Archive of Our Own

“Pass! Pass! I’m open-”

Sidney doesn’t look over to the caller. He knows Peter is open, he has eyes, it’s just that the defenders know that too, one of them is going over to Peter, everyone is anticipating the pass - so Sidney shoots and scores.

“You!” Everyone slams into him. Peter is looking a little pissed, but Sidney shrugs it off. He’s getting used to the slight jealousy constantly displayed by other players. He’s not a puck hog, he’s just got a good eye, better than most people his age. It’s what he tells himself, anyway.

Someone bumps into him as they leave the ice. “Sidney mean.” 

He turns around and lifts an eyebrow into Geno’s rapidly familiar face. It’s only been two weeks, but he knows that Geno only half-means his teasing by now.

Geno grins. “Let not good people shoot! Better for them.”

“Better for your team, you mean,” Sidney scoffs.

“I think of them,” Geno insists. Sidney laughs in his face, so he admits, “Was good shot though.”

“You too! That goal in the second was awesome - you just left them behind, so good!” Sidney knows he gets weird and enthusiastic about other people’s hockey sometimes, but - Geno never seems to mind. On the contrary, he enthuses right back.

“Hey, I not have hattrick today! Selfish, but good! Goalie hate you now.”

“Alright, alright, enough of that self-praise,” Peter breaks them out of their mutual admiration. “You’re great, we get it.”

Sidney tries not to be angry at his tone. Peter is one of the players struggling to keep up. Sidney is his captain for the summer and should do his best to help him improve. So he shoves down his annoyance and says evenly, “Sorry, Peter.”

Geno, he notices, seems to melt into the background as soon as the other players make themselves heard. He’s still insecure about his English, Sidney knows. He only wished that others would bother to listen to him. Geno’s such a sweet guy, he deserves to have more friends than Sidney.

It’s why Sidney asks, “Hey, Geno, Peter, I want to run some more drills before dinner. Wanna join? We could work on passing.” Oh, oops, he hasn’t intended that to be about what had occurred in the game.

Peter doesn’t seem insulted though. “Yeah, sure! Gale, Bob, join us!”

Geno, however, seems to melt into the background. “I’ll see you later,” he mumbles.

Sidney watches him go and suppresses a sigh.

“Hey, it’s your birthday tomorrow, right?” Gale asks him after three runs.

Sidney wants to tell him to stop talking and keep going, but the talk his dad gave him before about being a leader and team player still resounded in his head. So he just nodded. “Yeah, August 7.” 

Gale waggles his eyebrows. “You having a party.”

“No.”

“What am I hearing of a party?” Peter and Bob join them.

“Nothing,” Sidney tries to cut them off, but Gale is already slinging an arm around his shoulder.

“Sidney here turns thirteen tomorrow.”

Peter grins. “That means a party, alright!”

“I don’t want one,” Sidney tries to explain as he extracts himself from Gale’s hold. He doesn’t like parties. There are some kind of invisible rules that everyone but him seems to know. He wants to skype his parents and baby sister tomorrow and go to bed, same as every other day.

“But Sidney, it’s good for the team!”

“Think of all the bonding!”

“And we might get some alcohol from the older boys-” here Bob is cut off by Peter’s elbow.

Sidney frowns. He would be letting the team down a bit if he denied them a party, that’s true. Everyone always says that true bonding happens off the ice. “I guess.”

The three whoop. “Great! We’ll let the team leader know, alright?”

And with that they skate towards the exit, leaving Sidney to stare after them.

“But… the drills…”

The next morning, Geno is the first to congratulate Sidney. More precisely, he ambushes him on the way to the food tent. And he’s… singing?

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Sidney, happy birthday to you!”

Sidney’s cheeks are burning, he can just feel it. It’s off-key, too loud, and, well. Sweet.

“Thank you.”

Geno smiles at him. Not the smile of the rink, cocky or beaming or mocking by turn, but a quiet smile. He’s quite cute like that, Sidney can’t help but notice.

There’s a moment of silence.

“Oh!” Geno remembers. “Here, for you.”

He presents Sidney with a little plastic bag.

“Uh. Thank you.”

Geno rolls his eyes, looking fond. “No… paper? Is that word? Is a gift. Open.”

Gingerly, Sidney’s fingers pry apart the bag and take out a…

“...a puck signed by Wayne Gretzky? Geno! This is too much!” But he can’t help the grin that’s spreading over his face. “Thank you!”

Geno nods. “With, uh, magic wishing dust?”

“The glitter?” It’s certainly covered in that. But it’s signed by Wayne Gretzky, why would Sidney care?

“Magic wishing dust. Look that up, hope it’s right word?”

“Probably not,” Sidney smiles. “It’s awesome, anyway.”

Geno shrugs. “Try again later.”

“You do that. Are you coming to the party tonight?”

Geno’s face scrunches into a grimace. “Don’t like parties. Neither do you.”

Fair point. Still, Sidney shrugs. He agreed, after all. He’ll have to go through with it now. “It would be… nice if you came, though,” he admits.

Geno smiles. “Then I come.”

Sidney smiles, too, still gripping his puck tightly. The day suddenly looks much better. “Great! I’ll bring this back to my tent, but I’ll see you at breakfast, yeah?”

“And morning skate. And lunch. And practice. And drills. And dinner.” Geno teases him. “But au revoir, Sid.”

“Dosvidanya, Geno.”

But the party begins, and Geno isn’t there. Sidney tries not to feel too forlorn (and what a word that is. Maybe he shouldn’t have picked up that historical romance at school…) as he’s lingering in the corner of the common room, nursing a fruit punch. It’s too loud and too crowded and he doesn’t even know most of the people here.

Then his team finds him - the usual trio, dragging Nate and Julien, their goalie, behind them. “Sidney! Good party, if there were girls,” Peter shouts, and the others laugh. They’ve clearly gotten their hands on some alcohol.

Sidney chuckles along nervously. “Uh, I guess?”

“Too bad, we can’t play seven minutes in heaven like this!” Julien chuckles.

Gale suddenly looks sly. Sidney is starting to feel uncomfortable. “Uh, what is that?”

“A game where you get locked into a room with your crush for seven minutes,” Gale explains, and Sidney is ready to nod and move on, preferably physically away from them, when he continues, “so I suppose we have to wait till Geno gets here for you." 

The others laugh. Sidney can feel himself blush again, damn it. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s cute how awkward you are,” Gale tells him.

Peter chirps in, “Geno told us about your flirting. You might wanna tone it down, dude, he sounded pretty disgusted. That’s why he’s not here yet.”

Gale laughs. “I can understand that! Wouldn’t want to catch the fagginess.”

Bob, Julien, Nate, and Peter apparently think that’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard, because they keep chortling and repeating “Fagginess! Haha, that’s good." 

The burn in Sidney’s cheeks is nothing against the one in his eyes. He turns his head, but of course Peter notices. “Oh, is the fag sad?”

That’s too much. Sidney bodily shoulders himself out of the group, walking, then running towards the entrance and to his own cabin. Luckily, the room is empty, because he wants nothing more than hide under that blanket. Instead, he just leans against the wall and pulls his legs towards him.

Stupid, he tells himself, stupid, stupid, stupid to get distracted, I’ll never do that again. He’ll just… ignore the boys, and Geno, and get through this, and then he’ll be home and focusing on playing the best hockey he can. He’s heading for the NHL, he knows it, and he won’t let some stupid boys or his own stupid feelings stop him. One day, he’ll make it, play with the best, be the best.

If only that day could come sooner… He wants to be thirty, professional and thriving now, and not have to get through the next days. Facing Geno, knowing what he said, what he did…

Suppressing tears of betrayal, Sidney curls up under the blanket. This night is over. He’d better get some sleep. As he turns on his side, his hand slips under the pillow and touches something cold and hard. He pulls it out - the glittering Gretzky puck. He’s forgotten about that.

With an angry grunt, he throws it across the room. Some gift that was!

Some of the glitter sticks to his hand, but it doesn’t matter. Only falling asleep matters now, and then… one day… thirty… professional and thriving…

When Sidney wakes up, his body is aching. Serves him right for falling asleep unhappy and tense, he thinks. No matter, it won’t make the day much worse, nothing could do that, he thinks and opens his eyes. 

That’s not his cabin.

There’s a moment of sheer panic, a flood of adrenaline in his synapses as he looks around the huge bedroom. He’s on a king bed, with the softest sheets he’s ever felt, and a mattress that feels like it’s moulded to his body. The walls are washed white, simple but expensive furniture and hockey medals on the wall… nothing else.

The point is, he’s never been here before, has no idea where “here” is, and every explanation he can come up with is about abduction or aliens or something equally terrifying.

He listens. There’s no sound. Even the alarm clock on the side table is silent. It’s never been this silent in Sidney’s home. It really doesn’t help his nervousness, though he supposes it’s better than people talking about killing him or, like, slimy tentacles moving towards him.

Maybe he can get out of here. Maybe his kidnappers didn’t realize he would wake up so early (it’s five am, pretty standard waking time for Sidney), and he can seize the moment. His biology teacher talked about the “fight or flight” response last year, and Sidney is feeling very predisposed towards the latter right now.

Cautiously, he slowly slides the blanket off his lap so as to make as little noise as possible and gets his second shock of the day.

That’s not his body.

His thighs are big, muscular, straining against his boxers. His feet are at least three shoe sizes up from when he last saw them. He’s got abs (Abs! He’s been working on that for years!) and calve muscles and sturdy ankles and it’s not his body as he knows it.

Potential kidnappers forgotten, he makes his way towards the mirror across the room. Maybe this is like that weird old movie with Jodie Foster, where she swaps places with her mother? But his father doesn’t have a room like that, not to mention those abs.

The first glance at his face reassures him, a little. It is him, and it’s not. He’s… older, maybe? Definitely taller, filled out, less awkward. His t-shirt is straining against the width of his shoulders. He pulls it up. There are scars on his skin he doesn’t recognize per se, but knows as the kind that come from playing a lot of hockey for a long time. He turns around. His behind is… well. He’s definitely still a hockey player, for sure.

So he’s… older? Weeeeird.

His body feels good though. Aching, yes, muscles feeling used and abused, probably from a recent game. But also powerful, flexible. He does a few stretches. Yeah, everything is in working order.

Rotating his hips outward draws his attention to his shorts, though, and… well. He’s been wondering how he’ll develop in that, uh, area. And it’s his, right? It’s perfectly alright if he wants to look.

Cautiously he draws away the boxers away and peers down. Huh. That’s… hair? He’s been told that would happen, has seen it on some of the older boys, but it still looks strange and foreign on himself. His penis is… nice? Thick, at least. Definitely bigger than it was. Still kinda short though.

Sidney catches himself and lets the waistband snap back. Jesus, this is embarrassing. 

All of this leaves him at a loss. So he is an adult now? Like time travel or something? No, that’s when people's bodies stay the same, they just go to a different year. Time lapse? Or maybe he just doesn’t remember the years that have passed? The coaches were always very adamant about concussion symptoms. He thinks they mentioned memory loss. But how long? Somehow, Sidney doesn’t think so. Still better than being kidnapped though.

Still, he has no idea what to do next. He presumably has a life now (and some money, if he looks at the furniture), he just has no idea what it is.

Getting dressed would probably be a good start, so he opens the wardrobe.

It’s full of Pittsburgh Penguins sweaters.

Well, that’s a hint, he guesses. Also a lot of suits, but hopefully he won’t have to wear that right now. If he’s in the NHL (and it sure looks like it), any potential game won’t be until the afternoon. Until then, he’s grabbing one of the sweatshirts and a pair of jeans. Then he has to hunt for a belt, and, on second thought, for a clean pair of underwear. His mom always tells him to change it regularly, after all.

His body still looks weird in the mirror, so he turns away from his reflection and dresses quickly.

One of the doors reveals itself to contain a bathroom, so at least he can brush his teeth. There’s only one toothbrush on the sink, which comes as a bit of a relief. At least he won’t have to deal with a significant other he can’t remember. Although he’s always thought he’d be married by the time he was this old, even after he’s realized he’s usually crushing on boys rather than girls. Then Sidney remembers who he’s fantasized about marrying only yesterday and spits toothpaste into the sink vengefully.

The rest of the house turns out to be similar to the bedroom: large, expensively furnished, walls full of hockey memorabilia, including that signed puck Geno gave him, and empty. There are no pictures to help Sidney find out about his life, nothing from his family. Maybe his older self misses them too much to see their faces all the time and be reminded? Or maybe they moved close-by and he doesn’t need the pictures because he sees them all the time.

What he does find, however, is a laptop that’s so light and so small he can’t help but doubt it’s really functional. It does power up perfectly though. After bit of hesitation he opens the browser. At least “Internet Explorer” still exists… And opens on Google right away, which he knows slightly. They’ve used it in class once or twice.

He types in “Sidney Crosby” and is immediately directed directed to a page about him. The speed is amazing. There’s barely any loading time, even for the pictures. The page is called “Wikipedia”, and it basically says that Sidney’s life is awesome. He’s the captain of an NHL hockey team! The youngest ever, the page says, and Sidney can’t help but glow with pride despite not actually remembering that achievement. He’s won two Stanley Cups with the Penguins! Two! And he’s a member of the triple gold club! 

He’s grinning at the screen, he can’t help it. It says he’s one of the best hockey players ever, the best of his generation, and he’s leading the league in points right now. The list of the awards he’s won is overwhelming. It’s all he’s ever hoped for.

The little profile at the top says he’s thirty now, so it’s 2017/2018. The weather outside looks winter-y, so that doesn’t help.

Then he hits himself on the forehead and types “what year is it” into Google. Amazingly, it doesn’t even redirect him to another page this time, it just shows “2018”. So cool. You could find out anything with that so quickly…

He types in “Gale Burkett” and feels satisfied when all that shows up are some articles from junior hockey that mention him in passing and a long list of random, unimportant (i.e. non-hockey) people. Clearly things haven’t worked out for Mr. “catch his fagginess”. “Julien Larue”, “Peter Bunch”, “Bob Cothran” and “Nate Brody” bring similar results.

He hesitates a moment before typing in “Evgeni Malkin”. It’s not like the others - he doesn’t want Geno to have failed. He’s terribly embarrassed about the other boy noticing his crush, but surely they got over that, right? Sidney would hate to see that Geno’s talent was wasted.

Curiosity wins. Again, Google directs him towards “Wikipedia” page. It sure seems useful. It says that Geno played in the KHL for years, with a team that Sidney hasn’t got a sliver of chance of pronouncing correctly. Apparently he won everything over there. Then he came to the NHL in 2015 - to the Penguins! They played together! Not on a line though, from what Sidney can see. Pity, they mesh so well.

Then, after only one season, Geno was traded to the Habs, where he’s one of their star forwards now. He’s sixth in the points race, and fourth in scoring goals. Sidney smiles. Clearly Geno is doing well, too. Of course Sidney would have preferred it if Geno was still on his team. It would give him a familiar face, at least.

Which… actually reminds him. He has no idea when his next practice is, or where it is, or where he is, precisely. Like, yeah, probably in Pittsburgh, but that’s not exactly precise, and he has no idea how to get to the stadium.

Or, now that he thinks about it, how to drive. 

With these thoughts on his mind, it’s both a sign of heaven (someone who can help him!) or hell (oh God what if he makes an idiot out of himself?) when the doorbell rings. Carefully, Sidney wants to peek through the spyhole. There isn’t one, but there’s a camera feed to a small screen next to the buzzer, so he stares at that. 

A tall, dark-haired, white, broad-shouldered man is standing there, which Sidney guesses means he’s a hockey player. He’s starting to notice most of the adult players look like that. Except maybe for the dark-hair. Blondeness seems to be an acceptable variation. Maybe it’s a team member?

Still, he remembers his mom telling him not to let in strangers. This guy probably isn’t one, but Sidney wouldn’t know, would he?

He presses the button that has a note painted next to it. “Uh, hi?”

The man looks up into the camera and frowns. “Dude, is your camera broken? It’s me, Nealer.” 

“Ah, yeah, sorry, it’s acting up,” Sidney murmurs, grateful for the excuse, pressing the buzzer for what he thinks is the gate. 

“Nealer” gives him a strange look when Sidney opens the door. “Not ready for practice yet, Sidney? Are you sick?”

Sidney flushes. “Uh, no, sorry! I’ll just grab my bag, it’s upstairs. I, uh, forgot the time, I’m so sorry!”

“Okay,” Nealer replies slowly. It doesn’t really seem to reassure him. His mom always said Sidney is a terrible liar.

Right, the bag. He runs upstairs, where he saw a sports bag before, and sure enough, it seems all ready to go. Thank God for the Sidney of yesterday. He jogs back down, trying to locate the his jacket and shoes before he arrives downstairs. It would be kind of embarrassing to have to look for them in front of Nealer.

Luckily, there’s a shoe rack right beside the door, so he skids to a halt in front of it and starts to tuck on the first pair he sees. His jackets and scarves are hung neatly on the other side, so he grabs what looks appropriate and turns to the waiting Nealer. “Ok, ready. Sorry again.”

Nealer is still frowning, but nods. “Alright, let’s - oh, you’ve forgot your phone.” He picks up something impossibly sleek and thin from the sideboard that can’t possibly be a phone. It doesn’t even have a keyboard.

Still, Sidney takes it from him and slips it into his pocket. “Thank you.”

Why is Nealer’s frown only growing deeper at that? Is Sidney doing something wrong? Are they better friends than this? After all, Nealer’s come to pick him up… Sidney resolves to just be as friendly as possible, what with his limited knowledge and all. He’ll have to come up with an excuse for things like birthday dates and stuff. If only he could think of one.

Last minute, he remembers to check if he has a key. Yeah, there’s one in the door, he should take that. Then he lets Nealer step out in front of them and lead them to a large car waiting behind the gate.

Once they’re seated in the back, Nealer immediately pulls out his own phone and starts poking at it. He doesn’t seem to be up for talking, so Sidney watches him covertly. He seems to just be touching things on the screen? Is that how it works? He takes out his own phone and tries it. Nothing. The screen stays black. There’s on button at the bottom, though - he presses it and the phone lights up. Success!

“What are you grinning at?”

Ooops. Sidney tries to school his features into something appropriately adult. “Funny message.”

It comes out as more of a question, but Nealer just shoots him a disbelieving glance and looks back down at his own device.

There are numbers on Sidney’s screen - presumably you still need a pin code in this future. He types in his birthdate and is rewarded with what looks like the desktop at the laptop in his home. Hmmm. He checks out the phone symbol and finds a call log. Maybe this can help him find out a bit more about his current life? 

Most calls seem to be made to someone called “Pat Brisson (agent)”. How nice of his older self to enter Pat’s relationship to him, too.

That seems to be it, though. A few single calls, mostly from numbers he has’t saved, nothing that repeats itself too often. Nothing from Geno, nothing from his parents, his sisters, no matter how far he scrolls back.

Sidney suddenly feels cold. What if something happened to his family? If he wasn’t speaking to Geno much, okay, they were on different teams now, who knows how much contact they actually had over the last seventeen years. But he can’t imagine a life where he doesn’t call his family. His sister must be so grown up by now.

So it’s with considerable relief that he opens his text conversations and finds one labelled “Dad” and one labelled “Taylor”. Still, they’re… very short? He seems to have last talked to Taylor on her birthday, a simple happy birthday with an even shorter reply of thank you, and that was in March! Ten months ago!

And the last time he sent something to his father was when he told him I can’t be home for Christmas. Road trip again, and his dad replied with Ok. That is so weird, why wouldn’t his family not just come to visit him instead? He’s clearly rich, he can afford the plane tickets. Even more disturbing is how his father just answered with Ok, like… like he doesn’t care.

That terrifying thought keeps Sidney numb all the way out of the car and into the locker room.

Getting ready for practice with the Pittsburgh Penguins (the Pens!! as their Captain!!) isn’t at all like Sidney thought it would be. There’s the insult, for one thing. Sidney hasn’t even been sitting down for three minutes when the guy next to him calls someone across the room a “retarded dyke”.

“You can’t say that!” Sidney exclaims, shocked. He’s never even heard of a “dyke”, but combined with “retarded”, it’s probably not a good thing.

The man looks surprised. Then annoyed. “Oh, can’t I? Well, I suppose if you say so.”

“Doesn’t make it less true, though, Kessel boy is quite a retard!” another player chirps in, and a few players laugh. The man next to Sidney goes back to lacing his skates up and ignoring Sidney, who is both angry and unsure at what to do. Is this normal for a NHL locker room? But he always thought things would be better at a professional level. His dad always said adults don’t use these words. And “retard” is bad, he knows that. He doesn’t want to play with people who just throw this stuff about, but it doesn’t seem like he has a choice. 

Maybe he should say something. He’s wearing a “C” on his sweater, after all. That means something.

Just as he is steeling himself to do so (although, truth be told, he doesn’t quite how exactly he’s supposed to do that), Mario Lemieux walks in. The Mario Lemieux. Sidney has heard rumours that he was coming back to the Pens even after he retired in 1997, but surely he can’t still be playing, can’t he? He must be at least fifty by now. 

Lemieux is walking towards him, and Sidney hasn’t even noticed he’s standing up until the legend throws him a slightly confused glance. “Crosby.” 

Sidney opens his mouth, wants to greet this man, one of his idols, tell him how much he admires him, but Lemieux is already walking past him and telling a player with an “A” on his jersey that he needs to talk him. 

Deflated, Sidney sits down. From the stall on his right, there’s a chuckle.

“OK, you can wipe the doe-eyed-Bambi-watching-her-mother-get-shot-and-strapped-to-the-back-of-a-van look from your face, Crosby,” the player from before says. 

Sidney is starting to think he doesn’t really like this team.

Practice itself is awful. Everyone is yelling at them, the players are radiating tension, and the coach ends up calling them an “overpaid bunch of sissies.” Sidney doesn’t want to think about it.

As Sidney is preparing to slink away (apparently he only takes taxis or team cars, which is very convenient for his present situation, and he’s found a wallet in his bag with enough money to feed his family for weeks, so getting away should be no problem, and boy does he want that), a very sleek looking man in an expensive looking suit waves him over.

“Ah, Sidney!”

“Uh. Hello.” Is this going to be his life from now on? He still doesn’t know most of his teammates’ names. Is he just going to be constantly guessing? 

“Let’s go for lunch,” the man says and grabs his elbow to steer him over to what is probably his car. Hopefully this isn’t some really awkward boyfriend he has forgotten all about. As if this day isn’t weird enough already.

To Sidney’s relief, it turns out to be strictly a business lunch. The man has made reservations under the name “Brisson”, so Sidney is pretty sure that is his agent. And luckily, he doesn’t seem to expect Sidney to do much of the talking.

“About that mole,” Brisson says after their drinks arrive.

“Mole?” Sidney asks. What do garden animals have to do with anything? Does he have a farm somewhere?

Brisson gives him an impatient look. “The person that’s selling team intel. It’s still happening.”

“Oh, right,” Sidney mumbles. Someone is selling the team’s secrets? That’s not good. Every team, every player hates that kind of stuff. It means there’s someone you can’t trust, and that’s deadly to teamwork, even Sidney knows that.

“I’ve talked to the coaching staff. Tried to convince them that it’s simply ridiculous to suspect you just because you are, by nature of being captain, the most likely person to know everything that has been leaked.”

“I wouldn’t!” Sidney protests, shocked just by the suggestion. Why would he bring his own team down?

Brisson shrugs. “Anyway, it’s damaging your sponsoring prospects. I hardly think the journalists reward would make up for that. As for the suggestion that it would guarantee you a spot on the national team, making other candidates look bad, well that’s just ridiculous.”

Their salads choose that moment to arrive, and Brisson changes the topic. “Anyway, speaking of endorsements. Tim Horton’s is considering…”

“Are you okay?”

Sidney looks up, startled. He didn’t realize there’s someone else in the locker room still. They lost the game, 3-1, and everyone seemed very happy to get out of here as soon as possible. But Phil Kessel (at least stadium announcements meant that Sidney knows his full name now) is looking at him with concern. Sidney does his best to smile at him. “Yeah, sorry. Weird day." 

“Is that why you were playing… different?” Kessel sounds awkward, as if he doesn’t really know how to ask this, but it’s the first time today someone sounds like he cares, so Sidney blurts out, “I’m thirteen.”

Which, of course, only makes the whole thing even more awkward.

“Thirteen?" 

Sidney gives into the urge to hide his face in his hands. “Uh, yeah”, he mumbles. “I was thirteen yesterday and then I woke up and now I’m thirty. And, uh. Confused.”

There’s a long moment of silence.

“Maybe you should get checked out for a concussion?” Kessel tentatively suggests.

Sidney sighs. “Yeah. Sounds like a good idea. Thanks.” 

“Don’t. Uh. You’re welcome.” And with that, Kessel basically flees from the locker room. Sidney doesn’t blame him. 

He does ask the team doctors to run a concussion test the next day, however. Just in case.

They don’t find anything, but tell him to keep an eye on it. As if he could just run away from his own head. Still, Kessel doesn’t mention his apparent insanity in front of the team, so Sidney counts it as a win.

He’s starting to think he needs to celebrate the small victories in this adult life.

It takes six more practices for Sidney to snap. The coach is yelling at them, again, and he hates seeing everyone so down, this is the most important game for him, sure, but it’s still a team game, and hockey is supposed to be fun.

It takes him a moment of absolute silence in the rink to realize he’s said that last bit out loud. Yelled it, rather. In the middle of a dressing down by the coach.

The man is steadily growing purple. “Excuse me, Crosby.”

Well. Sidney stiffens his shoulders. He’s done for now, anyway. Might as well say what he thinks. “Hockey should be fun, sir. Even at a pro level. This is… everyone is working really hard. You need to stop yelling, and, and, work on your system. Then we might win. This isn’t doing anything.”

“And what,” the coach bellows, “do you think gives you the right to say such things to me?”

Sidney looks him into the eyes. He’s encountered teachers and coaches like this before. Bullies who haven’t come far enough on their own talent, only in it for the power. “I’m the captain, which makes it my duty.”

That actually seems to silence the man, at least for a little while. Sidney dares to throw a look around; some of the other players are nodding in tentative agreement, but mostly everyone just looks really amazed. Their surprise just makes him feel worse. What kind of person has become that he doesn’t even stand up to their coach? Doesn’t stand up for his team?

It hits him, then, that he’s their captain, but no one has come to talk to him about anything personal in the last week. Even in the kid’s league, other players would talk to him if there was a problem, but here? Apparently he’s neither reliable nor likeable enough to earn their trust.

Meanwhile, coach has found his voice again. “Crosby! Out! There’s a suspension waiting for you!” 

Well. Looks like he has some free time on his hand.

The club suspends him for seven days of all hockey related activities. He checks with the PR person - there’s a charity event tomorrow with young players that he’s still expected to attend, but apart from that, they don’t really want him anywhere near the media is right now. 

The kids are… great. So enthusiastic. They have what Sidney has been missing since he woke up in this strange new world: a love of hockey, and a determination to play that matches his own.

“Mr. Crosby, can you show us that slapshot? Please?” One particularly cute girl, Kaylee, asks him.

Sidney smiles, feeling better than he has in days. “Of course! Everyone, line up here. We’ll do one round without a goalie, then I’ll go in the net, okay?”

Enthusiastic cheers greet the idea.

They run way over time, and still Sidney doesn’t really want them to leave. Still, he gives into the waiting line of parents and says goodbye to the kids, promising to sign their sticks before they leave.

Then he notices Kaylee is still on the ice. “Hey, duckie, we’re done for today,” he calls out, skating over to her.

She looks up at him with a pout on her lips. “I don’t wanna.”

He chuckles. “Same here, believe me. But there’s probably someone waiting for you, right?”

She nods reluctantly. “Yeah. My sis.” Her finger points to a blonde teenage girl leaning on the balustrade.

“Wanna skate over together?” Sidney offers. Kaylee sighs with a world-weariness Sidney is pretty sure she doesn’t possess, and takes his hand. 

She’s so tiny.

Her sister greets them with a grin. “Always the last off the ice, eh, Kaylee? Thank you, Mr. Crosby.”

He smiles back. “No worries. You play, too?”

She nods, helping her sister over the barrier. “Yeah, at school. I’m thirteen.”

“Hey, me too!”

The girl slowly looks up. It’s only when he sees an expression on her face than he can only describe as “weirded out” he realizes he probably shouldn’t have said that.

“Used to be, anyway.”

“...yeah. Uh. Bye?”

“...bye.”

When Sidney comes home that afternoon, he thinks about that tiny hand in his for a long time. That’s just the age Taylor was when he last saw her. (Or at least remembers to have seen her.)

Maybe it’s time to find out what happened with his family.

He books an early morning flight to Halifax.

There’s a driver’s license in his wallet, but he still doesn’t want to risk renting a car, so he takes out his credit card and negotiates for a taxi to Cole Harbour. He can only hope his parents still live in the same house, or this is going to be embarrassing. And that they’re not away on holiday. And that he hasn’t hurt them so much that they’re going to, he doesn’t know, yell at him and shut the door in his face.

Maybe he should have called ahead.

Oh well, no point now, so he settles back into the plush leather seat and looks out at the scenery. The route hasn’t changed much, to be honest - a few new buildings here and there there, but there’s the lake, the same endless number of trees, the same clearings that made camping so nice in the summer…

That reminds him of the other thing he wants to find out. It’s probably stupid, Geno shouldn’t mean so much to him as an adult, but… well, he wants to know. So he takes out his phone out and opens the conversation with Geno. The last text was sent over a year ago. It’s not very promising, to be honest, just a Good luck with your new team, answered with Thanks ))).

Sidney bites his lip and types in, Hi, how are you? Then he shoves his phone into his pocket and spends the rest of the trip trying not to throw up with sheer terror.

Weirdly, standing in front of his childhood home helps. It’s so familiar - the plants, the little stone garden he helped his mom arrange (by picking out beautiful stones and proudly carrying them from the car while his dad took the heavy sacks of pebbles), the old paint job, even one of the herb pots in the kitchen window. This is his home. He just can’t believe he’d ever not be welcome here.

He rings the bell.

His mother is the one that opens the door. “Good morning - Sidney?”

She looks, well. Older, of course, grey in her hair where it wasn’t before, but. It’s his mother, and Sidney can feel himself tearing up. “Hi, mom.”

“Is everything alright? Did something happen?” she asks immediately, and he shakes his head, “No, not really, I just… wanted to visit.”

She still looks surprised, but then Trina Crosby smiles and waves her son inside.

“Taylor will be very happy so see you,” his mother chatters as she lays out the table for some coffee, tea, and sandwiches. “She’s out with her friends right now, but she said she would stop by for lunch.”

“Taylor is here?”

“Oh, yes, it’s reading week at her university." 

“Oh. Right.” 

His mother’s smile looks just a little strained as she goes to the hallway and calls out, “Troy! Sidney is here!”

It’s only seconds before Sidney can hear the heavy footfalls of his father coming down the stairs. “Sidney?”

His father is standing at the door, rounder, balder, older, but still Sidney’s father, his first coach, his first hero.

“Son? Is everything okay?” His father has crossed the kitchen in an instant, his hand heavy on Sidney’s shoulder.

Sidney doesn’t want to shrug it off, so he says, “Sort of. I, uh. I don’t remember?”

Now his mother is standing next to him, too, looking worried. “Another concussion? Is that why you’re not in Colorado?”

Colorado? Oh, yes, they’re supposed to play the Avs today. Somehow, the knowledge that Sidney’s parents apparently have his hockey schedule memorized is both encouraging and a little bit heartbreaking.

“Yes,” Sidney agrees. He doesn’t want to lie to them, but… it’s the most plausible way to explain why he’s here. “Just a mild concussion, but I don’t really remember. Uh. Stuff.”

His father’s hand tightens on his shoulder. “Stuff?”

“My life. Since I was thirteen.”

There’s a sharp inhale, then his mother says, “Oh, Sidney” and gathers him up in a hug. He allows himself to lean into it, hugging her back tightly. It’s a bit weird (he’s so much bigger than her now), but mostly it’s comforting and the best thing he’s felt since he woke up in this strange life to find he has messed everything up.

Later, after even his father has had to secretly wipe away a few tears, they talk.

“I’ve been trying to catch up, but there’s so much missing,” Sidney tells them. “I know we haven’t talked much, but I have no idea why. I can’t imagine why, to be honest.”

His father looks uncomfortable. “I don’t know if we can help you there, son. We don’t know all that much, either.”

“You just… went away, and stopped talking to us,” his mother explains. “Though I guess it started before that.” 

“We thought it was just puberty.”

“But you were so quiet, and even more focused before, and so driven… we thought it was good for you to play, to be with other kids your age, but before we knew it, you were gone, and not talking to us.”

Sidney looks down at the table. “I’m so sorry.”

“You’ve always been ambitious,” his father says. “We just never guessed it would take you away from us.”

“I can’t explain it,” Sidney whispers. “All I know is that I woke up, didn’t remember anything and found a life I hated. And you weren’t in it. I had to google Taylor to find out how she’s doing. I can’t believe that is something that I chose. It seems I made so many mistakes…”

His mother’s gentle touch on his hands makes him look up. She’s smiling. “Well, Sidney, I know I made a lot of mistakes, but I don’t regret making any of them.”

He blinks. “How come?”

“Because if I hadn’t have made them, I wouldn’t have learned how to make things right.”

Later, after Taylor has come home and yelled a little bit and then hugged him so hard he’s pretty sure he got more bruises than after an average game and everyone cried again, he’s in his old childhood bedroom, trying to take a nap. He feels exhausted, but better than he has in days. Maybe he can actually turn this around…

The buzz of his phone tears him out of his sleepy contemplation. Geno has answered.

Good )) winning! why you not playin?

That’s friendly, at least. Sidney only realizes how worried he’d been when he feels his shoulders sag with relief.

Team problems, he types, and concussion symptoms. Still not a lie, he thinks. Having a symptom doesn’t mean you have that cause. He hesitates, then adds, Thanks for asking. 

Concussion??? You ask first 

Sidney smiles. Some memory problems, that’s all. Still

Don’t tell me you forget me((( where r u?

not really. at my parent’s, at least for the week. 

His phone buzzes again when he hears a soft knock on the door. So forget me a little??? parents, nice holiday i think, not sick if can fly

Regretfully, he activates the screensaver and calls, “Come in.”

His mother pokes her head in and smiles when she sees him sitting up on the bed. “I couldn’t sleep, still too agitated. I guessed it might be the same for you.”

Sidney smiles back. “We can be agitated together.”

She comes in, closes the doors and sits next to him. He opens his mouth, wanting to ask her about her job, her health, everything he’s missed, when his phone buzzes again. And again.

Sidney manfully resists the urge to check the messages. His mother smiles. “Who are you talking to?”

“Um, a friend from… well, long ago, to me, but we played together since. Geno?” At his mother’s blank look, he adds, “Evgeni Malkin. I must have mentioned him. We went to that summer camp in 2000 together, and I have, uh, had, such a crush on him.”

His mother blinks. “...on him?”

Sidney blinks back. “Uh, yeah?” Surely this couldn’t be news to her? Sure, he hasn’t said anything in the time he remembers, but summer camp had pretty much confirmed his opinion that he was probably gay. He’d been planning on telling his mom first, he remembers that, cause he’s never been too sure about his dad. His mom though? How could she not know?

“Huh.” His mother seems to digest that for second. “Well, is he cute?”

To his eternal mortification, Sidney can feel himself blush. “I don’t know? He used to be, but I haven’t seen him since… yeah. I don’t remember.”

His mother laughs. “Sounds like something else to find out. Now, check those messages, I know you’re dying to.”

“Sorry,” Sidney murmurs, aware that he’s being rude, but following her suggestion anyway.

how sick? play with concussion again? always hockey for you

seriously how can you forget me

Sidney swallows and looks up at his mother. She gives him an encouraging smile.

Only the last few years. Can we meet?

The next four days pass mostly peacefully. Sidney spends a lot of time with Taylor, catching up, both of them keeping up with their fitness regime. He helps his dad in the shed and his mother with the garden. 

Only two things disrupt this serene state of affairs. Number one: Geno agrees to meet him on Thursday if Sidney stops in Montreal on his way back to Pittsburgh. Number two: A whole different story. 

It starts with the phone ringing with yet another unknown number. Sidney isn’t sure if he should pick it up, but it’s one he’s seen in his call logs before, and what if it’s the team? So he swipes “Accept”.

“Sidney Crosby, hello?” 

“Sidney, old bean!” a jovial sounding voice greets him. “Where, oh where is my scoop?”

“Scoop?” Sidney asks, confused.

The voice sounds considerably less jovial when it answers. “The scoop you promised to have in my inbox by yesterday? Only it seems to be mysteriously missing. Hmmm.” 

Oh no. No no no no. Sidney is remembering the conversation he had with Pat Brisson the day he woke up, and no, no, surely not.

“And why would I do that?” He tries to voice the question as firmly as possible, but he’s not sure it’s working.

“Oh, I don’t know, because there are people you want to drag through the dirt? Think of all the contracts I indirectly saved for you.” The man still sounds amused, but then his voice sound hard and serious. “And because you want to avoid suffering a similar fate as your esteemed colleagues.”

Well, that’s an easy one. 

“Go to hell!” Sidney snaps and hangs up, a bit surprised by his own language. He understands, just a little bit, why adults say it, though. It’s satisfying.

But it doesn’t take away the disgust he feels at himself.

Sidney leaves Cole Harbour with a nervous feeling in his stomach, a warm feeling in his limbs and the best wishes from his family. The plane ride from Halifax to Montreal is short, a mere two hours hours, and it feels like only minutes have passed before he sits in a pub just outside the security gates. They had agreed to meet here, in order to save time and, Sidney suspects, to allow Geno some anonymity. 

Geno is early, too. Sidney is watching him approach. He’s wearing a rather terrible purple shirt, with more buttons open than the Geno of old would have ever dared, but the chain around his neck is the same, and his face isn’t that much different, if Sidney overlooked the sparse hair growing on Geno’s upper lip, which he is planning on doing.

He waves his hand, and Geno spots him right away, smiling a rather tense smile as he makes his way to the table. Sidney has spent some time planning out this moment, knows the exact words he’s going to say.

So he’s kind of surprised to hear the words “You’ve got chest hair” come out of his own mouth.

Geno just replies “Never got quite that reaction before” and sits down, looking completely unperturbed.

Sidney stares at him.

Geno stares back.

Then they are laughing, and Geno’s ordering healthy smoothies for them both because Sidney hasn’t quite gotten himself under control enough to answer the waitress, and for a moment it’s just like they’re back at the breakfast room, ignoring everyone else to laugh themselves silly over something small and stupid.

Maybe that’s why Sidney decides to keep ignoring his battle plan (which involved elaborately explaining his “concussion” and gently easing into the topic of their time together with the Pens) and just asks, “What happened, Geno?”

Geno frowns. “What you mean?”

“It’s just… last thing I remember, we were friends.” Sidney catches himself running his hand nervously through towards his neck and forces it back down. “When we were thirteen. And now we seem to barely speak.”

“Well, your own fault, nyet?” Geno spits back with such venom that Sidney unconsciously moves back in his chair by a few inches. 

This is what he was afraid of. Geno looks so angry… and Sidney probably deserves it. So he makes himself ask, “Is it?”

“Of course! Meet in camp, so nice, I think friend, maybe flirt, but then, suddenly, not speak to me!” Geno throws his hands up. “What am I to think? Not speak, just insult, not answer letter, barely speak when on team. Just polite. And now a text and meeting. Sidney, what is going on?”

Sidney is still reeling from the revelation that Geno was flirting with him, was actually interested in Sidney back then. Oh no. What had Sidney done? He’d been all wrong. As he seemed to be about a lot of things.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and Geno looks taken aback enough to fall silent, so Sidney continues, “I really don’t remember. All I know is that I went to sleep on the night of my thirteenth birthday and I woke up two weeks ago as I am now.”

Geno doesn’t look convinced. “Drugs, Sidney?” Then his expression gentles into something like concern. “Or concussion? Say only mild. Seventeen years gone not mild.”

Sidney sighs and gives him. “Yeah. It’s probably a concussion. They can’t really find anything, but it’s the most likely explanation. But, Geno,” he wills the other to believe him, “I’m really sorry. I can’t give you an explanation, really, I don’t know what happened. I think there was a misunderstanding back then, but…”

“Should have talked to me, then,” Geno huffs.

“Yeah.”

There’s a moment of silence where Geno is staring at him intently. Suddenly, Sidney feels so tired. What good is all this? Geno is being so kind to even meet with him after the way Sidney apparently treated him. It’s not like Geno owes him anything. “Thanks for telling me,” he offers and starts digging for his wallet.

Geno’s hand on his stops him. “I pay.”

“No, you were the one to come here for me, I should…” Sidney trails off in his protests in confusion as he notices that Geno is still, well, holding his hand.

“I… I have someone who not just leave,” Geno tells him. “You can’t just turn back time.”

“I know.” Sidney gently presses Geno’s hand (and isn’t it ironic? He daydreamed of holding that hand for two weeks when he was younger, and now does, but it’s only to say good-bye), then he gently disentangles them and makes a show of checking the time. “I should go. My flight…" 

“Of course,” Geno nods.

“Dosvidanya, Geno.”

“Au revoir, Sid.”

For the first time Sidney remembers, these words feel like an ending.

Pittsburgh greets him with an empty house. Now that he’s back, Sidney doesn’t really know what to do with himself, so he chucks the bag and plops down on the couch, thinking of maybe finding the remote and watching something mindless to take his mind off, well, everything.

Instead, his gaze falls on the hockey puck Geno gave him. The signature and decoration look pretty faded by now, but when Sidney goes to pick it up, he can feel the remnants of glitter on it, and… well. Geno gave it to him.

Feeling rather like a child with a teddy bear, he takes it back to the couch with him, cradling it to his chest as if it were infinitely precious. For the first time, it really hits him what situation he is in. He’s fixed things with his family, or at least started to, and yes, he has money and hockey, but… he’s alone, his team hates him, he’s a traitor to the organisation, hockey isn’t fun, and he drove one of the kindest people he has ever met away because of some stupid boy’s prank.

If only I’d known, he thinks. What did Geno say? “You can’t just turn back time.” Oh, but Sidney wishes he could. To be thirteen again and make it better…

Someone is shaking his shoulder. “Sid? Sid! You okay?”

Sidney blinks his way out of what feels like a very deep sleep. “...Geno?”

“Sid,” the other boy sounds relieved. “Thought passed out. Nate tell me they said-”

That’s when it clicks. This is his Geno, the one he last saw weeks ago. When Sidney looks around, he’s lying in his bunk, it’s still night, and a young Geno is looking terribly vulnerable as he tries to explain that his mother called and he’s so sorry he was late, these idiots…

Sidney can’t contain his joyous laughter.

Geno stops in the middle of his apology. “Sidney?” 

“I don’t care about them,” Sidney says, and realizes how true that is. The last few weeks have certainly put Gale Burkett and his minions into perspective. “Geno, can I kiss you?” 

For a moment, Geno looks like he suspects Sidney is playing a prank on him, but then a smile blooms on his face that Sidney has never seen before, but wants to as many times as possible: sweet, happy, and utterly sure of his answer. “Of course.” 

Epilogue

The couch is the same.

Geno had been bemused when Sidney went up straight to it at Ikea and insisted on it. Hey, it’s comfy and comforting. He lets Geno pick out most of the furniture and pretty much all of the decoration, not to mention their pets, so he gets to put his foot down here and there.

Anyway, the couch is the same, but almost nothing else is. For one thing, it’s 2016, a year Sidney has never lived in before. It’s the All-Star break, and Geno is off being important, but that doesn’t mean he’s ever silent. 

Case in point, this is the third time Sidney’s phone vibrates in this hour.

Im still saying you put on slump just to get out of this

Sidney laughs. Geno has been in the NHL for much longer this time, and it’s done wonders for his English - and his ability to joke through text. Those first six years in different countries had been difficult. They managed to break up three times.

Aren’t you supposed to do the press thing? He sends back.

Boring(((( comes the reply seconds later, followed by they ask about you.

That’s not surprising. They’re not exactly out to the media, but their teammates know, and ex-teammates, and probably everyone on their national teams, which means Alexander Ovechkin and drunk Jonathan Toews, which means everyone knows. At least it’s not in the actual newspapers yet. Keyword being “yet”.

Only nice things, i hope?  

of course))) tell them youre cuddling your crocs, stanley cup ring and gold medals. 3 things u love most.

Man, Flower will have a field day with this. As he has every All-Star weekend, come to think of it, regardless of who from their team attends. Oh well. Sidney is going out with the boys tonight, he’ll find out exactly how terrible Geno’s interviews were then. If they’re awful enough, Taylor will call him, too, never missing an opportunity to tease him about picking someone who’s godawful at discretion.

For now, he’s content to stretch lazily and send back, Well, if you’re not here…

His gaze catches onto the glittering, signed puck that Geno insisted takes pride of place above their fireplace.

Miss you((( <3 <3 <3

There are still almost two years to go before he wakes up on January 9, 2018 again. Sidney is confident it will be a lovely day.