|| it's in your eyes || sidney crosby - pt ii
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pairing: sidney crosby x pro-athlete!reader
wc: 7.9k (holy shit i did not mean for that to happen)
warnings: no chapter specific ones. tw - suicidal lyrics as quoted from "S.O.S (Sawed Off Shotgun)" by The Glorious Sons
—
summary: you think that’s the last you’ll see of sidney crosby and the pittsburgh pens. then the video goes viral and gives someone a reason to pay you a visit
VIDEO: Pittsburgh Penguins @Penguins: New Challenge! Pittsburgh Penguins Try - Judo
> no way she threw crosby like that, dude weighs 91kg and she just reaches his chest, i call faking it for the PR
>>ummm hello?? can you not read??? y/n l/n was literally the judoka national champion TWICE, she’s the judo head coach at XX Gym, and one of their Fight Team coaches?? like what are you on about
>petition to get not old men in. y/n was in the mma circuit for a while too, i can’t be the only one who wants to see connor bedard or dunns throw a real punch.
> "I'm exicited to learn" "Im not" "We can try" 😂😂😂
> imagine in their next game if they used these. the carnage. the penalty minutes.
>> The NHL: i don't like the look on your face. geno: this only look i got ))))
TWITTER: Pittsburgh Penguins @Penguins: Final tallies below!
>most times getting your name yelled out by y/n contest like you’ve been caught in the cookie jar again - malkin (32 times)
> landed the most successful throws - crosby
> we thought he’d be better at this - carter
> got a little too into it and now we’re a little nervous - jarry, jake, malkin.
> achieved first name basis - 0. No one wins. y/n runs a tight ship!
>> y/n only calling them by mister or sir has the same vibe as hearing ur mum use ur full name on u
>> Kudos to her absolute professionalism. I'd be freaking out about one of them breaking an ankle or something.
>>>them glutes be insured for thousands of $$$
>> Surprised she didn’t give up on 'Mr Malkin' by the end! (She was real close though - it definitely looked like she was about to Full Name him)
>>> Pittsburgh Penguins - We need to amend the score. Sidney, 1, according to the man himself 🧐
>>>>e.malkin71geno: no!!! how?? is not nice thing to lie!!!!!
48 comments below 👇
>ok but can we talk about whatever’s going on between crosby and y/n? I mean, there’s being competitive (its crosby what do we expect) and then there’s whatever THAT is
>i haven’t seen giggly little bastard sidney crosby since his A days
>compare timestamps at 1:02, 3:44 to 8:26- 9:55. awkward penguin to giggly shit stirrer pathway directly corresponds to him etting physically closer and closer to y/n. coincidence?? I THINK NOT
>> also corresponds to y/n looking more and more constipated too.
Amaguchi Martial Arts Academy + 117 follows
y/n instagram + 89 follow requests
—
The video gets quietly uploaded to the official Pittsburgh Penguins Youtube the following week after a few sneak peeks and previews on Twitter. The gym makes the polite and mandatory instagram post on the same day, with you and your assistant smiling with the Pens team.
It sits comfortably on their channel for another week, almost two, and then hockey TikTok gets a hold of it.
The video explodes overnight.
ESPN, SPORTSNET, the NHL itself, even Tim Hortons - they’re all jumping on the video with their own retweeting and resharing. The original video was sitting at about 380k views, and then skyrocketed to a million overnight.
The rest of internet, of course, is having a fucking field day.
Tumblr has already made and shared numerous gifs from the video that have become staple memes in the group chat (your first throw at full speed and then the super zoom in PO’s subsequent ‘oh big yikes’ face)
Someone’s compiled a gif set of Geno’s “Hug and Throw Special”. About half of them are of you being picked up by him and carried away at random intervals, usually while you're trying to assist someone. There’s another gifset featuring just Karlsson’s legs cartwheeling about, a lot of candid Letang shots strolling around the mat like a GQ model in the too short borrowed gi, and a shockingly large collection of screenshots of your face giving “disappointed cillian murphy vibes.” There’s a particularly good two set of you looking up at Sidney Crosby (who’s looking back down at you with a roguish grin so large his eyes are practically closed, tongue poking out between his teeth,) and then directly at the camera like Michael Scott from The Office.
All of this you only find out when Maggie lunges at you at work the next day, her phone shoved right into your face as you just manage to catch your phone.
“Look at this! Do you see this?! Are you seeing this?!” Maggie shakes her phone, practically vibrating out of her entire body, her eyes huge behind her glasses. All you can work out is a blurry black and yellow logo? You sigh and shove her hand away.
“Mags, how am I supposed to see anything if it’s in my face like that?” Maggie’s enthusiasm makes her a great front of house receptionist for the gym, especially when they have the weekend flood for the kid’s classes. Other times, it just makes you feel a lot older than you actually are. Despite only having just turned 26, it’s moments like these where you wonder if moving out alone to an acreage with a dog and a couple of chickens in Seattle would’ve been a better idea than impulsively agreeing to Toshi’s offer. Fucking Pittsburgh? Really? They don’t even have a Chinatown anymore, for god’s sake.
How do you lose Chinatown?
Maggie’s already scurried back to the front desk, leaving you to grab your gear from the laundry room. There’s supposed to be a team meeting at 2pm for the upcoming debut of the gym’s newest amateur fighter, and Toshi’s also asked you to cover teen Muay Thai tonight.
“This wouldn’t be a problem if you checked anything other than Facebook,” she calls out, clacking away furiously on the desktop. “Which, again, is only for boomers and their minion memes.”
You shuck off your track pants for your vale-tudo spats, the Half Sumo compression shorts with the cute sushi pattern that the team got you for your birthday. For the moment you leave your shirt on (so what if it’s an old World Taekwondo Federation top that’s basically just a crusty, threadbare sleep shirt at this point? It says WTF on it. It’s funny.)
“Yes, yes, I’m old, your dad’s old, we’re all old boomers only a knee replacement away from death,” you chirp back, sliding around Maggie’s chair now that you’re pretty much ready for the afternoon. "Even though Toshi's in his 50s and I just turned 26." Maggie rolls her eyes and you quickly check your phone for any new messages.
“Now what was the thing that I had to be seeing?” you ask wryly.
A series of clicks, and then Maggie’s tapping the computer screen.
“This thing.”
VIDEO: Viral NHL x Pittsburgh Penguins Players Try Judo with Y/N L/N
1.2 million views
Comments - 420
This time you do drop your phone.
“1.2 million views?!” 1.2 million people wasted nearly 15 minutes of their life watching you throw hockey players, hockey players throwing you, and hockey players trying to throw each other?
“With trending hashtags! #pittsburghpenguins #amaguchigym #y/n_l/n"
"How are you doing that with your mouth-"
“And about 60 new memberships so far!”
Toshi’s large hand comes crashing down on your shoulder, his booming laugh shaking you. You can already feel the headache coming. Distantly, you wonder how much it would cost for a last minute plane ticket back to Seattle. 1.2 million views of grown men being thrown around while you try not to walk off, find a quiet corner and pray to God.
“I told you this was a great idea, look how much business it’s brought in! And you’ve gotten quite a few new fans yourself!” No wonder your instagram notifications had been blowing up this morning. You hadn’t bothered to check any of them, instead silencing your phone and assuming that it had been some sort of spam bot action since all you post on your instagram is the occasional food pic.
“It’s not that big of a deal,” you reply, but you know that’s a weak deference. It is a big deal - not just professionally for the gym, but also just…personally, for who you are and, like it or not, who you represent.
Being a professional athlete at any stage of life is difficult, nevermind at the age of 14, and even exponentially more so being a girl, and ethnic, and the eldest in a migrant family too. Yes, your journey can be characterised by competitions and internationals and scheduling hours of training between assessments and babysitting and translating bank letters for your parents, but it’s also so heavily marked by the endless reworking of your character, trying to fit into all these different spaces and roles that just won't make the space for you.
You’ve worked incredibly hard over those years to manage that instinctual urge to arch up against anyone bigger than you, and dismissive of you. This has historically been the most difficult with men. Older, white, men. It's always been something you, and Toshi, have taken into account. That's why you take the majority of the kid's and teen's classes. That's why you really only step in to run the advanced classes when there really isn't anyone available.
That's why there are really only a handful of places you frequent in Pittsburgh, besides home and work. Fame doesn't always come with fortune, and not all publicity is good publicity.
But Toshi’s ecstatic face eases any regrets. It means increased security and stability for Toshi, the gym, and everyone here. It means that they have a stronger reputation out in the community. It means more help and support for when things get rough again, that the business will have a further increase in profits so the gym can invest in more security cameras instead of wasting time scrubbing spray painted slurs off the front doors, so that Toshi and you can purchase more gear to sell at discounts for the families who can't quite afford it.
Giving up a few hours of your life was worth it for this.
"You're happy," Maggie says, peering up to look at her father. Toshi's smile hasn't dulled in the slightest, his crows feet and laugh lines out in full force.
"Of course I am! Now we have so many more new students! Our reputation is now premium martial arts gym."
"You just want more private clients for the money."
"Of course. How else can we get more special visitors in? John Danaher workshop not cheap, you know." He tsks, shaking his head.
There's more clacking away at the desktop. Maggie has that particular glint in her eyes that makes you instinctively take a step back, lest you find yourself an unfortunate obstacle in her path.
"If we're going to have increased numbers, it also means the girls can get more shifts, and that means I can finally revamp our socials!"
Toshi frowns. "What's wrong with our facebook?" he asks, pouting. It looks ridiculous on the 52 year old with the salt and pepper stubble and surfers' tan. "I worked very hard on it, you know. Every class, I make stories!"
You refuse to make eye contact with Maggie's pointed look.
She lets out an over dramatic sigh anyway. "Father, please. Facebook is fine for parents, but I've been telling you to up our insta and snapchat game since forever, especially if we wanna promote our fight team! Also, TikTok? Come on. This is a golden goose opportunity."
You sink into the other office chair, fiddling with the ends of your braid. Toshi still has that pinched, grouchy look on his face, but you know that he'll come around to the idea eventually. Either way, Maggie's the one who knows all the login details for their accounts. "Well, then you can make a special Instagram story time for today." Toshi sighs, rubbing his chin in thought.
Besides the team meeting at 2, you're clear until normal class times from 6pm. There shouldn’t be any events that require a special Instagram story - the majority of the time it’s used to advertise classes or post reminders regarding any schedule changes.
"Why? What's happening?" you ask carefully. There’s a growing sense of alarm building in your gut, fine tuned from years of knowing Toshi.
Toshi peeks up at the clock with a calculating look. "Oh, they said they wanted to visit the gym for a thank you press event. Something small and informal, so don’t have to worry about filming new video.”
Out of the corner of your eye you can see Maggie lean right back into her chair and stare up towards the heavens.
"...And when were they going to do that?"
"Today."
With perfect comedic timing, there's the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, followed by the slamming of car doors and a litany of voices. The melodic cadence of a thick, Russian tinted voice follows an annoyingly familiar giggle (vocal fry and all.)
Toshi's face brightens even as he turns to meet you and Maggie's equal looks of dismay and resignation.
"At 12!" It’s currently 12.
You close your eyes, channelling as much serenity into your mind as you can. Ah. Seattle, Seattle... Maybe you should've told them you were actually a diehard Krakens fan, sorry, no can do with a rival team!
"There's clean coaches' shirts in the storage room. Probably."
You're grateful that Maggie doesn't comment on the speed in which you disappear into the back office, or the string of incredibly foul language you mutter that you know that she knows is definitely directed towards her father.
—
“Euh, is there room for us?”
The media team have finished packing the minivan and are about to jump in and go when Geno appears with Sidney at his side.
Sonya glances up from her phone, a little surprised. “Oh, Sidney! I didn’t know you were joining us.”
He shoots a wry grin, face scrunching up.He knows Geno is rolling his eyes at him. “Last minute decision. I figured with how much talk this video has generated for our team, it’s only proper to give a full thank you.”
Sidney also never passes by an opportunity involving youth sports in Pittsburgh. The original video collaboration may not have been about hockey, but based on some of the stats the Little Penguins team has been texting him, the video has also generated much more interest (if that was even possible) back into their skate program. They’re even floating the idea of extending the age bracket, and perhaps develop something that would focus specifically on supporting young girls who want to progress to professional hockey leagues. They’re already speaking to the PWHL in preparation.
There are also his own, personal reasons as to why he wants to come along to this specific event where there are no other players (besides Geno) and ergo, no other distractions.
But they don’t need to know that.
Sonya takes quick stock of Sidney - for a ‘last minute decision,’ he seems impeccably prepared. His curls are artfully tousled, held in place with a dash of pomade. Instead of loose athletic gear like Geno, Sidney's sporting a wellfitting white tee with a deep v-neck and one of the tighter pairs of tailored jeans he owns.
“Jump in the back of the Honda, and we’ll be good to go.”
Sidney pretends not to see Geno’s knowing glance, clasping his hands loosely together. He can’t stop the rhythmic tapping of his foot though, the only thing that gives away his anticipation.
As the cars whizz towards the nearby Strip District and its line of gorgeous, red brick warehouses, Sidney thumbs through his phone.
It’s times like this where he’s actually grateful for the existence of social media, but no screenshot or photograph can truly do justice to your burning, almost flippant gaze.
Sidney itches to see it again, to have it so overwhelmingly intent on him again, so that he doesn’t miss a single moment when he makes it melt down into slack, soft bliss.
Ah, y/n l/n. He hopes you’re just as ready as he is.
—-
A few weeks shouldn’t make much of a difference, but something in Sidney rouses the moment he sees you.
It might have to do with the fact that you’re not in your gear.
Skin that was previously covered by a rashguard and layers of cotton gi are now exposed by the sleeveless muscle tank that sports the gym’s logo and COACH across the back, and the short, tight spats you’re wearing. The planes of your well-trained body are on full display - tanned skin gives warmth to the gallery of tattoos on your arms (he wants to see if there are tan-lines, and where do they stop-) and his eyes track the definition of your thighs, the angle of your plump ass, your broad shoulders, spending a little too long observing your ample chest before finally settling on your face.
He takes in your stoic expression, the slightest furrow of your brow, notes how your hair escapes your unruly braid, hands resting on your hips while Sonya exchanges introductions with the boisterous owner of the gym. You’re barefoot and he’s in sneakers, so the height difference is further emphasised.
“y/n,” Sidney Crosby grins at you.
You inhale. Count four beats. Exhale. There’s no mistaking the way his gaze had travelled up and down your body, calculating in its heat. It sends your skin prickling with goosebumps, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by Sidney’s sharp eyes.
The thought that just a simple look from him can garner such an unconscious reaction from you has the heat in his belly simmering
“Good afternoon,” you reply politely, albeit a little stiff. You find yourself straightening out your posture, shifting your feet into a stable, box stance. Around you, the media team is snapping pictures of everything and anything - the photographs and memorabilia mounted on the wall, Geno and Toshi’s boisterous greeting, and most definitely of you and Crosby staring each other down.
“Thank you for coming, Mr Crosby-“
It only takes him two strides until he’s face to face with you, his hand coming up to grab yours in a firm handshake. It’s only through force of habit that you don’t take a step back in response, trained to hold your ground when needed. It does mean that Sidney’s proximity forces you to tilt your head up so that you don’t end up face planted into his wide chest.
“Call me Sidney, remember?” he says, still smiling widely.
You drop the handshake and remain tight-lipped. Sidney’s brown eyes flicker, and you keep your face as blithe as possible as you turn away from him to greet Malkin, Sonya, and the rest of the media staff.
The Pittsburgh Penguins have organised a gift hamper of sorts which includes the stock standard gifts and a signed certificate from the Pens Foundation, thanking the gym for its contributions to youth sports.
The two hockey players stand on one side, you and Toshi on the other. In the middle, it’s you and Sidney holding the certificate, Toshi holding the gift hamper.
“Okay, everyone, in 3, 2-“
At the last moment, an arm comes up behind your shoulders and Sidney closes the small, carefully maintained gap between the two of you while both Geno and Toshi suddenly lean in tight to squish your group sandwich even more, the tall bastards. You just resist the impulse to kick out Crosby’s legs.
There’s a flurry of camera flashes, and then the photographer gives their thumbs up.
The four of you pull apart and you inwardly groan. However that photo looks (and you don’t wanna see it) it’s going to be plastered all over the internet, with Maggie at the helm ready to spam you with the most delightfully unhinged comments she can find. But at least it’s over, and the whole media team and whatnot can go back to their ice hockey house.
You always found doing media a little uncomfortable - it made you too highly aware of yourself for all the wrong reasons, especially as you grew older, stronger, and better. For an awkward period of time during your later teenage years, the composition of your body was constantly shifting, trying to find its own balance in between all the conditioning, training, nutritional plans, and good old standard hormones. For y/n l/n, the professional athlete out in , being photographed or filmed in your gi and on the mats was what you preferred.
“Euh, we had a big increase in numbers in our little pens program,” Sidney suddenly says, startling you out of your thoughts. “A lot more girls.”
The look on his face is unnervingly gracious. It’s not a look you’ve encountered before. It kind of makes you want to poke the bear a little, so to speak.
“In Crosby’s Little Penguins?” you ask. “Growing your army of little ice hockey children?”
To your absolute delight, his face and the tips of his ears go pink. Sidney runs a hand across the scruff of his chin, blinking bashfully at you.
“Maybe not so little anymore,” he replies. “They said the numbers are good enough that we can support the next age bracket up.”
“We’re going to partner up with the PWHL to have a specific programme for older girls who are hoping to go pro, to help with the financial costs and such.”
Hockey is an expensive sport. Sidney still remembers the constant sacrifices his own parents made to make sure he was able to keep playing. Not just for new gear several times a year to fit a fast growing teenage boy, but for the additional fitness training, the petrol for all the car trips ferrying him back and forth to training, nevermind the sheer amount of money that went into feeding him.
He knows that it’s worse for girls, and that historically it doesn’t necessarily get better when they reach professional levels. Having that video go so viral was a huge blessing, and he knows it’s in part because of your presence.
“Sidney!”
Oh-?
“That’s amazing!” You punch him in the arm in excitement, unable to stop yourself bouncing up and down on your toes. Sidney giggles in response, his face and shoulders scrunching up as you continue to jostle him, your child-like glee infectious.
“That’s so good to hear, seriously, it really is,” and you’re so genuine in your response, all that previous apprehension suddenly thawed out, that Sidney looks stunned. You can’t help it. Youth sports have always held a close place in your heart - it’s how you meet Toshi and his family in the first place.
“Actually, we’ve had a big uptick in kid’s memberships too because of that video,” you add.
“We’ve always had really good numbers for our kids’ classes anyway, but as they get older a lot of them drop off, girl’s especially,” you continue as you gesture to some of the photographs on the wall that showcase the different classes at the gym.
“But Mags did the numbers and our MMA and Muay Thai teen’s classes are almost at 50/50 because a lot of the girl’s are continuing enrolment from juniors,” Of course, there are plenty of other reasons why that’s happening, but even you won’t deny that even in the incredibly short time that the collaboration has been out,
“And all because I tossed the Pittsburgh Penguins around for an hour,” you chirp Sidney and he barks out a laugh in surprise, hip-checking you in response (“Hey-! This isn’t the ice, Crosby!”) How easily that mask you were wielding in front of him has slipped away to reveal this bold, cheeky, sweet, young thing now giving him an impromptu tour.
You direct Sidney’s attention to one of the black and white photos on the wall. There’s three kids in their uniforms standing on what looks like a small 3 tier podium, all of them with medals around their necks. The child in the number 1 spot is the only girl, her blonde hair tightly braided, arms raised in a victory flex as wide as her smile.
“This is Jana, one of our students with her first gold in jiujitsu - she’s 9 in that one. Actually, she’s our top competitor, always has been!”
Sidney’s eyebrows jump in surprise as he follows you down the wall, listening attentively to your eager explanations of the new few photos of a progressively older Jana, still rocking that first place medal.
The most recent one has him stop. It’s the first photo that he’s seen in the front area that has you in it. You’ve got Jana lifted up on your shoulders, the two of you caught mid-laugh by the camera. The sheer, unbridled joy on your face is enchanting, your eyes aglow like the first place medal Jana has gripped tightly in her fist.
Surrounding the two of you is your whole crew of attendees, family and friends spectators, and a gaggle of teens and kids crowding closest to you - the only coach in that photo.
San Jose Kids International Open - IBJJF Jiu-Jitsu Championships.
It’s obvious to anyone that while it’s a photo officially celebrating Jana’s victory, it’s more accurately a celebration of you - y/n l/n. Not just a stern faced, championship level judoka, but a coach that supports youth sports, is beloved and highly respected for that passion, and looks adorable the whole goddamn time.
“Your students really value you.”
Now it’s your turn to blush.
“I’d be a pretty terrible coach if they didn’t value me,” you try and joke, waving your hand dismissively. You find yourself flustered, swaying from one foot to the other.
Sidney finds your self-deprecation unexpected. It's very much at odds with the public persona you've been presenting, and this change highlights the difference in experience and age between you two.
Very quickly, you've shifted presence - a fellow veteran on the bench to a wide-eyed rookie being taken under his wing.
"They do, y/n," he repeats gently. "Anyone who takes the time to look closely can tell." You barely look at him, fidgeting with a few stray pieces of lint on your shirt.
The thing is, when you did make the move to Pittsburgh, you didn't start at the gym immediately. At the time, the idea of stepping straight into a martial arts dedicated environment again made you shake. Attending as a client of the gym was one thing, being a fully dedicated coach was another. You'd be back under scrutiny, fighting to build a reputation back up again, to appear at some level worthy enough for the colour of the belt you wore. Knowing that there would be people who would know who you are, or who you were, made the thought even more terrifying.
But once again, the thing that gave you the confidence to make the move in the first place was Toshi’s endless kindness and complete nonjudgement. He let you take those incremental steps into coaching at his gym while you dillied and dallied about - covering for someone when they were sick, jumping in to help new students and trials, before moving on as an assistant coach for the kids classes, and then finally, nearly six months later, taking up his original offer of being a full time employee at the gym.
“I don’t really think you can tell that from just a few photos, Mr Crosby.” You say eventually. “I’d say you probably need to actually see me coaching during our normal hours. Without all the cameras.”
During the conversation, the two of you have migrated closer to each other. Now Sidney is stubbornly pressed up against your side. Through the cotton of his shirt and despite the thickness of the denim, every part of him that makes contact with you throbs in dull, steady warmth.
“I’ll hold you to that then, eh?”
“I mean, if you want to, I’m not going to stop you, and I know Toshi certainly isn’t going to either,” you huff. Toshi is actually getting along remarkably well with Geno, based on the quickening back and forth conversation they’re having. And the growing volume of laughter.
“I’m not going to get thrown around this time, am I?”
“Of course not - full VIP package. You get to watch the throwing this time, and we don’t have to worry about the insurance on your huge--uh,”
“My huge…?”
You quickly step away from Sidney, fumbling your words. Sidney, the bastard, follows close.
“I was going to say huge ego, Mr Crosby, jeez,” You shove your elbow against him, and he shoves back.
“Haha, I thought you said no checking, y/n?” He hip bumps you, unexpectedly hard, making you stumble with a yelp. Sidney’s giggling has descended into full blown guffaws.
You gain your footing and whirl back on him, your eyebrows up to your hairline. Being knocked off balance? You? Y/n L/n, national champion in the kicking and throwing of asses and egos? In your gym too? The blatant disrespect!
“Wow, alright, okay, I see how it is-“ and you charge at him, the two of you now caught in an impromptu wrestling match, both of you playfully knocking into each other with shoulders and hips and arms and hands. Your horseplay is quickly descending into intense roughhousing though, the two of you being dragged down by how badly you both take losing in any way.
Perhaps there is commonality between being a two time national judoka champion, and a three time Stanley Cup winner - stupidly high levels of competitiveness.
You go to drag him down into a headlock, but he ducks out with a practised twist before jabbing his fingers under your arm, tickling the side of your ribs.
“SHIT-!”
Your swear is loud and embarrassingly high pitched as you grab Sidney’s wrist and yank it away. The motion brings the two of you lurching into each other, his other hand flinging out to steady himself on your waist, his chin knocking against your forehead painfully. It’s the perfect set up for a glorious okuri ashi barai sweep, and if that doesn’t make Sidney Crosby beg uncle then you’ll eat your own damn-
“Children, children!”
The two of you freeze.
“Fighting not in lobby, only upstairs!”
Geno purses his lips, trying to maintain his stern facade. Behind him, Toshi is looking with a carefully curated blank face.
“Flirting too.”
Geno’s grin has reached shit-eating levels. Toshi’s lips twitch. Maggie is shaking slightly, her fist shoved between her teeth, face going red with suppressed laughter.
You jump away from Sidney, absolutely mortified. Sidney just looks coy.
It slides off his face the second he sees yours shutter cold, the mask slamming violently back into place. It stays on, fixed like welded steel, as you all say your thank yous and goodbyes.
The physical distance returns, y/n carefully manoeuvring herself around so that there was always at least one person between her and Sidney, and for the rest of their time there she only addresses Sidney as a combined unit with Geno or the Pittsburgh Penguins.
When the media team finally closes the boot of the van, ready to drive back and Sidney glances out the window as the car pulls out of the parking lot, you’re already gone.
—-
Sidney doesn’t actually manage to visit the gym for nearly three weeks, too busy with a loaded schedule that includes several away games and the Night of Assists smack bang in the middle of it all.
It leaves him a little snippier than usual when things go wrong. It’s not like he meant to slam the bench door so hard that the whole damn building could hear, and it’s not the first time they’ve stumbled across him aggressively doing pushups in the tunnel.
It’s just.
He never got your number, didn’t think to ask at the time either, so neither of you have actually talked to each other since the first visit to your gym. And it’s not as if he had a believable enough reason to ask you for your number at the time too. If all he had planned to do was visit the gym during regular class hours, then contacting the front desk was all that needed to be done.
You definitely wouldn’t have given it to him after Geno’s little chirp.
It’s surprising how not being able to talk to you has affected his mood so much, the whole thing made worse by the fact that he doesn’t actually know when he would be able to see you - in person, at least.
The Pittsburgh Penguins haven’t been the only team in contact with you.
The Dallas Stars must’ve reached out to you that first evening, because they uploaded a Youtube short as a preview for an upcoming video that second week after Sidney visited the gym - Dallas Stars vs Y/N L/N: Mixed Martial Arts. Watching how you and Tyler Seguin have your arms flung around each other’s shoulders, roaring with laughter because Lundkvist is running around with Jason Robertson trapped in a fireman’s carry…the rumbling under his skin grows restless.
He knows that the others can sense his discontent, even if they don’t know why. More of them choose to stay with Sidney after practice, long after when they themselves would usually leave for the day.
He skates, he shoots pucks, he traces the letters on the ice. He sits on the bench and watches the shift, he yells at them to wheel, he bites down hard on his mouthguard when he gets slammed into boards, and racks up so many penalties in the game against the Bruins that Geno voluntarily speaks to the media afterwards, even though they won 2-1 in regulation.
Sidney grinds his teeth, and knows he’s in trouble.
It’s why he makes a beeline for the gym, not even bothering to head home first, instead choosing to dump his bags and shower quickly in the arena’s locker room.
When he pulls up to the gym, he’s surprised to see how full the carpark is for a Monday evening and he has to turn around and park on the street.
It’s loud as he approaches, all sorts of noise and movement from a proverbial crowd of adults and children when he enters the lobby. His entry doesn’t seem to register - people too busy moving between the floors to get to their next class, parents fumbling with gear bags as their kids nearly walk into the walls, too busy gulping down gatorade.
One such kid practically waddling in their oversized blue uniform bumps into Sidney’s legs, his hand automatically reaching out to steady them. They crane their little face up at Sidney, huge eyes blinking under sweaty curls.
“Swuidy Cwosy?” He puts his finger to his lips with a wink, before hurrying away before the parents take notice.
The woman zipping back and forth behind the front desk is fortunately the same one he met last time - Toshi’s daughter, Maggie, if he remembers correctly.
Sensing the approach of a person, Maggie’s customer service voice automatically switches on.
“Hey there, how can I help-” and she actually jumps when she sees Sidney’s sheepish face hiding underneath his baseball cap.
She stares at him, looks around, looks back at him. Opens her mouth to say something, closes it. Sidney watches her eyebrows creep into her hairline, can practically see her brain connecting the dots.
Someone behind them gasps, and there's a bit of tittering.
Maggie chews her lip, her eyes calculating.
"She's just gone to cover a class. You can wait for her up there. Third floor." She finally replies. The question she’s answering is obvious and he can feel her watching him as he ducks inside.
The familiar smells of dried sweat and recycled air waft down as Sidney follows the sounds of feet and limbs hitting vinyl and rubber, something grungy and heavy with bass guitar in the background.
"Alright people, let's get warmed up!"
Your voice is clear and crisp over the music blasting from the speakers, the honeyed drawl of The Glorious Sons filling the room with charged, electric energy.
Spurred on, Sidney rushes up the last flight, skipping past steps.
He nearly slips when he misses the very last step, immediately hypnotised by what he sees.
You've clearly only just arrived to the class yourself, having rushed over from another floor. The huge group of people jogging around the mat switch to low posture side shuffling at your command, while you hurry to change into the classes' matching uniform - athletic shorts and the gym's branded shirts.
It means that when Sidney sees you for the first time in a month, he sees you straight up stripping out of your clothes.
There's no trace of awkwardness as you shimmy out of your pants, kicking them into the corner. The high-waisted shorts you're wearing are even shorter than the ones you were in last time.
Yeah, they sent the taxman
I lost my job, and
You got hooked on oxycodone
"Coach, what the hell is this song?" Someone hollers out as they pass you. “Aren’t you too old for emo?”
You just laugh in response - hearty, full body one that has your body curling up as you flip them off.
"You said the music last week was boring-"
"It was national anthems of the world-"
"Shut up and get sprinting, CJ! Corner to corner, forwards then backwards!"
Then you fling your gi jacket off with a flourish, caught up in the groove of the music and evidently more than comfortable to start peeling off your rashguard in front of all these familiar faces.
Sidney's brain nearly short circuits. If he thought the shorts were a shock, this actually makes him lean up against the wall.
Underneath is just a tight sports bra, the crisscrossing straps across your back drawing attention to how your muscles ripple underneath the lights as you search through your bag.
They shut the lights off
They took the car, and
I bought a sawed-off shotgun
It also reveals to Sidney that at least on your back, you don't have any tanlines.
That beautiful view goes as quickly as it came, covered up as you finally find a spare top. You turn the music down to gather everyone's attention before striding towards one of the hanging sandbags.
Sidney lets himself relax, keeping his presence as unassuming as possible. There have definitely been a few shocked looks, but no one has come up to him, most likely because everyone is intently focused on your instructions and your stern, no-nonsense tone.
This is the first time he's seen you completely in your element - no put upon airs, no suggestions of that enduring media training, none of that distance you're always so careful to maintain with Sidney.
So he takes the opportunity to learn how an easy-going y/n l/n looks, to see how much more of you, the real you, gleams through the facade.
He watches your confident movements, inhaling sharply as you demonstrate a series of powerful kicks, your checking kick making the heavy bag swing. He watches how you fiddle with the music again when the class goes to practise those kicks, and carefully notes how you favour bouncy indie rock that you can sway a little to.
He watches how you monitor each and every student with a keen eye, and how you expectedly maneuverer yourself from position to position, calmly explaining the concept of head control, and that you need to pull the head down at the same time as shooting your knee up, if you want to make sure you really, properly break your opponents' nose.
It's when the other coach finally arrives, apologising to the class about their car troubles that you finally notice him. You chat briefly with your coworker, their face tired, yours concerned, before you pat them gently on the back and turn towards Sidney, walking towards him with an expression that seems mostly exasperated, but just the slightest bit fond when Sidney sees you up close. It makes him feel a little…hopeful.
"Mr Crosby, what in the world are you doing here?" you ask.
Sidney stands straight, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.
"You said I should come see the gym during regular classes, remember?" He can't resist the chirp, nor does he resist stepping in to knock against you amicably.
"You should've called up and let us know you were coming. Monday's our busiest night of the week - can't exactly give you a proper tour if I'd been flat out," you huff.
Distinctly aware of the attention the two of you are drawing, you lead Sidney back down, doing your best to explain to him the layout of the gym, answering his questions about the other photos and certificates mounted on the walls (“Is he doing a backwards roll to throw the guy over his head?” “Oh, yeah, an overhead sweep. Common enough in jiujitsu, but-“ “I wouldn’t be able to do that with skates and gloves on, eh?”) he gets stopped a few times, especially when they get to the bottom floor where there's a teens Muay Thai class on. You warn everyone that they've got two minutes max to get a photo or autograph from Sidney Crosby, and you stand back to watch the mad rush of teenagers vibrating with excitement next to the Pittsburgh Penguins captain.
Eventually you have to physically drag Sidney away, his Canadian niceties and overall good guy self unwilling to let any kid miss out. "You're such a distraction, seriously!" you yell, shoving him back up towards the lobby, even as the class behind you groans in disappointment and begs you to let him stay ("Please, please, pleaaaseee, Coach Y/N, last one I swear I PROMISE-" "No.")
The two of you stumble out back into the lobby, Sidney giggling out repeated apologies. The silliness of the whole situation keeps your guard down, pretty much having forgotten the awkward note your last meeting had ended on.
"Let's go to the back office, you're causing way too much trouble," you joke.
Toshi isn't here tonight so the main office is empty. You throw yourself down into the office chair with a sigh. Sidney sits on the small two-seater opposite you, sinking against the couch arm with a hand propped under his chin.
Silence descends, but it's not suffocating. There's still the sounds of the gym echoing around the little bubble that's formed around the two of you.
Now that the rush and excitement is over, you’re able to get a proper look at Sidney. He's dressed much more casually in dark sweatpants and a Pens hoodie. His hair is all fluffed up, still damp from his hasty shower, and there's a 5 o'clock shadow that's on the borderline of becoming dark and scruffy. It chisels out his jawline considerably, makes his cheekbones sharper, his eyes brighter, an intense supernova glow that makes your heart flutter when he turns that intensity towards you.
You clear your throat and cross your legs, feeling your face grow hot under his full, undivided attention.
“I’m sorry again about, euh, all the-“ he makes a vague gesture with his hand, his face frowning a little. “And really, thank you for showing me around the gym still. It really was great to see.”
You shake your head. “There’s nothing you can do about that, just means that the people here really value you as their NHL team captain, hey?” You say, smiling at Sidney’s own sheepish nod when hearing his own words echoed back to him. "Besides, you got to see a different type of rink today."
“Is it a new addition? I noticed there weren’t any covers on.” From what he remembered seeing, both the ropes and the posts were still bare, and the ring was empty at the time.
Sidney’s observation about the boxing ring is accurate and that comes as a pleasant surprise.
“Yeah! We used to have a smaller foldaway, but we’re replacing it with a raised boltdown…”
This is how the two of you whisk away the next hour and a half, starting your conversation about the recent renovations, and then the two of you finding yourself talking about anything and everything sports related.
When Maggie goes to kick the two of you out (when did everyone else leave? and the lights are all turned off too?) she has to bang on the door loudly because the two of you are engrossed in a discussion about Sidney's experience with his trainer Andy, and how the emphasis on developing the most efficient way to make those hyper-specific movements is a principle that's also something you've been investigating for your own private clients over the-
"Go! Home!" Maggie hollers at you when she speeds out the carpark, the two of you still talking even though you're literally sitting in your car, ready to turn the ignition on.
Sidney stepped back, jerking his thumb to where he parked on the street.
"I guess that's my cue, eh? And thanks, again for the tour." You roll your eyes at him. Damn Canadians - if they're not saying sorry over and over again, they're doing it with the thank you instead, or both.
“It’s nothing too special,” you say. “In comparison to the PPG arena, I bet it looks like a kid’s playhouse.”
“Well, maybe, but we for sure don’t have hanging sandbags in ours, or cage fencing," he counters.
"I wouldn't know, not like I've ever been in there before. Maybe you've got a secret room all set up with mats now so you can practise those throws I taught all of you. You sure you aren't gonna spring it on the Dallas Stars?" you chirp.
Sidney stares at you, aghast.
"You've never been inside?”
"No? I've never really had a reason to. I get plenty of time watching sports at the gym." You shrug. "I've never watched an ice hockey game either."
He puts his hands on his hips, like a disappointed mother.
"Well, maybe one day I'll repay the favour, give you a tour of the PPG."
"Maybe," you say, finally turning into your car and closing the door. "If I get the VIP treatment too!"
The image of Sidney Crosby leaning against his Chevy Tahoe, face obscured in the dark, hand up in a lazy wave as you finally drive home for the night, sticks with you, even after you drag yourself into bed after your shower.
You drift off to sleep with his backlit silhouette an afterimage across your eyes.
—
It's not even two days later that Sidney Crosby shoves himself into your life again.
You're coming out of the ensuite, patting the ends of your hair dry when your roommate calls your name.
"Y/N! Oh my god, y/n, look at this!"
Ellen hands you the slim yellow envelope, decorated with the logo of the Pittsburgh Penguins NHL team.
You tear it open - two full season passes on attached lanyards and a VIP pass with your full name on it falls out. You pick up the VIP pass and turn it over - there's a sticky note on the back with a phone number scrawled across it.
"How did you get season passes for all their home games?" Ellen asks, disbelief flooding her voice.
"No friking clue," you lie.
The only address they've given through the email correspondence is the gym's and you certainly don't remember giving him your home address.
You tap the corner of the pass against your chin, thinking.
Sidney, Sidney... What are you playing at here?
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