Chapter Text
The morning ice at Mellon Arena still had that glassy sheen, untouched except for the lazy arcs of warm-up laps. The six of them — Sid, Geno, Jordan, Marc-André, Kris, and Ryan — clustered near the boards, voices pitched low, sticks leaning across their knees as if they were conspiring instead of prepping for drills.Marc-André grinned behind his mask. “I still can’t believe it,” he whispered, shifting from French-accented English into pure mischief. “We hang out in Sid's house, yes, but to play hockey with his parents? Watch their teammates singing drunk?” He slapped his blocker on his pad, nearly giggling. “Too much, boys. Too much.”
Jordan Staal leaned on his stick, shoulders still sore from laughing all night. “Nah, my favorite part was forgetting about the VHS tape, man. Dude, I don't think I need therapy for that anymore.”
Kris, hair falling in his eyes, smirked. “Correction: We all don't need therapy anymore.”
Ryan rolled his eyes, the oldest of the group, though not by much. “Yeah, but I do. I saw Barrasso make snow angels in Francis's puke. Jesus.”
That got them laughing, their voices bouncing against the empty rink like echoes of the chaos they’d survived.
Then Geno, deadpan as ever, cut in. “Sid’s mom and dad make out in front of Great One. This… highlight of night.” He mimed an exaggerated, dramatic kiss and the others howled, nearly doubling over.Sid turned beet red instantly. He tugged his helmet lower, muttering, “Shut up, Geno. For the last time.” But the corner of his mouth betrayed him, fighting a smile.
Marc-André tilted his head, curious and mischievous all over again. “Still feels surreal, eh? Like… Mario and Jagr are actually your parents. Not just legends. Not just teammates once. Parents. Biological. Crazy. Sid sighed, twirling his stick nervously. “It is. Sometimes I still can’t wrap my head around it. I mean—at home, yeah, it’s mom and dad. I can say that, you know? But in public…” He glanced around, lowering his voice even further. “People don’t know. The media definitely doesn’t. If they found out Jags is… my mom? Even though he’s a guy? No way they’d let it go. It’d be everywhere. Headlines, tabloids, questions I don’t need right now.”
The weight of his words settled in for a second, the air between them shifting serious.
Kris gave him a nudge with his glove. “Don’t sweat it, kid. We’re a vault. Nobody outside us, your family, and the old guard knows. And honestly? It’s none of their damn business.”
Ryan nodded, brushing his hair back. “Yeah. Anyone who finds out, we'll jump them. I promise.”
Jordan smirked but softened his tone. “Plus, it makes you way cooler than any of us. I mean, our parents? They can’t score 600 goals or show up drunk to karaoke night.”
That finally earned a full laugh from Sid, shoulders shaking. “Thanks… I think?”
The six of them chuckled, the bond obvious, when suddenly blades scraped ice behind them. Maxime Talbot zipped past, his grin wide, his eyes flicking toward the huddled group.
“Whatcha girls whispering about?” Talbot teased in sing-song, his French-Canadian lilt bouncing. He didn’t even slow down, just looped around the zone like a shark circling prey.
The six froze in unison, guilty as kids caught with candy before dinner.
“Nothing,” Sid blurted, too quick. Way too quick.
Talbot raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. “Mhm. Suuure. Keep your secrets.” He coasted away, humming off-key like he didn’t have a care in the world.
They all exhaled at once, laughing nervously.
“Whew,” Flower said, tugging his mask back down. “Close call. Too close.”
Sid shook his head, muttering, “If Talbot ever finds out, we’re dead.”
The others snickered, but Sid wasn’t entirely joking.
Practice wound down with the usual drills and scrimmage. Sticks clattered against the boards, skates hissed to a stop, and the six boys lingered near the locker room doors, exhausted but buzzing.
“Showers, then food,” Jordan groaned, tugging at his sweat-soaked gear.
“Yeah, showers,” Flower agreed, flopping dramatically onto the bench. “I smell like cat shit caught on fire.”
They were halfway to peeling gear off when Kris froze mid-step. His dark eyes caught something across the hallway — a flicker of light, a glow from a laptop screen. He squinted. Coach Micheal Therrien stood stiffly by the wall, arms crossed, while Mark Recchi leaned in, clicking around on a bulky HP Pavilion perched on a table. Both were side-eyeing the locker room door between mutters. Kris’s stomach sank. He glanced back at the others. “Hold up. Gimme a sec.”
“What?” Jordan asked.
But Kris was already sneaking down the hall, pressing flat against the wall like some spy in sweatpants. He peeked just far enough to see Recchi’s screen.
There it was.
A MySpace profile.
Ryan Whitney’s MySpace profile.
On it: a paused, shaky video clip.
The video: Mario Lemieux and Jaromir Jagr, both unmistakably hammered, slow-dancing like prom dates in the Lemieux living room. Then, halfway through the clip, Wayne Gretzky slid into frame behind them, grinning like the Great One at karaoke night.
The caption beneath the video read in bold Comic Sans:
“Hockey Legends: The Remix.”
Kris slapped a hand over his mouth. His heart plummeted. “Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit.” He backpedaled, almost tripping over his skate guards, and bolted back into the locker room.
The others looked up instantly.
“What happened?” Jordan asked, towel draped over his shoulder.
Kris was pale, hands flailing. “Shit, shit, shit. We’re screwed.”
Sid sat upright. “What do you mean we’re screwed? What did you see?”
Kris ran both hands through his damp hair. “Recchi. Coach. Laptop. They’re looking at Ryan’s MySpace. Your MySpace, dude.” He jabbed a finger at Whitney. “And there’s a video. The video. From last night.”
Everyone froze.
Ryan blinked, genuinely lost. “What video?”
Kris exhaled like a gunshot. “Mario and Jagr. Drunk slow-dancing. Gretzky sliding in. The whole thing. With a caption.”
“Caption?” Sid repeated, dread curling in his gut.
Kris nodded miserably. “Caption said: ‘Hockey Legends: The Remix.’”
Silence. Then:
“Wait, wait, wait,” Ryan said, shaking his head. “That doesn’t make sense. Yeah, I took some pictures. A couple funny videos, sure. But I didn’t upload anything. I didn’t even touch my MySpace last night!”
“Maybe you drunk-post?” Geno offered, shrugging, completely serious.
Ryan glared. “I wasn’t that drunk.”
Geno tilted his head. “Mario was. I saw him go to your laptop many times. Maybe he post. Or Jags. Or Coffey.”
“Paul Coffey?” Jordan snorted, running a hand down his face. “The guy stayed in the corner the whole time! He’s not hacking MySpace.”
Sid’s voice cut sharp, panicked. “Wait. You’re saying my dad—or my mom—or both—might’ve posted themselves drunk-dancing… on MySpace? From Ryan’s account?!”
The locker room erupted.
Jordan groaned, “Well, great. Just great.”
Flower dropped his head in his hands. “We’re finished. They'll be headlines about us on the news!”
Kris paced, muttering again, “Shit, shit, shit.”
Ryan slumped back against his locker, rubbing his temples. “This is not happening. This is not happening.”
Sid swallowed hard, voice small. “What’s gonna happen now?”
The locker room was buzzing, but not with the usual post-practice chatter. Ryan Whitney sat hunched over the bench with his Dell laptop on his knees, clicking furiously. His teammates crowded around, the air thick with panic and stuffy Old Spice deodorant.“Okay,” Whitney muttered, squinting at the screen. “Okay, so… yeah. This is definitely my account. But dude—this wasn’t me.”
On the glowing MySpace page were posts that definitely weren’t from Whitney’s hands. A grainy, shaky video of the boys walking through Sid’s fancy neighborhood like it was some reality show B-roll. A clip of Wayne Gretzky dusting Mario in that ill-fated race yesterday. And, worst of all, a video of Mario leaning on the Lemieux-Jagr kitchen wall, hoodie sagging off his shoulders, looking right into the camera with the confidence of a man who had never once used slang correctly in his life.
“Dudes, what's good?” Mario said on screen, throwing up an awkward peace sign.
“Dear God,” Kris muttered, dragging his hands down his face. “Delete it. Delete it now.”
“Dude, I'm trying but I can't for some reason,” Whitney said, clicking. “It’s already... Look at the fucking comments.”
The scrolling feed showed strangers typing things like:
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‘Ya'll is that some of the 2006 roster at Lemieux's house?? ’
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‘This does look like Mario’s house...’
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‘Who’s the cute guy in the lavender Juicy tracksuit?? :0’
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‘Wait… IS THAT GRETZKY???’
“ Not the Juicy Couture tracksuit??” Jordan groaned.
“Yeah,” Flower smirked, peeking over Whitney’s shoulder. “That’s definitely Jagr.”
Sid whipped his head around. “That’s not my—wait. That is my mom!”
“Yeah, man,” Flower said. “The internet’s never gonna forget that look.”
Whitney scrolled further, his face pale. “Oh no. Ohhh no. There’s photos too.”
The boys leaned in closer:
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Jordan dead asleep on the basement couch with a neat stack of Oreos balanced on his forehead.
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Marc-André, shirt pushed up, stomach distended from snack overload, hands resting on the mound. Caption: ‘Baby on board.’
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A blurry snap of the basement chaos, half the alumni drunk, someone holding a karaoke mic like it was Excalibur.
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And then—
A photo of Geno pressing his lips sloppily to Sid’s cheek while Sid blushed scarlet, half caught between laughing and combusting.
The boys gasped in unison. Sid’s ears went red instantly.
“DUDE,” Jordan whispered, pointing. “They caught that.”
Sid’s whole body locked. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Oh, it’s exactly what it looks like,” Letang said with an evil grin. “Man, the Internet is having a field day.”
“Okay, I swear to God, it wasn’t me,” Whitney said again, almost shouting now. “I didn’t upload this. Someone at your house did.”
“Well,” Flower muttered, “considering half of them were drunk, it could’ve been literally anyone.”
“Mario touched my laptop like three times,” Whitney said, pointing an accusing finger.
“And Jags. And, like, Ron Francis.”
The group sat in horrified silence for a second. Then Jordan muttered, “Great. Just great. Our lives are ruined because your dad can’t handle a glass of wine and dial-up internet.”
Sid ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “We need to fix this. We—okay, no, we need to call someone.”
Marc-Andre leaned back against the lockers. “Call Jagr.”
Sid shot him a glare. “He’s not—ugh. Fine.”
He pulled out his flip phone, punched in the number, and after a few rings, Jagr’s accented voice crackled through the speaker.
“Siddo! Kiddo! Why are you calling? Shouldn’t you be stretching?”
“Mom—uh, Jags—we have a problem,” Sid blurted out. “Ryan’s MySpace. There are videos. Of the sleepover. Of you. Of Mario. Of—everything.”
There was a pause. Then Jagr’s voice jumped half an octave. “WHAT?!”
Sid held the phone away from his ear. Geno snorted.
“Okay, okay,” Jagr said quickly. “Calm down. Don’t panic. It’s fine. It’s the internet. Nobody cares. Who cares? Do people care?”
“They’re commenting already,” Sid said, his voice cracking.
“Ohhhhhh shiiit,” Jagr muttered.
“Jags—what do we do?” Sid asked desperately.
Jagr sighed. “Listen, Sid. You know the drill, don’t accidentally anyone about Mario and me, okay? Nobody can know we’re parents. If anyone asks, you say it’s just legends giving advice to rookies. Mentor thingy. Nice lovely story. Understand?”
Sid swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
“Good boy. And don’t worry, kiddo. Once something is viral, there is nothing you can do. Just act normal. Normal!”
“Normal?!” Sid squeaked. “This isn’t normal! Dad said ‘homies, remember’?!”
The boys all burst into laughter, trying not to make noise loud enough for Jagr to hear. Whitney fell off the bench, wheezing.
“Tomorrow you play Bruins, yes?” Jagr continued. “Good. Focus on that. Don’t think about internet. Leave that to me and Mario. We… ehhh, figure it out.”
Sid let his head drop into his hands. “Oh God.”
“Remember,” Jagr added, voice suddenly serious. “Do not tell them we are parents. Understand? Repeat it.”
Sid exhaled, defeated. “…Legends giving advice to rookies. Mentor thingy. Got it.” The line clicked off.
The next day, Mellon Arena was buzzing like a beehive. The first playoff matchup between Pittsburgh and Boston had the city on fire. Sid, Geno, Jordan, Flower, Tanger, and Whitney all stepped into the bright hallway leading to the rink, instantly swallowed by a wall of microphones and cameras.Usually the media questions were about line chemistry, conditioning, strategy. Usually the media questions were about line chemistry, conditioning, strategy. But today? Today, the first words out of a reporter’s mouth were:“Sidney, care to comment on the MySpace photos making the rounds?”
Sid froze. The boys stiffened beside him like deer in headlights.
Another reporter chimed in, flipping through a notepad. “The video of Mario Lemieux and Jaromir Jagr slow-dancing—it’s everywhere. ESPN, CBC, TSN, even CNN picked it up this morning. How does it feel to hang out with legends like Jagr, Lemieux, Gretzky, Coffey, Barrasso, Stevens, and Francis? Must be an honor, right?”
The six boys exchanged a rapid-fire glance. Mentor thingy. Legends giving advice. Stick to the script.
Sid straightened his posture, plastered on his polite Crosby smile, and said smoothly, “Uh, yeah—it’s an incredible honor. I’ve been really lucky to have mentors like them showing me what it means to play at this level. On the ice, off the ice—it’s all lessons.”
The reporters scribbled furiously.
Next up: Geno. He gave a shy shrug, mumbling, “Yes, very honor. Big honor. They… good guys. Teach hockey. Teach life.”
Laughter rippled through the group, charmed by his broken English. Geno shot Sid a quick was that okay? look, and Sid gave a subtle nod.
Flower leaned into the mic, his grin easy. “Honestly? Funniest night of my life. Learned a lot, sure—but I also learned that Gretzky cannot karaoke to save his life.”
The reporters chuckled. Crisis defused.
Jordan, trying not to smile too wide, muttered, “Uh, yeah, it’s been… an experience. Once-in-a-lifetime kind of thing, you know? Learned a lot, had a good time. That’s all.”
Letang, his voice calm but his hair too perfect to be believable, chimed in: “It’s not every day you get to sit in a room with legends. You soak it in. It’s about respecting the game.”
Finally, all eyes swung to Whitney. He shifted awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “I mean, yeah, it’s cool. But also—can we talk about tonight’s game? That’s what really matters, right?”
Game time.
From the first puck drop, the Bruins tried chirping.
“Hey Letang!” one Boston forward yelled. “Where’s your lavender tracksuit, buddy?”
“Nice babysitters, Crosby!” another heckled.
But the Pens, fueled by embarrassment and adrenaline, played sharper than ever. Geno racked up two goals, Sid scored on a slick breakaway, Flower was a wall in net. By the final buzzer, Pittsburgh skated off with a 4–2 win and a two-point lead in the series.
Later at the locker room, post-game.The boys peeled off gear, sweat steaming into the chilly air. The win had the room electric, laughter and high-fives bouncing everywhere. Coach Therrien walked in, clapping his hands together, his face split by a grin.
“Good game, boys. That’s how we play playoff hockey!”
The room erupted in cheers.
Then Therrien’s gaze slid to Sid and the five clustered around him. “And you six…” He chuckled. “Must’ve been quite an honor, huh? Hanging out with legends like Lemieux, Jagr, Gretzky, Coffey, Stevens, Francis, and who else. Oh, Barrasso”
The boys froze again. Sid, towel draped around his neck, forced a smile. “Yes, coach. Big honor.”
The others nodded, voices overlapping in a nervous chorus:
“Yeah, once-in-a-lifetime.”
“Super humbling.”
“Learned a lot.”
“Definitely an experience.”
“Yeah, honor.”
Therrien raised an eyebrow at the weirdly synchronized answers—but then shrugged. “Good. That kind of mentorship will only make you better players.”
The boys exhaled again, relief mixing with exhaustion. For now, the storm had been contained.
But Sid knew, deep down, that the internet didn’t forget. And if this was just the beginning… what would tomorrow look like?
That night, Sidney Crosby lay in his dorm room bed, staring at the faint blue glow of his laptop. Colby Armstrong snored on the other side of the room, sprawled out like a starfish, dead to the world.
Sid logged into MySpace. He clicked over to Whitney’s page, bracing himself. More videos. More photos. More… comments.
And not just from random fans anymore—half the league seemed to have found it.
MySpace Comment Section – April 2006
Alex Ovechkin: Ryan u so lucky. invite me next time, da? I bring vodka, no problem.
Eric Staal: You guy's let Mario say different types of slang, for ten minutes straight? I feel bad for u all:(
Andrew Ladd: I'm jealous. All I got was a stern lecture from my older teammates when I was a rookie...
Blake Wheeler: Bro, imagine going over to Jagr's and watch him slow dance while drunk … That's like an early birthday gift.
Corey Perry: Not fair. My mentor is Chris Pronger and he just two-hand slashes me in practice.
Ryan Getzlaf: ^ facts. Also Jagr, respect, but that lavender tracksuit needs to be burned.
Sean Avery: Yawn. Big deal... When I was a Detroit wing, hanging out with Brett Hull, no one filmed me looking that good at 2am, huh? ;/
Brooks Orpik (teammate): Jordan, I saw the Oreo pic. Rookie hazing, handled like a champ. Respect.
Vincent Lecavalier: Damn Flower. When's the baby due?
Henrik Lundqvist: Not a comment, just… who styled Jagr in Juicy Couture? Asking for a friend.
Brenden Morrow: Ya'll aren't even old enough to drink. How does this keep happening to you?
Martin Brodeur: Sid’s what, 19? Already got to meet Mario, Jagr, Wayne,Coffey and others. Unreal.
Commenter tag: PenguinsFan66: Pittsburgh penguins= God’s Favorite Confirmed.
Sid scrolled through, cheeks burning, but… the comments weren’t mean. They were teasing, supportive, half-jealous. Lucky team, over and over again.
Meanwhile, across town…
Mario Lemieux sat in his living room, robe tied loosely, reading emails on his ancient desktop. He frowned at one new message.
Email from Teemu Selänne:
“Saw the video. Beautiful. Next time invite me.”
Mario blinked. “What video?”
Another ping. New email.
Email from Mark Recchi:
“Hey Crosby, save a dance for me.”
Mario stared harder at the screen. “What the hell is going on? How do people know about this?”
Jaromir Jagr, curled in an armchair with a glass of wine, didn’t even look up. “Remember two nights ago?”
Mario rubbed his temple. “Yeah. We had wine. Everyone was here dancing except Paul. Kevin made fun of my tie. So?”
Jagr took a slow sip, watching him. “…And one of Sid's teammates left their laptop unlocked. You know who touched it, right?”
Mario blinked. “No. Who?”
Jagr smirked. “Half the retired guys. Drunk. Clicking buttons. Uploading. My love,Wayne Gretzky pressed enter by accident.”
Mario froze, realization dawning. “Oh my god. When Sid gets home I'm gonna apologize, maybe I'll give him a new car,—”
—I’ll apologize as well,” Jagr finished back, swirling his wine. “He's a sweet and forgiving kid.”
Mario slumped back, groaning into his hands.
Jagr only smiled, sipping again. “At least everyone thinks it’s cute.”