dinner with Zhenya plenty of times, some remarkably like this, but this is also unmistakably a date, going by the looks that Zhenya gives him and the way he tangles their ankles together.

“So does this count as our first date?” Sid asks, enjoying getting to say it out loud.

Zhenya grins. “Probably more like date a hundred,” he says. “But if you want, our first date.”

Sid likes that Zhenya also sort of thinks those were dates, but he wants to be able to look back and say, “This was our first date,” so he says, “Yep, May 22nd, our first date.” It’s surreal to think this time last year he was still playing with Rimouski, and now he’s an NHL player with a boyfriend.

But even though he’s only known Zhenya for two years and a couple of months, it feels like forever. He couldn’t have known it then, that an act of kindness from a then-stranger would give him the most important person in his life.

“Hey,” Sid says, thinking back to that hallway in Helsinki. “Do you remember when we first met, right after Canada played the Czechs?”

“You even shorter then,” Zhenya says, smiling sweetly. “But so cute.”

Sid rolls his eyes. “You were a beanpole,” he reminds Zhenya. All of the height, none of the wiry muscle he has now. “But seriously — what made you come talk to me?”

Zhenya’s smile shifts into a thoughtful expression. “I see you, and you — you look like you need a friend,” he says.

Sid’s heart catches in his throat. He did, he did need some kindness then, and even before Zhenya knew Sid, he was taking care of him. “You’ve had my back for a long time, huh?” Sid says, when he thinks he can say it.

“Always have your back,” Zhenya promises, reaching out for Sid’s hand.

Sid’s never been into PDA, too private to consider it even if it had been an option, but he takes Zhenya’s hand and keeps on holding it.

***

Sid holds Zhenya’s hand in the elevator on the way back to the room, because he doesn’t want to let go, and Zhenya seems to feel the same way. When they get there, Sid feels warm and full and he wants to wrap himself up in Zhenya and stay there.

He plucks at the cuff of Zhenya’s jacket and says, “Hey, you want to get out of this, get comfy?” He feels a little awkward about asking if they can just hang out on the couch together while he digests. It’s something he’s done with Zhenya for months and months, but asking for it like this is different.

Also, Zhenya looks really good in his suit, and as much as Sid theoretically wants to strip him out of it and get down, at the moment, he’d rather just cuddle.

“Go put on my shirt,” Zhenya says.

Sid swallows. “Yeah, okay,” he says. He can do that. He can definitely do that.

He wanders back out to the couch in his boxers and Zhenya’s shirt, and Zhenya’s in a Pens t-shirt with a hole in the collar and a really thin pair of sweatpants that tormented Sid for months, because Zhenya always freeballs it.

They curl up on the couch together, all tangled up, and watch some incomprehensible show that seems to involve beautiful people doing terrible things to each other for no discernable reason. Zhenya flips the channel to something that looks like Survivor, and that’s at least easier to follow.

Sid strokes his fingers through the hair at Zhenya’s nape, which is infinitely more interesting than what’s on the TV. Zhenya, for his part, rubs his thumb against Sid’s hip, and periodically turns his head to kiss Sid’s cheek.

“Which bedroom you want?” Zhenya asks.

“Hmm?” Sid blinks at him in confusion.

“Bedroom in our house,” Zhenya clarifies.

“Whichever one you’re in,” Sid says, and snuggles closer. “I’m not picky.”

Zhenya huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “You the most picky,” he says, and presses several kisses in succession to Sid’s temple. “All I want is house you like, house you like living in with me. Then you make list.”

“I made one with your help, because Melissa told us to,” Sidney grouses. “Zhenya, a house is a big deal. And I just — I wanted you to be happy.”

The little smile that Zhenya gives him is soft and honest, and it warms Sid from the inside out. “I’m so happy,” Zhenya tells him. Sid has to kiss him.

Zhenya tugs Sid into better position so they can make out more comfortably. This is something Sid never quite imagined, either — having the time and luxury to kiss Zhenya as much as he wants. And he wants to kiss him a lot. He loves the feeling of Zhenya’s lips against his, the slide of Zhenya’s big hands up and down his back, the way their breathing syncs up. Zhenya’s generous with his tongue and Sid sighs into his mouth. His lips are starting to feel sensitive and a little tender, and he doesn’t want to stop.

They break to catch their breath, and Zhenya says, “So, my bedroom in house okay?”

Sid nips Zhenya’s lower lip. “The windows face east,” he reminds him.

“Picky,” Zhenya says. “What am I going to do with you?”

“You could give me what I want,” Sid says breathlessly as Zhenya’s hands slide from his hips to his ass.

“What you want?”

“The room with the better bathroom,” Sid says, and grinds up against Zhenya’s thigh as he goes in for another kiss.

“So, my room,” Zhenya says, grinning like the asshole he is, and Sid squawks in protest. In the middle of a tussle that’s less wrestling and more kissing, they fall right off the couch.

“Ow,” Sid says belatedly, and pushes half-heartedly at Zhenya. “Let’s — do you want to —” He feels a little shy about asking all of a sudden.

Zhenya’s half on top of him, still. “Bed?” he suggests. When Sid nods, Zhenya picks himself up off the floor and offers Sid a hand up.

Zhenya follows him to the bedroom, but stops him in front of the bed by wrapping one arm around him from behind. A moment later, Sid feels Zhenya’s fingertips trace over the name on the back of his shirt. “You wear a lot,” Zhenya says.

Sid can feel how hard Zhenya is against his ass, and there’s something thrilling about knowing that he can do something so simple and turn Zhenya on so much. “I wore your Magntika shirt to bed almost every night last year,” he says.

Zhenya groans and he rolls his hips. Sid gasps and lets his head fall back so that Zhenya can kiss his jawline and ear. “I never take penguin necklace off,” he says. “Guys ask where I get, what it mean, and — it means you.”

Sid turns to kiss him, tracing the chain with his fingertips as Zhenya backs them up to the bed.

Zhenya catches the hem of Sid’s shirt. “Okay?”

“I could keep it on,” Sid says. He feels a little daring, so he adds, “I wore it a lot when I was jerking off.”

Zhenya growls and pulls it off quickly before yanking off his own, and then they’re both stepping out of their bottoms and hitting the bed. Sid can still hardly believe this is all for him, that Zhenya wants Sid to touch him so badly.

“Can I suck you off again?” Sid asks.

Zhenya’s got a weirdly stubborn look on his face. “Me first,” he says. “My turn.”

“Oh,” Sid says, feeling a little dazed. “Yeah, I mean — if you want to?”

Zhenya kisses a hasty, sloppy trail down his chest, settles himself between Sid’s thighs, and coaxes them open. Sid knows Zhenya’s never done this before, and, well, it’s not like Sid had before this morning either. Maybe Zhenya won’t like it, or he’ll only do a little bit, but that’s all right, they can make it work.

He looks down just in time to see Zhenya wrap his lips around the head of Sid’s cock, and then it’s —“Oh,” Sid moans. Zhenya meets his eyes while he slides more of Sid into his mouth, and it’s wet, and hot, and Zhenya’s tongue is so good, and Zhenya’s got an arm over Sid’s hips to keep him in place, so all he can do is lie there and let Zhenya blow him.

And then suddenly Zhenya’s mouth is gone. Sid opens his eyes to see Zhenya looking rueful and rubbing his jaw. “Need practice,” he says apologetically, but he doesn’t look upset or like he’s not into it. Instead, he’s feeling around the sheets until he comes up with the lube. “Can I?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Sid breathes.

Zhenya’s slow again, achingly careful as he slides one finger in. It feels easier this time, but Sid also feels more sensitive too. It’s the good kind of sensitive, and Zhenya looks so intent that Sid shivers a little.

Zhenya drops a kiss on Sid’s hip, licks the tip of his cock, and starts to thrust his finger in, and Sid just clutches at the sheets. Zhenya’s licking experimentally down his cock and nosing at his balls, and Sid whimpers when his finger stops moving because he needs it.

“Zhenya,” he says plaintively.

“Two okay?” Zhenya asks, already pulling his finger out and lubing up.

“Yeah, I want —” Sid trails off, his mouth open, as Zhenya pushes two fingers in and just brushes his prostate lightly.

“Want three, maybe,” Zhenya says, and starts to finger him in earnest. “But I think you want dick the most.”

Sid can’t say anything to that, because he does, he really does, but Zhenya’s getting him so good and he’s mouthing the tip of Sid’s dick and it’s too much, he’s making so much noise, he’s going to — he’s going to —

Zhenya sucks Sid’s cock and crooks his fingers and Sid doesn’t even have a chance to warn him before he comes.

Zhenya coughs a little, and when Sid looks down, he’s got jizz on his chin and his cheek and he’s still got two fingers in Sid.

“Come here,” Sid says weakly, tugging at Zhenya’s shoulder. Zhenya pulls his fingers out and Sid shudders, but Zhenya’s not in a hurry to make his way up the bed or to clean off his face. Instead he rubs Sid’s hole gently, his touch exploratory.

“Little red,” Zhenya says. “Okay?”

“Mm-hmm,” Sid says dreamily. He’s got to look a little used, a little sloppy with lube, and the thought of Zhenya being responsible for that makes him sigh. “Come here,” he says again. This time, Zhenya crawls up the bed to lie on top of Sid, his hips cradled by Sid’s thighs.

Sid reaches up to wipe some of the come off Zhenya’s face. “That was really good,” he says, just in case Zhenya had any doubts to the contrary.

Zhenya looks both sweetly pleased and smug, even as he rocks his hips against Sid’s, rubbing his cock against Sid’s stomach.

Sid does his best to encourage it by grabbing Zhenya’s ass and coaxing him into a rhythm. He feels completely done in, but he can do this at least.

“You know what I want to do tomorrow?” Sid asks conversationally. Zhenya grunts in lieu of an answer and thrusts a little harder, and Sid bites back a smile. “I want you to get that in me.”

Zhenya moans brokenly and pauses for a second to readjust, leaning over Sid on his forearms and rubbing his dick against him. “Give you,” he says, and then says fervently, “Fuck, Sid —”

“I want all of it,” Sid murmurs. “All day. Let’s stay right here and you can do me. A lot.”

“Fuck,” Zhenya gasps. His hips are moving faster.

“Come on, Zhenya,” Sid says, whispering in his ear. “Give it to me.”

Zhenya gets a hand between them and jerks himself off, and gasps when he comes all over Sid. And then he collapses, pretty much right on top of Sid. Sure, he’s heavy, but Sid gets to feel Zhenya breathe against him, and pet Zhenya’s hair, and it feels all kinds of right.

“Hey,” Sid whispers after a while.

“Ngh,” Zhenya says articulately.

“Want to shower?” Sid asks.

Zhenya tucks his nose against Sid’s neck. “Stay like this,” he says.

It’s really tempting, but — “We have jizz all over us,” Sid points out.

“You like,” Zhenya says, and okay, he does, but still.

“Zhenya,” Sid complains.

Zhenya heaves a sigh but lifts himself up, and Sid follows him into the bathroom where they rinse off quickly, or as quickly as they can while still being occasionally sidetracked by kissing. When they’re warm and snuggled together in bed, Zhenya falls asleep almost immediately, and Sid isn’t far behind.

***

Sid wakes up the next morning when he feels the mattress shift as Zhenya climbs back into bed.

“Where’d you go?” he asks, mostly into his pillow because his face is half-mashed in it.

“Snack,” Zhenya says. Sid turns to look at the clock and it’s still early. Who even knows why Zhenya is awake, except that they did fall asleep pretty early last night.

“Ugh,” Sid says. He crawls out of bed long enough to use the bathroom and comes right back. Zhenya peels an orange over a tissue while Sid lies there with the blankets pulled up to his chin. The May weather seems unpredictable, and it’s surprisingly cool in their bedroom.

Zhenya holds a piece out to Sid. He inspects it suspiciously for unacceptable amounts of pith and then snags it between his teeth. They go through the whole orange like that, Zhenya taking extra care to strip as much pith off Sid’s slices as possible. Zhenya leans down to kiss him when they’re finished, and it’s sweet, and not all of that is because of the orange. When Sid curls one arm around Zhenya’s neck to bring him closer, it gets less sweet and more steamy. Zhenya runs his hand up and down Sid’s side while they kiss.

“It’s tomorrow,” Zhenya says when he pulls back to catch his breath, and he looks hopeful.

Sid blinks at him, confused.

Zhenya pushes his hard dick against Sid’s thigh. “You said I do you tomorrow. It’s tomorrow.”

Sid stares at him. “Did you wake up early so we could bone?” he asks.

“No,” Zhenya says, not entirely convincingly. He traces Sid’s hip with his fingertips. “But if you want to —” There’s an unexpected nervous note there, like he’s not exactly sure Sid wants to do this.

“Hey,” Sid says, and leans up to peck Zhenya on the lips. “I want to. But only if you do, too.” Zhenya still looks a little anxious, so Sid rubs his arm. “We don’t have to,” he says, trying for reassuring. It’s new for him but it’s new for Zhenya, too. Maybe he needs some time to get used to the idea.

“I want to,” Zhenya says slowly, clearly thinking of the right words. “Just want to — do right. Not mess up.”

“Hey,” Sid says again. “It’s both of us, right? It’s like being on the ice. Just got to talk to each other.”

Zhenya looks a little reassured by that. “I like when you talk,” he says, and — okay, that wasn’t exactly what Sid meant, but he figures he can multi-task.

“Do you want me to tell you what to do?” Sid asks.

Zhenya’s eyes are dark and interested. “Bossy,” he says, and kisses Sid, dirty and slow. “Like you bossy,” he adds.

It’s enough to calm Sid’s own nerves, and it makes him brave enough to say, “Get the lube and condoms.”

Zhenya scrambles to obey. He places them nearby and waits for Sid’s next instructions.

It’s kind of amazing. “Kiss me,” Sid says, and Zhenya does, and wow. The way Zhenya kisses him, lush and deep, makes his toes curl.

Zhenya takes the initiative to kiss down Sid’s jaw to his ear. “Want this?” he murmurs.

“Yeah, do it, I want —” Sid manages, and Zhenya nips his ear and tongues the hickey underneath. Sid cups the back of Zhenya’s head, squirming even as he holds Zhenya close and encourages him further down his neck. Zhenya obliges, sucking kisses on his way down and then lingering at the base of Sid’s throat. Sid’s touching everywhere he can reach, and he hopes this is making Zhenya as hot as it’s making him.

Zhenya moves down the bed a little further, and he looks at Sid’s nipples before looking at Sid questioningly.

“It can’t be that different,” Sid says. He sounds far more confident than he feels.

Zhenya acknowledges that with a head tilt and a wry smile. He leans down to lick one of Sid’s nipples, and oh — Sid rubs them sometimes but it doesn’t feel like this. Zhenya’s surprisingly delicate about it, flicking his tongue across them in a way that goes straight to Sid’s dick. He opens his eyes to look at Sid’s when he sucks, and Sid actually squeaks in surprised pleasure.

“Nobody do this for you,” Zhenya says, before settling himself firmly between Sid’s legs and kissing across his chest to the other nipple.

“You know I’m —” Sid starts, and then has to stop because Zhenya gently, gently uses his teeth and Sid practically comes unglued.

“You don’t let anyone else,” Zhenya says, and looks up. “But you trust me.”

“I do,” Sid says, hushed.

Zhenya looks determined and scoots further down the bed. He doesn’t have to coax Sid’s thighs open. “Tell me,” he says.

Sid actually has to gather his wits for a moment. “Um — pillow. Under me. It’ll be easier.”

Zhenya snags one and Sid pushes his hips up off the mattress so Zhenya can stuff it underneath. It brings Sid’s dick up close to Zhenya’s face, and he helps himself to a leisurely lick of the head.

“Next,” Zhenya prompts.

Sid kind of wants Zhenya to keep sucking his dick. And then he thinks — well, he can ask. “Can you — can you keep sucking me?”

Zhenya licks his lips and nods. “Give you finger, too?”

“Start with one,” Sid says, feeling on firmer ground. “And don’t — don’t get that spot too good.”

Zhenya looks confused for a moment, and then his expression clears. “You like it so much,” he purrs. He uncaps the lube, slicks up his fingers, and presses one to Sid’s hole.

“Yeah,” Sid sighs, and then moans when Zhenya wraps his mouth around the head of Sid’s cock and starts to slowly press a finger inside. “But I — I want to wait, I want —”

Zhenya starts to finger him slowly while he licks his cock, pressing a kiss to the tip before sucking it again. And it’s so good, but Sid’s boiling over with impatience, because he wants it, he can take it, he wants to feel himself stretched around Zhenya.

“Two,” Sid pleads. Zhenya doesn’t argue, just gives him what he asks for. He goes achingly slowly, and Sid wants him to hurry, but he knows that’s not the best idea, so he takes it and relaxes as best he can, even though Zhenya is winding him up so hard. And when two fingers aren’t enough, he asks for three.

“Sure?” Zhenya asks.

“Give it to me,” Sid snaps, and Zhenya smiles a little, nearly puffing his chest out. He gives him three, and stops sucking Sid’s cock in favor of watching Sid’s face and fingering him carefully.

Sid feels like he’s coming unspooled, like Zhenya’s slick, long fingers will make him come even without rubbing his prostate, and he knows his body, he knows what he can take. “Stop,” he says, and Zhenya goes still. Sid breathes deeply a few times, trying to pull himself back from the edge. He clenches experimentally around Zhenya’s fingers, and Zhenya’s eyes widen.

“I want your dick now,” Sid says, and it comes out hoarse and needy.

Zhenya pulls out his fingers slowly, and his hands shake just a little while he rolls the condom on. And then he lines himself up, and there are a few false starts before he eases the tip inside. He leans forward to brace his forearms on the mattress next to Sid, and he kisses him once before he gently, slowly, works his hips forward. Sid’s grateful for the slow pace, because it’s kind of like fucking himself, but kind of not. He’s not in control like he is with a dildo, and Zhenya doesn’t exactly feel like one, either. He feels warm and hard and big, and he’s not shaped like Sid’s toys, but the way the crown of his dick feels as he pushes inside makes Sid sigh tremulously. And it just feels like it goes on forever, until Zhenya is buried inside him and breathing hard.

He’s just — full of Zhenya’s cock, and he shifts a little, relishing it.

“Can I —” Zhenya asks.

Sid wraps his legs around Zhenya’s waist. “Fuck me,” he whispers against Zhenya’s lips.

Zhenya’s slow to pull out, and god, the drag of his cock inside is so stupidly good that Sid never wants it to end. And then Zhenya thrusts in again, just as careful, and Sid’s stretched wide around him, and Zhenya’s right, he trusts Zhenya to give him everything he needs.

He clutches Zhenya’s shoulders and moans at the next long slide in and out. The angle isn’t quite right, but Zhenya’s actually fucking him, Zhenya’s actually got his cock inside him, and Sid’s been dreaming of this for months and months and it still feels better than he imagined.

“Fuck,” Zhenya says into Sid’s shoulder. “You so —” His next thrust is a little harder, and a little faster, and then he gets a rhythm going, and Sid can feel the muscles in Zhenya’s back move under his hands as Zhenya fucks him.

“More,” Sid begs, because it’s so good but he needs —

“Can’t,” Zhenya groans out. “Gonna —”

“Harder,” Sid insists, and Zhenya is panting for breath, grinding into Sid with short, sharp thrusts that make Sid crazy, and he’s making so much noise, sighing out, “Ahh, oh god, ah —”

Zhenya thrusts in hard and goes still, shaking in Sid’s arms. It feels like he comes forever, and even though Sid’s still aching for it, he’s pleased that he can do this, that he can make Zhenya come this hard.

Sid tries to take a few steadying breaths, because he doesn’t want to rush Zhenya, but on the other hand, he needs to come so badly. Zhenya musters the energy to drop kisses on Sid’s neck and shoulders, still breathing hard. Sid sighs and figures he can wait a few minutes before asking Zhenya to jerk him off.

Finally Zhenya kisses him on the mouth, a firm press of his lips. He reaches down and holds the condom in place while he pulls out. Sid’s about to ask Zhenya for a hand when Zhenya slides two fingers right back in, and Sid chokes out a moan.

“Wait,” Zhenya says.

“For what?” Sid asks desperately.

“Give me little time,” Zhenya says. He kisses Sid again, tonguefucking him, and Sid writhes on his fingers.

“I just need, come on —”

“You need dick,” Zhenya says, and Sid’s eyes fly open. “Give you all dick you need.”

“Zhenya,” Sid says. He plants his feet on the bed and tries to get more of Zhenya’s fingers.

“I find this spot,” Zhenya says, and rubs Sid’s prostate lightly, making him gasp. “Find it with cock and fuck you so hard.”

“Fuck me now,” Sid says.

“Bossy,” Zhenya says, but he stubbornly refuses to do more than hold Sid open with his fingers. “I think sometimes about you like this.”

Sid draws in a shaky breath. “Yeah?”

Zhenya twists his fingers slowly and kisses Sid again. “Last month, I think about — new house, and you in my bed.” He presses another few kisses on the tender underside of Sid’s jaw. “I think, maybe you come to bed, maybe you tell me to hold you, maybe you want more than hold.”

“I do,” Sid says, and squirms again.

“Maybe you tell me hold your dick,” Zhenya murmurs. “Maybe I get to hold you close, hold you tight, rub your perfect ass on my cock, maybe I get to jerk you off.”

“Please,” Sid moans.

He’s disappointed when Zhenya pulls his fingers out, but Zhenya encourages him to turn over, and tugs his hips up. And then he feels Zhenya pressed against his back, and Zhenya says, “We try like this?”

It’s not a position Sid’s ever been in, braced on his forearms with his ass up. As vulnerable as he feels like this, Zhenya’s heavy weight on him and the hard line of his cock is more than enough to persuade him. “Yeah, come on,” he says. Zhenya rears back to open up another condom and then he holds Sid’s hip with one hand and presses his cock in again. It’s obscenely easy for him to slide right in; Sid’s still stretched enough to just take it and his face burns even as he loves every second of it.

He didn’t think Zhenya could get any deeper, but it feels that way, like he’s just stuffed full of Zhenya’s cock. “Fuck,” he whispers, hanging his head and spreading his knees a little further apart to brace himself.

Zhenya rubs his hands over Sid’s ass, his hips, and then pulls almost all the way out and thrusts back in, a long slide that makes Sid moan. It turns out that Zhenya was really serious about finding the right angle, because he rolls his hips and tilts Sid’s until Sid is scrabbling at the sheets, and Zhenya says, “Right there?”

“Yes,” Sid says, and Zhenya gets him again, and again, and again. He’s going so slowly, so carefully, and Sid can’t stand it. “Come on,” he says desperately. “Harder, you said you were going to —”

Zhenya does what Sid asks, exactly to the letter of the law, because he very deliberately doesn’t go any faster, even if he uses his hands on Sid’s hips to grind in so good that Sid’s knees slide forward on the sheets with every thrust. Zhenya fingered him so spectacularly yesterday that Sid thought he would be prepared for more consistent prostate stimulation, but as mind-blowingly good as Zhenya’s fingers are, the blunt, hot pressure of Zhenya’s dick getting him over and over again is taking him apart. He can’t stop the sounds he’s making, inarticulate little cries on each thrust, broken up with harsh, gasping breaths that leave him dizzy.

“So good, baby,” Zhenya says, grinding into him and draping himself all over Sid’s back, pressing a kiss to the nape of Sid’s neck. “Just like that, taking my dick so good.”

Sid lets his head thunk against the mattress, too overwhelmed to focus on anything that’s not arching back into Zhenya, trying to get him as deep as possible. He feels like he’s been right on the edge forever, so close he can hardly stand it, and he needs something, anything to push him over, but he absolutely doesn’t want to move a millimetre. “Zhenya,” he pleads.

“I’m going to take care of you,” Zhenya promises. His hand is still slick with lube and Sid’s so wet with precome that Zhenya’s fingers glide over the skin, just barely gripping him, and Sid instinctively fucks into the circle of his hand.

Zhenya starts picking up the rhythm, and Sid can just hear the sound of Zhenya’s hips slamming against his ass over the panting sobs of his own breathing, and Sid realizes that Zhenya is saying, “I love you, I love you, fuck,” as he’s pumping his cock into him and Sid comes so hard that his elbows slide out from under him, his knees barely holding him up.

Zhenya gives him a few more stuttering strokes, working Sid through his orgasm, before he presses his face against Sid’s shoulder blade. He’s buried all the way in when he comes, lips brushing Sid’s skin as he whispers, “Sidnyusha.” Sid can feel Zhenya’s eyelashes fluttering, one last shaky thrust of Zhenya’s hips that makes Sid whimper as Zhenya’s cock nudges his prostate again.

It’s sticky and Zhenya is so heavy on top of him and Sid thinks he might die if he moves. He’s still so full of Zhenya’s dick and his heart is pounding. He’s glad he can hear and feel Zhenya breathing, because neither of them seems like they’re alive other than that.

Sid’s not sure how long they lie there before Zhenya slips a hand between them to hold onto the condom as he pulls out. He’s so careful and slow and it still makes Sid gasp and bite his lip on a noise that’s mostly pleasure. He’s so sensitive that he almost wishes Zhenya had waited a little longer. Zhenya sprawls across the bed in the other direction to drop it in a trash can. He groans as he squirms his way back across the bed to gently curl around Sid, and kisses the top of his shoulder sweetly.

Sid probably needs to clean himself up, or he’s going to end up stuck to the sheets, but Zhenya slips his arm around Sid’s waist and pulls until Sid is mostly on top of him, with Zhenya doing all the heavy lifting.

Zhenya murmurs little hoarse nothings in Sid’s ear, the Russian endearments familiar and comforting. “Was it good?” he asks eventually, hands stroking through Sid’s hair, kissing his forehead.

“Oh my god,” Sid groans out, voice catching.

Zhenya snickers and brushes his nose against Sid’s cheek in a little nuzzle. “Next time, even better,” he promises.

Sid shivers in anticipation. He turns his face, eyes mostly shut, until he can catch Zhenya’s lips in a kiss. He feels like he could fall asleep like this, but his stomach growls loudly, and oh god, he’s starving.

“Breakfast?” Zhenya says hopefully.

“Hand me the phone,” Sid says.

He calls for room service, still plastered against Zhenya, and he’s definitely making Zhenya get up to answer the door. Zhenya takes the news in stride. He eventually gets up to stretch in a fashion Sid considers showing off; Zhenya watches Sid’s eyes follow the long, lean lines of his body, the cut of his hips, the impressively pert curve of his ass. He comes back with a washcloth and gets Sid some semblance of clean. Zhenya kisses him before snagging a robe off the floor to answer the door.

As soon as Zhenya rolls the cart into the bedroom, he tosses the robe back on the floor. Zhenya seems to delight in picking things for Sid to try — they demolish the pastry assortment and most of the fruit and Zhenya even cuts up an omelette for them to share. There are almost certainly crumbs in the bed but Sid can’t bring himself to care. He’s been fucked boneless and fed and he’s absolutely ready for a nap now.

He falls asleep using Zhenya’s chest as a pillow, completely sated.

***

When they wake up, they’re both a little sluggish. But Sid knows they can’t go home without seeing at least some of Riga, so they get dressed and head out for the waterfront. They have to wear jackets. It was just getting warm in Pittsburgh when they left, but Riga, especially by the water, is still crisply cold, and Sid gladly takes the excuse to tuck himself close to Zhenya. He is a fairly good windbreak, and it’s a beautiful little path to walk. Sid’s glad to be sharing it with Zhenya.

They cross the road to look at the restaurants facing the water and end up in a quiet little cafe playing footsie until they’re done lingering over dessert. It’s dark enough that when they turn what Sid thought was the right corner to get back to the hotel and instead find themselves in a quiet little alley, Sid can’t resist stealing a kiss. Zhenya cups Sid’s face in his hands and kisses Sid until his mouth feels used. When Zhenya pulls away, he rubs his thumb over Sid’s bottom lip and leans back in to brush their noses together.

He takes the map from Sid’s hand and turns it upside down, which — oh — may be right side up. “Worst at directions,” Zhenya says. He kisses the tip of Sid’s nose before turning decisively to the left. With Zhenya in the lead, they’re back at the hotel in minutes. In their suite, Zhenya wraps his arms around Sid from behind and suggests, “We find something on TV? Get comfy?”

“Sounds good,” Sid says. He tilts his head to the side so Zhenya can kiss his neck a little. He gets into Zhenya’s shirt and strategically picks his sweats so he can slip some things in the pockets. He has a glimmer of a plan in mind.

There’s some summer action blockbuster dubbed into Russian on one of the channels, and Sid is pleased to realize he can follow it, even though the dialogue isn’t very strenuous. Zhenya watches with a little bemused smile on his face as the probably-cops try to bust up a drug ring in honour of their dead mentor.

They’re snuggled up nicely, Zhenya tucked into the corner of the couch, Sid plastered to his side and sprawled out a little. Sid puts his hand on Zhenya’s knee and rubs his thumb along his kneecap. Then he lets his hand drift a little higher until he’s massaging Zhenya’s thigh, basically.

Zhenya turns to kiss Sid’s temple during a commercial break. “I’m start thinking you not paying attention to the movie,” he says.

Sid hums noncommittally. “I was just thinking that if you wanted to keep watching, I could ride you right here,” he says. Zhenya’s eyebrows go up, and Sid adds, “Sit on your cock, right in your lap.”

Confusion turns into hunger, and Zhenya says, “Go get lube, condom.”

“Done,” Sid says, reaching into his pocket and pulling them out.

Zhenya pulls Sid in to kiss him hard. “Go on,” he says, turning off the TV. “Your play. What you want me to do?”

There’s a little zing of a thrill down Sid’s spine, because Zhenya is putting himself in Sid’s hands. If he tells Zhenya to take off his pants, he will. If he asks Zhenya —

“Take off your pants,” Sid says, pulling his shirt over his head quickly so he doesn’t miss the way Zhenya’s hips push up so he can slip his sweats down and off. When he was feeling his way up Zhenya’s thigh, he wondered if he was wearing underwear. The answer is an emphatic no. “The shirt, too.”

Zhenya smirks as he takes off his shirt, peeling it off slowly so Sid can appreciate each new centimetre of skin. “Next?” he asks sweetly.

Sid swallows, throat suddenly dry. “Get yourself ready for me,” he says, taking Zhenya’s hand and slicking it with lube. “Get hard.”

Zhenya complies easily, lazily jacking himself, and Sid is tempted to just watch him, the way his hand moves, to see if he can figure out how Zhenya likes to get himself off. But he wants to ride Zhenya’s cock, so he squirms out of his sweats and boxers, then takes the lube and gets his fingers wet.

“You going to get ready for me, too?” Zhenya asks, eyes half-lidded as he watches Sid sprawl back on the couch, pull his legs back, and start to finger himself.

“It’ll be quick,” Sid says. He knows how much he can take and how fast he can take it. He’s a little more sensitive than usual, still a little tender from getting fucked twice this morning, but that also means he’s not so tight. And he’s fucked himself with a toy three times in one day before, so he knows he can do this; he wants to feel a little sore, he wants to feel wrecked after this. “I’ve already had you inside me today.”

Zhenya’s hand speeds up a little and he palms the head of his cock. Sid’s already working two fingers, mind racing ahead to three, to sinking down on Zhenya’s dick and grinding his ass down on Zhenya’s lap. He’s a little quick to pull out to get three, and he gasps. Zhenya’s brows draw together.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Sid says, slicking up his fingers again and easing them in.

“Rushing,” Zhenya says, a disapproving frown on his lips. “Take your time, I’m not going anywhere.” His hand has stilled on his dick. He’s holding it at the base and it looks almost like he’s offering it to Sid, and, yeah, Sid isn’t going to take his time.

He pumps his fingers in and out, thinking about Zhenya giving it to him this hard instead, and it’s a good thing he doesn’t have Zhenya’s dedication to getting him just right or else he’d probably be coming already.

“Fuck, baby,” Zhenya breathes out, his grip on his cock tight like he’s trying to stop himself from coming.

“Are you — are you ready?” Sid asks. He finds where he put the condom and his lube-slick fingers fumble with it. It’s the first time he’s gotten to roll the condom down over Zhenya’s dick. Sid likes the expression on Zhenya’s face as Sid’s hand slips down to cover his at the base of Zhenya’s cock, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss the feel of Zhenya’s skin. The slick sheen of the plastic isn’t quite what he wants, but he’s not going to do anything about it now, not when he can throw a leg over Zhenya’s hips, brace his hands on Zhenya’s shoulders, and settle himself in Zhenya’s lap.

He’s a little nervous as he gets up on his knees so he can reach behind himself to hold Zhenya’s cock steady. It takes a little work. At first Sid feels like he’s just rubbing the head of Zhenya’s cock all along his ass without ever actually managing to get the tip in, and Zhenya slides his hands down from Sid’s waist to palm his ass and part his cheeks a little.

Finally, Sid has Zhenya’s cock perfectly aligned, the thick head of it stretching him so good before the crown pushes past his rim. Thanks to thighs honed by hockey, there’s hardly a quiver or shake as he takes Zhenya’s cock a centimetre at a time. Sid has to shift his hips a bit to get the angle comfortable, but he’s much more interested in the open-mouthed pants that have Zhenya’s chest heaving under his hands. And when he’s finally seated on Zhenya’s cock, he lets his knees slide outward and balances on Zhenya’s lap, rocking back and forth on his dick, and it feels so deliriously good.

Zhenya groans, one hand still squeezing Sid’s ass, the other rubbing up and down Sid’s thigh. “Look at you,” he breathes out. “Made for this.”

Suddenly, it’s not enough just to rock on Zhenya’s dick, he wants to really fuck himself on it, so he pushes on Zhenya’s shoulders to get his leverage back and starts up a rhythm that he pushes faster and faster until he’s bouncing on Zhenya’s dick. He can feel Zhenya’s arms working, hands back on Sid’s hips to lift Sid into it and to push him down onto his cock, adding that extra little push Sid didn’t know he needed.

Sid lets out a little cry when he gets the angle just right, and Zhenya grins and starts jerking Sid off fast and hard, keeping him just in the right place to frantically work his ass on Zhenya’s cock until he comes all over his stomach, arms clutched around his neck.

He’s going to be too sensitive in a second, so it has to be now — “Zhenya, please,” he begs, rolling his hips down, because Zhenya has to be close. “Come in me,” he says, coaxing, wishing he could feel the wet heat of it when Zhenya bites down on Sid’s shoulder as he comes, hands tight on his hips, pinning Sid down on his dick.

Zhenya pulls Sid close and Sid bites his lip on a gasp when it makes Zhenya’s dick shift in him. Zhenya’s gives an answering groan as he feels it too, both of them panting at each other for a minute.

“Baby,” Zhenya says breathlessly in Sid’s ear.

Sid shivers happily. He’ll have to move eventually, but for right now, he can stay in Zhenya’s arms, and it’s perfect.

***

They shower again and go out for a late dinner. Sid wasn’t lying when he said he could take it, but he still aches a little in a way that keeps reminding him just what they’ve been up to all day. By the time they get home, full and pleasantly tipsy on wine, Sid’s ready for another early bedtime, and Zhenya feels the same.

When Sid wakes up the next morning, he’s maybe a touch more sore but he feels amazing. Zhenya’s still asleep next to him, mouth open and snoring a little, and the early morning light is filtering in. He could wake Zhenya up, or he could curl up closer to Zhenya and just bask for a while.

He chooses the later, and when Zhenya eventually does wake up, his eyes fluttering open, the smile he gives Sid is happy and just for him. Sid is so lucky.

Over breakfast, Sid says, “Is there anything you want to do today?”

Zhenya chews thoughtfully and swallows. “You.”

“Besides me,” Sid says, grinning. “I mean. You already know we’re going to do that.”

Zhenya eats another crepe before he says, “Is there really a zoo?”

“Uh,” Sid says, and gets up from the table to go paw through some brochures. “Yeah? I don’t know how big it is. Or where it is.”

“Let’s find out,” Zhenya says. That suits Sid just fine. If their shower takes longer because Zhenya backs him up against the tile and jerks off all over him, and if it takes them longer to get dressed because Zhenya pushes Sid down on the bed and blows him with sloppy enthusiasm, well, they aren’t exactly on a schedule.

The zoo is pretty big. There aren’t any penguins, but there are lemurs and bears and tigers. Sid gets some truly ridiculous pictures of Zhenya at the farm animal enclosure, because Zhenya wants to hug all the animals, even the smelly goats and sheep. But there are dumb pictures of Sid, too, with a donkey who fundamentally dislikes him and a calf who loves him maybe too much, and he looks deliriously happy in them, so he supposes it’s all good.

They have a snack at the zoo but end up eating a late lunch when they leave, so it’s mid-afternoon when they get back to the hotel. Housekeeping has been by, and Sid feels a little embarrassed about anyone cleaning up after them considering what they’ve been doing. He resolves to tip a lot.

Zhenya turns on some TV show dubbed in Russian that’s too complicated for Sid to follow, but he’s been meaning to get back to the book he’s in the middle of. So he grabs it from his luggage and they settle on the couch, and it’s great just to hang out together, even if they’re not talking or doing anything.

It lasts maybe a whole half hour before Zhenya puts his head in Sid’s lap. Sid lets himself stroke Zhenya’s hair, and Zhenya all but purrs while Sid scratches lightly and messes his hair up. He’s still reading, and he’s wondering if Zhenya is going to nap when Zhenya turns his face into Sid’s stomach and nuzzles it.

Sid looks down from his book. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Zhenya says back. And then he just mouths at Sid’s half-hard cock through his shorts, and Sid gasps.

“You wanna —”

“You lick lips when you read,” Zhenya tells him.

It leads to blowjobs in the bedroom — more comfortable than the couch — and, when Zhenya asks, Sid gives him one finger while blowing him.

“What did you think?” Sid asks afterwards, because he really couldn’t tell. He pulls himself up the bed to lie on his stomach next to Zhenya.

Zhenya shrugs. “Good?” he hazards. “Think you like better.”

Sid is the one with a box full of sex toys because fingers weren’t enough, so that’s probably true. “Well, you let me know if you want it.”

Zhenya nods, and then he smiles a blatantly mischief-making smile. “I say same, except you always want,” he says, and runs his hand over Sid’s bare ass.

They both need some downtime, but Sid wishes they didn’t, because the thought makes a shiver go down his spine. “I do,” he says. “I always want it.”

“Always want from me,” Zhenya says, and he sounds way more interested than someone who just came in Sid’s mouth five minutes ago should be.

“Yeah,” Sid sighs. He stretches, showing off a little. “Anything you’ll give me.”

Zhenya’s fingers pause at the top of Sid’s ass and then drift down between his cheeks. “Right now?”

Sid’s not really ready just yet, but he sucks in a breath when Zhenya rubs his hole lightly.

“Think you always need attention,” Zhenya says. “You kind of — easy. Easy for me.”

Sid doesn’t want to know where Zhenya learned that usage of the word, but there’s no denying that it’s getting him hot.

“Maybe you don’t need slow,” Zhenya says. “Maybe I put two fingers in right now, and you take so good.”

Zhenya’s gently stroking his finger over Sid’s hole still, like he’s not talking about taking Sid apart. “Finger you all you want, all I want,” Zhenya says, and Sid arches up as he gives Sid’s hole a little firmer attention. “Put you on my lap, so I can see you.”

Sid groans into the mattress. “Yeah,” he breathes out, a little embarrassed in general, and specifically by how much this is turning him on. He gets on his knees eagerly, cock hard again, and lets Zhenya drape him over his lap. Zhenya puts a pillow under his arms and gets Sid’s ass exactly where he wants it.

“Everybody talks about your ass, looks at it,” Zhenya says. He lets his hands brush over Sid’s cheeks. “But I get to touch, get to make you feel good.”

Zhenya holds Sid’s cheeks open and strokes the skin on either side of Sid’s hole with his thumbs. “Get to make you come,” Zhenya says.

Sid gropes around in the sheets, looking for the lube. It’s on the bedside table, precisely placed, and Sid knows he didn’t put it there, which means, oh jeez, housekeeping must have put it there. He’s going to have to leave such a good tip. But he can’t bring himself to care anymore when he holds the lube out to Zhenya, who thanks him in a tone that has Sid’s toes curling.

“Gonna get you so wet,” Zhenya says, clicking open the cap of the lube. He pours it on, until Sid’s sloppy with lube. And Zhenya, though he said he’d give him two fingers off the bat, starts with just one.

Zhenya gives him that one for a long time, slipping in and out so easily that Sid flushes. He hasn’t had this much consistent fingering since the Olympics, and he’s not as tight as he was at the start of the week. “You can give me two,” Sid says hopefully.

“A little loose,” Zhenya says, sounding proud. He gives Sid the very tip of two fingers and tugs gently at the rim. “From my fingers, my dick.”

Sid feels so exposed, ass up in Zhenya’s lap, cool air all over. Zhenya is making him shiver and shake, fucking into him with his fingers so slowly, stretching him open. Sid’s been so focused on getting ready for Zhenya’s cock that it’s like he forgot how good it can feel just getting fingered. Sid can’t hold back a surprised moan when Zhenya holds him open and pours the cool lube right onto his hole. He fucks back in with two fingers, and Sid can feel the lube leaking out of him in a slick trail.

“You like this,” Zhenya says.

Sid is squirming under Zhenya’s hands and panting into a pillow, so it’s a pretty fair assessment. “Yeah,” he manages to say.

“You like messy,” Zhenya continues. “Like my come on you.”

Sid feels like he should be more embarrassed about the way he says, “I love it,” breathless and quick.

“Maybe you like it all over,” Zhenya says. “You suck my dick, get jizz all over your pretty face, perfect lips all covered in come.”

He remembers that first blowjob Zhenya gave him, how there’d been some come on his face. Sid imagines himself in that position instead, imagines Zhenya telling him to shut his eyes and coming all over his face. The thought has him trying to grind against Zhenya’s lap.

Zhenya makes a noise and uses the hand not fingering Sid to pull his hips back up, maybe even a little higher than before. He slides out his fingers and he pushes three back in, deliberate as he strokes his fingertips in the right spot to make Sid clutch at the pillow beneath him. “Maybe this where you want it,” Zhenya says quietly, tone carefully neutral. “Maybe you want me to come in your ass, finger you just like this so you can feel it.”

Sid’s thought about that a lot. He doesn’t know what it would feel like, not exactly, but he really wants to find out. And he doesn’t want just once, he wants — “Until you can come in me again,” Sid says. “Finger me until you can come in me again.”

Zhenya swears under his breath and then asks, “Baby, can I give you four? Can you take it?”

“Yes,” Sid breathes out. Four of Zhenya’s fingers might even be bigger than his dick .It will at least be a different stretch, it’ll feel new, and Sid’s desperate for it.

Zhenya goes so slow that it feels like it takes forever just to get to the first knuckle, and then he stops and Sid thinks he might die. “Okay?” Zhenya asks, his other hand rubbing Sid’s hip soothingly.

“Keep going,” Sid demands, pushing back into it, feeling so full and so slick as he breathes through the stretch.

“So good,” Zhenya murmurs. “Wish you could see, how good you take it, how much you can take.”

Zhenya still goes slowly, but he keeps giving it to him, deeper and deeper, until Sid is stuffed full. Zhenya must feel Sid’s dick leaking all over his lap, because he shifts a little and Sid’s suddenly in a perfect position to rub off on Zhenya’s thigh. Between the lube that’s everywhere and all the precome, Sid’s cock feels as slick as his ass, and he starts desperately grinding down while Zhenya keeps fingering him in measured little strokes.

Sid comes like that, all over Zhenya’s thigh, and Zhenya works him through it, slowing and shortening his strokes until he’s essentially just keeping Sid full. Sid lies there spread over Zhenya’s lap and tries to catch his breath, and then Zhenya shifts and Sid feels how hard he is. Sid gets his knees underneath him, and Zhenya eases his fingers out. Sid sighs at the loss as he backs up to get his face in Zhenya’s lap. Zhenya’s spattered with Sid’s come, and he’s just — his cock is hard and red, and when Sid pulls back to look up, Zhenya’s expression is a little desperate.

He’s desperate for Sid, he’s this turned on because he fingered Sid in his lap until he came, and it makes Sid feel like Zhenya wants him the most, like given a choice between him and everyone else in the world, he’d pick Sid every time.

Sid licks a few drops of his come off Zhenya’s cock, gives him a few strokes, and settles his hand around the base. He tries to take Zhenya as deep as he can. It’s still not very far, and he doesn’t really get how anyone can deep throat, but probably it just takes practice. There’s just a lot, and Sid sucks at the head, tasting precome on his tongue.

“Sid,” Zhenya says. His hands are fisted in the sheets next to him, and he’s clearly trying hard to not move.

Sid grabs one of Zhenya’s hands and moves it to his hair. Zhenya’s cautious at first, until he pulls slightly and Sid moans around his cock. After that, it’s just the hot, hard slide of Zhenya in his mouth, Zhenya’s hands in his hair, Zhenya panting and swearing and moaning until he says desperately, “Sid.”

Sid pulls off and jerks Zhenya’s cock until he starts to come, then closes his eyes and lets Zhenya come all over his face. He wipes his eyes before he opens them, and when he does, Zhenya looks completely wrecked.

“You —” Zhenya says, and touches Sid’s cheek, smearing some of his come against Sid’s skin.

Sid licks his lips, deliberate and showy, and Zhenya groans. Sid feels like a glorious mess, and it seems a shame to clean his face off with a tissue but it’s better than letting it dry on his skin. He lies down with Zhenya in a tangle of limbs, and as great as the sex has been, the afterglow is pretty great, too. They cuddle and drowse until dinner becomes imperative. Sid can’t stop smiling at Zhenya, and Zhenya can’t stop smiling at him.

***

The next day is pretty much the same, except instead of the zoo, Zhenya drags Sid out shopping. It’s nice to be able to browse without getting approached by anyone except clerks. Zhenya’s affection for thug chic is still going strong, and unfortunately Latvia is all too willing to supply Zhenya in that area.

“Those are hideous,” Sid says when Zhenya comes out of the dressing room in a pair of extremely distressed jeans. Zhenya turns to give Sid an eyeful of his ass, which, okay, looks fantastic, but it always looks good. It looks good in spite of those jeans, not because of them.

“I’m buying,” Zhenya sing-songs.

“Of course you are,” Sid says with a sigh that comes out sounding embarrassingly affectionate instead of put upon.

When they get back to the hotel, Sid prods Zhenya into calling to book their plane tickets back to Pittsburgh. “If we get back on the 28th, we could move right in to the new house,” he says dreamily.

Zhenya all but lunges for the phone.

Now that he’s said it, Sid can’t stop thinking about it, and he was apprehensive before but he’s excited now. When Zhenya hangs up the phone, Sid says, “We have to buy a bed when we get back.”

“Big one,” Zhenya agrees, and leans over to kiss Sid’s neck.

“Not too big,” Sid says. “I mean, I don’t want to be too far apart.”

“Be in you, not close enough,” Zhenya says, and that derails the discussion for a while.

Later, panting and sticky, Sid says, “I mean, we need more than just a bed. But if we’re going to — you know — we need to move in first.”

Zhenya’s brow furrows. “Why?” he says.

Sid goes hot. “I promised Mario I wasn’t going to bring home any — any girls.”

Zhenya waggles his eyebrows and nudges his soft cock against Sid’s thigh. “Not a girl,” he says.

“Still,” Sid says stubbornly. They’ve been living in a little bubble of blissful anonymity, but thinking about being back home makes Sid think about what it’s going to be like, beyond the giddy excitement of getting to be together.

He curls a little bit closer to Zhenya and tucks his face into Zhenya’s neck. “What are we going to do when we get home?” he says, strangely nervous. He loves Zhenya and knows Zhenya loves him, but he’s learned to guard his privacy very closely and he can’t imagine people knowing. He’s not ashamed, but being out is no more of an option than it was before they were together.

“Well, you said we have to buy bed,” Zhenya says.

Sid shakes his head, lips accidentally brushing Zhenya’s neck. “No, I meant,” he starts, trying to figure out how to broach the subject. “When we get home what — how — what if people ask about us? Do you — do you want to tell anyone about us?”

Zhenya thinks about it for long enough that Sid feels comforted, sure he’s taking it seriously. “Maybe not telling anyone, but if people we know, we trust, we talk first, then decide together.”

It’s still nerve-wracking to think about. It’s one thing if most of the team knows that he’s not interested in women, but telling them that he’s dating a teammate seems impossible. But when he thinks about telling Colby or Flower, it doesn’t seem so bad. He knows he can trust them, and he thinks they would be happy for him and Zhenya.

“That sounds good,” Sid says.

Zhenya strokes his hands along Sid’s back. “Wish I could tell everyone,” he says. “But for now, as long as we’re happy, I can wait.”

“And if we have to wait a long time?” Sid asks.

“You’re worth waiting for,” Zhenya says.

Gay marriage is legal in Canada. It’s something he’s only ever thought about abstractly, and it’s crazy to think that far ahead, but he can imagine a future where that could be a possibility. Well — after they retire, maybe. He still wants the story to be about his hockey, not his personal life.

“So are you,” Sid says, stretching up to kiss Zhenya. They squirm even closer, so Sid is mostly talking into Zhenya’s chest when he says, “I would want to tell Jack.”

“I want to tell Jack,” Zhenya says, squeezing Sid possessively. “He snooze, he lose.”

Sid imagines he learned that one from Alexa. “But it’s really okay with you?”

“Yes,” Zhenya says, dropping a kiss on Sid’s hair. “Okay if I talk to Seryozha? Maybe not tell him everything, but say thank you for yelling at me, tell him we’re okay.”

“Of course,” Sid agrees. Even if he wanted to, it’s probably way too late to get Sergei out of their personal life. “And I’m not telling anyone everything.”

Zhenya chuckles. “You not going to tell Jack about how good I give it to you, how you ask for it so nice?”

“Obviously not,” Sid says, cheeks flushing hot.

“Save that for me,” Zhenya croons, tilting Sid’s face up to kiss.

***

Sid uses up the latu that didn’t go into a generous tip for housekeeping by buying a guidebook to Riga in the airport, because although they did see some of the city, it definitely wasn’t enough to justify an entire week in Latvia. There are actually a few things he reads about that he might have wanted to see if he’d known about them, but he doesn’t regret that they spent most of the week in bed.

The flight back to Pittsburgh is certainly long, but being able to lean into Zhenya and practice his Russian makes it seem shorter than the flight out. Two connecting flights later, they land in Pittsburgh. The Lemieux minivan pulls up, but it’s not Nathalie in the driver’s seat — it’s Mario. He waves and pops the trunk, and Sid and Zhenya put their luggage and their gear in the back. When they circle back around to the side, Sid hesitates for a second before Zhenya says, “Shotgun,” and climbs in the front seat, leaving Sid to the back.

“How was Latvia?” Mario says blandly, but Sid can see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth in the rearview mirror.

All Sid can think is sex, sex, we had a lot of sex and none of the guidebook stuff he crammed on the plane comes to mind, but fortunately Zhenya says, “Nice! We see the zoo, waterfront.”

“They had a military history museum,” Sid adds.

“Did you go golfing?” Mario asks.

“Uh,” Sid says, and Zhenya makes a sound of cheerful disgust. “Someone doesn’t like golfing. Unless it’s minigolf. And unless he wins.”

Mario laughs. “I’d forgotten,” he says. “Maybe you and I can get a round in before you head home for the summer.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Sid says. He’s really looking forward to it.

Mario fills them in on what the kids were up to while they were gone and chats a little bit about everyone’s summer plans. “When are you boys moving in to your new place?” he asks.

Sid’s jaw cracks as he yawns unexpectedly. “We can start moving some things over today,” he says.

Mario’s eyebrows go up. “No rush,” he says. “I know the kids are excited to have you back.”

“Well, we want to have the house ready before we leave for the summer,” Sid says.

“Still, no need to put yourselves out, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” Mario says. “It takes a while for furniture to be delivered.”

“How long?” Zhenya asks, looking disappointed.

“Nathalie can tell you horror stories over dinner tonight,” Mario says. “Don’t even ask about the credenza.”

“What’s for dinner?” Sid asks. They’ve been eating airport and airplane food for way too long.

“The kids have been bugging us to barbeque tonight — sound good to you? It’s Memorial Day weekend, or so all the sales have led me to believe. Hotdogs, burgers?”

“Both,” Zhenya says happily.

“We can throw some chicken on, if you’d prefer,” Mario says, glancing in the rear view mirror at Sid.

“I could eat all three,” Sid says honestly.

“We could do that too,” Mario says, smiling. “And if you could convince Austin that the pool is a bad idea until there’s a high of 26, at least, that’d be great.”

Sid thinks about how Taylor used to swear she didn’t want to get out of the pool, even if her lips were blue, and laughs. “We make no promises,” he says.

“You boys will probably want a break, though, so if you don’t want to get swamped by the kids, I’d hurry up the stairs,” Mario says.

It’s good advice, but useless, since the kids are camped out in the driveway waiting for them. Alexa has a sign that says “WELCOME BACK” in glittery bubble letters and there’s something that looks like the Pens logo drawn on the driveway in chalk. There’s a lot of hugging and petitions for the pool and for various lawn games, and Zhenya sighs, big and dramatic.

“If we play now, won’t get to unpack,” he says. “Might lose presents.”

“I guess that could be okay, then,” Stephanie says, playing it cool, but just barely. “Besides, you guys stink.”

Zhenya sniffs himself, exaggerating it for his audience. “I smell great!” he cries. “You don’t like plane smell? All from Sid drooling on me when he sleeps.”

Alexa giggles, there’s a chorus of delighted “ew” noises, and they’re told to go take showers.

“Come back when you’re clean and you have presents,” Lauren says.

They get themselves and the baggage upstairs and Sid wants to collapse on his bed and never move. But he knows if he lies down now, he’s not getting back up again, so he walks into the bathroom and starts to strip.

Zhenya is right behind him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Sid asks. He turns on the shower.

“Shower,” Zhenya says, giving him a duh look.

Sid bites his lip, hesitating. Finally, he says, “Shut the door. And no — no doing anything.”

“Of course not,” Zhenya agrees, far too easily. Sid looks at him suspiciously but steps into the spray, and Zhenya follows him in. It’s definitely the most chaste wash-up they’ve had since Worlds ended.

Sid does let Zhenya wash his hair, but he doesn’t think that counts as doing stuff.

They towel off, get dressed, and dig the souvenirs they bought out of their luggage. It’s mostly chocolate. For the kids, they have chocolate in shape of animals that they bought at the zoo, and for Mario and Nathalie they have fancier chocolate that is apparently made with some kind of special Latvian beer.

“After dinner,” Nathalie says firmly when the kids want to tear into their zoo chocolate immediately. They all know better than to argue; instead, they drag Sid and Zhenya outside for a round of what they’ve dubbed Lemieux croquet, which is like croquet plus tag. And there’s singing, because there’s always singing, and nobody ever gets tired of laughing at how bad Sid is at it.

Mario and Nathalie come out back to put food on the grill, and they sit together on a loveseat on the deck, holding hands. Sid catches sight of them, and they’re watching their family with matching expressions that say happiness and love.

Sid wants to be like them someday. He looks over at Zhenya, and Zhenya’s looking at him, and his expression makes Sid think he’s got a chance.

Later that night, Sid and Zhenya go to bed, and it’s not even a question that they’ll share. Sid intends to hold firm on the no sex thing, though.

Zhenya huffs out a sigh. “Goodnight kiss?” he asks.

Sid presses his lips against Zhenya’s, slow and lingering. It feels kind of like all the nights they shared a bed here, but not. In fact, it makes Sid remember their first night together, and he kisses Zhenya again and says, “Remember that first night? When we only had one bed?”

Zhenya pulls him closer in response. “Me, I’m so happy to be here, but worried. All I want is stay close to you.”

“Me too,” Sid whispers. “I was worried I’d wake up, and it would have been a dream.”

Zhenya kisses him again, a few short pecks followed by him licking Sid’s mouth open, and they make out for a few minutes. Everything is Zhenya’s lips and the warm weight of his body against Sid’s, the two of them cocooned together in the attic, away from the rest of the world.

“NHL my dream,” Zhenya says when he pulls back. He strokes Sid’s hair away from his forehead. “But you my dream too.”

Sid has to kiss him again, and kiss him some more, until they’re both so tired that sleep seems imperative. The last thing Sid feels before he falls asleep is a drowsy press of Zhenya’s lips against his cheek.

***

The next morning, they get up bright and early to meet Melissa at the house, where she hands them the keys and a welcome basket.

It’s surreal. Sid watches Zhenya turn the key in the lock and thinks about how this is their house. It’s echoing and airy, but so full of promise that Sid shivers a little, happily feeling the wooden floors under his bare feet.

Sid doesn’t even know what they should do first. They loaded up his car with a lot of their things, but they need furniture, they need a bed, they need things to go on a bed. The house isn’t too far from the mall, and they’ll need space in the car to put in all the new things they’re buying, so they take in the first load.

They put things in the right general area, hurrying a little so they can get to the mall. After they put the many mugs Zhenya seems to have accumulated on the kitchen counter, Sid looks around and says, “We should probably make a list of all the things we need.”

Zhenya looks pointedly at the empty rooms surrounding the kitchen. “I think we need everything,” he says.

“Well, yes,” Sid agrees, because as much as it seems like they brought over a ton of things, they don’t have any furniture. “But what we need right now.”

Zhenya’s expression turns a little playful, a lot interested. “What I need right now,” he says, voice warm.

Sid sucks in a surprised breath as Zhenya backs him up against the counter and then lifts him onto it. Sid’s a little taller than Zhenya now, but Zhenya seems happy to put himself between Sid’s thighs and lean up to kiss Sid breathless.

“Zhenya,” Sid tries, when Zhenya goes for his neck, kissing all down his throat. “We need to go buy things.”

Zhenya keeps kissing him until he can hardly remember why he wants to go anywhere else. But — “We need to buy a bed,” Sid reminds him.

There’s a hum of acknowledgement even as Zhenya keeps kissing him.

“If we don’t go buy it, we can’t break it in,” Sid points out.

Zhenya pulls back, albeit a little reluctantly. “Okay, let’s go,” he says, and then kisses Sid one more time, slow and sweet.

They pay an obscene amount of money for the best and biggest mattress in stock, but it can be same-day delivered and that’s what matters. They probably make some salespeople very happy as they buy a bedroom set, a kitchen table, and a couch. Sid tries to pace himself, just choose the things they’ll need right away. But it’s easy to get carried away. Zhenya picks out the highest thread count sheets he can find and buys multiple sets with a sly grin, and Sid spends about fifteen minutes picking out their pillows.

By the time the car is full of bags again — the bedding for the ridiculous California King Zhenya insisted upon takes up most of the room in the trunk — they have to head back anyway so they can be there for the mattress delivery.

The afternoon is a flurry of signing for things and trying to unpack a little. There are a lot of things Sid can’t unpack because there’s nowhere to put them, but Zhenya’s idea of packing is a little looser than his is, so it’s good to check through the boxes, especially since he finds a bunch of their unopened mail in a box of things from the kitchen. It’s probably a sign of how stupidly in love he is that he finds that endearing.

Nothing seems that important except for a pair of thick envelopes from the team, one for him, one for Zhenya. He opens his to find it’s all the results from their end-of-season physical. There aren’t any surprises — he’s still not on steroids and everything looks normal, including the usual clear STI panel, which he’s never paid much attention to before.

He bites his lip and looks at Zhenya’s envelope.

“Oh, yeah,” Zhenya says, appearing behind Sid. “Mail in that box.”

Sid shakes his head fondly. “Yeah, mail,” he says. “This one’s for you.” He hands Zhenya the envelope and tries to look uninterested.

Zhenya opens it up, flips through a lot of the sheets, and pauses on the same page Sid did. “Same as before,” he says, putting it down so Sid can see where the STI panel is marked clear. “But not like any reason for it to change.”

Sid raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?” he asks. He knew Zhenya hooked up every so often, but when he really thinks about it, he hasn’t noticed that happening in a while.

Zhenya shrugs. “Nobody since before New Year’s,” he says.

“Yeah?” Sid says, curious.

“Until you,” Zhenya says. He wraps his arms around Sid from behind. “Didn’t want anyone.”

Sid feels a little smug. “But you want me,” Sid says, letting his head fall back onto Zhenya’s shoulder so he can whisper into Zhenya’s ear. “You know how I want you?”

Zhenya’s hands tighten around Sid’s waist. “Tell me?”

Sid pauses. It’s one thing to talk about it in the heat of the moment, but to say it calmly in the kitchen while looking at the STI panels feels like another thing entirely.

Zhenya kisses Sid’s temple. “You can ask me for anything,” he says. “What do you want?”

“If you want,” Sid starts, because he absolutely doesn’t want Zhenya to feel pressured into it. “I mean, we don’t have to, but if you wanted, we could — not use condoms.”

Zhenya’s fingertips dip below the waistband of Sid’s jeans. “You want me to come in you,” Zhenya says. “Open you up with my dick, come so deep in you.”

“Yes,” Sid whispers, hot tension building low in his stomach, cock getting hard.

“Upstairs,” Zhenya says.

The bedroom still seems a little empty, but Zhenya made the bed and Sid would have made do with less. They strip down quickly and Sid’s eyes catch on the lube and condoms, already out on the bedside table.

Zhenya tosses the comforter on the floor and, with evident satisfaction, opens the nightstand drawer, drops the condoms in, and shuts it firmly. “How you want to take it?” Zhenya asks as he pulls Sid into his arms and palms Sid’s ass.

Sid loves the way Zhenya squeezes his ass. “I want to see you,” he says.

They tuck a couple of the new pillows beneath his hips, so high that Sid feels a little exposed. He’s almost shaking with anticipation. Zhenya is between his legs, kissing the inside of Sid’s knee, the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. He keeps doing that the whole time he fingers Sid, delicate, sweet little touches in counterpoint to the way he’s working Sid open, steady and so good.

Zhenya doesn’t rush it, but there’s a definite sense of building to something. He carefully avoids Sid’s prostate in a way he hardly ever does, like he wants to make sure Sid isn’t going to come too soon. Like he really wants to take his time and give it to Sid for as long as they can both hold out.

Zhenya pushes in so slowly, eyes shut. Objectively, Sid knows there’s not that much of a difference between using one of the thin latex condoms and being bare, but it feels so much hotter and Sid feels hyper aware of the fact that there’s nothing between him and Zhenya.

“You’re so good, fuck, so amazing,” Zhenya says. “You feel so good, baby.”

Sid loves hearing that, loves how Zhenya feels in him, and he reaches out and gasps, “Kiss me.”

Zhenya leans down to kiss him, which presses him in even deeper. Sid moans into the kiss, arching his hips up with how good it feels.

“Fuck me, please, just —” Sid says, when he can get the words out.

“I’m gonna,” Zhenya says. “I’m fuck you so good.” He’s up on his knees with his hands on Sid’s hips, giving him short, hard thrusts.

Sid shifts a little because he’s close. It’s not like Zhenya’s teasing him, but he’s definitely trying to draw things out. Sid wants Zhenya slamming into his prostate the way he usually does, so he says, “Zhenya, come on,” and keeps trying to squirm his way into it.

“You want it?” Zhenya asks. “You can have it.” It only takes a few strokes for Zhenya to really nail the angle and Sid is crying out, little “ah” noises pushed out of him.

“Want to make you loud,” Zhenya says, sounding pleased and determined.

It’s a good thing they don’t have any close neighbours, because by the time Zhenya has a hand on Sid’s cock, working him so well as the head of his dick rubs against Sid’s prostate, Sid is losing it, just shy of shouting, all kinds of things coming out of his mouth. He can’t be embarrassed, though, because Zhenya looks wrecked, like he loves it, like making Sid noisy is getting him so hot.

He’s a few good thrusts from coming when Zhenya groans, buries himself to the hilt, and comes, wet and hot inside Sid. He can feel it, and if Sid had known it felt like this, he doesn’t think he would have been able to stop himself from asking for it sooner.

Zhenya pulls out until just the head of his dick is still in Sid, and Sid gasps at how empty he feels, even though Zhenya’s still in him. From there, Zhenya eases out slowly, the crown of his dick catching on Sid’s rim and making them both cry out. Sid can feel a little of the come slipping out and he’s disappointed, but then Zhenya takes two fingers and pushes the come right back into him.

“Oh, fuck,” Sid moans. He’s so close, desperate to come, and he wishes he could see, wishes he didn’t have to imagine the way Zhenya’s fingers are working the come into him.

“Incredible,” Zhenya whispers in Russian. He switches back to English to say. “Baby, you look — all slick, so pink, open for me, my come make you so wet.”

Sid is almost there, so close it almost hurts, and he needs to come. He begs, “Zhenya, Zhenya, please.”

“Want to fill you up,” Zhenya says. He crooks his fingers up, pushing against Sid’s prostate, and Sid comes with a shout.

Zhenya takes his time slipping his fingers out of Sid. He rubs his slick fingertips gently over Sid’s hole until he’s too sensitive to take it anymore. They’re a mess, the bed is a mess, but Sid doesn’t care, because Zhenya eases the pillows out from under Sid and then curls himself around him.

Sid feels absolutely blissed out. He just basks in physical satisfaction as Zhenya whispers sweet things to him, blending together endearments in Russian and English.

“Thank you,” Sid says when he’s found his voice again.

Zhenya kisses his shoulder. “What you wanted?” he asks.

“Yes,” Sid says. “Did you like it?”

Zhenya strokes a hand down Sid’s side. “You can’t tell? How hard I come, how much I like feeling my come in you?” he asks. He kisses Sid thoroughly.

“So you’d want to do it again,” Sid guesses when Zhenya lets him up for air.

“Any time you want,” Zhenya says. “But right now, I want a bath.”

“Okay,” Sid says, still limp-limbed.

“I want you in my bath, too,” Zhenya adds, kissing under Sid’s ear.

Well, he’s been meaning to see if the bathtub is as big as he remembered.

***

They rush through their first purchases, but even once Sid starts taking the time to compare things online and read reviews — and even though Zhenya does his best to distract Sid from doing that — the rooms start filling up. Their house looks more like a home. They try to hang curtains and get a set of deck furniture; Sid insists that they have professionals come to assemble the two-person hammock.

But as excited as Sid is to see it coming together, there’s a little part of him that wants to drag it out. Because when the house is ready, there will be no more reasons for them to put off booking their tickets; Sid will go back to Cole Harbour and Zhenya will go back to Magnitogorsk and the more he thinks about it the less he likes it.

It won’t be anything like how it used to be — they can Skype, call, email — but it won’t be the same as being here, waking up wrapped up in Zhenya, making breakfast together, stealing kisses every time they pass each other between the stove and fridge.

They’re cuddled up on the couch, admiring the painting of the skyline that they finally managed to hang on the wall, when Zhenya snuggles him a little closer.

“Have to go back to Russia soon,” Zhenya says.

Sid’s been expecting this conversation, but he’s not excited to be having it. “Right,” he says, tucking his face into Zhenya’s chest. “I should book tickets to go to Cole Harbour.”

“Good to spend some time with family,” Zhenya says, but he still sounds like he’s leading up to something.

“Yeah, Taylor should be getting out of school soon,” Sid says, which he is actually really looking forward to.

“But maybe,” Zhenya says, and he sounds so tentative that Sid looks up. Zhenya looks nervous and a little unsure. Sid reaches for his hand.

“Yes?” Sid asks.

“Maybe you want to meet my family too,” Zhenya says. “Don’t have to, long trip to Russia, but Mama and Papa say they want to meet you soon, and I — I would like it.” It sounds carefully rehearsed, like Zhenya has thought about it a lot.

“They really want to meet me?” Sid asks. He’s a little intimidated, but also kind of thrilled.

“I talk about you a lot,” Zhenya says. “Mama want to know when you could visit right after she talk to you at the Olympics.”

“And you want me to come?” Sid asks, and bites his lip.

Zhenya kisses him until Sid is blinking hazily. When Zhenya finally breaks off with a little peck to the tip of his nose, he says, “I really want you to come.”

“Okay,” Sid agrees, his stomach feeling swoopy.

“Yeah?” Zhenya says. He looks so happy, and Sid can feel himself smiling back just as widely. Sid giggles as Zhenya nuzzles their noses together and rolls them so Sid is on top. He says in Russian, “You’re going to love it, baby, it’s going to be so great.”

“I should probably practice my Russian, then,” Sid says. He runs a hand down Zhenya’s chest and grinds his hips down against Zhenya’s. “But where will I find a tutor?”

Zhenya pulls Sid down to kiss him. He fucks his tongue into Sid’s mouth, slides his hands into Sid’s shorts, and slips his fingertips between Sid’s cheeks. “I can start now. Repeat after me,” Zhenya says. He switches to Russian and says, “I want you.”

“I want you,” Sid repeats obediently, doing his best to keep his voice even as Zhenya strokes a finger over his hole.

“To put your tongue in my asshole,” Zhenya says.

“To put — wait, what?” Sid says.

“Like that DVD we watch,” Zhenya reminds him. “You got all red, start climbing in my lap?”

Sid very much remembers, but while it made him a little — okay, a lot — squirmy and turned on, he didn’t think Zhenya was that into it. “You really want to?”

“I think I like it,” Zhenya says, rubbing a little more firmly at Sid’s hole. “But I think you love it.”

“Bed,” Sid says firmly. “We’re not having sex on the couch. Again.”

Zhenya grins smugly, but he allows Sid to herd him to the bedroom, where he strips Sid naked and makes no move to get naked himself.

“You’re not going to —” Sid starts, and then he realizes that the shirt Zhenya is wearing is an old, too-tight Shattuck tee. The shirt’s hem rides up his stomach and Zhenya’s sweatpants sit low, showing off the cut of his hips.

“You want me to take it off?” Zhenya asks, catching his fingers in the hem of the tee.

“You could leave it on,” Sid says, trying for nonchalant.

Zhenya’s grin gets even more smug and he leaves it on. He spreads Sid out on his stomach, facing the headboard, and props his hips up. Sid’s already putty in Zhenya’s hands, excited and a little nervous, which seems to be the theme for today. Sid rubs a hand through his still wet hair, glad they had a post-workout shower just before snuggling up on the couch.

It’s a little extra nerve-wracking because he can’t see what Zhenya’s about to do, but at the same time he loves it — the extra sensitivity, the anticipation, wondering what Zhenya will do next. What Zhenya does next is use his big hands to pull Sid’s cheeks apart and breathe hot and damp onto Sid’s hole.

“Zhenya,” Sid sighs out. He rubs his hips down to get some friction on his dick.

Zhenya strokes Sid’s hole with his thumb and leans in and licks broadly. Then he blows a cool, quick burst of air over the spit slick skin, and Sid cries out.

“Yes, you love this,” Zhenya says. He kisses Sid’s hole, lush and open-mouthed, and then licks again and again.

Sid squirms helplessly, shivering apart under Zhenya’s hands and mouth. He keeps making embarrassing little mewling noises, which escalate into full blown whines when Zhenya presses in with the tip of his tongue. Zhenya has always enjoyed teasing Sid with his tongue, but it’s never been like this before. It’s like all those times Zhenya licked into his mouth or sucked his dick were leading up to this, to Sid writhing on the bed, getting rimmed to within an inch of his sanity, frantically grinding his dick against the pillows.

Zhenya fucks his tongue into Sid’s hole and curls it, tugging at the rim; he even presses his thumbs in, just barely holding Sid open so he can get in a little deeper. Sid rubs his dick against the stupidly great high thread count pillows and Zhenya hums like he’s having an amazing time driving Sid crazy. Sid knows his tongue has to be tired, but Zhenya sounds like he would happily rim Sid for as long as he can take it.

Zhenya nudges Sid’s thighs even wider so he can really press in, his tongue as deep as it can go. It’s so good and Zhenya just moves with him as Sid grinds down to get enough friction to let him come. “Zhenya!” Sid wails out, and he shakes through his orgasm while Zhenya works him with his tongue.

He lies there for a while panting into the mattress. After a minute, he makes himself roll over so he can look his fill at Zhenya, who is on his knees, his cock tenting his ratty sweats, mouth red and used and wet with spit.

“Get up here,” Sid says weakly. He encourages Zhenya to climb on top of him and tugs him up until he’s close enough that Sid can pull Zhenya’s sweats down. He draws them down just far enough to catch under Zhenya’s balls, which lifts his whole package up like a present for Sid. “Fuck my mouth,” Sid says, because he might not be able to move but he can still suck Zhenya’s dick.

Zhenya puts one hand on the headboard to hold himself up a little so he’s not crushing Sid and uses the other to guide the head of his dick, hard and leaking, to Sid’s lips. Sid hums happily and lets Zhenya’s cockhead slide against his lips for a moment. Then he opens his mouth, relaxing his throat so he can just take Zhenya in. He fists his hands in the sweats so he can really pull Zhenya in, because he doesn’t think Zhenya would go deep enough without a little encouragement. He doesn’t stop until his lips can settle at the base of Zhenya’s cock.

“So good, fuck, you take my dick so good,” Zhenya says, stroking Sid’s face. “Gonna come looking at your mouth around my dick.”

Sid loves it, loves when Zhenya tells him how much he likes it, how good he can make Zhenya feel. So he sucks a little harder, flutters his tongue along the vein on the underside of Zhenya’s dick, and enjoys swallowing when Zhenya comes down his throat.

It takes some maneuvering to get both of them lying flat on the bed with no one in the wet spot, but once they’re there, Sid rests his cheek on Zhenya’s shoulder. “I thought we were going to work on my Russian,” he says, hiding his stupid smile against Zhenya’s skin.

“I’ll teach you how to talk dirty next lesson,” Zhenya says in Russian.

Zhenya’s English dirty talk makes Sid crazy — he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to handle Zhenya making a concerted effort in Russian. “I’ll study hard,” Sid says.

“Teach you best,” Zhenya says.

***

The next morning, they book all their tickets for their trips home and for Sid’s later trip to Russia, carefully coordinating so their flights leave Pittsburgh at the same time and so Sid will get into Moscow at a decent hour.

“I fly up, we spend a couple of days there first?” Zhenya suggests. “Show you the sights.”

“Like we did in Latvia?” Sid says sceptically.

Zhenya grins. “Just like Latvia,” he agrees, so they’ll be fucking in a five-star hotel for days and then frantically pretending to sightsee.

“I’ll pack my camera, for sure,” Sid says dryly. It may very well stay packed, from the sounds of it, and Sid doesn’t mind in the least.

***

Nathalie drives them to the airport; Sid’s appreciative of the favor she’s doing them and of the extra room the van gives them. Taylor calls while they’re driving in and Sid picks up quickly before Zhenya can take his phone.

“Hi,” Sid says, smiling.

“Hey, Mom said for me to double check that you have the car rental all sorted out because she can still take the day off and pick you up,” Taylor says, like she’s reciting carefully. “Also you’re coming home today!”

“Yeah, it’s all set,” Sid says. “You excited for your last day of grade five?”

“I’m so over grade five, whatever,” Taylor says. “Can we go to Timmy’s?”

“Of course,” Sid says, thinking that his summer diet could stand a Timbit or two. He steels himself to deal with the consequences of his offer as he asks, “Do you want to invite a friend or two to come with us?”

“Nah,” Taylor says, and Sid manages not to sigh in relief. “I see those guys all the time, I just wanna hang out with you.”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Sid says happily. He holds the phone away from his mouth so he can say, “What?” to Zhenya, who has been gesturing at him emphatically.

“Give me the phone, I want to say hi,” Zhenya says, making grabby hands.

“Sid?” Taylor asks.

“Zhenya wants to say hi,” Sid explains. “Do you have time, or do you have to catch the bus already?” He glances at his watch to check the time in case Taylor tries to fudge.

“Yeah, yeah, lemme say hi!” Taylor says, so Sid hands off the phone to Zhenya.

“Hi, Taylor,” Zhenya says, a sweet goofy smile on his face that makes Sid’s heart feel overfull. “You make Sid go buy you presents today, okay?”

Sid can hear Taylor laugh, but he doesn’t catch the rest of her response.

“Maybe a pony. I come see it next summer, you take good care, name something pretty,” Zhenya says.

Sid’s a little worried about the pony thing, but he’s mostly pleased by the implication that Zhenya wants to come to Cole Harbour with him next summer.

“You look out for him for me, right?” Zhenya asks. “Keep him out of trouble.” He laughs.

“You’re going to miss the school bus!” Sid says loudly toward the mouthpiece, looking at his watch.

“She says no,” Zhenya says. “But I talk to you later, okay? Bye, Taylor.” He hands the phone back to Sid, who gets, “Okay it’s outside, I gotta go love you bye,” all in a rush. She hangs up.

“Did you promise my sister I’ll buy her a pony?” Sid asks.

“Little one,” Zhenya says, pinching his fingers to indicate a very tiny pony.

Nathalie pulls into the departures lane. They get all their luggage on the cart and then they each get a hug. Sid makes sure to say thank you for all she’s done for them this season.

“You two travel safe. Have fun when you’re not training,” she tells them, smiling. “And I expect to see you at Sunday dinner when you’re in town.”

“Yes, Nathalie,” Zhenya says. He smiles and pulls her in for another hug. “Need that pot roast recipe.”

“How will I keep you coming to dinner if I give you that?” she says. “Now go on, it takes forever to convince the desk to check sticks.”

It’s true, and Sid has to wait for Zhenya to check his bags, too; he hovers by the counter with the brim of his hat pulled low and tries not to look shifty while still trying not to get recognized.

Mario advised them to use one of the lounges so that they don’t get mobbed waiting for their flight, and it works. If people there do recognize them, they keep it to themselves. Sid has a cup of terrible coffee and Zhenya has a cup of probably also terrible tea and they watch the planes go by out the window together. It’s still a little hard to process that they’re going to be spending the next month and a half apart. They’ve already planned out what times will probably be best to call, though, and they’ll have all of next season to be together.

But before Sid is really ready for it, it’s time for Zhenya to go to his gate. They talked about splitting up at the lounge, but Sid walks Zhenya to his gate just to have another couple of minutes with him. It’s still early and there’s hardly anyone in the international terminal, so Sid thinks he can get away with pulling Zhenya into a hug. He buries his face in Zhenya’s chest and holds on as tightly as he can.

“I’ll see you so soon,” Zhenya promises in Russian. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Sid says, the words coming as easily in Russian as they do in English. And as little as he wants Zhenya to go, he feels settled and sure about him, about them. When he thinks about their future, he’s excited by the sheer possibilities — they’re going to do great things, he’s sure, and they’ll do them together.

“Call me when you get to Paris,” he says.

“Yes, Sid,” Zhenya says, and right there, in the middle of the airport, he brushes kisses on both of Sid’s cheeks.

“Zhenya!” Sid protests.

Zhenya looks completely unrepentant and sticks out his tongue. “Russian goodbye,” he says.

“I’ll give you a Russian goodbye,” Sid mutters, and then blushes, even though all they did was kiss goodbye this morning.

“Rather have Russian hello when you come to visit,” Zhenya says, and waggles his eyebrows. They call for passengers to begin boarding, and Zhenya pulls him in for one more tight hug. “Bye, Sidnyusha,” he whispers.

“Bye,” Sid says. He doesn’t mean for it to happen, but his eyes well up a little bit. Then he’s distracted by Zhenya pressing a small box in his hand.

“Open on the plane,” Zhenya says with a bittersweet smile.

“I will,” Sid promises. Zhenya goes through boarding, and turns once to wave goodbye before disappearing down the tunnel.

Sid sighs and makes his way to his own gate. He does just as he said he would — he waits until he’s on the plane before he opens the box.

Inside is a little gold penguin charm. It’s not identical to the one he gave Zhenya, but it’s close. He flips it over, half expecting to see his number, but instead there’s one word.

He undoes the clasp of his necklace and adds the charm to it. The penguin and the 87 clink a little.

They’ll be Penguins together, forever, and Sid can hardly wait.

***

TEENAGE DREAM
by Riley Parkinson / ESPN The Magazine

If anyone wants proof that Sidney Crosby and Evgeni Malkin are a long-standing, albeit recently-married couple, it’s all there in Crosby’s gentle chiding when Malkin is late to the interview.

Here’s the kicker: he does it in Russian.

I ask Crosby if he’s fluent, and when he learned. He lifts one shoulder. “I’m okay,” he demurs. “Zhenya’s English is much better.”

That’s something new, too — it’s Zhenya, the Russian diminutive of Evgeni, and not Geno, Malkin’s English nickname. It doesn’t come across as a slip, either — Crosby looks composed and calm, rather remarkably so for a man who has long been tight-lipped about his personal life.

Malkin chuckles. “He’s pretty good,” he tells me. “He had tutoring, and he practices with me and my parents. But if you ask him —” Malkin affects a diffident shrug in almost perfect imitation, and Crosby wrinkles his nose in response.

“I started learning not long after we met,” Crosby says.

Much of their relationship is a matter of public record, and in retrospect, it’s difficult to understand how their marriage took the hockey world by surprise: as rookies, they lived with Mario Lemieux and his family, and then moved into their own house the next season. That’s not an uncommon pattern for young hockey players, but Crosby and Malkin never went their separate ways in the intervening years.

“During your rookie season?” I ask. It was the double debut that nearly wasn’t — Malkin had a contract with Metallurg Magnitogorsk and was under enormous pressure to stay with his hometown club.

“That’s not when we met,” Crosby says, and he and Malkin share a look.

“It was World Juniors 2004,” Malkin volunteers.

Crosby would have been sweet sixteen then, the youngest member of the team by far and already the focus of the hockey world’s attention. Malkin was overshadowed by Alexander Ovechkin, but there were flashes even then of what would come.

“But you didn’t speak English then, right?” I ask Malkin.

He shakes his head. “But we met. And just after I was drafted, Sid sent me a letter.”

Crosby blushes when Malkin adds, “A long letter. I couldn’t read it. Sergei Gonchar translated it for me, and then he helped me write a letter back.”

“We kept writing,” Crosby says. “Until we got to Pittsburgh.”

“Love at first sight?” I suggest.

Crosby laughs. “No, not love at first sight,” he says. “That came later.”

The look he and Malkin share then doesn’t really help his case; if it wasn’t love at first sight, you’d never know it looking at them now.

So, to summarize: they were teenage penpals turned rookie phenoms turned hockey superstars, and, oh yeah, somewhere along the way, they fell in love. Malkin is about to turn 29, and Crosby, 28. They’ve known each other for more than a decade, and been together for most of it. Why get married now?

When I put the question to them, Crosby waits, and, sure enough, Malkin steps in to answer. “We want to start family,” he says. “My parents, you know, they moved here to live with us. And we talk lots about kids.”

“It felt like the right time,” Crosby adds.

“Me, I wanted to marry Sid since forever,” Malkin says, and his expressive mouth twists into a frown. “But — things were complicated.”

I ask them if the decisions of Vancouver rookie Taylor Harris and Florida prospect Kyle Darby to come out influenced theirs.

Crosby looks thoughtful. “A little,” he admits. “But — when same-sex marriage became legal in Pennsylvania, that sort of cleared some of the roadblocks for starting a family in Pittsburgh. Suddenly it wasn’t like ‘maybe someday.’ It was like, we could get married now and get the ball rolling right away.”

“Can I ask how far that ball has gotten?” I ask.

“It’s in progress,” he replies, which is vintage Crosby — answering without really answering at all. He and Malkin can’t quite hide their pleased smiles, so however that ball is rolling, the safe bet is that it’s going well.

Reactions around the National Hockey League suggest that the Crosby-Malkin relationship was one of its worst-kept secrets.

Crosby’s long-time friend, Jack Johnson, was his best man at their private ceremony, held in Mario Lemieux’s back yard. “They’ve been nuts about each other forever,” Johnson says, snorting at the suggestion that it was in any way a secret at all.

Olli Maatta, who lived with the couple during his rookie season last year, says, “Everyone knew. They weren’t exactly hiding. But it was their choice when they want to tell people. For me, it was just a regular billet situation.”

“They were already an old married couple?” I suggest.

He laughs. “Yeah, exactly. Arguing about the dishwasher and if they should get another dog. They were really great, really supportive, helped me get used to living in Pittsburgh and playing in the NHL.”

Alexander Ovechkin, whose selfies at their wedding went viral, is only too willing to talk about them. “I know since forever,” he says. “Maybe I help them get together a little, you know?” He declines to mention when that would have been, but he says, “When I see that Sid is drafted to Pittsburgh, I think Zhenya is coming to NHL this year for sure.”

I ask Malkin if it’s true, if he came to Pittsburgh for Crosby. “No,” he says. Then he smiles. “But I hurried, a little bit.”

“They started off crazy about each other’s hockey,” Sergei Gonchar says. “They were so excited to play together. When they got to Pittsburgh, they were inseparable. It wasn’t until much later that I started to wonder if there was more to it than hockey.”

“We watched them grow up into outstanding young men,” Mario Lemieux says of them. “In every way that matters, they’re part of our family and we’re proud of them.” He pauses. “They’re very good neighbours, too, except for the time Sid backed their boat up into my gate.”

When I mention this to Crosby, he groans. “I’m never going to hear the end of that,” he complains while Malkin laughs. He doesn’t look too put out over the prospect, though.

Even for a couple who have been together as long as Crosby and Malkin, it has to be a little daunting to live together, play together, and balance the many demands on their time. Both of them have extensive sponsorship deals, and media commitments spanning two continents.

“It has to be hard to fit in date night,” I joke. “Or do you need a break from each other sometimes?”

Both immediately shake their heads.

“We have a reputation for being a package deal,” Crosby says, a crooked smile growing on his face. “But of course we do things separately. There are interests we don’t share. I can hardly get him on a golf course.”

Malkin rolls his eyes affectionately; clearly this is a bone of no real contention between them. “We’re lucky. Hockey players spend a lot of time away from home. I get to take part of home with me.”

Crosby ducks his head, but the smile is still there. “We’ve spent too much time apart not to make the most of time we get to spend together, no matter where we are.”

Their marriage, and the relationship revealed by it, gives new context to some of the hardships they’ve faced in their careers. It was disheartening to see first Crosby, then Malkin sidelined by significant, season-ending injuries, but looking at it from their point of view is devastating.

“It was hard to leave him,” Malkin says, when asked about how he handled being apart from Crosby before his own injury. “All I could do was worry and play my best.”

“We were both pretty miserable there for a while,” Crosby says. “Neither of us is great to be around when we’re not playing.” He laughs, so the water is apparently far enough under the bridge for him to have some perspective.

“We decided that we love each other, so we can handle anything,” Malkin says.

In some ways, their story is a deeply traditional hockey narrative. They met young and married much later. But in other ways, they represent a new kind of NHL, one that insists that if you can play, you can play.

“That’s part of it, for sure,” Crosby says earnestly. “We talked about how we want to raise our family, about the example we want to set for all kids, not just ours. And it really came down to that. We didn’t want them to think that who they love should dictate what they can do.”

Malkin takes Crosby’s hand. “We want the most to raise happy, healthy kids, support them like our families supported us,” he says.

Crosby squeezes Malkin’s hand. “Yeah,” he says softly. “That’s the goal.”

And an admirable one, too. What about another Cup?

“Need something to put a baby in,” Malkin says with a grin.

The hockey world has all kinds of nicknames for the pair of them — the two-headed monster, the one-two punch down the middle. One thing is for sure: they’re at their best together. They’ve always known it.

Now everyone else knows, too.

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Table of Contents

- Title Page
- 1. Chapter 1
- 2. Chapter 2
- 3. Chapter 3
- 4. Chapter 4
- 5. Chapter 5
- 6. Chapter 6