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For a few glorious hours, Nate was happy again, despite all of the shit he’d gone through in the playoffs. He was flying high, head in the clouds, couldn’t keep the grin off his face - until he came crashing back down to Earth. Hard.
“I want to play with you again,” Sid had said simply, and it was easy to answer the call from Worlds, to say yes to going to Stockholm. It was easy to imagine the two of them racing up the ice together because they’d gotten the chance to do just that only a few short months before, and it had been magical. Sid made all of the plans to get them from Nova Scotia to Stockholm, and Nate just had to tag along for the ride.
And then -
“What number do you want to wear?”
Nate raises an eyebrow. “Uh, 29?”
The woman shakes her head. “Sorry, that one’s taken. You’ll have to pick something else.”
Nate frowns. Taken? But that’s his number. Who could have taken it?
“Sidney!” a familiar voice shouts, and then Sid is dropping his bags and running straight into the arms of Marc-Andre Fleury. He’s smiling broader than Nate’s seen in months.
Right.
Fleury.
29.
No other number feels right. He’s been playing with 29 since he joined the Avs, and when he represented Canada at the Four Nations tournament, he’d had the 29 on the reverse side of the maple leaf. When he was at Worlds back in 2015 - and it’s hard to believe that was a whole decade ago - he’d proudly sported a 29. He could pick 22, his old number from the Mooseheads, but that number has soured in his mind after Tyson used it in Edmonton. The woman is staring impatiently at him, tapping her foot, when he finally pulls his gaze away from where Sid and Marc-Andre are still wrapped up in a hug, muttering to each other half in French and half in English.
“So…,” she prompts.
Right. A new number. This shouldn’t feel as weighty as it does; the tournament is only a few weeks, and then he’ll be back to summer training before he knows it. “Nine?” he asks tentatively.
She nods. “Thanks.”
Nate picks up his bags and sees that Sid has reappeared beside him. The woman looks at Sid and blushes - fucking blushes, like she’s out of a stupid fucking cartoon rom-com - and bats her fucking eyelashes at him. “Sid, I’ve got you down as 87?”
“Thanks, Marissa,” Sid says gratefully, flashing her a blinding smile. How the fuck does Sid even know her name?
“Here are your room keys,” she says, handing them both small white envelopes. “Team Canada is having a dinner tonight, but that leaves you plenty of time to get settled. Be back in the lobby by 7 pm sharp. I know where your rooms are.”
“Of course,” Sid says. “We wouldn’t be late.”
Marissa rolls her eyes. “I’ve had this job for a lot of years now. Hockey players are always late.”
“We wouldn’t do that to you,” Sid says. “Promise.”
“So you’re saying you don’t want me to have to come up to your room looking for you?” she flirts boldly.
Sid just grins at her, winks, and turns toward the elevators. Nate follows, trying not to outwardly roll his eyes. Everyone is always flirting with Sid, and he loves flirting back.
“What rooms are you in?” Marc-Andre asks as they get on the elevator.
“Um,” Nate says, glancing at the envelope holding his key. “1387.”
“No way! That’s the one that connects to mine!” Marc-Andre says.
Sid tugs the key out of Nate’s hand and replaces it with his own, 1388 written in bold black numbers at the bottom. “You don’t mind, right?” he says, grinning at Nate. “You’ll be right across the hall from us.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Nate says, stomach turning sour. The elevator dings to signify their arrival on the 13th floor, and they make their way to their rooms. It turns out that the numbering system isn’t quite the way they’d expected, and Nate’s room is nowhere near Sid’s. Not that it matters, really. The proximity of their hotel rooms isn’t something Nate cares about. Still, he watches sadly from the other end of the hall as Marc-Andre follows Sid into his room, still laughing at some inside joke Nate hadn’t understood.
He needs to get a grip. Sid is one of his best friends in the world. It doesn’t matter who Sid flirts with or if he wants to spend time with Fleury. Anyway, Nate’s pretty sure Factor, Weegs, and Schenner will be here soon. He has plenty of friends who aren’t Sid. Worlds is still going to be amazing, even if Fleury stole Nate’s number.
Nate unzips his suitcase and starts putting things into drawers. They’re going to be here long enough that it’s actually worth unpacking for once. When he gets to his t-shirts, his hands start shaking with anger he’d been repressing ever since talking to Marissa.
He’s worked so hard to get to where he is. His fingers trace the small 29 on the upper right side of each of his Avs t-shirts, the ones he brought here mostly for working out and sleeping in. He’s good at hockey. He might even be great at hockey. He won the Hart and Ted Lindsay last year. He won the Cup three years ago. Sure, Fleury’s won the Cup three times and Nate has only won it once, but one of those years, Fleury only played in two games. Two. That barely counts, right?
Where does Canada even get off asking Fleury to be here? The man is old as fuck, and everyone saw that video of his kids being super excited for him to retire and spend time with them. Instead, he jets off to Stockholm almost immediately after getting kicked out of the playoffs? Seems like he’s not that great of a guy after all. He’s solidly mid at goaltending at this point in his career. Canada must have better goalies to invite, right? Binner, obviously, but after him…
Hm. Well - ok, so Canada is severely lacking in quality goalies.
Anyway, the point is, Nate had a whole image of what this tournament was going to look like, and it started with him wearing 29. He’d thought he’d proven himself in his career that he would get first dibs on numbers (after 87, of course), and it turns out that that’s not the case.
Devon had switched numbers at Four Nations because of Pietrangelo, who ended up not even coming. Maybe he’d have some advice about this? It can’t hurt to call him.
“H’lo?” Devon answers sleepily. “R’you dying?”
“Uh,” Nate says. “No?”
“S’like 3am,” Devon says.
“Oh, shit, I forgot about the time difference,” Nate says. “Sorry.”
“Whassup?”
“I can call back later…”
“Nate, you already woke me up, just tell me why.”
“I’m, uh, in Stockholm. At Worlds. And Fleury is here, too.”
“...Are you calling to tell me about the quality of the goalies for Team Canada?” Devon asks, yawning.
“No, it’s just that… he’s 29.”
“Isn’t he 40?”
“No, like, he wears the number 29,” Nate says impatiently. “And that’s normally my number, but they gave it to him.”
“Ok…,” Devon says.
“I was wondering…,” Nate trails off. “You wore number 5 at the Four Nations.”
“You did not call me at 3 o’clock in the morning to ask me about wearing a different number during a meaningless tournament, Nathan.”
“I forgot about the time difference!”
“Jesus Christ. It’s a number. It doesn’t matter. It’s a single tournament.”
“Sorry for bothering you,” Nate mumbles.
“I’m hanging up on you now,” Devon says, exasperated. The line goes dead.
He shoves the t-shirt he’d been holding into a drawer, trying to hide the 29 on it mocking him. Devon’s right. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. He still gets to play hockey with Sid. Marc-Andre doesn’t get to have that, not in the same way Nate does. He won’t be skating down the ice with Sid or assisting on his goals.
**************************
Nate feels like he’s being watched the entire time the team is out to dinner. He looks around a few times, trying to see if maybe there’s a group of fans staring at him from another table, but no one is paying them any attention. The uncomfortable prickle on the back of his neck won’t go away, even as he eats his steak, and he finally spots the culprit. He raises an eyebrow at Macklin as he takes another bite of food. He doesn’t break eye contact until the kid turns away, blushing, before looking back in Nate’s direction ten seconds later. Nate is still staring at him. Macklin turns even redder.
“Anything I can help you with?” Nate says, cornering him on the walk back to the hotel.
“No! Sorry! I didn’t mean to, like, be weird.”
“You’re gonna have to stop staring at me when we’re on the ice for practice tomorrow,” Nate reminds him. He’s being a little bit of an asshole.
“I know, I’m sorry,” Macklin says, stumbling over his words. “You won the Cup.”
“Didn’t you live with Toffoli last season? He also won the Cup.”
“No? I lived with Jumbo.”
“Oh, so the sleepover was just the one time? Did you braid each other’s hair after having your milk and cookies? Get into a pillow fight?”
Macklin flushes bright red.
“Shit,” Nate says. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t called for. I’m just - the jetlag, you know? Let’s start over.”
Macklin blinks at him, mouth open slightly.
“Alright,” Nate says. “Why were you staring at me at dinner?”
“You’re Nathan MacKinnon,” Macklin says simply. “I know we’ve talked and played against each other, but you’re…,” he trails off. “Ok, like, I get that Sid is here, right? But when Sid was drafted, I wasn’t even born yet.”
“Promise you’ll remind him about that tomorrow?”
Macklin rolls his eyes. “Anyway, when I was a kid, I used to want to watch the draft so bad. My mom never let me - it didn’t work out, timing-wise, when I was young. And then, the year I turned seven, she finally let me watch. It was a couple weeks after my birthday, and you went first overall. I heard people calling you ‘Mack’, and I started making my teammates call me that, too. Like, it also works as a nickname for Macklin? So -”
“Rick Nash was mine,” Nate cuts him off. “The first draft my parents let me stay up to watch. He went first overall in 2002. I secretly rooted for the Blue Jackets for years because of him. I still remember when I found out he won the Rocket in ‘04 - I couldn’t stop talking about it.”
Macklin smiles at Nate. “I’m so excited to play with you.”
Nate smiles back at him. “Yeah, well, you better get used to it. Olympics next year, eh?”
Macklin blushes. “Oh, I’m not - I’m only -”
“You put in the work this summer, you listen to Sid on the ice the next few weeks, and odds are, you’ll be there. I’ve seen you play, dude, you’re incredible, especially for how young you are.”
“Thanks,” Macklin mumbles. “So, got any plans for tonight?”
“Sleeping?”
“We should get some of the guys together, find a bar nearby!”
“I’m 29 years old,” Nate says, wincing. There it is again. 29.
“God, you make it sound like you’ve got one foot in the grave already. Fine. Milk and cookies?”
“I don’t eat gluten. Or sugar. Or dairy.”
Macklin sighs. “Chickpea pasta and almond milk?”
“That sounds like a disgusting combination,” Nate says.
“But you’re considering it.”
Nate hates himself because he actually is considering it. Macklin grins at him, and Nate know’s he’s solidly fucked. He doesn’t know what to do with an entire rookie by himself. He’s not an actual functioning adult, not like Gabe was when Nate joined the team and certainly not like how Sid was when Nate started being mentored by him. Macklin starts talking a mile a minute about Team Canada and how the Four Nations was the coolest thing he’s ever watched aside from replays of Sid’s golden goal because “I wasn’t even four years old yet, of course I don’t remember watching that live, Nate” and how this team is going to be almost as good as the Four Nations team and…
He follows Nate back to his room and immediately calls room service. There’s no chance in hell this kid is getting chickpea pasta and almond milk room serviced in Stockholm - except it actually works, and a half hour later, Nate is watching with barely-concealed disgust as Macklin dips a noodle into his glass of almond milk before putting it in his mouth.
“You know you don’t have to actually combine the two, right?”
“But that’s how Smitty and I always eat our milk and cookies,” Macklin says, frowning. “It’s not that bad. Try it.”
Nate listens to him for some reason. It’s about as gross as he thought it sounded, and the way Macklin dissolves into laughter at the look on Nate’s face tells Nate everything he needs to know.
He kicks Macklin out of his room after another hour - he actually is exhausted, and the kid doesn’t stop talking now that he’s comfortable around Nate. Nate feels a little proud of himself when he spots the way that Macklin’s shoulders have relaxed on his way out of the room and the seemingly-permanent smile that’s etched on his face. It grows deeper when he talks about his friend from the Sharks - ‘Smitty’.
Nate looks him up after Macklin leaves his hotel room and is surprised to find tons of photos and videos of Macklin and Will Smith circulating throughout the internet. He hadn’t really heard of Will Smith before, but it seems like he’s Macklin’s best friend on the team. Smith is on the Team USA roster for Worlds, but the US is in the other group so Smith is in Denmark, not Stockholm. He thumbs through a few videos but he has to stop when they start reminding him too much of him and Tyson during his own rookie season. The way they’d been inseparable, living in each other’s pockets, constantly laughing and joking on the bench. His friendship with Tyson hadn’t been quite so public because 2013 was a very different time than 2025.
He briefly considers calling Tyson, but decides against it. It’s late in Stockholm, and he can’t quite remember what the time difference is. Besides, the last time he’d spoken to Tys…
Well. It’s probably for the best, anyway.
**************************
Sid is honest-to-god frowning at Nate the moment he steps onto the ice.
Nate sighs. “What did I do wrong this time?” He’s used to Sid’s superstitions - sorry, routines - and he can respect what Sid wants him to do.
“Your jersey,” Sid says shortly. Nate looks down. Maple leaf in the middle, check. Bright red, check. A on the chest, check.
He looks back up at Sid. “What’s wrong with it?”
“You changed your number.” He looks intensely angry at Nate, like this whole situation is Nate’s fault.
“There’s, uh, someone on the roster more deserving of 29,” Nate says, trying to joke. It falls a bit flat, mostly because Sid can’t see humor when he’s in superstition mode.
“That’s not fucking true,” Sid snarls. “You’re the best forward in the league - fuck McDavid - I swear, Nate, who’d they give your -”
“Good morning, my friends!” Fleury interrupts, throwing an arm around each of their shoulders and tugging them tightly to him. Sid sees the 29 on Fleury’s jersey and understanding sparks in his eyes.
“Oh,” Sid says. “Right.”
“Yeah,” Nate says.
“What am I interrupting on this beautiful day?”
“Sid is being superstitious,” Nate complains.
“They’re not superstitions, Nathan, they’re -”
“Routines,” Nate and Marc-Andre finish with him. Sid rolls his eyes at the two of them and ducks out from under Marc-Andre’s arm.
The three of them burst out laughing after a second, and all of the tension Nate felt yesterday dissipates. Yeah, Sid and Marc-Andre are good friends, and Nate can’t ever hope to compete with that, but Sid also likes Nate. It’s fine.
Practice goes well, and Nate is having fun playing hockey again. The playoffs were rough mentally, and it’s nice to have this as a bit of a reset. He’s playing with some of his closest friends and they spend just as much time shoving each other and laughing as they do actually running drills. He even spots Macklin and Sid running drills together. The weight of the missing number on his back even fades faster than he thought it would.
**************************
“You’re here, thank god,” Factor says, grabbing Nate’s arm and dragging him toward the locker room.
“Everything ok?”
“Crosby’s having a meltdown,” Factor says grimly.
“What’s wrong with him?” Nate asks urgently, quickening his pace to wherever Ryan is leading him.
“Something about a sandwich. I don’t know. The only people I could think of to fix this are you and Fleury, but he’s not starting tonight so I think he’s getting here later. None of us know what the fuck to do.”
Sid is standing in the locker room kitchen area. His hands are threaded in his hair, and he’s tugging at it. “It’s 4:45,” he says despondently. He moves toward the cabinets, and Konecny and Matheson try to intervene.
“Dude, they don’t have any peanut butter here. I don’t know what to tell you. We’ve looked through every cabinet in the place. I don’t think peanut butter is super common in Europe, isn’t it a North American thing?”
“How am I supposed to have a PB&J at 5 pm if there isn’t any peanut butter?” Sid asks sadly.
“There’s plenty of other food,” Travis says.
Sid rolls his eyes. “Exactly what I’d expect from a Flyer,” he spits out. “If I don’t have my sandwich, I’m going to be awful out there. I’ll probably accidentally score on our own goal. Or I’ll break my leg. Or get another concussion. Or -”
“Sid,” Nate says, cutting him off. “Shut the fuck up. Here.” He digs through his bag until his hand finds the jar.
“Holy shit,” Sid says quickly. “Holy shit, where’d you get this?” He takes the jar of peanut butter from Nate, handling it like it’s something precious instead of something that cost Nate about $5 at their local grocery store in Nova Scotia.
“I brought it with me. I remembered in 2015 this was an issue, so I grabbed a few jars before we left Canada.”
Sid is busy happily spreading his peanut butter over the bread slices. He pauses briefly. “You brought this with you?”
“I know how you get about your sandwiches,” Nate says, grinning. Marc-Andre bursts in at that moment.
“Did anyone remember to bring peanut butter?” he asks anxiously, and for some reason, he’s got his hand covering his balls.
“Nate did,” Sid says, smiling.
“Oh, thank god,” Marc-Andre says, hugging Nate. “You weren’t around for peanut-butter-gate 2012, but let me just say, you have quite literally saved lives.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Sid says as he starts putting the jelly on.
“I’m pretty sure you took away mine and Kris’s ability to have children that day,” Marc-Andre groans.
Sid rolls his eyes. “And yet, you both somehow have kids.”
“My balls still haven’t recovered,” Marc-Andre says, shivering.
“You never finished the peanut butter again, though, did you?” Sid says mildly. He picks up the sandwich to take a bite, then checks his watch and sets it down again without eating it. It’s not quite 5 pm yet.
“I’m glad someone remembered Sid’s superstitions,” Marc-Andre mutters.
“They’re -”
“Routines, yes, yes, we all know. Anyway, Nate, thank you for bringing peanut butter. As for the rest of you, it might be more important to wear a cup in this kitchen than out on the ice.”
“That was one time -”
“Ok, I’m out of here,” Travis says. Mike follows quickly, hand held in front of his junk. Sid rolls his eyes. He has his peanut butter, so it’s not like there’s any danger.
“Can you at least admit that you might overreact just a teensy bit -”
“Do you remember my concussion?” Sid grits out.
Fleury’s face softens. “Of course I do. But you can’t control -”
“Hey,” Nate cuts him off. “If it makes him feel better to control the few things he can to prevent himself from getting injured, let him. His sandwiches aren’t hurting anyone.”
“They could hurt someone with a peanut allergy,” Marc-Andre grumbles. “Or a jelly allergy. Or a bread allergy.”
Nate rolls his eyes. “No one here has any allergies. And the bread is gluten free so we don’t accidentally poison Ryker.”
“Thanks, Nate,” Sid says softly.
**************************
It feels a little like cheating to play against some of these teams. By the time they’re three games in, they’ve given up a single goal (Fleury, not Binnington), and they’ve won every game by a margin of at least four. It’s clear that they’re the best team here, probably, and a lot of that is because Nate failed in the playoffs.
“If I’d just been better on the power play…,” he sighs, then dips a piece of pasta in the almond milk before popping it in his mouth.
“You played seven games. You had seven goals. You had every single power play goal your team got,” Macklin reminds him. “A goal per game is nuts. Never mind your assists.”
“Only four,” Nate reminds him. “And none on the power play.”
“Again, because you scored every power play goal your team got,” Macklin says again. He dips his own pasta in the almond milk.
“I should have been better,” Nate says. “The team’s top performers needed to show up, and we didn’t. And now I’m here instead.”
“You know how many Cups Rick Nash won?” Macklin asks, lounging back on Nate’s bed.
“Uh, none?”
“Yep. So you’ve already got him beat. It sucks, but you gotta move on. We’re in Stockholm. Have fun. Live it up. Play hockey and party. Find someone hot and bring them back here. I dunno, man, do something that’s not sitting around moping.”
“I’m not moping,” Nate argues.
“You’re literally sitting on your bed eating chickpea pasta dipped in almond milk because you’re so neurotic that you think a single cookie might kill you.”
“And you’re here with me, so what does that say about you?”
“How’s the proverb go again?” Macklin muses. “Never meet your heroes, that’s the one.” He pops another piece of pasta in his mouth.
“Shut the fuck up,” Nate says, laughing. “Fucking ‘proverb’ bullshit, college boy.”
“Come on, let’s go outttt,” Macklin complains. “I wanna do something.”
“Or someone,” Nate rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t say no to picking up. Come on, we don’t have a game tomorrow.”
“Fine,” Nate sighs. “One drink. I’ll wingman for you for an hour, and then I’m coming back here. Wait, is it legal for you to drink?”
“You only have to be 18 here,” Macklin says smugly.
“Oh, that’s too bad, you’re still a couple years out. Guess we’re staying in tonight.”
“Shut the fuck up and put on some pants.”
**************************
“Ok,” Nate says, sipping his cider. It’s gluten free, and it’s not half bad. “Who you taking home?”
“Uh,” Macklin says. “I dunno, see anyone that’s in my league?”
Nate rolls his eyes. “Every single woman here is in your league.”
“We’re in Stockholm. No one knows or cares who we are here.”
Macklin gives Nate a weird look. “Have you ever failed at picking someone up?”
Nate rolls his eyes. “Yes, obviously.” He’s not lying, though it’s probably a little different than Macklin is picturing.
“You don’t act like it,” Macklin says slowly.
Nate sighs. He drinks his cider and watches Macklin with interest. Several girls pass by their table, and Macklin doesn’t spare them a second look. On the other hand, a blonde man seems to have caught his eye. It tracks with what Nate thought about Will Smith.
“Why are we really here?” Nate asks.
“Hmm?”
“You don’t want to hook up with any of the women here,” Nate says. “So what are we doing in this bar?”
“Why wouldn’t I want to hook up with someone?” Macklin asks, confused.
Nate sighs. “Look, I’m not gonna be all mushy about this. Or, like, condescending advice-giver. But here are two important things you need to know.”
“I’m listening.”
“First of all,” Nate says. “If you don’t want anyone else finding out, you’ve gotta train yourself to stare more at the women than the men. Second of all, if you don’t tell Will, it’s going to blow up in your face and be a huge mess down the road. Get it over with now so you know where he stands, ok?”
Macklin’s jaw drops. He remains silent.
“You don’t want to build up this whole friendship with a guy who ends up being…,” Nate trails off. Will isn’t Tyson. “It’s 2025. He’ll probably be fine with it, but it’s hockey, so you never know. You’ve got the leverage though, so if he wants to be a dick, the Sharks aren’t gonna choose him over you. The longer you sit with it, the more it builds up.”
Macklin stares at Nate.
“How many people know?” Nate asks.
“Um,” Macklin says. “You mean… other than you and me?”
Nate nods.
“None.”
Nate feels his eyes widen in shock. He downs his drink, then grabs Macklin by the arm and all but drags him back to the hotel. He places a quick call to room service, then bullies Macklin into some of his sweatpants.
He sets the plate down between them, then hands Macklin a glass.
“Ok,” Nate says. He dunks his cookie into the milk. “You wanna talk about it or do you want to forget I said anything and watch some shitty Swedish TV?” Goddamn, cookies are good. So much better than chickpea pasta and almond milk.
Macklin is still staring at Nate like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
“Mack,” Nate says, using the nickname to try to spur him into action. “Eat a cookie. You’re safe. It’s fine.”
Macklin doesn’t move.
Nate sighs. “I came out to my parents when I was 15,” he says. “They told me not to tell anyone ever, not if I wanted to keep playing.”
Macklin makes a noise that Nate can only describe as a squeak.
“I went along with that until I was 23, when I decided that was bullshit. Gabe was the next person I told. He’s been amazing about everything. And that made me overconfident. I told someone I considered to be my best friend. It went about as bad as you could imagine. The thing is, I don’t think he’s homophobic. It was more that he sort of put the pieces together and figured out I’d been in love with him since I was 18. Being friends with a gay guy would have been fine for him, I think, but having a best friend who’s gay and is in love with him - that was a step too far.”
Macklin reaches out a shaky hand and grabs a cookie.
“It took me a long, long time to trust anyone again after that. I eventually did, though. I’ve told a lot of people. EJ, Sid, Cale, Devon,” Nate ticks his fingers. “Schenner, Marchy, Cogs… to be honest, I’m probably forgetting some. There are so many good people in the league, ok?”
Macklin nods.
“I’m obviously not going to force you to tell anyone, and I’d never out you. But I think you should tell Will. If it doesn’t go well, you’ve got support. If it does go well, you’ve got one extra person who actually knows you.”
“What if…,” Macklin sighs. “I think I’m in love with Will.”
“Oh, bud, I know,” Nate says. He turns on the TV and flicks through channels until something that’s in English comes on. He and Macklin watch TV until slowly, Macklin falls asleep in Nate’s bed. Nate moves the plate of cookies, tucks him in, and steals his room key. He sneaks down the hallway to Macklin’s room and passes out on the empty bed there.
**************************
Nate typically eats breakfast by himself. He doesn’t really do mornings, and he must emit some sort of “fuck off” aura, because no one ever attempts to join him. He doesn’t like talking this early. He’s here to fuel up and drink coffee.
To his dismay, Fleury seems to not have gotten the memo, or maybe he lost it somewhere during the tournament. Nate grumbles in his general direction. Fleury doesn’t say anything at first, just nods toward Nate. Nate continues shoveling eggs into his mouth. They continue in silence for a few minutes, and Nate thinks that maybe this isn’t so bad.
“He was mine first, you know,” Fleury says. Nate tries not to groan. It’s too early to be having a conversation, never mind trying to decipher whatever code Fleury is speaking in.
“Who?”
“Sid,” he says simply.
Nate sighs. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Instead of expanding on anything he said, he poses a question to Nate. “Did you actually bring peanut butter across the Atlantic?”
Nate doesn’t respond. The answer is obvious enough.
Marc-Andre looks down at his half-finished breakfast. “When we were teenagers,” he starts before cutting himself off. He pokes at his eggs. Nate lets him take his time. “I was scared. I’m the one who… well, it doesn’t matter now. I’d like to say I don’t have any regrets. And really, I don’t. I have a beautiful wife and wonderful children. But I’d be lying to you if I pretended I never wonder sometimes what would have happened if I’d been braver.”
“What are you saying, exactly?” Nate asks carefully.
“Don’t fuck this up,” Marc-Andre says gruffly.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Marc-Andre glares at him. “Don’t fuck this up,” he says again before standing up with his plate and going to sit with Sid. Nate watches as Sid’s face lights up with happiness when Marc-Andre joins him. He stabs his eggs angrily and tries not to think about Tyson or 29 or Fleury or Sid.
**************************
Macklin is avoiding him. Nate thinks it’s a coincidence during their first practice the morning after their dramatic evening - especially since his more recent conversation with Fleury is at the forefront of his mind - but it becomes obvious by the time dinner rolls around and Macklin won’t even look at him. He all but runs away when Nate tries to approach.
It’s possible Nate had been a bit too heavy-handed last night in trying to push Macklin to come out to Will. He probably shouldn’t use Macklin as his own do-over.
It’s fine. He can fix this.
“You look weird,” Sid says as they’re walking back from dinner. He frowns. “Have you been talking to -”
“No,” Nate says quickly. “Come on, you know I’m over him. Like, I miss being his friend, but - no.”
“Ok,” Sid says. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with the kid.”
Nate raises an eyebrow at him. “Are you talking about yourself in the third person now?”
Sid shoves him, giggling.
“Nah, I mean, he’s got a lot going on. Rookie season and all that.”
“Are you, uh, like… you know.”
Nate abruptly stops walking. “Are you asking me if I’m sleeping with the literal 18 year old child on our team?”
“Well, when you put it like that,” Sid says, wrinkling his nose.
“Fucking gross, Sid. He’s eleven years younger than me, what the fuck?”
“I wasn’t thinking,” Sid says quickly. “Sorry.”
The two of them stand on the street corner staring at each other. The silence grows between them. Nate can hear the sounds of traffic, the footsteps of people walking past them.
“D’you think eight years is too big of an age difference?” Sid asks quickly, not meeting Nate’s eyes.
Nate doesn’t understand at first. “Uh, well, I guess it depends? Like, I’m not exactly eager to sleep with a 21 year old, but I’d probably be fine with a…,” he trails off as the implications of Sid’s questions hit, “37 year old” stuck in his mouth.
“37’s not too old for you?” Sid asks desperately.
“No, Sid,” Nate says quietly. “I think eight years older than me is probably perfect.”
**************************
Nate and Sid are too engrossed in each other to hear the sound of a hotel key tapping against the pad, the lock whirring and the digital beep allowing entry. They do, however, notice when Macklin is suddenly beside the bed.
“Oh, sweet, are you guys fucking?”
Nate looks down at Sid before the two of them burst out laughing. Luckily, they hadn’t managed to get as far as taking off any clothes; Nate is straddling Sid, and he’d been kissing him eagerly when Macklin had so rudely interrupted.
“We’re fully dressed,” Nate points out. “How did you even get in here?”
“Stole your spare key the other night,” Macklin says, like that’s a totally normal thing to do. “Anyway, room service will be here in a few. Move over, make space for me.” He shoves at Sid and Nate until they acquiesce, Nate climbing off of Sid. He’s a bit irritated about being interrupted, but Sid is still holding his hand, and it feels like they have all the time in the world.
“Did you order anything good?” Sid asks, eyes sparking with hope. Sid and his sweet tooth, Nate thinks, grinning.
“Same thing I’ve ordered every night - chickpea pasta and almond milk.”
Sid giggles. “Right, sure,” he says, clearly not believing Macklin.
“No, dude, it’s really good, you’ll see,” Macklin says. “I talked to Will,” he says, turning his attention to Nate.
“And?”
Macklin groans. “Why is Team USA in Denmark?”
“Oh, there’s actually a whole process in figuring out the locations for Worlds. It can’t be two countries that are too far apart, or the whole thing doesn’t work, but historically, the A and B groups have been in different cities. They tend to try to spread out the better teams, so most of the time, the US and Canada are in separate groups, and -”
“Sid, he was being rhetorical.”
Macklin sighs. “I could be -” he says, then gestures with his hands toward Nate and Sid. “But instead I’m here.” He glares at Nate and Sid like this is all their fault.
“You could be in your room. You could be giving me and Sid some privacy.”
Macklin ignores him, opting to answer the door for room service instead. He brings the food over to the bed. Three full-size hockey players don’t quite fit, but they make it work.
“Why are there three glasses of almond milk?” Nate asks, eyeing Macklin suspiciously.
“I saw Sid follow you to your room. I didn’t want him to feel left out.”
“So you knew me and Sid were -”
“God, no. I didn’t think you were having sex with Sidney Crosby, I thought you were hanging out like normal humans.”
Sid is staring at the food. “Did you actually order chickpea pasta and almond milk?”
“I told you, don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” Macklin says, dipping a piece of pasta into his milk.
“He tried to order us milk and cookies one night, but I don’t do gluten, sugar, or dairy. This was the compromise. And he’s not wrong, it grows on you.” Nate dips his own piece of pasta into the milk. It’s gross, but somehow addicting.
Sid politely follows suit, and immediately coughs and splutters, spitting the pasta out into his hand. “What the fuck is wrong with the two of you?”
“There’s plenty of research that shows the effects gluten can have on the body, and I did this whole blood panel that shows that I definitely shouldn’t be eating it, and -”
Sid cuts Nate off by leaning over him to grab the hotel phone. “Can you send three of whatever your best chocolate dessert is up to 1388? Thank you,” he says.
“Sid, I’m not eating sugar,” Nate complains.
“Who says I’m sharing? You guys have your weird pasta.”
**************************
It only takes them two hours to push Macklin back out of the room, though Nate makes sure to secure the other copy of his room key first. He’s glad the kid is doing well, but he has better things to do tonight.
“God, this cake is so good,” Sid groans, eating another bite. Macklin ate some of it, but there’s still a lot of cake left.
When Sid kisses him again, it tastes like chocolate for a long time. When that finally fades, Nate is left with nothing but Sid surrounding him, filling every one of his senses.
**************************
Nate expects something to shift between them after spending the night together, but everything feels the same in the morning. Sid kisses him breathless before going back to his own room to get dressed, and then they eat breakfast at separate tables. Sid is still hanging onto Fleury’s every word, unable to tear his eyes away from the older man, as if he might disappear if Sid blinks. He lights up in laughter often as they chatter away in the weird mixture of English and French that no one else seems to understand.
During practice, Nate and Sid work together, running drills as the top line and top power play unit until they’re exhausted. Sid challenges Fleury to a shootout, which Sid wins easily despite Fleury clearly breaking the rules on a few of Sid’s shots. Nate had been hoping to get lunch with Sid, but Fleury sidles over, and Nate may as well be invisible. The 29 on Fleury’s jersey feels like it’s mocking him as the two of them wander away from Nate.
Despite everything, Sid spends his nights with Nate, and occasionally with Nate and Macklin, though the nights that Macklin crashes look a lot different than the nights they have alone. When Sid is whispering sweetly in his ear, taking Nate apart slowly until he tips over the edge, when Sid is coming with Nate’s name on his lips -
Well. Nate hasn’t felt like this about someone in a long time. In those brief moments, he even thinks that Sid might feel the same way about him.
**************************
To no one’s surprise, they win gold. Nate thinks back to ten years ago, the first time he did this. A lot of the guys are different, but plenty of the faces are the same. Back then, winning had filled him with blinding happiness. Now, it’s tempered by age and the knowledge that winning this means he’s not winning what he actually cares about.
The locker room is nuts, the same as it was a decade ago. Champagne and beer are flowing, music is blasting, and everyone is having a great time. For some reason (well, Nate suspects he knows why), Will Smith is in the locker room, hanging off of Macklin. The two of them are looking at each other like they’re the only two people in the room.
Nate slips out amid the chaos, desperate to be alone for a little while, overstimulated by the celebration.
“You good?” Sid’s voice drifts his way after only a few minutes.
Nate shrugs. The medal around his neck feels heavy. “It’s kind of a meaningless win.”
“Why do you say that? It was still a global tournament, and -”
“And there’s no way in hell you can try to convince me this was ‘best-on-best’, Sid. This wasn’t the Four Nations or the Olympics. This was the losers of the NHL banding together because we’re so fucked up that we can’t spend three months without playing. You can’t pretend this was a fair competition. Oh, the Avs lose out so fast that Nathan MacKinnon gets to be at Worlds, meanwhile, Team USA is missing Matthews and the Tkachuks and Hellebuyck, Team Sweden is missing Nylander and Kempe, and Team Finland - fuck. Of course Canada won, the best players from the other countries are still playing for the fucking Cup!” He can’t even bring himself to name the best Finnish players that aren’t here because he can’t stop seeing their faces whenever he closes his eyes, dressed in Victory Green and celebrating his distress.
Sid hugs Nate, and Nate buries his head into Sid’s shoulder. He wants to take off the medal, throw this jersey with its stupid 9 on it into the trash, and fly home. He should never have come here; this was a dumb choice. Winning feels hollow when it’s not the prize he cares about.
He should probably think it was worth coming here when it brought him and Sid that much closer together, but he knows he’s kidding himself. They’ve got the rest of the summer, and then what? Sid ships off to Pittsburgh, Nate goes back to Denver, and they see each other twice in the next nine months. Nate isn’t stupid. He knows that that’s not a relationship. Even worse, he has to live with the knowledge of what it’s like to have Sid’s full attention on him, what it feels like to have Sid strip him down to his most vulnerable and pick up the exploded pieces when he flies too close to the sun.
“Do you remember when we won ten years ago,” Sid murmurs into his ear. “You were dancing in the locker room like a total lunatic.”
Nate smiles into Sid’s neck through his tears. “Yeah,” he sniffles. “I remember that.”
Sid turns his head slightly, pressing his lips to Nate’s forehead. “For one night, let’s forget about everything else. The Stars, the Cup, the fact that I haven’t made the playoffs for three straight seasons, being old and having to retire, the Olympics, our teams, the shitty seasons we’ve lived through, the shitty coaches and GMs and teammates and trades - can we just forget it all and celebrate this? Winning together, being together, even if it’s not the thing we really want?”
Being together - even if it’s not the thing we really want.
The words cut Nate to his core.
Sid thinks Nate is still in love with Tyson, but more troubling than that - Sid is still in love with Marc-Andre.
Nate takes a deep breath and focuses on the thoughts swirling through his brain. The Cup. Mikko. The 9 on his jersey. The 29 that Sid actually wants. The ‘16-’17 season that will never stop haunting him, and the look on Tyson’s face when Nate -
“Yeah,” Nate breathes out, and he pushes everything except for this moment out of his mind. He steps back from Sid. “Let’s forget everything for tonight. We fucking won, eh?”
“We fucking won,” Sid says, grinning. Nate grabs his hand and drags him back inside the chaos of the locker room.