Work Text:
1. February 19
Sid wasn’t an emotional guy, but all the business with his thousandth point was getting him pretty worked up: the crowd screaming, his parents crying—his dad crying. All of the stuff his teammates said about him to reporters. It was just a lot to deal with. And then, when he thought it was mostly finished, there was a pre-game ceremony in the locker room, the team core waiting to present him with a golden stick.
Fuck. He was definitely going to get choked up, and someone was definitely going to catch it on film.
He hugged Kuni and Tanger, who he had known for so long that they were basically family, and Flower, who was family, and who Sid was going to lose. He was so distracted by that thought that he forgot about Geno.
“Hey! Give me a hug,” Geno said, joking but also not.
Well: okay.
+ + +
In hockey, a hug meant nothing.
No, that wasn’t true: it meant you were teammates, and you liked and trusted each other. You shared big joys and big sorrows. You were friends, or at least you got along well enough and maybe went to each other’s houses from time to time for a cookout or to watch football. You hugged on the ice, shamelessly; you hugged in the locker room, but those hugs were more reserved, a quick arm around the shoulders and a pat on the back, or a clasp of the hands and a bump of the shoulders. There were rules about all of this, even though nobody ever talked about them. During games, all bets were off, but the rest of the time, you still had to act like men.
Geno knew the rules, but he liked to bend them. Everyone let him get away with it, because who knew what kind of weird shit they got up to in Russia? And Geno had a special talent for making everything seem like a joke.
But it was still weird when he asked Sid for a hug.
Not weird: awkward. The hug itself was awkward, and that was weird. Sid had been hugging Geno for a decade. They’d had plenty of practice. There was no reason for it be awkward, but—it was.
Geno hugged him again in the locker room after the game. They had lost, which usually put a damper on things, but Geno approached Sid anyway, shirtless and sweaty, and wrapped him in a bear hug.
“G, you smell terrible,” Sid said, his words muffled against Geno’s shoulder.
“You’re best,” Geno said. His lips brushed Sid’s ear. He squeezed hard, and Sid laughed breathlessly and tried to break out of his grasp, but Geno held him firm. “Best,” Geno said again, and then he released Sid and stepped away with a swat to his ass.
Later that night, Sid curled up in bed with his tablet and watched the video again, the one with current and former players congratulating him. Horny was wearing a Penguins workout shirt, Kuni had actual sweat dripping down his neck post-practice, and Geno was inexplicably in a suit and tie, his hair combed. Sid watched that part a few times, listening to Geno’s familiar accent, his wholly familiar teasing.
Maybe there had been signs before then, and Sid just hadn’t noticed. But looking back, that was when he first started to wonder.
2. March 25
In Buffalo, the Penguins clinched their playoff spot, and Sid lost a few teeth. It wasn’t a big deal; they were fake anyway. An hour after the game, he was good as new.
Geno was out after blocking a shot with his shoulder and hadn’t traveled with the team, but when Sid checked his phone back at the hotel, Geno had texted him: Sid not pretty((((
Sid rolled his eyes. Pretty wasn’t in his job description. My teeth are fine. Thanks for the concern.
Geno sent him a penguin emoji. Best goal, and playoffs!! Celebrate when u home.
For sure, Sid replied, the way he agreed with most of Geno’s schemes, never really expecting them to get off the ground.
But when they were back in town a few days later, on a rare day off between playing the Islanders and playing the Flyers, Geno texted him mid-morning: Come for dinner, I cook!!
Sid regarded his phone dubiously. He and Geno weren’t on casual dinner invitation terms, and he also didn’t really want to eat Geno’s cooking, which could most kindly be described as edible. Is this a prank?
Geno texted a string of eye-roll emojis, and then, No prank, want celebrate!!! I make freezer pelmeni.
The infamous freezer pelmeni were made by Geno’s mom, and lovingly hoarded. Nealsy was the only non-Russian who had ever been permitted to eat them, and Sid still heard about it every time they played the Preds. Geno was pulling out all the stops.
Okay, dinner sounds good, Sid replied, mostly because he wanted to be able to take the wind out of Nealsy’s sails.
He drove to Geno’s that evening. Geno was waiting for him on the front step. He was dressed up, a little, in nice jeans and a collared shirt, one that Sid vaguely remembered complimenting when Geno had first worn it. Sid looked down at his own T-shirt and well-worn jeans and felt distinctly under-dressed, which wasn’t a feeling he had ever thought he would associate with Geno.
“Uh, I brought wine,” he said, and offered Geno the bottle.
“Sid! Don’t have to bring,” Geno said, as if Trina Crosby would ever raise a son who showed up empty-handed. But Geno smiled, and accepted the bottle, and guided Sid into the house with one hand resting lightly on his back.
Dinner was ready, even though Sid was exactly on time and had sort of expected that Geno wouldn’t have even started. There were flowers on the table, a nice seasonal arrangement. Geno opened the wine and took off his apron.
“Bon appetit,” Geno said, and Sid grinned at how good his pronunciation was: too much exposure to French Canadians.
They ate. The dumplings were good, and Geno told a series of very funny stories, about a friend who fell overboard during a fishing trip, and three baby raccoons breaking in to a neighbor’s house. Sid realized after a while that Geno was exerting himself to be charming. Well, Geno was charming all the time, casually, incidentally, to everyone around him; but he didn’t usually expend any particular effort on Sid.
“Nice out,” Geno said, when the meal was done. “We go sit outside?”
“Sure,” Sid said. He was having a nice time. He wasn’t ready for the evening to be over.
Geno emptied the rest of the wine bottle into Sid’s glass, ignoring Sid’s protests, and took him outside to the swinging bench set up in the yard behind the house. It was nice out, mild still even with the sun sinking behind the trees. Geno stretched one long arm along the back of the bench, stretched his long legs out across the grass. The bench creaked gently as Geno used his feet to rock them back and forth.
Sid felt warm from the wine, and from the way Geno was studying his face, close and fond. Geno wasn’t telling any stories now, and Sid found that he couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
“Thanks for having me over,” he said finally, unable to bear the silence any longer.
“Thanks for come,” Geno said. His fingers skimmed along the slope of Sid’s shoulder and then away.
When Sid went home, Geno hugged him: not a locker room hug, but an on-ice hug, a celly hug, both of his arms around Sid’s shoulders. Sid closed his eyes and pressed his face against Geno’s neck for one sweet moment, breathing in Geno’s musky cologne.
3. April 9
The evidence piled up. Sid considered keeping a list, but that would mean he was taking it seriously; so instead he kept a mental list. The cologne was on there, because why was Geno wearing cologne to have dinner at home with Sid? And the hug was on there, and the swing. The way Geno started lingering in the locker room to talk with Sid before practice, not about hockey business, but about—nothing, really. He just seemed to want to make Sid laugh. And the way he started texting a lot, like every day, sometimes more than once. There was even another dinner invitation, a week after the first, and another careful, enveloping hug, and that was the point at which Sid had to admit to himself that something was pretty obviously going on.
It wasn’t like he was surprised that Geno liked men—that Geno maybe preferred men. It was an open secret in the organization. He even had a boyfriend for a while, a Russian grad student at Pitt who came to a few team events—always introduced as ‘my good friend,’ but everyone knew. Geno was discreet, but he didn’t hide it. Sid had seen him pick up more times than he could count. He was good at it, confident without being pushy. Geno liked dark-haired men, smaller than he was, out of his league looks-wise. He rarely struck out.
Somehow it had never occurred to Sid before that he was exactly Geno’s type.
He talked to Flower about it, finally, because he didn’t necessarily trust his own perceptions. They went for lunch after practice, and Sid picked at his food until Flower set down his fork with a sigh and said, “What’s on your mind, Sid?”
This conversation had been a lot less awkward when Sid mentally rehearsed it in the shower. “I wanted to, uh. Talk to you about Geno.”
“Yes?” Flower said.
Sid really wanted this to be one of the times that Flower read his mind and spared him the agony of having to spell things out, but the universe wasn’t going to be that kind to him. “Have you noticed, lately—it seems like he’s been kind of, uh. Maybe I’m just imagining things, but I think maybe he’s, um.”
Flower’s eyebrows went up. “Yes?”
“God damn it, Flower, you know what I’m trying to say,” Sid said.
“I really have no idea,” Flower said.
For Christ’s sake. “I feel like maybe he’s been flirting with me,” Sid ground out.
“Oh, that,” Flower said. “Yes, I agree, he’s absolutely flirting with you.”
Sid wanted to kill Flower and then himself. “So what do you think I should do about it?”
“How should I know?” Flower said, and then his face softened, and he said, “You know you don’t need anyone’s permission, right?”
“Sure, I know that,” Sid said.
“Okay,” Flower said. He gave Sid a long hard look. “You have my permission, though, if you need it.”
“Thanks, Flower,” Sid said. He knew he didn’t need permission, but—it was a big step, and if Flower thought he was crazy, maybe he wouldn’t do it.
But Flower didn’t think he was crazy.
They closed out the season with a final road trip, Newark to Toronto to New York. In New York, Sid went down the hall and knocked on Geno’s door, his palms a little sweaty even though he didn’t think there was anything to worry about, not really.
Sid was maybe not entirely straight, and Geno maybe knew it. Sid hadn’t acted on it since some ill-advised experimentation in his early twenties, but Geno had been around for that, and—well, he probably knew. And he knew Sid knew about him, and so—it wasn’t innocent, all of that stuff on Sid’s list. Geno meant something by it.
Geno opened the door. He grinned widely when he saw Sid standing there, but then his smile faded.
“Sid,” he said.
Sid drew in a breath. “Let me take you out to lunch. I—on a date. If you want.”
Geno’s face shifted through confusion and into cautious joy. “When?”
“Now,” Sid said. “If you’re ready.”
“Yes,” Geno said, and Sid waited while he found his wallet and his sunglasses, and then they went down to the lobby to catch a cab.
Sid could never remember much about that meal. It blurred into a golden haze. He remembered laughing a lot, and Geno’s feet bumping against his beneath the very small table. He didn’t have any idea what he ate. He remembered Geno leaning back in his chair and smiling and holding his water glass in front of his mouth like his smile was a secret that he wasn’t ready to share. Sid hadn’t felt like this in a long time. Maybe not ever, not exactly like this.
It was a nice day, and the hotel was only a half-hour walk away. They strolled back slowly, their shoulders bumping, their hands brushing until Sid stuffed his in the pockets of his jacket to remove the temptation. Geno cast him a sly glance and nudged him so hard that he had to grab Sid’s elbow to keep him from tipping off the curb.
“Trying to kill me already, eh,” Sid said.
“Sorry, sorry,” Geno said, patting Sid’s shoulder. “I’m too big, don’t know my own strength.”
“Yeah, that’s definitely it,” Sid said.
Geno bumped him again, more gently. “Surprise you ask me.”
“Oh, uh. Should I not have?” Sid asked.
“No, no,” Geno said. “Very happy you do. Only, I don’t expect. First, it’s fun, you know? Have crush, think about, flirt a little bit. I don’t think you notice. Then—” He glanced at Sid. “Then maybe it’s not so fun. Maybe I start want for real, ask you come over, but still you don’t notice.”
“I noticed,” Sid said, and got to watch Geno duck his head and smile down at his shoes.
Back at the hotel, Sid walked Geno to his door, and then things got kind of awkward, both of them shuffling their feet uncertainly and making eye contact that probably qualified as bashful. It was ridiculous. Sid was too old for this.
Geno sighed, rolled his eyes, and said, “Come in for one minute. Okay?”
“Okay,” Sid said, and when the door closed behind them, Geno pressed Sid against the wall and folded him into a hug.
It was warm and close, and Sid wrapped his arms around Geno’s waist and held on, certain now that it was okay. He turned his head to rest his cheek on Geno’s shoulder.
He felt Geno press a few gentle kisses along his hairline. “Maybe we go slow, okay? I know you kiss boys, but—maybe only kissing?”
“Yeah,” Sid said. “I never—you know.”
“Okay,” Geno said. He made a soft, amused noise, and Sid didn’t have to look at his face to know he was grinning. “Only kiss boys, maybe it’s big change for you to kiss man.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Sid said. He pulled back and gave Geno his best unimpressed look.
Geno was grinning. He stroked a thumb along Sid’s cheekbone and said, “After Blue Jackets, then I kiss you.”
Sid narrowed his eyes. He wondered if they could manage a sweep.
4. May 10
The trouble with playoffs was that there was never enough time: not for sleeping, not for practicing or recovering, and certainly not for starting a secret relationship with your alternate. They had a few days after the series against Columbus—not a sweep, but five games was close enough. Geno came over for dinner the day after they closed out that series and kissed Sid for the first time, leaning against the kitchen counter with his hands cupping Sid’s face, their mouths moving together so slow and hot.
Sid drew back at last and licked his lips. “What do I get after the Capitals?”
“Think you get something? You greedy,” Geno said. “Kissing not enough for you?”
“Uh, no,” Sid said.
Geno grinned. “Let me think about.”
What Sid got was a concussion, and Geno pale and worried at his house first thing the next morning, with a bag of Sid’s favorite breakfast pastries; and then he got to lie on the couch with his head in Geno’s lap, and Geno endlessly kissing his forehead and face and murmuring, “Sid, poor head,” and then going off darkly into Russian.
The Capitals took seven hard-fought games. During the final game, Horny scored a clutch backhander for a 2-0 lead early in the third. When the puck went into the net, Geno turned immediately to Sid and opened his arms.
It was an on-ice hug: a hockey hug. But it was also just a hug with Geno, the type of fond embrace Sid could have now whenever he wanted and craved constantly, like now that he had that option he wanted to be wrapped in Geno’s arms at all times. He thought about Geno nonstop, at the grocery store when he saw Geno’s preferred brand of bread on the shelf, at home when he looked again at the fifteen heart emojis Geno had texted him the night before. And it was so easy now to lean against Geno’s chest for just a moment and be close to him, even through all their gear.
Geno leaned over to him afterward, when everyone had settled down on the bench once more, and said, quietly, “I think we win this game.”
They did.
What he got was Geno in his hotel room that night, after they won, and Geno’s hand on his dick, and his on Geno’s, half out of their clothes on the bed and kissing and laughing, giddy with winning and with having each other. Geno went blotchily pink all over before he came, his chest and shoulders all mottled with it, and Sid sat up toward the end, amazed, so he could watch Geno’s eyes squeeze shut and his mouth fall open.
“Stay the night,” he said, when they were cleaning up, and Geno did.
5. May 29
The series against the Senators was a long, boring grind, but somehow they won that one, too, and then it was on to the Predators.
They won the first game. Bones capped it off with an empty netter at the end of the third, and when Sid turned toward Geno on the bench, he knew for sure that Geno would be turning toward him.
Geno yelled something incoherent and pulled Sid against him, sitting on the boards to straddle Sid’s hips and squeeze him close. Sid couldn’t believe how lucky he was, to get to play good hockey with this man beside him, always ready for the next pass, always waiting for Sid to call to him or to lead him out onto the ice.
He went to Geno’s house the next afternoon: not for lunch, not for dinner, but just to hang out. Geno made a pitcher of water with lime slices and spread a blanket on the grass in the back yard, under the shade of a tree. They sprawled together and watched game tape on Sid’s tablet until Geno, predictably, fell asleep. And then Sid just watched him sleep for a while, feeling a little creepy but not enough to deter him from it. Geno’s face was so animated when he was awake, constantly shifting from one expression to the next, but in sleep he was peaceful. He looked younger. He looked tired, but they were all tired, this deep into the playoffs.
He looked like someone Sid wanted to keep beside him for a long time.
+1. June 8
Game 5 was a 6-0 blowout. Sid got three points; Geno got a Gordie Howe hat trick.
“You’re a fucking menace,” Sid told him in the locker room afterward.
“Me?” Geno asked, all innocence. “What I do? Get two points, score goal—”
“Fight Josi,” Sid said.
“Only roughing!” Geno said. “Everyone fight, Haggy, Dales—”
“Don’t bring me into this,” Daley said.
“Fight Josi,” Geno muttered to himself, and stomped off to the shower.
Sid grinned. Geno was way too easy to rile up.
He riled him up even more in the parking deck. It was late and dark, they were two of the last people at the arena, and Geno only put up a token protest when Sid shoved him up against the driver’s side door of his stupid sports car and kissed him. Geno spread his legs and slouched down and Sid could feel him getting hard inside his suit pants, and they were being really dumb and Sid didn’t want to stop.
“You turn me on so much,” he said, kissing frantically at Geno’s neck, sucking kisses above the collar of his shirt. “You were so good tonight, you—”
“You first star,” Geno said, his voice rough, and he used his grip on Sid’s ass to pull him in a little tighter.
“Okay,” Sid said at last, tearing himself away. “Okay. Fuck. Okay. Let’s get out of here. Let’s go back to my place.”
“What I get?” Geno asked. His eyes were half-lidded. His mouth was wet and swollen. His ugly mustache was wet with spit.
“I bet I can think of something,” Sid said.