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The locker room was heavy with the particular silence that followed a loss at home—worse than a road loss, always, because the crowd's deflated energy seeped through the concrete walls and settled into the air like humidity. 6-2. On their own ice. Against one of the best teams in the league, sure, but the scoreline was going to sting for days regardless.
Sid sat in his stall and let the silence work. Didn't fill it. Didn't rush to speak. He'd learned decades ago that the first minutes after a loss belonged to the players—to the private, internal processing that happened between pulling off gloves and pulling on shoes. The captain stuff came after. The words came after. First, you had to let the disappointment breathe.
He ran through the game in his head while he unlaced his skates. Chinny's slapshot in the first—a rocket from the point that had beaten Wedgewood clean. Good goal, good execution, the kind of primary point that Chinny had been generating more consistently over the last month. Raks' wrister in the third, threading the needle from the half-wall with the kind of accuracy that made Sid grateful every single day that they'd signed him. Two goals. Should have been three.
His jaw tightened.
Braz's goal in the second period—reversed on a goaltender interference challenge. The replay had been ambiguous at best. Braz had been pushed into the crease by an Avs defenseman, contact initiated by the opposing team, and the puck had crossed the line clean. Every angle Sid had watched on the bench monitor showed the same thing: incidental contact, no deliberate interference, good goal. The refs had seen it differently. Or hadn't seen it at all. Or had seen exactly what they wanted to see, which was becoming an increasingly common occurrence where the Penguins were concerned this season.
Sid wasn't a conspiracy theorist. He dealt in facts, in film, in observable patterns. And the observable pattern this season was that Pittsburgh was getting goaltender interference calls overturned at a rate that defied statistical probability. Two in the last ten games. Both close calls, both going against them. The hockey analytics accounts had started tracking it, posting comparison clips, building threads that read like legal briefs. Sid tried to ignore them, didn't comment publicly, maintained the measured diplomatic tone that two decades of media training had drilled into his bones. But privately, sitting in his stall, staring at his unlaced skates—he was furious. 5-2 in 2nd changed the complexion of a game entirely. Momentum shifts, confidence shifts, a one-goal swing that could have altered everything that followed.
It didn't help that Geno was out. The hand injury from the Carolina game—a puck off the knuckles during a blocked shot—had swollen overnight into something that required imaging and caution and the dreaded "day-to-day" designation. Geno had called Sid that morning from his couch, ice pack balanced on his hand, voice oscillating between frustration and dark humor in the way only Geno could manage. The team wasn't bad without him. They weren't. But the gap he left in the lineup was palpable—a missing piece in the offensive puzzle that forced adjustments everywhere else, spreading everyone thinner, asking guys to fill roles they weren't built for.
And the missed chances. God, the missed chances. Three breakaways, two odd-man rushes, a power play that had generated eight shots and zero goals. Against any goaltender having a mediocre night, at least two of those go in. But the Avs didn't employ mediocre goaltenders, and their defense—tight, structured, suffocating in the neutral zone—was exactly what you'd expect from a team that had already clinched a playoff berth. One of the best in the league, and they played like it.
The metro standings flashed through Sid's mind. Points were razor-thin. Every game mattered. Every point mattered. If they were serious about the playoffs—and they were, everyone in this room was—they needed to start stacking wins immediately. No more giving away games. No more relying on third-period comebacks that came sixty seconds too late.
Sid finished unlacing his skates, set them in the stall with deliberate care, and stood.
He went to Arty first.
The kid was sitting in his stall with his pads still on, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor with the blank, thousand-yard expression that young goaltenders got after rough nights. Twenty-five years old and carrying the full weight of an NHL starting role in a market that remembered Fleury and Murray and didn't have much patience for growing pains.
Sid crouched beside him. Put a hand on the kid's shoulder pad and squeezed.
"Hey."
Arty looked up. His eyes were tired but alert—processing, not spiraling. Good.
"You made some big saves tonight," Sid said. Quietly. Just for them. "That blocker stop in the second on MacKinnon's one-timer—that's an elite save. You know that, right?"
Arty nodded. Swallowed.
"This is what it looks like," Sid continued, holding his gaze. "You're getting better every start. I can see it. The coaching staff can see it. Just keep working. We'll get there."
The kid nodded again, something loosening in his posture, and Sid patted his shoulder and stood. Moved through the room, touching base with each player—a word here, a nod there, the brief, firm language of accountability and encouragement that kept a locker room functional through adversity. Standard captain stuff. The stuff that didn't make highlight reels but held teams together when the scoreboard didn't cooperate.
By the time he finished media obligations—the usual questions, the usual answers, measured and honest without being inflammatory—the hallway outside the locker room had mostly cleared. Sid showered quickly, dressed in his suit, grabbed his bag, and walked.
His footsteps echoed in the corridor. Then, behind him—another set.
Sid's mouth tugged upward. He didn't turn around. Kept walking, pace unhurried, expression carefully neutral, even as warmth spread through his chest like ink in water. He already knew who it was. Could feel the specific energy in the air that accompanied Nathan MacKinnon entering any space Sid occupied—electric, gravitational, impossible to ignore.
He kept walking. The footsteps followed. Past the media room, past the trainers' office, around the corner toward the tunnel exit where the overhead lights dimmed and the concrete walls narrowed.
An arm wrapped around his waist from behind.
Gentle. Firm. Pulling him sideways, out of the main corridor and into the shadowed alcove near the equipment loading dock. Sid chuckled softly and let himself be moved, his back meeting the cool concrete wall as lips pressed against his neck—warm, slightly damp from a recent shower, curving into a smile against his pulse point.
"Ignoring me again?" Nate's voice was a low rumble against Sid's skin, his breath ghosting over the sensitive stretch below Sid's ear. He nuzzled deeper, nose tracing the line of Sid's jaw, and Sid could feel the smirk pressed into his neck—self-satisfied, possessive, unbearably fond.
Nate pulled back just enough to find Sid's face. His eyes were soft, dark, warm in the dim corridor light. He pressed a kiss to the corner of Sid's mouth—light, barely there, the suggestion of contact more than the thing itself.
"Hi."
Sid giggled. The sound escaped before he could stop it, bright and involuntary, echoing slightly off the concrete. He reached up and flicked Nate's chest. "Are you stalking me? Fans aren't allowed back here, you know."
Nate played along without missing a beat, his expression settling into mock seriousness, eyes crinkling at the edges. "Yes, I am. Can I get an autograph? I've been a really big fan since I was like thirteen. Huge inspiration. Life-changing, really."
"Oh, shut up—"
Sid grabbed the back of Nate's neck and pulled him down.
The kiss was immediate and deep—Sid rising onto his toes, Nate's arms wrapping fully around his waist, both hands splayed against the small of his back, pulling him flush against his chest. Sid's fingers threaded through the damp hair at Nate's nape and held on. Nate's mouth was warm and insistent, tasting like mint and something darker underneath, and when his tongue swept along Sid's lower lip, Sid opened for him without hesitation.
Nate deepened it. Tilted his head, changed the angle, one hand sliding up Sid's spine to cradle the back of his skull, and kissed him like they hadn't seen each other in months instead of days. Thorough. Consuming. The kind of kiss that left no room for thought, that reduced the world to the press of mouths and the slide of tongues and the small, involuntary sounds trapped between them.
Sid trembled. His knees went soft, his fingers tightening in Nate's hair, a quiet moan vibrating in his throat that Nate swallowed greedily. When they finally broke apart, Sid was flushed from his collarbones to his hairline, lips swollen and slick, breathing in shallow, unsteady bursts.
"You're supposed to let us win tonight," Sid said, breathless, eyes bright. "They're going to pit you against Geno again online."
And he actually giggled at the thought—the ongoing, endlessly entertaining internet war between Nate and Geno that erupted every time the Avs played the Pens. The fan accounts treated it like a custody battle, and Sid was the disputed child. He could already see the tweets materializing:
Natemac your love for sid will remain unrequited
natemack on ice w mama while papa dead this is hell
Oh he's fr going to try winning back mama while papas out of commission
What etsy witchcraft did mackinnon cast on geno
The tweets were always hilarious and Sid lived for every single one.
Nate rolled his eyes so hard it was practically audible. "How's his hand, by the way? Was it bad? I saw the clip of the blocked shot. It looked rough."
They were walking now, Nate's hand resting on the small of Sid's back as they moved toward the parking garage. Sid shrugged, adjusting his bag on his shoulder.
"I don't think it's serious. Still, he needs to rest it. Let it heal properly before he starts gripping a stick again." Sid paused, a smirk forming. "You know how Geno is. He called me this morning, said—" Sid dropped his voice into a passable Geno impression, accent and all— "'Sid, hand is fine, I play tomorrow, tell coach I play tomorrow. Also tell Nathan he score seven on us, I break his hand next time. With love.'"
Nate snorted, his laugh echoing off the parking garage walls.
They rounded the corner toward the exit and nearly collided with Cale and Girard coming from the opposite direction. Nate's face split into a grin—genuine, delighted—and he grabbed Girard by the shoulder and pulled him into a rough, affectionate hug.
"There you are. Look at you. Pittsburgh suits you."
Girard grinned back, slapping Nate's back. "Miss you guys. Locker room's not the same without Cale falling asleep during video sessions."
"He still does that."
"Of course he does."
Sid stepped back, giving them space, content to watch the reunion with quiet warmth. He'd been getting to know Girard since the trade—a smart, composed defenseman who'd slotted into the system quickly and earned Sid's respect through work ethic alone. The fact that he came pre-loaded with Avs connections was a bonus.
Cale turned toward Sid, tapping Nate's shoulder with a grin that was pure, distilled mischief. "Hey, Cap. Take it easy on this big guy here tonight." He jerked his thumb at Nate. "Don't want him showing up dead on his feet for the Jets game."
Sid's smirk sharpened. He tilted his head, looking at Nate with an expression that was approximately forty percent innocent and sixty percent devastating. "Depends on how well he behaves."
Then he winked at Nate—slow, deliberate, loaded—and walked toward his car without looking back.
Behind him, he heard Cale burst out laughing and Nate mutter something that sounded like "unbelievable" in a tone that suggested he was already losing the battle against whatever was happening south of his belt.
Sid got in his car. Started the engine. Waited.
The passenger door opened less than four minutes later. Nate dropped into the seat, pulled the door shut, and was already pressing Sid against the driver's side before the dome light had faded—one hand on the headrest, the other cupping Sid's jaw, mouth finding Sid's neck with unerring precision.
Sid chuckled, low and warm, letting his head fall back against the seat. "Easy, boy. What's got you so worked up?"
Nate groaned against his throat but did slow down—marginally—his arms wrapping around Sid's waist over the center console, lips trailing from his neck to his jaw, nipping at the hinge, then pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth that was somehow both gentle and urgent.
"Missed you," Nate murmured between contact. "Missed you so much."
He bit Sid's lower lip—gently, a suggestion of teeth—then pushed his tongue past Sid's lips, and whatever witty response Sid had been preparing dissolved into the kiss. It was deep and unhurried and thorough, Nate kissing him like he was memorizing the shape of his mouth, and Sid's hands found Nate's chest, his shoulders, the warm column of his neck.
"Mmhh—" Sid breathed into the kiss, shuddering slightly when Nate's hand slid down to his thigh and squeezed. "We should—nnh—drive. Before someone sees."
"Don't care."
"Nathan."
"Don't care."
But he pulled back. Reluctantly. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, that specific intensity radiating from him that told Sid exactly how the rest of the evening was going to go. He watched Sid with naked want while Sid put the car in drive and navigated out of the garage.
The drive to Sid's house took twelve minutes. Nate's hand spent eleven of them on Sid's thigh.
They barely made it through the front door.
Nate was already pressing him against the entryway wall, mouth on his neck, hands working the buttons of Sid's suit jacket with a dexterity that spoke to extensive practice. Sid laughed into it, arms looping around Nate's neck, letting himself be handled, savoring the way Nate's body felt against his—broad and solid and radiating heat.
Nate took them to the bedroom in stages—hallway wall, doorframe, the edge of the dresser—each stop marked by deeper kisses and more clothing removed, a trail of garments leading from the entryway like breadcrumbs. By the time Sid's back hit the mattress, Nate's shirt was gone and Sid's suit jacket and tie were somewhere in the hallway.
Nate settled against the headboard and pulled Sid onto his lap. Facing him. Straddling. Sid's thighs bracketing Nate's hips, their faces level, and Nate kissed him again—slow this time, devastatingly slow, one hand tangled in Sid's hair and the other resting on his waist, thumb tracing idle circles against his hipbone through the fabric of his dress shirt.
"Take this off," Nate murmured against Sid's mouth, tugging at the shirt—the one Sid wore to every game because he'd been wearing it since October when the Pens had gone on their seven-game win streak and superstition was superstition.
Nate's fingers worked the buttons while his mouth migrated—lips to jaw, jaw to neck, neck to the hollow of Sid's throat. Each button revealed more skin, and Nate's mouth followed the fabric down—kissing the notch between Sid's collarbones, the center of his chest, the ridge of his sternum. Sid's breathing went ragged, his head tipping back, fingers gripping Nate's shoulders.
The shirt fell away. Nate pulled back to look at him.
"You're fucking gorgeous."
Sid groaned, a breathless laugh escaping, color flooding his face. "Stop talking."
Nate smirked but obeyed—for once—wrapping an arm around Sid's waist and pulling him closer, adjusting their position so Sid's hips tilted forward. His free hand reached for the nightstand drawer, pulled it open, and his fingers found the lube by muscle memory.
But his eyes—his eyes caught on something else.
There, draped over the chair in the corner of Sid's bedroom, was his Nordiques jersey. The stolen one. Dark blue fabric, MACKINNON 29 visible across the shoulders, lying exactly where Sid had left it after—
A hot coil of possessive want tightened in Nate's stomach. He filed it away. Later.
He slicked his fingers and brought them between Sid's thighs.
The first press drew a sharp inhale from Sid—a tiny, bitten-off sound, his fingers tightening on Nate's shoulders. Nate circled slowly, patiently, watching Sid's face with rapt attention.
"Relax for me, baby," Nate murmured. "There you go. Just like that."
He eased one finger in and Sid's eyes fluttered, his lips parting on a soft exhale. Nate worked him open with the steady, unhurried precision of someone who knew this body intimately—knew where to press, where to curl, how much pressure drew out the prettiest sounds.
"So good," Nate whispered, adding a second finger, scissoring gently. "So perfect for me. Taking my fingers so well."
"Hhh—" Sid's hips shifted, rocking down against Nate's hand, chasing the sensation. His lashes fluttered, damp, catching the low bedroom light. He bit his lower lip hard, trying to contain the sounds building in his throat, but they escaped anyway—small, needy, devastating.
"Don't hold back," Nate said, curling his fingers and pressing up. "Let me hear you."
Sid's composure shattered.
"Ahh—" His back arched, his thighs clenching around Nate's hips, and then he was moving—riding Nate's fingers with deliberate, rolling grinds, his body finding the rhythm instinctively. His eyelashes glistened, eyes bright and wet, each downward press drawing a moan from his throat that climbed higher and sweeter with every repetition.
"Oh—oh god, there—mmhh—"
He'd found it. The angle, the depth, the exact spot that made his vision white out at the edges. His hips stuttered, then committed—bouncing on Nate's fingers with increasing desperation, his cock hard and leaking between them, untouched and flushed dark.
Nate watched. Mouth slightly open, eyes near-black with want, every muscle in his body held taut with the effort of not flipping Sid onto his back and replacing his fingers with something else. Because this—this—the sight of Sidney Crosby fucking himself on Nate's hand, eyelashes jeweled with unshed tears, lips bitten swollen, those gorgeous eyes crossing when the angle hit just right—was the most obscene, beautiful thing Nate had ever witnessed in his life.
Fuck, he really was the luckiest man alive. To have this—to have him—Sid choosing him, trusting him, coming apart on his fingers with that expression of unguarded, desperate pleasure. Nate wouldn't trade a single second of it for anything the world could offer.
He withdrew his fingers slowly.
Sid whimpered at the loss—a high, broken sound that vibrated through Nate's chest—and his hips bucked forward, seeking contact that was no longer there.
"Shh, shh." Nate pressed his lips to Sid's temple, his cheek, the corner of his trembling mouth. "I've got you. Let me take care of you."
He lined himself up, grip firm on Sid's hip, and pressed in.
Sid's mouth fell open. No sound came out—just a silent, full-body shudder as Nate entered him inch by inch, stretching him open, filling him up. His fingers dug into Nate's shoulders, nails biting into muscle, and his head dropped forward until his forehead rested against Nate's.
"Nate—"
"I know, baby. I know. I've got you."
He bottomed out. Held still. Let Sid adjust, let him breathe, let the tremors work through his body. Then Sid rolled his hips—a small, experimental movement—and the sound he made was so sweet, so wrecked, so purely overwhelmed with pleasure that Nate's vision blurred.
“Hhnghhh—”
He started moving.
Sid clutched Nate's shoulders and keened—high and loud and unrestrained, his voice filling the bedroom, echoing off the walls. Each thrust punched a sound out of him that climbed the register: breathy moans giving way to sharp, stuttered cries, his toes curling in his socks where his legs were wrapped around Nate's waist.
"There—ahh—there, right there, oh fuck—"
Nate pistoned upward, targeting the spot that made Sid's eyes roll, and Sid came apart on top of him—trembling, gasping, nails raking lines down Nate's shoulders.
"There you go," Nate breathed, watching Sid's face with dark, hungry eyes. "Taking my cock so well. Being cheeky all week, sending me all those pictures." He snapped his hips up harder, rolling them into Sid's sweet spot with ruthless precision. "You love driving me crazy, don't you?"
Sid whined—loud and shattered, his eyes crossing, rolling up until only slivers of gold were visible beneath his lashes, nails carving half-moons into the meat of Nate's shoulders. "Nnghh!!" His lip was caught between his teeth, bitten swollen and slick, his whole body jerking with each upward thrust. "N-No—ahh!—more—hnnghh please don't stop—"
Nate chuckled, low and rough. "Not gonna stop."
Then he flipped them.
The shift was seamless—one arm around Sid's waist, the other bracing against the mattress, momentum carrying them both until Sid's back hit the sheets and Nate was above him, between his thighs, hands pushing them wide apart and holding them there. The angle changed everything—deeper, more direct, Nate's hips driving forward with gravity and force behind every stroke, the head of his cock dragging across that swollen spot on every thrust.
Sid's back arched off the mattress—a gorgeous, trembling bow, his fingers fisting the sheets, his mouth falling open on a continuous, wrecked stream of sound. His eyes were barely open, glazed and swimming with tears that clung to his lashes and caught the low light, but they stayed open. Stayed on Nate. His lip was caught between his teeth again, swollen and red from being bitten, and the moans escaping around it were high, sweet, broken things—each one punched out of him by the force of Nate's hips.
Nate watched him. This sight—Sid spread beneath him, back arched, eyelashes jeweled with tears, cheeks flushed and wet, those golden eyes fighting to stay open because Nate liked it when they did—was the single most devastating thing he'd ever witnessed. Sid bit down harder on his lip, stifling a whimper that came out muffled and desperate, and a fresh tear slipped from the corner of his eye, tracing a glistening line down his temple and into his hair.
Nate leaned down and kissed it. Pressed his lips gently, reverently, against Sid's tear-stained eye, tasting salt, feeling the flutter of wet lashes against his mouth.
"That's right," he whispered against Sid's skin. "Keep your eyes on me, sweetheart."
He pulled back just enough to see Sid's face—flushed, wrecked, exquisitely undone—and fucked him harder. Deeper. His hips snapping forward with controlled, devastating power, each stroke targeted, each one drawing a fresh sound from Sid's throat that climbed higher and sweeter than the last. Sid's thighs trembled in his grip, his toes curling, his body taking every inch Nate gave him with a responsiveness that bordered on obscene.
"Aahh—aahh—oh god—Nate—"
Nate's mouth curved. He slowed—just slightly, just enough to be cruel—rolling his hips in a deep, grinding circle that made Sid's entire body shudder. His voice came out low, conversational, laced with a possessiveness that he didn't bother disguising:
"Did Elmo give you a hug today, too?" Another slow, devastating grind. Sid keened beneath him. "After the game? Did he tell you you're his favorite captain of all time again?"
Sid's eyes widened through the tears—recognition and disbelief and arousal colliding across his features. His mouth opened on a protest that came out as nothing but a broken whimper when Nate thrust forward hard enough to shift him up the mattress.
"N-Nate—hhh—that's not—ahh!—"
"Because I'm the only one who gets to see you like this." Nate leaned down, mouth against Sid's ear, hips still moving in that relentless, targeted rhythm. "Spread open. Moaning my name. Taking my cock like you were made for it." He bit down on Sid's earlobe—sharp, brief—and Sid sobbed out a moan that cracked in the middle. "Nobody else gets this, baby. Just me."
"Just—nnghh—just you—ahh!—"
"That's right."
Nate pulled back to look at him again. Sid was wrecked—gorgeously, thoroughly wrecked. His hair was dark with sweat against the pillow, his chest heaving, his cock flushed and leaking against his stomach in a mess of slick that glistened with each shuddering breath. His eyes were barely holding open, golden irises drowning in black, tears tracking freely down both temples now.
Nate brought his hand to Sid's face.
His thumb traced Sid's cheekbone first—gentle, almost tender, wiping a tear away with the pad of his thumb. Down the slope of his cheek. Along his jaw. Then lower, finding Sid's mouth—those swollen, bitten, perfect lips—and pressing against the lower one.
Sid's lips parted instinctively.
His tongue found Nate's thumb before his brain caught up with the action—wet heat closing around it, his mouth drawing it in, his cheeks hollowing with a suction that was pure reflex. His eyes went glassy, unfocused, rolling slowly as he sucked—dazed and gone and operating on nothing but sensation and instinct, his hips still moving in tiny, helpless jerks as Nate fucked into him.
Nate's vision tunneled.
Fuck.
The sight of his thumb between Sid's swollen lips—the wet, obscene sound of Sid sucking on it, his eyes rolling and half-closed, tears on his lashes, his body impaled on Nate's cock and trembling with every stroke—detonated something feral and possessive in Nate's chest. His jaw clenched. His eyes went so dark they were nearly black.
"Jesus Christ, Sid—" His voice came out wrecked, stripped of composure. He pressed his thumb deeper against Sid's tongue, felt the vibration of the moan Sid released around it—desperate, muffled, devastating—and his hips snapped forward with renewed force.
Sid's back arched impossibly, his thighs spreading wider, his toes curling so hard the tendons stood out in sharp relief. Nate's cock was hitting that spot on every single thrust now—deep, direct, merciless—and the sounds spilling from Sid's occupied mouth were liquid, incoherent, broken into fragments by each impact.
"Mmhph—mm—nnghh—"
Nate watched him through slitted, burning eyes. Watched Sid's body take him so beautifully, so completely—watched the way his abs contracted, the way his cock twitched and leaked untouched, the way his eyes rolled back and his lashes fluttered shut and then forced themselves open again because Nate liked it, because even now, even drowning in pleasure, Sid was trying to give him what he wanted.
"There you go," Nate breathed. "Right there. You gonna cum for me, baby? Just from this? Just from my cock?"
Sid's response was unintelligible—a muffled, pleading sound vibrating around Nate's thumb, his nails scoring lines down Nate's forearms, his whole body coiling tighter and tighter. His hips jerked erratically, his breathing coming in short, sharp gasps through his nose.
Nate pulled his thumb free from Sid's mouth—a wet, obscene pop—and replaced it with his lips, kissing him deep and filthy while his hips drove forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt and grinding.
Sid screamed into the kiss.
His body locked—every muscle seizing simultaneously, his back bowing off the mattress, thighs spread wide and trembling, toes curled to the point of cramping. His cock pulsed between them, untouched, spilling in hot, thick ropes across his stomach and chest, each contraction pulling a shattered, keening sound from deep in his throat that Nate swallowed greedily. His walls clenched around Nate in rhythmic, devastating contractions—tight, rippling, perfect—and Sid's tears spilled fresh, tracking silver down his temples as the orgasm ravaged through him.
Nate lasted three more strokes.
The sight of him—the clench of Sid's body, the sound of his name torn from Sid's throat, those golden eyes blown wide and swimming and locked on his even through the overwhelming tide of release—dragged Nate over the edge with a force that whited out his vision. He buried himself deep, hips flush against Sid's ass, and came with a groan that started in his chest and tore itself free—spilling inside Sid in long, pulsing waves, filling him, his forehead dropping against Sid's as they shook through it together.
They stayed like that—tangled, trembling, breathing each other's air—until the aftershocks faded to faint, residual tremors and the world reassembled itself around them. Nate pressed his face into Sid's neck and exhaled, long and shaky. Sid's fingers unclenched from the sheets and found Nate's hair instead, stroking weakly, his touch feather-light.
Nate kissed his neck. His jaw. The tear track on his left temple. The corner of his mouth, where his lips were swollen and parted, still catching his breath.
"Hi," Nate murmured against his mouth.
Sid laughed—a barely-there sound, more vibration than voice. "Hi."
More kisses. Soft, aimless, scattered across Sid's face like petals—his cheekbone, his closed eyelids, the tip of his nose, his chin. Sid hummed beneath each one, his body going limp and pliant against the mattress, the boneless satisfaction of a man thoroughly taken care of.
Then Nate pulled out carefully—Sid hissing softly at the loss—and in one fluid movement, scooped him off the bed.
"Nate—!" Sid squeaked, his arms flying around Nate's neck, legs kicking reflexively before wrapping around his waist. "I can walk—"
"Don't want you to walk." Nate carried him to the bathroom like he weighed nothing, which was objectively untrue but felt effortless when the man in his arms was flushed and gorgeous and clinging to him like a koala.
He set Sid on the marble countertop and kissed him while the water ran warm in the sink beside them. Sid's legs dangled off the edge, framing Nate's hips, and his arms stayed looped around Nate's neck—lazy, proprietary, unwilling to let go even for the practical purposes of cleanup. Nate wet a washcloth one-handed and cleaned Sid up with careful, gentle strokes—his stomach, his thighs, between his legs—all while kissing him. Sid chuckled against his mouth, still buzzing and dazed, his coordination shot.
"We need to sleep," Sid said, breathless, pulling back just enough to meet Nate's eyes. His pupils were still blown, his cheeks still flushed, but the captain voice was reasserting itself through the post-orgasmic haze. "You have an early flight tomorrow."
Nate groaned, pressing his forehead against Sid's collarbone. His hands found Sid's thighs and squeezed. "Or—"
"No."
"Just one more—"
"No, Nathan."
"A quick—"
"Down, boy." Sid pressed his palm flat against Nate's chest and pushed, gentle but firm. His mouth was curved with amusement, but his eyes were serious beneath it. "Sleep. Flight. You need rest."
Nate pouted. A genuine, full-lipped, devastatingly pathetic pout that he directed at Sid with the force of a man who had been denied something essential to his survival. Sid looked at him, raised one eyebrow, and didn't budge.
"Fine," Nate muttered. "Fine."
They relocated to the bed. Sid disappeared into the closet for thirty seconds and emerged wearing Nate's hoodie—the charcoal one he'd worn from the arena, still warm from Nate's body heat, the zipper undone and the hem falling past his thighs. Nothing else underneath except boxer briefs. He climbed onto Nate's lap, straddling him against the headboard, arms draping over Nate's shoulders, and pressed a kiss to Nate's mouth that was soft and lingering and tasted like toothpaste and contentment.
Nate's hands settled on Sid's bare thighs, thumbs rubbing slow circles against the warm skin. "You gonna steal this hoodie too?"
Sid laughed quietly against Nate's mouth, yawning mid-giggle, his eyes already heavy. "It's comfy."
His head dropped to Nate's chest. Nate's hand found his hair—still slightly damp from the shower earlier, curling at the nape—and stroked. Long, slow passes from crown to nape. Sid melted into him incrementally, his breathing slowing, his body settling into that particular brand of heavy, trusting limpness that meant he was minutes from unconsciousness.
Nate's gaze drifted over Sid's shoulder. Across the room. To the chair in the corner.
His Nordiques jersey was still there. Draped over the backrest exactly where it had been before—rumpled, lived-in, carrying the unmistakable evidence of use. The dark fabric caught the low light from the bedside lamp, MACKINNON 29 visible even in the dimness.
Something warm and possessive stirred behind Nate's ribs.
"Don't tell me you still haven't washed that jersey. That's gross, Sid."
A pause. Then, muffled against Nate's chest, barely conscious:
"Smells like you."
The words were so quiet, so unguarded, so stripped of pretense that they landed in Nate's chest like a stone in still water. He looked down at the man curled against him—this impossible, maddening, extraordinary man who stole his clothes and wore his scent to bed and said things like smells like you in the same tone other people used for prayer.
Nate kissed the top of his head. Adjusted the pillow behind them, shifted Sid's weight so his neck wouldn't ache in the morning, pulled the covers up over both of them. Sid didn't stir. His breathing had already gone deep and even, his face slack against Nate's chest, one hand curled loosely in the fabric of Nate's shirt.
Nate closed his eyes.
Sleep came quickly—warm and dark and dreamless, with the weight of Sid against his heart.
Morning arrived gently this time. No harsh sunlight through curtain gaps, no alarm blaring—just a gradual lightening behind his eyelids and the slow awareness that the warm body that had been pressed against his chest was no longer there.
Nate blinked awake. The bed beside him was empty, sheets rumpled, Sid's pillow still indented. Pale grey light filtered through the curtains. He groped for his phone on the nightstand, squinting at the screen.
8:13 AM.
Enough time. The Avs charter was scheduled for noon out of Pittsburgh International, which gave him a comfortable window to eat, dress, and get to the airport before the team assembled for the flight to Winnipeg.
He lay still for a moment, listening. From somewhere below—the kitchen, by the sound of it—came the faint clatter of a pan and the low murmur of music. Something acoustic and indistinct, the kind of playlist Sid put on when he was doing domestic tasks that didn't require concentration.
Nate smiled at the ceiling. Got up.
He found Sid standing at the stove in the hoodie he'd stolen the night before and a pair of grey boxer briefs, feet bare on the tile, spatula in one hand and phone in the other. The kitchen smelled like eggs and turkey bacon and—Nate sniffed—some kind of grain. Oatmeal, maybe. Foods that Nate ate. Foods that Sid had quietly, without discussion, learned to stock and prepare because they fell within the narrow window of things Nate could eat without his brain turning it into a spreadsheet.
Nate crossed the kitchen, wrapped his arms around Sid from behind, and kissed his hair. "Morning."
Sid leaned back into him instinctively, his weight settling against Nate's chest, his head tilting to rest against Nate's shoulder. "Mm. Morning."
Nate hooked his chin over Sid's shoulder and peered at his phone screen. Pens game footage—clips from the Senators' last three games, defensive zone breakouts, power play entries. Already working. Already preparing. The man had been fucked into incoherence eight hours ago and was now standing in his kitchen at dawn analyzing Ottawa's forecheck while making Nate breakfast.
"What time are you flying to Ottawa?" Nate murmured against his hair.
Sid hummed, leaning more fully against him, his free hand dropping to rest on Nate's forearm where it crossed his waist. "11:30. I think we're actually leaving around the same time as yours."
"Hm." Nate tightened his arms and pressed another kiss to Sid's temple. Then the spot behind his ear. Then the side of his neck. Sid's pulse fluttered against his lips.
Sid finally put his phone down and turned in Nate's arms, face tilted up. He looked soft in the morning light—sleep-rumpled and unguarded, the hoodie hanging off one shoulder, his hair a disaster of flattened curls and pillow creases. He rose on his toes and kissed Nate—brief, warm, tasting like the coffee cooling on the counter.
"Eat first before you go."
"Can I eat you?"
Sid swatted his chest with the spatula, leaving a faint grease mark on Nate's shirt, and turned back to the stove with a noise that was trying very hard to be exasperated and failing entirely.
They ate at the kitchen island, side by side—Sid with his own breakfast and Nate with the plate Sid had made him: scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, oatmeal with blueberries. Simple. Clean. Perfect. Nate ate with one hand and kept the other on Sid's thigh, thumb drawing absent patterns on his bare skin. Between bites, he'd lean over and press his mouth to Sid's shoulder, his jaw, the hinge of his neck—random, scattered contact, as if he were rationing touches to last until the next time.
Sid let him. Tilted into each kiss. Smiled around his coffee mug.
"You've got some oatmeal—" Sid reached over and wiped the corner of Nate's mouth with his thumb, his expression warm and amused, and Nate caught his wrist and kissed his palm.
"Keep doing that and we're going back to bed."
"No, we are not."
"Just for twenty minutes."
"Eat your eggs, Nathan."
Domesticity suited them. It always had—from the very first time they'd shared a kitchen, Sid's methodical cooking complementing Nate's inability to make anything more complex than a protein shake. They moved around each other with the unconscious coordination of two people whose spatial awareness had been honed by decades on the ice. No collisions, no awkward shuffling—just fluid, instinctive movement, bodies anticipating each other's trajectories without thought.
Nate cleared the dishes. Sid wiped down the counter. Their hips bumped as they crossed paths near the sink, and Nate used the contact as an excuse to crowd Sid against the counter and steal another kiss—longer this time, deeper, his hands braced on the marble on either side of Sid's hips.
"You're going to make us both late," Sid murmured against his mouth, but his fingers were already threaded through Nate's hair, his body arching into Nate's chest.
"Worth it."
Nate was in the bedroom getting dressed—suit pants, white shirt, fumbling with cufflinks he'd packed for the road trip—when Sid appeared in the doorway and crossed the room without a word. His fingers caught Nate's tie where it hung loose around his collar and began knotting it. Deft, practiced movements, the kind of muscle memory that came from twenty years of postgame suit-ups.
Nate stood still and let him work. Watched Sid's face from above—brow slightly furrowed in concentration, lips pressed together, lashes lowered. This close, Nate could see the faint freckles scattered across the bridge of Sid's nose. Could see the tiny scar near his left eyebrow from a high stick in 2011. Could feel the warmth of Sid's knuckles through the fabric of his shirt as he tightened the knot and smoothed the tie flat against Nate's chest.
Sid glanced up. Caught Nate's expression—the openly adoring, slightly mournful one he couldn't seem to control around departure—and his mouth curved with fond amusement.
"Stop sulking. You look like a golden retriever being dropped off at the kennel."
"I don't wanna go."
"Then don't. You want someone else collecting the Art Ross this year?"
Nate pouted harder. But Sid saw it—the shift behind his eyes, the competitive fire kindling at the mere mention of the trophy, the part of Nate that would always, always respond to the challenge. This man who hated losing more than he loved winning, who carried every game and every point and every missed chance in his body like physical weight. Sid knew him. Knew exactly which buttons to press and when.
Nate leaned down and kissed him. Softer this time—slow and lingering, his hands cupping Sid's face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. The kind of kiss that didn't ask for anything. Just gave. When he pulled back, his voice was quiet and stripped of humor:
"When will I see you again?"
The tone cracked something in Sid's chest. Bare and earnest and so far from the cocky, swaggering Nathan MacKinnon the public saw—this was just a man who didn't want to leave. Just a man standing in a borrowed bedroom asking when he'd get to come back.
Sid wrapped his arms around Nate's neck and kissed the underside of his jaw. Then his chin. Then the corner of his mouth.
"I owe you a weekend, right?" His voice was soft, deliberately casual, the way he got when he was offering something that mattered more than the words suggested. "Free up your schedule before the playoffs. A real weekend. No games, no practices, no media. Just us."
Nate's eyes darkened—that specific, hungry intensity that Sid felt in his stomach like a physical pull.
"Alright," Nate murmured. Then he was kissing Sid again, arms wrapped tight, holding him like he could absorb enough of him through the contact to last until next time.
Sid drove him to the airport.
The ride was quiet in the way their comfortable silences always were—Nate's hand on Sid's thigh, Sid's playlist filling the car with something low and melodic, the Pittsburgh skyline catching the mid-morning sun through the windshield. They didn't talk much. Didn't need to. Nate's thumb traced patterns on Sid's knee, and Sid occasionally glanced at him and smiled, and the miles passed.
The charter terminal was tucked behind the main airport, a separate building with tinted windows and a private lot. Sid pulled up to the entrance and put the car in park.
Cale was already there—leaning against his own bag near the door, phone in hand—and his head came up when he spotted Sid's car. His face split into a wide, knowing grin. He let out a low, theatrical whistle.
"Nice suit, Nate." Cale's grin widened as Nate climbed out of the passenger side, looking rumpled in a way that fresh clothes couldn't quite conceal. "Rough night, eh?"
Sid chuckled from the driver's seat, raising a hand through the open window. "Hey, Cale."
"Cap." Cale tipped an imaginary hat, then nodded toward Nate, who was rounding the car toward the driver's side. "He's a little clingy today, but he's housetrained. Mostly."
Sid laughed, genuine and bright, leaning his elbow on the window frame. "He's a little needy, but the upside is he's potty trained at least."
"I'm right here," Nate said flatly, arriving at Sid's window. He braced both hands on the door frame and leaned down, his face level with Sid's.
Sid looked up at him—this ridiculous, beautiful, sulking man standing in a charter terminal parking lot in a suit Sid had knotted the tie for, refusing to walk away.
"Go on, big boy." Sid's voice was teasing but tender, his eyes soft. "Say hi to Kuly for me."
"Give me a kiss."
"In front of Cale?"
From twenty feet away: "Oh, come on—" Cale turned around, making exaggerated gagging sounds, his back to the car. "Every single time—"
Nate didn't look away from Sid. His eyes were steady, warm, quietly insistent. "Ignore him. Come on. One kiss."
Sid sometimes wondered how this man managed to be simultaneously the most competitive athlete on the planet and the most shamelessly romantic person Sid had ever met. The dichotomy should have been impossible. On Nate, it was just another facet of the same relentless intensity—applied equally to hockey and to this.
He reached through the window, hooked his fingers behind Nate's neck, and pulled him down.
The kiss was brief but thorough—Sid's mouth warm and sure against Nate's, his thumb brushing the line of Nate's jaw, both of them smiling too much to make it technically elegant. Nate hummed against his lips, satisfied, and pressed one more peck to Sid's cheek before straightening up.
"Finally," Cale groaned from the terminal entrance. "I'm filing a complaint with the league about this."
"There, there." Sid waved a hand at Cale, his smile wide and unrepentant. "Take care of him for me. Make sure he sleeps under the covers."
"I'm not his babysitter—"
"You kind of are."
Nate backed away from the car slowly—still looking at Sid, still wearing that expression, the one that made Sid's chest tighten—before turning and joining Cale at the terminal entrance. He grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and looked back one more time.
Sid raised his hand. Nate raised his. Cale, sighing deeply, raised his too.
Then they disappeared through the tinted doors.
Sid sat in the idling car for a moment. The parking lot was quiet. Morning light slanted through the windshield, warming his face. Nate's hoodie, hanging unzipped over his shirt, still smelled like him. The radio played something soft and indistinct.
He was smiling. Had been smiling since last night, probably—since before that.
Sid put the car in drive and pulled out of the lot. The road stretched ahead, the skyline golden in the morning haze, and his mind was already turning over the next steps—Ottawa, the metro standings, the points they needed, the games ahead. The playoffs weren't guaranteed. Nothing in this league ever was. But Sid had spent twenty years turning not guaranteed into inevitable through sheer, stubborn force of will, and he wasn't about to stop now.
They'd make the playoffs. He'd make sure of it.
Sid merged onto the highway, still smiling, the Pittsburgh skyline shrinking in his rearview mirror.
They just had to get there first.