Chapter Text
The fire’s going strong in Geno’s firepit, blazing as the young guys continue to chuck whatever they think will produce the biggest reaction on top. Geno’s already banned Rutger from even going near it after he dug out the gas can from the shed and tried to pour some on, but they’re having fun and that’s all that matters.
Most of the young guys—pretty much everyone other than him, G, Tanger, and Rusty—are still drunk. Kindy actually passed out a few hours ago and just woke up from his nap. He can’t really blame them for their raucousness; he remembers that feeling, the high of the first win.
He doesn’t remember much of the days after the finals, just blurs of beer and burgers and pretty omegas and betas throwing themselves in his lap, and even if—in recent years—he’s wished he could’ve savoured it, he’s not sure that he didn’t. He was drunk off his ass and had smoked what must’ve been a whole bush in two weeks (and more shamefully needed a banner of STD tests afterwards) but that’s what the first win is for. It shows you what you’re chasing, what you’re really chasing, and you spend the rest of your career looking for it again.
At least, that’s what happened with him.
And now, with a fourth under his belt at almost forty years old, he knows you never get that feeling back. This one, this last Cup that he never thought they’d get, especially not after ‘23 and ‘24, feels nothing like that first one.
“What you thinking?” G had asked him after the parade a week ago, as they watched the babies make fools of themselves. “Look very…serious, Sid. Even more than before we won.”
He didn’t really have an answer back then, other than to say, “it’s over. This is the end.”
He could’ve come back. Mario and Dubas made it clear that they would be happy to keep paying him 8.7 mil a year until he couldn’t perform anymore, but he knew that it was the end. Geno wasn’t coming back, not with his knee hurting him more and more and the way he’d had to fight to get renewed for this year. And Tanger could’ve stayed too, but he’d hung around mostly for Sid the last few years, and with both of them going he was happy to leave it to the young guys.
Nobody leaves after they win a Cup, no one retires knowing they can still do it, is what the media told him, but it’s better this way. Rusty’s gonna take the C from him, and Erik’s agreed to be one of the As and the rest they’ll figure out. But no matter who takes it, the truth is the same: they know how to win. Sid taught them how to win before he left, and after twenty-three seasons and four Stanley Cups, he feels like that’s enough.
His beer’s gone warm and flat as he’s sat here chatting with the old fucks and looking over Kindy’s previously sleeping form, and the sun is dipping low, and he takes it as his sign to go. The night and this chapter of his life can come to a natural close together.
He slaps his thighs and offers up a “Well,” as he gets up, only to be met with groans from everyone within earshot.
“Come on, Cap, you can’t leave,” Hayesie whines. “It’s bad form to be the first to leave your retirement party.”
He shrugs, “I’ve been the first person to leave a party since you were all in diapers, I think I’ll be fine.”
“You’re not that old, Creature,” Army says, little fucker siding with the guys just to get under his skin. “Have another beer.”
He shakes his head, “Sorry, I’ve gotta get up early if I want to make it home tomorrow. Storm’s got me driving all the way from Quebec City.”
They all groan again, this time the whole party not just those near him as his leaving gathers a crowd.
“At least give us a speech, Captain,” Kindy says, looking up at him with those big, innocent eyes of his that would betray his lingering admiration entirely if his scent didn’t already. “One last one before you go?”
“Yeah, Cap, speech!” McGroarty shouts from somewhere closer to the fire.
“Alright, alright,” he says, stopping them before they can even start chanting for it. “I’ll give a speech. Let’s see…
“When I joined the league, we were bad,” he starts, to chuckles from them all. “The league was going to be coming back from a lock-out and there was a lot of concern that it would go under in the next couple of years. And to be honest…I didn’t care about any of that.”
That gets him more than just a few chuckles.
“I wanted to play hockey. Good hockey, the kind of hockey I knew I could. And over the years, Mario did a damn good job building me a team where we could play good hockey, no matter what. And with that came the other things I wanted, the same things you all want; cups and points and records; but we got more too.
“We got the best second line centre and power play partner in the league,” he nods at G where he’s standing, fingers laced with Tanger’s. “And he’s the first omega to win a Cup, so that’s pretty fucking cool isn’t it?”
“Fuck yes it is,” Geno shouts. “Have baby and win Cup, even though media losers say I can’t!”
“Here here!” They all shout, because it’s true: they have the same number of Cups and a similar number of awards, but Geno’s accomplished way more than he ever could.
“And we’ve got one of the youngest cup winners ever, with Kindy!” He shouts, letting the guys fête their perennial rookie who wasn’t fortunate enough to have a real rookie take his place this year. “And we got all of you. And I know I talk a lot about the guys from the back-to-back, but the truth is I don’t have the words to tell you all how proud of you I am. If you asked me two years ago if I thought we’d ever win another Cup, I’d have said yes: but I would have been lying. Two years ago, we were in trouble if we didn’t find some magic soon, but we did.
“No one thought we’d even make the playoffs last year, and we sure as shit proved them wrong! And they said we had no chance at beating Colorado this year! They said they were gonna repeat! And did they?”
“No!” They shout back at him, and he knows his scent’s blooming with pride at his team.
“No they didn’t! And you guys are going to do so much more in the next few years. And we might lose some of you to bigger and better contracts, and rookies will come in just like I did, desperate to earn their place, and your Captain, your new Captain,” he looks at Rusty, “is gonna teach them how to play good hockey, to play Pens hockey. And boys, I can’t fucking wait to see it, I really mean it. You’re gonna do great things, I fucking know it!”
They all cheer, and a few of the guys come up and hug him, but the party swings back into action soon enough that their focus turns back to drinking and partying and celebrating the win they all fought so hard for.
“Not leave without saying goodbye, Sid,” Geno says as he tries to slip out the gate. “It’s very mean.”
He smiles. Geno gives up his scent patches the second the season ends, hates the way they feel on his skin, and he can smell the pride and love radiating off him. Satisfaction too.
“Of course not, G,” he says. “I would never leave you hanging.”
“I know, Sid,” he says with a smile. “You know, Kris and I come visit this summer. With Nikita and maybe…maybe we have new surprise too. Can’t be sure yet.”
“It’s that easy for you two, huh?” He teases. “Gonna be a kept ‘mega now, G? Doesn’t sound like much of a way to enjoy your retirement.”
Geno just shrugs, still not hiding his smile. “Kris not notice yet, and scent not change either, but I know these things. Omegas always know, Sid.”
“Well, you guys can come visit whenever you want,” he promises. “Little one on the way or not, I’d be happy to have you.”
Geno nods, “You take care, Sid. You come back and do Little Penguins, or help coach the team in a few years. Or maybe find yourself nice omega or beta, give Nikita and new baby a cousin, yes?”
He nods, “I’ll do my best, G. You know I never want to let you guys down.”
G just pulls him into a hug, letting him scent him a bit more than might be appropriate if it were anyone other than the two of them, “You never disappoint, Sid. Never.”
And with that, and a hug from Nikita who he didn’t know was still awake, he heads home.
His flight is at the crack of dawn the next morning, but he doesn’t mind. His house here in Sewickley, try as he has all of these years, has never been home. He spends most seasons living mostly with Geno and Tanger or with Mario like he’s still a rookie. No one ever comments on it anymore, about how he should be more territorial as an alpha, but he knows it’s not normal.
The storm has the airports from Bar Harbour in Maine all the way to St. John’s shut down, so he’s forced to drive the last ten hours from Quebec City. It’s not so bad, watching the rolling landscapes of Eastern Canada go by under the summer sun, then under overcast skies, then dark grey storm clouds.
By the time he reaches Fredericton, the rain has started but is still light, but by the time he’s heading through the streets of Halifax and the Cole Harbour town sign is coming into view, he can feel the storm that’s about to rage. It’s raining, a hard rain for anywhere other than the coast, and winds strong enough they’ve got the trees bending near to the grown. The air smells like metal and petrichor, more spring than summer, but he makes it home safely just before eight o’clock.
“Hey, Ma, I just wanted to let you know I’m home safe,” he says, chucking his phone and keys on the kitchen counter along with the takeout Thai food he’d made sure to order from his favourite spot in town.
“That’s great, your father and I were so worried about you driving in this weather,” she says. “Make sure you lock the front door and close everything up tight in the sun room, okay? The news thinks it’s gonna be the worst storm in over twenty years. Twenty-three years to be exact, I think they said the other day.”
“I will, Ma, I promise,” he says. “Now I’m gonna eat and get some rest. I love you and Dad.”
“We love you too, Sidney,” she says. “Be safe and call me in the morning if you have service.”
He wolfs down the Thai with a little more speed and voracity than is probably polite, but alone in his own home there’s no one to stop him. Then, like every night after dinner, he grabs a box of joints and his lighter, the army green jacket dedicated specifically to this purpose, and heads out to the deck with an umbrella.
It’s a bit of a hard light, with the wind and the rain pelting around them and only the umbrella for protection, but he’s had enough practice to get it done. The first inhale is sharp, smoke filling his lungs for the first time in too long no matter when he last smoked, but the second one goes down smoother.
Nate once told him he sure smokes like it’s a habit for someone who hates it so much, which isn’t exactly untrue. He’s never been much of a recreational user, other than around cup wins and at other people’s insistence, but he’s not too ashamed to admit that he needs it after ‘11 and ‘12. A lot of it, too.
He’s not sure what time it is when he gets done. The stuff he smokes is pretty well calibrated, as far as growing medical marijuana goes, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get high off it. Or maybe tonight he’s just overdone it, shaky as he is getting back inside.
He heads to bed a little cloudy in the head and with a full belly, and despite everyone saying he’d never be able to sleep without hockey, he’s out like a light within seconds of slipping between the cool sheets.
He doesn’t stay asleep though. Middle of the night, the storm fully set in and lightning striking around the house, he bolts awake.
He swears he hears a banging, but he swears it’s just the wind. Or the thunder. Has to be.
Until it starts up again, and this time he can’t ignore it. He races down the stairs, terrified of what he’s about to find on the other side of the door. He tries to scent the air, looking for hints of Nate or his parents or even Taylor, but with the minerally, electric smell of the rain and the salty spray that coats everything around here it’s useless.
Or it’s mostly useless, because when he throws the door open, it’s not his family on the other side, it’s Macklin Celebrini. And he smells like an omega in pre-heat, one who, by the shocked look on his face and his memory, is just now presenting for the first time. Fuck.
“Oh thank god!” He says, pushing past him and forcing his way in.
He shoves the door shut, locking it behind them both to keep the storm out.
“Mack, what are you doing here?” He asks, only to find he dropped a sopping wet duffle bag on mat in the front hall and run off somewhere else.
Thankfully—or maybe not, he can’t really tell—the smell of pre-heat makes him easy to find. By the time Sid gets to him, he’s stripped off the wet crew neck and shorts he’d come here in and replaced them with Sid’s clothes.
“Do you have towels? Nice soft ones, not the sand paper shit they give you in the locker room, I’m talking Hockey Night in Canada towels. And blankets, there aren’t enough blankets on the bed. Or pillows either—”
“Mack!” He shouts, and it works, but the soft whine that he lets out, bitten most of the way back, and his sudden interest in Sid’s tile floors makes him feel guilty. He should know better, talking to an omega like that, especially one about to go through their presentation heat.
“Sorry, Sid.”
He shakes his head, “It’s fine, Mack. How did you get here?”
“Flew. Then took the train from Quebec City,” he says to his feet. “I…then I walked from the train station.”
He wants to tell him how dangerous and stupid that was, how anyone could’ve smelled him and hurt him, or how he could’ve gotten hypothermia even in the summer, but Mack knows that.
“Okay, well I’m glad you’re alright,” he says, herding Mack towards the bed before heading to the closet to grab all the spare blankets and pillows he owns. They’ll make terrible nesting materials, but it’s all he’s got for now.
“Why are you here, Mack? I mean…”
“I’m presenting,” he says plainly. “And I’m not an alpha like everyone thought. And I’m not giving up hockey, Sid. I can’t.”
And that’s exactly what he was hoping Mack wouldn’t say. Omegas have been allowed to compete in the NHL for a few decades now, enough time that Sid’s never played without them but not so much that he doesn’t remember the day it was announced. But there are rules: they have to wear scent patches at all times, and they can’t play if they’re not on birth control or during their heats, and…and they have to be mated.
In Russia, they get until they’re twenty-five to find a mate, but the NHL’s never been that kind. With Geno, it was only one of many major roadblocks to getting him to Pittsburgh, and by the time he’d gotten stateside, everyone had just hoped they’d be able to find someone. Of course, G hadn’t let them get around to picking a list for him, he’d looked Tanger dead in the eyes the first time they met and said “Bite me” and that was the end of that.
“Mack, you can stay as long as you want, but I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says carefully. “I mean, I’m sure there’s plenty of people who’d want you. What about Will?”
“I don’t want Will!” He screeches, and it stops Sid dead in his tracks. It’s not a real screech yet, he hasn’t presented, but it’s close enough to have the hair on the back of his neck standing up. “I’m not stupid, Sid, I know what I want. I want to play hockey, good hockey, my hockey. And I’m gonna be the captain of my team, and I’m gonna win twelve fucking cups, Sid. I’m gonna be the greatest ever, I swear to fucking God!”
“And what? Work that hard just to be ‘Sidney Crosby’s Mate’ anyways,” He asks accusatorily. “Mack, why don’t you just wait? You can ride your heat out and you can train afterwards and stay as long as you want, but I’m not gonna bite you.”
“Please, Sid,” he whines. “We don’t even have to tell anyone. You can stay here and I’ll go back to San Jose when the season starts. Please, I want it to be you, Sid. I need you to do it, I don’t want anyone else to.”
He sounds terrified, desperate even. He knows Mack might not have another heat before the season starts, with them normally coming four times a year, and there won’t be many options for him around here. He needs it to be Sid, because if it’s not Sid he’ll have to risk it with someone else.
He can’t fault the kid, it’s not a bad plan. Manipulative as hell, but well thought out for sure. If Sid doesn’t bite him, he’s forcing Mack to either pick a random person he’s never met before or to miss a season looking for someone. Not to mention forcing him to go through the pain of a heat spent alone, which Geno says is more painful than childbirth.
If he does bite Mack, he’s mated himself to someone nineteen years younger than him. And he knows exactly what they’ll say if he does. It doesn’t matter how many cups Mack wins or how good of a captain he’ll be or anything else, he’ll only ever be Sidney Crosby’s omega, hockey’s not kind enough to let him be anything else. Not to mention that he’ll never be able to have a real mate, someone he actually loves and cares for the way he deserves.
“Mack, I don’t know…” he says. “I want to help, but you don’t want me. I’m twenty years older than you, and I’m retired. I’m a washed up old man, you don’t want me.”
Mack grabs his wrists, pulling him closer until he’s nestled between his thick thighs. He’s gorgeous, even just under the overflow of the bathroom to light the bedroom; miles of pale, unblemished skin over the thick muscles of his thighs. The same pale skin covers his face too, a little blushed in the cheeks, matching the colour of his plush but angular lips.
“Sid, I want it to be you. I need it to be you,” he says sternly. “Please, bite me when my heat comes. Make me yours, please. I want to be yours, Sid. Your omega.”
And later he’ll blame it on the smell, the fact that Mack smells like maple syrup and brandy and something he can’t quite place yet but that’s oh so delicious, but it doesn’t matter, the result is the same.
“Alright, Mack,” he says, kissing the top of his head where it’s covered by the hoodie. “I’ll do it. But we’re talking about this in the morning, alright?”
Mack nods, “Alright. Whatever you say, Alpha.”
And he recognizes the gesture, a symbol of submission and deference to the man who’s going to bite him, but it turns his stomach instead of settling his instincts.
“You don’t have to call me that, Mack,” he says, tucking Mack into bed to let him build a nest. “Sid’s fine.”