going up flying, going home [3/6]
going up flying, going home
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one | two | three | four | five | six | art & soundtrack
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Seabrook seems to think its his duty as seventh defender to stand by the glove-drying machine and cheer them on as they head for the ice. Sidney taps his stick twice against the locker room door as he exits and listens to the constant patter of, "Gonna be a great game, Lu. Leprechaun, there, Dunky," -- Sidney shrugs to himself, must be an inside joke -- "Go get 'er, Neids. Come on, Webs." When Toews passes, there's no encouraging quip, just a fist-bump, then after a millisecond's pause, Seabrook leans forward and taps his helmet against Jonny's. The rest of them notice because it causes a brief hitch in the line. Jonny pats his teammate twice on the back of the head -- hollow, comforting raps against the plastic -- then continues down the tunnel toward the ice. "Take care of him, Mikey," Seabrook says to Mike Richards, who is next in line, and Richards nods as he passes. "Atta boy, Patty. Come on, Donut, hard shifts all the way." Sidney gets a rough smack to the back of the helmet and a, "Give 'em hell, Kiddo," as he passes by, trailing Nash out onto the ice.
Three steps from the doorway is when he first begins to hear it, a rumble so deep in the stands that it's not caused by the deafening noise, but simply by the motion of so many feet standing and jumping that the very concrete of the building itself seems to scream for them. "-- Your team --" blasts the voice over the Jumbotron, but the "Canada!" at the end of the sentence is inaudible, drowned out by the noise of yelling and stomping and cheers. There's a giant Luongo-head cutout on the other side of the arena in the front row, at least six feet tall. Sidney can smell nachos, pizza, beer spilled already, even over the clean tang of ice and the funk of hockey equipment and sweat. The crowd behind the glass moves like a single living thing, something faceless and enormous whose noise might be menacing if he wasn't so sure that it was all for them. It's impossible to pick out individuals among the crowd, but he can feel the ice itself quivering, slushy as it is beneath his blades, in an echo of the motion all around him.
The team circles in their own zone and Sidney watches Lu shuffle through the business of roughing up his crease. A chorus of "Lu!" fills the air when he holds up a stick to acknowledge the fans. They line up opposite the German team for the usual salute then peel off and head for the bench, preliminaries done, fun stuff over. Now they have to earn the cheers. Sidney closes his eyes and fingers the ridges of the tape on his blade. The smells, the noise, the pounding hands on the glass behind him, the vibrations in the plastic bench from where the whole stadium is vibrating around them -- he imagines it all as electricity running to his bones. He will be electric tonight. They'll be fine.
"Kid," Babcock says, and Sidney stands to vault the boards, but it wasn't a call for his line. "Get your head in the game." Sidney sits back down.
For the first time since the Games began, he doesn't take the opening faceoff. It's Getzy out there opposite Germany's number one center, Goc, and the starting whistle sounds tinny and foriegn to Sidney's ears from the bench. He glances to his right and watches Marty flinch at the crack of the first time the puck hits the glass. Marty's all decked out in a pristine jersey and red Canada baseball cap, his mask nowhere in sight and his face a stony rictus of impassivity. Sidney reaches behind the bench and stretches over Iggy's back to tap Marty's knee with his stick. Marty glances at him, blinks, and doesn't smile. The puck ricochets off a Weber slapshot and caroms all the way down to Canada's end, where Roberto steps out to field it routinely, a chorus of "Lu!" again in his wake. Marty turns away to where McGuire is saying something between the benches, and Sidney exhales at the way he holds himself; too much pride to let the cameras see him cringe.
"Kid," yells Babcock again, and this time it is for their line so he follows Iggy and Eric onto the sheet, toward the far faceoff dot where the Germans await.
The puck comes off his stick to a roar from the crowd at the nearby boards -- tremors in the glass, tremors in the ice and he finds himself moving his feet with the rhythm of the pounding. His pass goes back to Keith then forward towards the boards behind the German net, and Sidney races in harder than he needs to just so that he can feel the shiver of energy all up his right side when he makes contact with the glass, bouncing off to chase down the dump. Stride, stride, breathe, stride, and it's there: not a large opening but an opening nonetheless, so he splays his feet in an eagle turn and whips around the side of the goal, coaxing the puck along, hoping he's fast enough.
It doesn't happen, the wrap-around fails, and it's another heart-out-of-chest thirty seconds of up and down the ice before he can make it back to the bench, panting and gasping for water. "Don't force it," yells Niedermayer at him over the heads of the rest of the team. "Don't get fancy." It's the motto they heard so much in practice yesterday, but when he's out there on the ice, wind against his face from the speed of his blades and nothing but adrenaline throbbing tempo behind his eyes, it's not so easy to remember.
Around them, the air of fifteen thousand shouted out breaths from the crowd presses in like a sauna to the huddled down trenches of the bench, invisible weight that dries their throats and buzzes in their ears. From his seat beside Sidney, Iggy glances up into the stands behind them, then back out on the ice. "Weak side, weak side, Donut," Sidney shouts to a passing Doughty, following the play and watching as Drew wheels to catch the German winger sailing down on his left. Two handy pokes and the puck is back where it belongs, headed towards Griess in the German net, odd-man rush prevented. Drew takes a second to tap his stick on the ice, acknowledgment and thanks for the heads-up, before he's past the bench again and the game whirls on.
And on.
Five minutes, six minutes in, and they still haven't scored. The crowd is quieter, but the lack of noise doesn't make the weight feel any lighter. Sidney's lungs feel too small, like he can't get enough oxygen into his body. They're still carrying this arena on their backs. Shift after shift, Sidney reminds himself to do the simple things; watch the basics and the goals will come, don't make the fancy play when he can make the sure play. "Sid-aah," Eric yells from beside the German net, voice sliding higher and pained on the end. He's bleeding. Some dark, aggressive animal smiles inside Sidney's chest when he lifts a hand to Eric's eyebrow to check that he's okay, nudging him back toward the bench. Blood means power play. An extra man means goals. The crowd agrees with him, suddenly on its feet and deafening again.
They don't score.
Eight minutes, nine minutes in, and when finally finally Thornton shoves a puck against the twine behind Griess at the tail end of a dirty grinding shift by the Sharks line, it feels like the air has been sucked out of Sidney's bloodstream, leaving him lightheaded.
It's like the relief on an airplane ride when he first pops his ears and the entire world around him seems just a tiny crack clearer. They scored first, they're winning again. In spite of everything, they are good at this game.
"Kid," mouths Babcock, tapping him on the shoulder. Bending over beside the ref, fingers once more loose around the end of his stick, waiting for the puck to drop for the faceoff, it feels like the first time Sidney has inhaled in three days.
*
The sweat dries in his hair during the press conference after. Yes, he's happy that they did so well, even after that interminable ten minutes to start the game. Yes, they're still very aware that all of Canada is watching them, but they're focusing on just the next game, trying to stay calm. Of course Lu was great, they're very pleased. It's always the same questions, asked in eight different versions, and Sidney gives the same answers, over and over until he knows the pattern by rote.
Iggy and Neids are both gone by the time he gets to the showers, but Marty is still there waiting for him on the benches in street clothes, shifting his stick from one hand to the other, its pristine tape unscarred by puck streaks. They walk back together in the freezing, still night, scarves pulled up to trap their breaths in front of their mouths in the barest pretext of disguise. The sphere of the Science Center shines like a great white moon above the quiet water of the bay.
When he opens the door to the room, Toews is lying shirtless on the bed, his laptop balanced on his stomach, rising and falling with his breath. Sidney jerks the knob of the door closed behind himself, fingers clinching so that Marty cannot see the scars from the hallway. "Done?" says Jonny, raising his eyes from the screen, and Sidney nods. His bag slides off his shoulder and lands in a heap by the door. He kicks it with one toe until it sits beside the twin heap of Toews's bag to wait for practice tomorrow.
"Kaner says hi again." Pause. Sidney wonders if they text each other after every game, and feels suddenly and grudgingly jealous of that sort of bond. "I already took a shower, if you want the bathroom," says Jonny. Sidney reaches up and fumbles at his tie, fingers thick with the cold and with relief setting in. The wind from the open balcony door stirs the curtains. Outside, a celebration is still going on in the plaza with the giant outdoor screens, audible from a block away and four stories up. Sidney rolls his shoulders free of the dress shirt and crosses to the closet to hang it up. He really should send it out with the laundry in the morning. Sidney tugs his white undershirt off and steps to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
When he comes back out, mouth fuzzy with the taste of peppermint, the crowd outside is cheering on the replay of the Thornton goal. Toews types away, wrapped up in his own world, and his scars look terribly blatant, terribly obvious and strange in the center of the bed. Sidney crosses to the balcony, looks down and watches people pass by on the sidewalks beneath. The air feels novel, like it stretches his lungs in interesting ways, and he's played for the Stanley Cup, thought he'd understood pressure, but even that was nothing to this. There are thirty million people out there with their hopes pinned to him, to their team. Sidney closes the curtain behind himself when he turns back to the room, but leaves the door open so that the sound still drifts in.
Toews isn't paying attention to him, and it gives Sidney a chance to study the casual line of his pose. There are things he wants desperately to know, but somehow he can't bring himself to ask the questions if he has to face Jonny's eyes, the wide-open earnestness that Jonny tends to bring to conversation. Sidney wants to be able to think without having to guard his expression, without Jonny thinking that he's judging.
"Turn over," he says. Jonny looks up, distracted.
"What?"
"Turn over." It takes a beat before Jonny frowns at him, but then he folds his legs under himself so that he's kneeling on the bed and reaches down to where he's dropped the ubiquitous t-shirt half under the nightstand, picking it up and locating the bottom hem with fast, efficient movements. Sidney stares at him in incomprehension until he realizes that the request might have sounded like rejection or like he didn't want to see the scars. Sometimes he can be a little dense.
"No," he says, stepping across to get closer and Jonny freezes with the shirt halfway over his head. "I didn't mean it like that." He puts out a hand and lays it on the tangled fabric above Jonny's head, suddenly unsure. Jonny slowly raises the shirt again and drops it back to the floor as Sidney takes his hand away. There are questions in Jonny's dark eyes that Sidney doesn't know how to answer and he bites his lip, refusing to let himself squirm under that focus. This is why he didn't want to do this face to face.
"Lay down," Sidney says, and there's another long pause, searching looks that Sidney tries hard not to evade, before Jonny obeys and stretches out on his stomach. He's not even completely settled before Sidney has seated himself on the edge of the bed, and the motion seems to relax Toews at least a little.
Jonny's back is unblemished and smooth but for three scattered moles, the skin shockingly plain after Sidney has become accustomed to the scars across his chest. Sidney makes his hand as wide as he can, splays his fingers until he can see the webbing and hovers them over the depression of Jonny's spine, trying to work out how much of Jonny's back he could span if he touched there. It's avoidance and he knows it, but there are questions that he can't quite find the words to ask. Jonny loops both arms under the pillow and settles his head there, seemingly patient.
"How did Kaner find out?"
Jonny shifts a knee to the side, curves his body a little until he can see Sidney before he answers. Sidney wets his lips, then lets his hand fall, steadying in the small of Jonny's back. Jonny jerks but then relaxes again. "He left his toothbrush in the bathroom, came in when I was shaving."
"What did he do?" A part of Sidney wants to know if he's getting this right, if this is how he should react.
Humorless chuckles from Jonny quiver the skin beneath his hand. Sidney moves, strokes twice down the lower half of Jonny's spine. It's what his mother used to do when he was sick, or when he'd just had nightmares. It's not something he's done before with a teammate, but Jonny curls closer to Sidney's seat on the bed and fluffs the pillow under his face. "He sort of bugged out. We didn't talk for a couple of days. Lost a game. Then we sort of yelled at each other, then it was okay. He's really cool with it, now, says he wants to see the one I do for the Olympics afterwards. He was the one who suggested where I should put the C." It seems like such a private thing, to suggest that someone else cut themselves in a specific way, but even from the East coast and the Pens, Sidney knows that Kaner and Jonny are close.
"What about the rest of the Hawks?"
"I talked to Duncs about it, and Maddog, but none of the others. They've never asked. I sort of think Kaner told some of them, you know how it goes." Can't keep a secret in the locker room of an NHL team. Sidney does know how it goes. "They've never acted like they care." Sidney strokes his back again, then lets his hand roam aimlessly, pressure into the muscles of shoulders and up to his neck. It's nothing that either of them doesn't get done every day by the team masseuses; it's normal. Jonny's eyes drift closed and Sidney wonders at how unexpectedly soft his skin is.
"So you are gonna do one for the Olympics?"
"Yeah. Why not?" His voice goes quiet and he speaks into the pillow, so that Sidney has to lean over to hear him above the drumming din from outside. "Doesn't get much more special than this." Sidney is quiet, just touching, still leaning close in case Jonny says something else. "What about you?" Jonny turns over to look up at him, and Sidney is leaning so close to hear that Jonny's shoulderblade catches hard him in the nose. His hand flies up to cover the injury to his face, and Jonny does a stomach curl to sit up, reaching out to touch with concern. "Fuck, are you alright? I'm sorry."
Sidney takes stock of the state of his face and nods. He's okay, just a little sore. It should pass quickly. "What about me what?" he asks, remembering Jonny's question from before.
"What's Sidney Crosby's big secret?"
Sidney blinks twice and can't think of a thing to say. It's not that he wouldn't trust Jonny, because he understands what's going on here. Jonny is trusting him in a big way, and it makes sense to want something in return, something to hold against betrayal, but when Sidney tries to think of a secret his mind just blanks. Jonny takes pity on him and pulls his wrist up until Sidney's hand settles over the C carved in thick lines against his heart. He can feel the beat below, tense but steady. "No one's casting stones," says Jonny, which strikes Sidney as a particularly Episcopalian way of thinking. "You know I can't judge. What's the one thing you least want to tell me right now?"
Asking for Sidney's mind to suddenly produce a big secret is difficult, but the question of what he least wants to tell Jonny in that instant is easy. The answer flashes lightning bright to his mind, natural as next inhale. It's just the actual telling that will be difficult, the avoiding misunderstandings part. And yet. Toews has given him a whole lot of slack when it comes to touches and questions and prying, so Sidney's sense of fair play feels obligated.
"Don't freak out," Sidney says, maybe too quiet to be heard over the sound of the crowd cheering outside to the score of their latest game. He reaches for Jonny's wrist, guiding his hand to the crotch of Sidney's sleep pants, where the touch feels foreign and devastating. Not even the Pens know this. He's not hard, not at the moment, but he's at least 3/4 of the way there, just from idle touches against Jonny's back, chest. Just from talking.
Jonny doesn't move, statue still because if he did anything else Sidney is pretty sure they wouldn't speak to each other for the next few days. He can feel the cold wind through the curtains, see the goosebumps on Jonny's chest around those fascinating scars, feel the fever-pitch heat of Jonny's hand still covering him, not pulling away. Not quite repulsed, not quite what Sidney expected at all. He's never felt so at-sea in his life, as though his entire world has taken a giant step away into the uniquely bizarre. He's at the center of the most important international tournament of the decade; he's an alt captain and the face of his team; he's rooming with someone who slices his history and his triumphs into his own skin; and his cock is thick and getting harder still under that roommate's touch. He's admitted this, there's no taking it back. Outside, people are still cheering them on in a game they've already won, but in here Sidney feels sick and dizzy all at once, as though his stomach has decided that maybe he should be dry-heaving but his brain isn't yet willing to go along with that plan. He doesn't know what to do.
Luckily, Jonny seems to have an idea. He tugs gently to take his wrist back, and Sidney's stomach signals that he should be running for the bathroom now if he doesn't want to puke all over the carpet. But when Sidney releases the grip on his wrist, Jonny doesn't try to get away, doesn't hit him or kick him, doesn't frown. Instead he sits up and moves the hand that had been covering Sidney's cock to the nape of his neck, tangling fingers in curly hair, tugging.
"Come here," Jonny says, and pulls Sidney with him to lie down. It takes a few minutes of agonizing tenseness, of Jonny not relaxing his grip on Sidney's neck, of Sidney's nose brushing against that C and feathering the hairs around Jonny's nipple with every breath, of neither of them giving ground. But when the crowd outside goes quieter and he realizes that he can feel Jonny's heartbeat beneath his cheek, Sidney relaxes and rearranges himself until they're sharing a bed. He's still half-hard against Jonny's leg, but Jonny doesn't seem to mind so much, and the hand that had been holding the vice grip on his neck shifts to settle lower, stroking along his spine.
Sidney lets himself exhale, and they fall asleep like that: close, both of them on top of the covers, shivering in gooseflesh from the occasional cold wind that makes its way past the curtains through the door.
*
"Hide me," Rick Nash says, elbowing between Toews and Keith to plant himself behind Sidney in the cafeteria line. They're waiting for pasta; after a long practice earlier in the morning and with another, shorter skate scheduled for the afternoon, with the all-important Russia game tonight, Sidney is in the mood for carbs. Jonny seems to be in the mood for laughing; he, Keith, and Seabrook haven't stopped cracking jokes and playing stupid pranks since the dressing room this morning.
It hadn't been as awkward as Sidney had feared, before that. He'd woken first still wrapped up against Jonny's body and had traced the U-17 scar, the one that started it all. Jonny breathed in and out, and after a long time had said, "We do need to get to practice eventually," which was a cue for showers and dress clothes as normal, shared personal space while shaving and Jonny's hand in the small of his back as he reached for the doorknob the only nods to the previous night's intimacy.
The space around them is airy with windows, crammed with people speaking in a dozen different languages. Sidney can understand English and French, and he can identify Russian, but there are others that might be Swedish or Dutch or Chinese or Angoran.
"Okay," Sidney says, craning his neck around to see. "What am I hiding you from?" It's impossible to find details in the throng.
"The speed skaters." Nash hunches his shoulders and seems to be trying to make himself as small as possible, no mean feat for someone of his size.
"The speed skaters?" says Keith, pinging a spoon incessantly against his thumbnail. Seabrook snatches it out of his hand, and the two exchange glances, then Keith shoves his hand into the pocket of his hoodie.
"They keep asking for autographs. It's like they're stalking me. I swear, one of these days I'm going to step out of the shower and there's going to be a speed skater with a marker standing there by the towels." Nash shudders.
"Don't you think you're a little paranoid?" Sidney asks, gathering his own handful of silverware and bending one of the prongs on his fork straighter so that it lines up with the others.
"They're out to get me."
"Well, I hate to tell you this, but you're bigger than I am. They can still see you." It should be impossible to pick Nash out anyway with all the people around, like looking for Waldo in a picture book, camouflage by frenetic numbers.
Nash beams at him. "Doesn't matter. Even if they do see me, nobody's going to care when I'm standing next to the Kid." He has a point.
Sidney scowls at him and is about to turn back around toward the line when a small man in a Korean windbreaker wedges in front of him. "Can you sign my jacket?" The man brandishes a marker and pats a spot on his back near his shoulder. Sidney blinks at him.
"Are you a speed skater?" Toews asks, curious, as the man turns around and Sidney scrawls a signature across the nylon of the jacket. There are several other names there, too. He recognizes Iggy's swooping 'J', and the loopy 't's of Brodeur's signature.
"Short track," says the man as Sidney passes the marker back to him, and Nash raises his eyebrows in Sidney's direction, vindicated. "Thank you," the man says, and they all stare at him as he walks away, disappearing into the crush of people near the pizza station.
"Told you," says Nash.
It happens again three times before they can get to their table, where Perry is saving their seats. Sidney tries to juggle his plate of mushroom ravioli in one hand and a marker in the other for a girl who answers Keith's question about her sport with, "5000-meter long-track."
"Speed skating." She doesn't seem to notice how dumbfounded Keith sounds when he says it, and simply nods.
"And you thought I was paranoid," Nash says as the whole table stares at her retreating back. Sidney frowns and purses his lips thoughtfully.
After lunch, he walks back to his room alone, the others having gone ahead to investigate rumors of free massages. The weather is warmer than last night's frigid air, the snow melting and running in little rivers through the cracks on the sidewalk and in the brick lanes. The giant screen in the plaza is showing cross country, and Sidney pauses long enough at the back of the gathered crowd to watch Norway take a medal in the sprints. A knot of Norwegians at the very front, just below the screen, throw up their arms in celebration, their whoops echoing off the sides of the surrounding buildings to sound magnified, enormous. The rest of the crowd cheers with them, even non-Norwegians reveling in the victory and in their joy of it, and Sidney imagines what it will be a week from now, what the echoes will sound like if the shouts are for him. He's turning away and down the sidewalk toward Canada House when a man walking toward him stops and does a double-take. "You're Sidney Crosby, right?" the man says. Sidney nods. "I'm Sven Kramer. Could you sign my jacket?"
Sidney thinks for a moment, and the man begins to look uncomfortable, as though he's never had an athlete actually consider the question of whether he wants to sign an autograph. The yells from the plaza are still audible around the corner of the buildings. Sidney thinks of Nash and his need to hide in the lunch crowd earlier, of Russia tonight and the media's incessant questions. "You're a speed skater, right?" says Sidney finally, and watches the surprised expression that flashes across the man's face.
"Yeah, how'd you --."
"Good," Sidney interrupts. "In that case, I want to make a deal with you." A plan begins to take shape in Sidney's brain, a wonderful, somewhat devious plan.
"A deal." Sven looks increasingly doubtful.
"Yeah. If you give me your jacket now, I'll sign it and I'll get everybody else on the team to sign it too. We have practice in half an hour, I'll just pass it around. The only thing is, you have to show up at the locker room after practice to get it. And you have to help me play a prank on a teammate."
"What?" Now the guy just looks confused. Sidney explains about speed skaters, and Nash's paranoia. "He mentioned that one of these days he'd step out of the shower and there'd be a speed skater with a marker standing by the towels."
"And I'm going to be that speed skater." Sven grins at the idea.
"That's the plan."
"It sounds like fun. I'll do it."
"Great!" Sidney gives him directions about what to say to security, and how to find the locker room at the arena. The team will get a kick out of it, and they all need something to break the tension. Sidney trades jackets so that Sven can get some speed skaters to sign the maple leaf windbreaker, and swipes his card through the slotted reader at the front door of Canada House with a smirk.
*
"Don't fool yourselves that it will be easy," Hitchcock says, looking around the benches of the room. Team Canada, arrayed out in their gear surrounding him, is sweaty and exhausted, the product of an hour and a half of morning skates and another hour of precision drills in the afternoon. They face Russia in the next round, and Sidney isn't fooling himself one bit: nothing about that battle will be easy. "But we can win," says Hitchcock, "And we will win because we have to." The hard truth of it: they don't have a choice.
Around the room, various players nod agreement, bobbing heads from Iggy and Eric who sit to either side of Sidney, from Weber who sits opposite him and seems to be ripping through the tape on his hands with his teeth, from Neids in his position beside Babcock where he can watch the rest of them. Hitchcock taps his open marker against the whiteboard, leaving little red dots in a trail like ants, surveying the team with pressed lips as they sit gathered after drills: the sweating, quietly tense best that Canada Hockey can produce. The Sharks line sits together near the door, and Heater nods for them. Marleau's tennis ball is steady in his right hand, still. There's more focus here and less nervous energy than before.
In the far corner, the knot of serenity that was formerly made up of only the Hawks players has expanded to include Mike Richards, Brenden Morrow, and Drew Doughty, sitting close with their thighs pressed against each other. Sidney envies them all, not even sure if they realize what's happening, the way they seem to draw strength from the core of concentrated focus that is Jonathan Toews at the moment. Keith's hand brushes the back of Seabrook's wrist, arms held out of view of most of the room but more public than Sidney could ever have imagined if he'd not seen it himself. None of the others seem to find it odd, and Sidney suspects this is principally because Jonny himself does not find it odd. Drew is watching Jonny as carefully as Sidney does, taking deep breaths until the rise and fall of his chest matches that of the Hawks captain and of Keith, his defensive partner for seemingly the rest of the Games. Sidney tacitly approves; Donut could find a worse model than those two.
It surprises Sidney when Jonny looks away from the whiteboard diagrams to meet his eyes, the raise of eyebrows a question Sidney doesn't want to answer. It's like falling, like figuring out he still has space to breathe or like remembering the cold at night with just the two of them, and Sidney sees Jonny nod, a gesture of solidarity that reminds Sidney of home, the Penguins. It's not a feeling like the ones he has with Geno or Sergei, but it punches him just behind the sternum with how much it reminds him of Mario -- he doesn't have to do this alone, there's someone else who will help him carry this team. Sidney nods back solemnly then glances off to his right at Babcock, who has his pen out of his mouth but is still chewing on the cap, who is taking notes, who has noticed. Let him, Sidney thinks almost viciously. Let him notice that someone else can do this, that I don't have to.
It's good for Canada if they're finally gelling as a team, he knows that, but Sidney isn't quite man enough yet not to feel the sting of bitter resentment that he is the only one who is the focus of a personal rivalry or of the media. For the others, it's Russia they have to fight, but for Sidney it's Russia generally and Ovechkin specifically -- Ovechkin and Semin and Geno -- whom he must be better than, and it's a burden he'd rather not carry. Toews's eyes across the dressing room, dark and steady from where he reclines relaxed with Keith at his side, are understanding. If Sidney saw pity -- if he saw it now after last night -- he might just hate Jonny for this, but there's only knowledge and support. They need to talk, Sidney thinks. This is getting dangerous, it's messing with his head. Jonny's opinions shouldn't matter as to how he plays his game, but they do.
"We know what they're bringing," says Hitchcock, "We know the weapons, we know they're strong, we know they can hurt us. But we also know that tonight, we can win this goddamn game, so let's go out there and outwork them."
The whole room seems to sigh, the claustrophobic sound of expectations exchanged, and for once Sidney is grateful that these practices are closed to fans, no screams of hero worship on the ice or noise through the concrete or vibrations in the arena to create more pressure than they put on themselves. It's a heavy enough weight already: this won't be easy, let's outwork them.
"Let's go," says Sidney, the first to stand, and the team follows him and stands also to gather sticks and gloves and head to the showers.
*
"The fuck? screams Nash, and Sidney smiles to himself. Even afternoon practices on the day of the Russia game don't have to be all about pressures and responsibility. "No, I won't sign your --," he hears, then, "Fine. No really, it's fine. Just, tell the rest of them to leave me alone, okay? I can't. I can't take this shit. Jesus fucking Christ."
Sidney glances up when Sven exits the showers, proudly holding a Dutch jacket that's now signed by every single player on Team Canada. Some of the other guys in the dressing room are smirking back at him. He needed their cooperation to sign the jacket, so they all know about Sidney's prank.
"I'll kill you," says Nash, walking by in just a towel and the shredded remains of his dignity.
"I'll wait on that," says Sidney, already feeling better about the game to come.
*
"Get the hell out of my way," he screams at the top of his lungs, trying to make himself heard over the crowd. Chris Pronger cocks his head to the side like he still can't understand, but he scoots down the bench anyway, making a space near the door for Sidney to step into. There's no whistle, so it's not a too-many-men penalty; good, he got lucky. Sidney lets himself settle to the plastic seat and concentrates on breathing, trying to ignore the way his thighs are burning. He needs to get back out soon, get back in motion, or he'll cramp. That was a good shift, though, a satisfying shift. He didn't score, but they're up by one thanks to Getzy, and they'd kept the pressure on Nabby -- fucking Nabokov, Sidney lets himself think -- for the entire shift. Sidney cracks his neck and elbows Pronger beside him because he can, because his team is on their way to winning and right now they are so fucking lucky to be here in front of this crowd, to be wearing these sweaters.
It's reflex more than conscious thought when he slips his gloves off to check his stick, make sure it's still solid after taking two shots when he was on the ice. The gesture doesn't even require sight; he's more interested in the Jumbotron anyway, watching the seconds tick down and the big, bright '1 - 0' that means Sidney's life right now is amazing. The tape feels like it always does beneath his fingers: rough with cloth weave, marching in straight and even stripes across his blade. He tests, but there's no more than the usual flex to it, no deceptive cracks to upset his game. It should be good for at least another shift.
Sidney shoves his hands back into his gloves and glances over at Nieds, who is leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, praying like Sidney is that this team can keep it up, that they can pull this thing out.
"Sharks," yells Babcock, "Boyle," and Bergeron, who is close enough to hear, elbows Heatley beside him and cocks his head in the direction of the coach. Heater startles, looks up towards Babcock to check, then nods. Next out.
Sidney pops his mouthpiece and runs his tongue over his teeth, then shuffles down the bench as Getzy's line ices up to the door, showers of snow in all directions. It's a defensive change too, so Sidney shifts another two positions down the plank before he grabs a water bottle and sprays himself in the face.
"Water," yells Keith, and Sidney tosses his own bottle down the bench; he doesn't need it any more.
"Heater, Heater pass," Marleau shouts out on the ice, and Sidney looks up, something in that voice enough to tingle the base of his spine, the place just beneath his shoulder blades that knows by instinct what the angle for a shot should be. It's just two seconds -- such a short time, such an insignificant amount of time -- but Sidney's already on his feet. The whole goddamn bench is on their feet; they know exactly what it means when the puck hits Boyle's tape and he fires.
"Yes," screams Babcock from behind him, and his voice is suddenly loud and conspicuous in the eye-of-the-storm, held-breath instant that envelopes the building. The lamp comes on, red for Canada.
'2 - 0', say the beautiful white numbers on the Jumbotron, and Sidney holds out his gloves for the skaters to bump when they come by the bench in a passing breeze that feels like winning, the echo of the goal fizzing in his blood like someone dumped soda water into his veins. Beside him, Pronger is jumping with both hands in the air. On the other side, Marty has his head thrown back and is laughing in wracking breaths, cupped out glove extended to smack Boyle on the head when he skates by.
Sidney only catches it out of the corner of his eye when Babcock yells something else; he can't hear a thing over the din. The building is exploding, a hotdog, pretzel, plastic cup, polyester, sweating inferno of noise that keeps them jumping up and down in celebration. There's no way to resist sound like that, it carries them and makes them invincible. It's over, Sidney thinks. There's nothing that Russia can do against this feeling, this massive euphoria. It's no longer a question of score, it's a question of destiny. Lemaire leans in close, so that his ear is just in front of Babcock's mouth to hear him yell again, then he edges down the bench to tap Toews on the shoulder. Not Sidney's faceoff, then.
When Jonny bends over beside the ref, Sidney thinks of scars. There's a glint in his eyes, a posture, a shift of the shoulders beneath his pads that Sidney is certain no one else will notice, but it's obvious when Sidney looks, because he knows. This is Jonny thinking of winning. It's a puzzle piece slotting into place, all that bolted concentration is Jonny realizing that there's nothing out there to stop him.
They win the faceoff.
Canada establishes an aborted position in the Russian zone, before Gonchar steals the damn puck from Nash and makes towards the other end. Gonchar, Semin, Malkin; Sidney watches the progression and expects the next pass --Semin for the wrister and Lu had better look out -- when Toews steps up with a ferocity that says maybe he's thinking of scars too.
The puck might as well be taped to their sticks. "Go!" Sidney screams, "Go, go, take it," as Toews steals the puck, passes to Richards in the rear center. Inevitable, really, the breakaway seems almost scripted as they rush up toward Nabokov with more speed than the Russians know how to handle. Even above the sudden din of the arena, Sidney can hear the cut of skates, the swish swish slice of something that's suddenly more and more of a certainty. The boards under his gloves are so rough they must be cracking, even through the padding on his hands. "Nasher, look out! Look for it," he yells, "Nasher," and Rick does. Poetry in motion. Two on one break with the puck on Toews's stick, dissolving to a passing chance.
Goalie down.
Goal, and again the red red red light for Canada.
Beside him, Pronger's voice cracks he yells so hard, inarticulate and wordless, victorious. 3 - 0, and Sidney knows this feeling. This is the feeling that raised every hair on his head to its end in the Stanley Cup finals.
The pounding on the boards behind them, the blare of the PA, the deafening shouts and screams and whistles and cheers and roars and tumult -- this is what inevitability sounds like. There's seven minutes left in the first still, but even now it's over, they've won against Russia.
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Part Four
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