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"Alright, line up girls, be nice now."
Catherine, Tanger's beautiful blonde bride, picks up the bottom of her dress with one hand so it won't accidentally drag underneath her tall heels as she shuffles around, back turning to face the cluster of women who have gathered in the open space of the dance floor in the stunning natural indoor-outdoor wedding venue Tanger had insisted on, a bouquet of white flowers clutched in her other hand.
Sid watches the girls gather from his own cluster with the rest of the guys. Kathy is standing on the fringe of the small crowd. He gives her a conspiratorial smile. She laughs.
Someone nudges his shoulder. He knows what it's for and he ignores the bait.
Catherine starts to count down and everyone joins, her arms reaching up to tease at throwing the bouquet, pretending to toss it a few times. Sid scans the crowd—you can always tell who's the most eager, and it's the ones who try to look like they want it the least.
Kathy's shuffled closer to the middle of the huddle and Sid really doesn't mind if she catches it. They'll have a good laugh about it in a few years.
But just as Catherine throws it, for real this time, Sid notices the wedding photographer backing up without looking, his eye glued to the viewfinder as he inches toward the puddle of spilled champagne behind him. Sid darts forward on instinct, reaching to catch the man before he falls.
Instead, the photographer pitches forward to save himself at the exact moment Catherine lets go, a beat early.
Sid's empty hands, suspended uselessly in the air, close perfectly around the neatly bundled stems of calla lilies and peonies.
The venue is silent for a moment before it explodes.
Catherine twirls around and points unbelievingly at Sid, who's just caught the bouquet without meaning to, feeling the weight of a hundred stares on him.
Then, somebody laughs, maybe Kathy, maybe another guest, and the place erupts into rowdy cheer and laughter.
Sid's frozen in place, not sure what he should do. He'd hate to drop the flowers—they were so tastefully arranged—but he also wanted nothing to do with them. He just felt out of place. Usually it was women who caught it. What did tradition say about a man? A closeted gay one, at that?
Catherine eventually saves him, bounding over, dragging Tanger along.
"Gosh, Sid, give the ladies a chance!" she teases, holding her hand out for the flowers. Sid obliges, happy to no longer hold them at the center of attention.
"What does this mean?" Tanger asks, not helping matters at all. "Where's Kathy? Get in here, Kathy."
Kathy emerges, poking her head in behind Sid. She plasters on a smile, giving Sid's hand a squeeze where no one can see. "Usually the girl wants it worse," she jokes, pulling a face at Sid.
A few guys come up to him, pounding his back and saying their early congratulations. The women, over the momentary shock, swarm around Kathy, expressing their excitement for what was surely a cosmic sign from the universe.
Sid looks around. He needs to find Geno.
With a few more awkward smiles and handshakes, some with people he hadn't met until today, he manages to extract himself from the worst of it. He grabs himself a cold glass of water from the drinks table and gulps it down, willing his heart to calm down. In the corner of his eye, he sees the back of a tall figure dip behind a makeshift door.
He'd know those shoulders anywhere. He quickens his steps to follow, and slips behind the door.
“Hey, hey,” Sid says, catching Geno by his shoulder, gently turning him around. Sid knows from practice what it feels like when that big body wants to resist. Here, Geno barely tenses, letting Sid shove at him. The tension in his chest eases a little. “Look at me.”
Geno turns to face him but he looks down immediately, eyes downcast.
“Look at me,” Sid repeats, with a little bit of his captain's tone.
Geno finally looks back up, and his eyes—
“What,” Geno says flatly, his voice scratchy.
“Geno-” Sid’s voice falls as he takes Geno in.
He looks—he looks wrecked. His eyes are red and there’s a hot pink flush to his cheeks, like he’d just run a mile, but Sid knows it’s not from physical activity, but that it’s the shade of pink that arises from missed wide open shots and lost faceoffs—he knows that it comes from frustration and anger.
He lifts a hand to rest against Geno’s cheek.
As if on instinct, Geno presses his cheek into the curve of his palm and lets Sid hold him, his eyes fluttering shut. Sid brushes his thumb across the pink skin, feeling the heat penetrate the cold pad of his finger.
“Pretty,” he murmurs, unable to help himself, captivated by the way the pink looks on Geno’s normally pale skin.
“Hm?” Geno mumbles against his palm.
“You’re so pretty,” Sid repeats, keeping his voice low, aware of the dim noise of people still milling around them, walking past the closed door.
He feels Geno smile against his hand, and his fingers tighten their hold in Geno’s hair. He could hold Geno like this forever, he thinks, skin to skin, their hearts on their sleeves.
For one impossible moment, Sid lets himself imagine it.
A life where they could do it all—hold hands in public, dance together at weddings, and catch bouquets that meant happy-ever-afters with each other, not for each other.
The moment cuts short when Geno pulls away, straightening up. Sid’s hand immediately chases after the warmth, fingers outreached, grasping at the empty air as Geno shakes his head, stepping back.
“I- “ Sid lets his clenched fist fall at his side, used to hiding the evidence of his want and desire.
He knows what Geno wants him to say, but he can’t. Not when they're so close to what they both want, more than anything else.
More than each other.
“I love you, Sid,” Geno says, and the earnestness in Geno’s eyes, in his voice, takes the breath straight out of Sid’s lungs, like he’s just been punched in the solar plexus by an invisible force, only his skin thrums and his heart sings with yearning and desperation.
He can’t breathe.
“I love you, and I don’t want to share you.”
The world stops for a second, and Sid has to blink, hard, to recalibrate.
Somewhere beyond the closed door, someone clinks a glass.
The music changes to something faster, heavier. Something by Usher, maybe.
Sid imagines Tanger's drunk buddies crashing the dance floor.
Geno scuffs his shoe on the floor, a back and forth motion that reminds Sid of a rocking chair.
Sid wants to shoot back with accusations of hypocrisy—What about Oksana? Anna? Do your parents even know about us?—but he knows he can’t. He knows it’s different.
Knows that despite the backlash at home, Geno is still willing to stake his claim, and to announce his love for another man. Knows that Geno’s wanted this from the start, that he’s always been a ‘go big or go home’ kind of man—knows that once he’s made his mind up, nothing would ever change it.
Knows that he’s the one Geno wants, and the only one who can give Geno what he wants.
It would be so easy, Sid thinks, to say yes. If they weren’t who they were—if they weren’t public figures, or hockey players—if they were just two nameless men who worked boring jobs that didn’t poke holes in their private lives every chance it got, he would say yes.
But they’re not.
There are expectations on their shoulders to look and present a certain way. To be big, tough, and manly, with a woman by their sides—a woman to look after and take care of with their big manly bodies and their big fat paychecks.
Tanger said it best, when he was a little tipsy on the night of his bachelor party.
“She’d probably kill me if I told you this, but you remember that time I took her on that safari? The whole, live in the desert with the animals kind of thing?”
“Yeah, still not sure how you convinced the team that that was okay.”
“Well, I didn’t tell them until after.”
“Until they found out, you mean,” Flower pointed out.
“Yeah whatever. But on that trip, we saw animals.”
Geno laughed, a pleasing rumble from deep in his chest. He was also a little tipsy.
“Da, of course. What else you see? Lion?”
Tanger narrowed his eyes. “Listen. You’re not listening.”
“We’re listening bud,” Flower said, reaching out to bump Tanger’s shoulder with his fist. “Tell us about your safari.”
Sid was glad another one of them was still sober enough to keep the conversation on track, or else this would go on all night.
“So we’re on this offroading thing, right.”
“Jeep or ATV?”
“Shut up, Geno. Jeep. It was a jeep and the rooftop is open and our guide is driving. Just driving in the desert. You see it on TV but it’s unreal when you’re there.”
Tanger paused to take another swig of beer. They were weaning him off, Sid ready to press a bottle of water in his hand after he finished this can.
“And the animals. Lions,” he said, looking pointedly at Geno, who smirked. “And elephants, and those things that look like deer but also goats at the same time.” He thought for a moment.
“Antelopes!" he recalled. "And snakes, lots of snakes, all kinds of snakes, you wouldn’t believe they were all there, just around us. Driver almost ran over one. But the tiger. The tiger came right up to us, jumped right onto the front of the car.
“And Catherine was sitting next to me, it was just us and another couple with their kid in the jeep, seriously who takes their kids on open jeep safari tours, but she saw the tiger first, from far away, and kind of screamed. You know, like yelped kind of, then slapped a hand over her mouth ‘cause she didn’t want to startle the animal or whatever. But then the tiger started walking over, and then it was too late to do anything.”
“She was almost on me at that point, like leg over leg, arms wrapped around mine, and I was- I was shitting bricks, I can’t lie. I was scared as hell and cursing at the guide for not driving-”
“You book the animal touch tour,” Geno reminded him.
“I know,” Tanger groused. “Let’s see you touch a tiger without shitting yourself.”
“I have,” Geno said smugly. Sid tried not to think about it—of Geno being in the vicinity of any wild animal.
“They calm animals.”
Flower snorted. “They probably sedated yours. Not exactly wild.”
“So there was this tiger,” Tanger repeated, raising his voice. “Right on top of us, like looking down from the open roof, and Catherine was wrapped around me, when like, this feeling came over me. I could see the tiger, you know, like he was right there, breathing on us. And I just, I don’t know, I felt this calmness?
“I think everyone was scared, but having Catherine next to me, with her hand in mind, gripping so hard I thought I was going to lose circulation, like I was the last thing standing between life and death-” Tanger cut off, looking away into the distance.
“The tiger was right there, but for a second I swear I could’ve taken it on.”
Even Geno was silent.
“Like, you know the macho thing with men, wanting to be protectors or whatever? That’s true, like that’s biological instinct probably, but it was more than that. I didn’t- I wanted to protect her, but not because of biology or whatever. Like, she just made me feel better? Braver?”
“Delusional?” Geno chimed in.
Flower broke out into laughter. Sid couldn’t help but laugh too. Leave it up to Geno to find the right word for the right time.
Tanger pouted. “Why’d I think you would understand? Flower’s the only one married here. Right Flower?” He looked at their long-time goalie for back-up.
Steady as rain, Flower acquiesced. “Sure, bud. I get it.”
Relieved his spiel had apparently meant something to somebody, Tanger slumped over, a telling sign that he would be out for the rest of the night.
Tanger didn't know but his words had landed for someone else too. Sid remembers looking at Geno after that, their eyes meeting briefly before they both looked away, getting up to help Flower get Tanger to bed.
Loving someone was supposed to make you braver. Stronger. Invincible. It was supposed to suffocate all your warning bells for self-preservation and throw you off the deep end with nothing but faith to cling on to.
He imagines sitting next to Geno in the jeep, with a tiger peering down at them, inches away, their bodies intertwined in fear, hearts beating out of their chests in tandem. Maybe it's a sign, then, that Geno had always been the braver of the two, meeting the unknown head-on while Sid shirked to the back.
Brave.
Sid feels anything but brave, standing here before Geno, with only everything on the line.
His heart.
His career.
His life, in a way.
He weighs it all, an impossible task that he stumbles through nevertheless.
He thinks of his family who have sacrificed years of their lives to bring him to the league, of his younger sister who had grown up like an only child. He thinks of his team, who has brought them all to the doorstep of the Cup once again, fighting through injuries and years of doubt.
He thinks of Geno, who has left his old life behind, his country, in disgrace—but who should never be unwelcome when he returns.
He thinks of himself, and all that he's worked for. Of the Cup right at their fingertips, of colleagues and teammates who respected him, who clinked glasses with him with Kathy on his arm, who teased him about when marriage would come, then kids, that women wouldn't be around forever if he couldn't hold them down with a ring.
He'd wanted to tell them then, that Kathy was really more of a friend than a girlfriend, that she was worth more on her own than she could ever hope to be while tied to him. That he didn't want to hold her down to anything.
That the person he really wanted was standing in the same room, another woman on his arm.
He had long resigned himself to a life of hiding, ever since his dad had to threaten his school to keep his sexuality under wraps after it was leaked that he'd kissed a boy at a party. His dad thought it was a jealous kid spreading rumors to ruin his image before he went pro. Sid never corrected him and his parents haven't brought it up since, welcoming Kathy with relief in their smiles and open arms.
And then he thinks of the future—of Geno with the kids he's always wanted, speaking Russian to a faceless woman, who knows how to make his favorite Russian dishes, learned handily from his mother, who cracks witty jokes and breaks bread with his father.
He doesn't belong in Geno's happy-ever-after—it'd taken him some time to see it but he has—Geno who misses home though he'll never admit it, who slips into his Russian tongue far more often than he realizes, sleep-talking in his mother language, face pressed against the pillow, inches away from Sid, who hasn't fallen asleep yet because he likes to see Geno like this, wants to see him like this, but only has so many chances to. He wishes he remembers the last time he had.
He weighs it all, and finds that no amount of courage will ever be enough to throw that all away. Even Geno's particular brand of boneheaded Russian bravery, the same that had hurtled him from Magnitogorsk to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, would not be enough.
So instead of yes, or whatever else he's supposed to say, he says: "They're waiting for us."
Geno's face falls, and he looks like he's about to say something else, maybe plead, or yell or curse, before he snaps his mouth shut and the mask returns.
He takes another step back and Sid has to clench his fist to keep himself from reaching out again.
Geno's not his. Has never been his, not for lack of want, but because he'd always been too cowardly to make him his.
He's never had the right. He'd do well to remember that.
Geno shoulders past him to open the door. Sid hears Tanger yelling about photos. He follows Geno to where most of the guests have already lined up for pictures, the two of them slipping into the last two spots left on the grass.
He feels Geno pressed close behind him, so close Sid could lean back and know Geno could hold him up with just his body, and he catches a whiff of his cologne. It's the same one he wore years ago, when they first met.
Sid remembers greeting Geno, then known to him as Evgeni Malkin, on Mario's doorstep, nose wrinkling a little at the heavy scent of sandalwood.
"Smell?" Evgeni had asked, face dropping a little like he was worried he smelled bad. He turned to Gonch, saying something in rapid Russian.
Gonch laughed before translating. "He says he's sorry if he smells bad—he bought some cologne at the airport and thought it might help."
"No, no," Sid had been quick to say, giving the Russian kid his best reassuring smile. "It's good. Really good." He gave him a thumbs up, and Evgeni understood that perfectly well, his toothy smile far more charming than Sid had been prepared for.
When the pictures are over, and before Sid can turn around to make a comment on the cologne, Geno pulls away, and though Sid hadn't been leaning back, he still feels like stumbling.
But Geno's gone, and Kathy's found him now, a reassuring hand slipping into his.
It's not the same, he thinks, the phantom weight of Geno's cheek still pressed against his hand.
It's not the same, he wants to say, to protest, but he thinks Kathy understands.
It will never be the same, but it has to be enough.