going up flying, going home [4/6]

[antumbral]

going up flying, going home



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one | two | three | four | five | six | art & soundtrack

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Yzerman absolutely forbids that he and Marty should walk back through the cold, once the media is done and the showers are over and the team has finished winding down. "No. What would happen if someone recognized you, after that game? There'd be a mob." Sidney huffs into his scarf and says nothing, because it's been a risk every time they've done it, but Stevie Y is right. Tonight is different.

"No," Stevie repeats. "Get on the bus." So Sidney does and Marty follows, shifting awkwardly for a man who usually carries a great deal of grace in his body. Marty sits beside Lu, who pats him on the back and makes sympathetic murmurs in French too rapid for Sidney to translate. Sidney sits beside Jonny and fidgets with his mittens, picking at tiny balls of red fuzz around the leaf in the center. He understands Marty's nervousness and shares it; he hopes that in doing something different, they aren't somehow messing with the winning streak they've got going. The logical part of his brain says it's a stupid superstition, but Sidney still feels a frission of anxiety.

"We played good," says Jonny softly, sounding content. Sidney touches his side briefly in understanding, the World Championship leaf if he's got the spot right. When Jonny makes a low hum of agreement, Sidney takes his hand away and looks past to the window, where beyond the thin veil of ice crystals on the glass he can see the stadium lamps that light the block party at the Plaza of Nations.

"Two more," Sidney says. Jonny nods, and they're quiet the rest of the way back to the room.

When they get inside, Jonny heads immediately for the bathroom, leaving Sidney to change out of his suit and settle into bed with the remote. The Sweden-Slovakia game has just started, so Sidney makes a pile out of his pillows and reclines back to watch, taking mental inventory of the new aches blossoming in his body. His knee is complaining, and he took a hard puck to the ribs that feels like it's setting up to be a knocker of a bruise. He should probably tape it for the next game.

Jonny comes back out of the bathroom and hangs up his suit, glances at the television, then seems to hesitate, watching Sidney, who is suddenly acutely self-conscious of his bare feet, bare chest, the way his legs are splayed a little in an attempt to find a position that eases his knee. He watches for long enough that Sidney reaches for the remote and turns the sound down on the TV just to have something to do with his hands.

"What?" he asks at last, but Jonny just shakes his head and takes two steps toward the bed. He wraps his hand around Sidney's ankle, careful fingers light against the thin skin over the bone. The touch instantly awakens memories of the night before, Jonny breathing soft and still beneath his cheek. It makes his cock twitch. "What?" he says again.

"Scoot over."

Sidney opens his mouth, then closes it again and obeys. Jonny climbs into the bed with him, sitting close so that their feet brush and their shoulders are pressed against each other. After a few seconds, Jonny reaches across his lap to grab the remote from where Sidney holds it balanced on his thigh. Sidney inhales sharply at the proximity, the visual of Jonny's hand so close to his crotch, the idea of Jonny reaching for him that way. But Jonny ignores him and merely turns the volume back up, settling in to watch the game.

They're midway through the second frame -- Zetterberg has just scored for Sweden -- when Jonny says, "Last night."

"Yeah," says Sidney, because he isn't really sure what he should say.

"You--. You want me?" Jonny says slowly, cautiously. He's still staring at the TV, watching the game with far more concentration than a neutral zone draw deserves.

Sidney is abruptly miserable. "Yes? No? I don't know, it's never been like this before. I don't know what--." He trails off, watching Jonny out of the very corner of his eye, trying to see what he's thinking without turning his head. They're still pressed together along the whole length of his left side, so he would feel if Jonny had flinched or pulled away. "I don't know," he repeats, miserable.

There is a long pause. Slovakia scores a goal.

"Okay," says Jonny simply. At this, Sidney does turn his head to look at him.

"Okay?"

Jonny looks away from the TV to face him. His eyes are steady, and he blinks once. He still isn't pulling away.

Sidney's brows draw together in confusion, then smooth again. It certainly wasn't what he expected, but he can't deny that it makes him happy, a certain burning steady warmth settling into the space behind his sternum. It's unlike the lightheaded feeling of joy that's been riding with him since the final buzzer sounded on Russia's defeat, but this has been a night for all kinds of euphoria. Jonny is still watching him, and Sidney stares back, takes in the features of his face. Jonny blinks again and looks back at the game.

An hour and a half later, seconds after the final buzzer, Sidney throws his head back and laughs. "Slovakia? We're playing Slovakia in semis?"

Toews shoves him in the shoulder, rocking him to the side. "Hey, Slovakia looked good."

"No, Hossa looked good. It's just--. It's Slovakia, not Russia or Sweden."

Jonny shoves him again, harder this time, laughing at him. Sidney retaliates by tackling him, grunting when Jonny's elbow lands on the bruise forming over his ribs. They wrestle across the bed, laughing still because it feels good to laugh with the adrenaline still in their veins, as though they hadn't properly celebrated their own win until that release. The match starts out in fun but rapidly grows more serious, Sidney's competitive nature not allowing him to back down once challenged. Jonny throws him off the bed, and Sidney leaps back up, headbutting Jonny firmly in the stomach and pushing him across the mattress so Sidney can climb back into the game.

The comforter is entirely on the floor, the pillows are scattered across the room where they fell after being used as clubs or thrown, and one side of the sheets have come off the mattress before Sidney manages to take advantage of his stockier build to finagle Jonny into a judo hold and pin him. "Ha," Sidney gloats, and Jonny struggles futilely for a few long moments before giving up and going motionless, still tense and testing Sidney's grip, but no longer actively fighting him.

"I think I'm laying on the remote."

"Sorry," Sidney says, not sorry at all. "Oh, was I supposed to let you up?" He's holding Jonny's chin pinned forward with an arm behind his neck, which puts all the weight of his shoulders on Jonny's chest to immobilize him. One knee is forcing Jonny's hips to the side to take away any chance of momentum, and his other arm locks the position to keep Jonny still. They're both breathing hard, and Sidney tightens the hold a little more when sweat starts to make his grip slip.

Beneath him, Jonny's muscles go limp, unresisting and surrendered. Sidney keeps his guard up for another few seconds before relaxing the arm around Jonny's neck, so that Jonny's chin is no longer trapped in a tuck and his head falls back to rest on Sidney's arm. They're very close. He realizes that he can feel Jonny's breath on his face, and it shouldn't be as intimate a thing as it seems. A pink flash of tongue draws Sidney's eyes downward for a moment, and when he looks back up to meet Jonny's gaze, he knows that he's been caught staring at Jonny's mouth. Jonny is watching him too carefully with those bottomless black eyes when he repeats the gesture, and Sidney can't help but gasp for breath. He’s never done anything like this before.

Sidney closes his eyes, because Jonny is staring at him with a wide, stunned expression, almost ferocious in his focus. It’s too much to take in, too much to think about, so he concentrates on the feel of Jonny’s breath on his own mouth, the way they’re sharing air and the way that Jonny smells like sweat and gear, even though he’d taken a shower after the game.

“Sidney,” Jonny breathes, barely audible, soft puff of air like a kiss. Sidney feels himself drawn downward millimeter by millimeter, as though the force of Jonny’s attention bears its own gravity, and he knows the moment before his lips touch skin because Jonny inhales a fast, hard breath through his nose. There’s no pressure and barely any contact, but Sidney shudders anyway from how momentous it feels when their lips meet, in the base of his spine and the nape of his neck, in places nowhere near his mouth. Sidney takes a deep breath and draws away.

"You --," says Jonny, then leans up and raises his head the two centimeters it takes to meet Sidney's mouth again. This time it's harder, clumsier but still good, and when it ends Sidney shifts down Jonny's body to rest easier and lay his palm on Jonny's chest.

Which maybe he shouldn't have done. Because the movement makes him acutely aware that he's not the only one aroused by this, and the thought that he can feel Jonny's hard cock pressed against the muscles of his stomach, only fabric between them, is enough to have Sidney shuddering again. Jonny leans up on his elbows and Sidney starts to draw away, but is pulled back down by a quick hand. It shifts them again, puts his pelvis right on top of Jonny's, who arches a little, rubbing.

"Fuck," whispers Sidney. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." It's weird, it's unheard of and a distraction in the biggest tournament he's ever played, and he knows better, but it feels so damn good. Jonny is murmuring to him, low words that Sidney can't hear enough to understand. He buries his face in Jonny's neck, ear pressed against curve of throat, and rides the feel and the sound and the smell and the presence of whatever this thing is they're doing. His hands settle on ribs and a shoulder before Sidney thinks about it and moves one hand down to touch the C mark like a talisman.

It's not fast or rough or even particularly satisfying, just subtle little motions that push their cocks against each other, enough friction to feel really damn good and draw that feeling out for as long as he likes. The best part is Jonny's body, the low grumbling noises he makes and Sidney echoes, the way his hands roam and eventually settle in Sidney's hair, lifting his head just enough for more kisses -- still chaste, still small and delicate like the ghosts of real kisses and still feeling enormous in Sidney's head.

"It's okay," Jonny whispers in searching touches, brushes of mouth against the bridge of his nose or his eyebrow.

"Okay," Sidney echoes, feeling brave as he reaches down to cup Jonny in a gesture startlingly reminiscent of the way Jonny had touched him the night before. Jonny pushes up hard into his hand, and suddenly Sidney is ravenous, he can't get enough. He can't get his hands into Jonny's pants easily, but the struggle is worth it when Jonny's skin feels velvet to the touch and Jonny's voice breaks on a stifled moan.

"Let me," says Jonny, reaching for him. "You too, let me. You too."

It's fumbling and awkwardly angled and not very easy. Jonny's thumbnail catches at the underside of his cock and Sidney chokes on a yelp, to Jonny's stammering apologies. The fabric of Jonny's pants chafes against his wrist, leaving a raw feeling that tinges with each stroke. But Jonny is real and heavy in his hand. The scars stand out particularly white and stark against the flush of Jonny's chest, his nipples in small peaks that distort the perfect curve of the C minutely. And Sidney's own cock is so hard it verges on painful when Jonny's fingers rub at the base of him, circle the flare of the head.

Jonny comes first, when Sidney pushes a wrist deeper into his pants to touch his balls. The skin is very soft and drawn tight, and all it takes is a butterfly scrape of Sidney's nails, careful not to hurt, before he can feel them move under his fingertips and Jonny's cock jumps against his wrist. Sidney wants to memorize the shock on his face, eyes blown open wide and cheeks fiery red. It's so very strange, but something in Sidney settles with the oddity of the night and finally rests.

Beneath him, Jonny lies panting for a moment before a sly smile breaks across his face. "These pants are going to be disgusting," he says, and it surprises a bark of laughter out of Sidney.

"We'll change them."

Jonny's hand is still on his cock, unmoving but warm. "Can I touch you still?" Jonny asks, and Sidney nods. The hand goes away and Jonny pushes him over onto his back, leaning up over him before touching him again. Jonny's strokes are steady and even, a slow burn that curls Sidney's toes. They kiss in dandelion-fragile touches, and Sidney comes when that mouth trails down his throat and Jonny latches teeth around the peak of his nipple, the shock of sensation enough to bow up Sidney's back and send him over the edge. He hadn't known that he liked his nipples played with before. Maybe it's just with Jonny.

Sleep that night, after fresh pants for both of them and awkward goodnights in separate beds, comes slowly. Sidney drifts off finally, restless, unsure of whether he wants to dream of gold medals or of Jonny beneath him and still. He wakes up again half an hour later when the mattress dips and a warm chest settles against his back.

"Goodnight, Sidney," Jonny breathes against his ear. Sidney mumbles incoherently and sleeps again.

*

"Watch this," whispers Seabrook, burying his smile in a mouthful of linguine alfredo. From under the table, he punches Sidney in the thigh and Sidney looks down to see that Seabrook's hand is holding a cell-phone. From Sidney's other side, Jonny looks down to see what the commotion is, and rolls his eyes.

"You didn't," Jonny says.

"Oh, I did," says Seabrook, pleased with himself, a spot of alfredo sauce lingering in the corner of his mouth. He wiggles his eyebrows at Sidney, who wonders what he's up to.

The team has gathered together to eat supper at a small Italian restaurant on the edge of the city instead of in the large and noisy Village cafeteria. They've got the restaurant to themselves and the food is amazing. Sidney suspects that the escape from fellow athletes and media pressure, the hours sequestered for just teammates and focus, is the coaching staff's version of a reward for their performance in the Russia game.

"Duncs --," begins Jonny, pleading, and Keith looks up from across the table.

"Hey, I'm Switzerland. Leave me out of it." Keith's smile shows his dimples and the lines beside his eyes, amused as he cuts into a ravioli, studiously nonchalant.

"Yeah, man." Seabrook fist-bumps Keith across the table in a show of solidarity, then as Sidney watches, he presses 'Send' on the phone. An envelope pops up on the screen, showing that a text message has been sent. Seabs leans over and whispers in Sidney's ear. "Follow me to the bathroom in two minutes, as soon as you see Donut go berzerk."

"What?" says Sidney, but Seabs is already pushing his chair back from the table and disappearing in the direction of the loo. Jonny rolls his eyes again and stares down at his manicotti, refusing to glance at the other end of the table, where Drew Doughty is laughing at Eric Staal's impression of Lemaire's prissiest accent.

Sidney watches out of the corner of his eye and a moment later, sure enough, Doughty reaches absently down and glances at his phone. He's still laughing, but the smile slides off his face as he pulls the phone closer and reads the message again. Sidney can see his eyes go huge and alarmed, and he waves the phone at Staal, who leans over to take a look.

Beside him, Jonny sighs. "If you want to see the rest of the fun, better go now." He's shaking his head as though familiar with this routine.

Curious, Sidney stands and meanders back to the bathroom, where Seabrook is clutching the phone. Keith is standing beside him and looking over his shoulder, though Sidney hadn't noticed him leaving the table, both of them leaning back against the wall, their heads together as they stare at the little screen. "What the hell, man? What'd you do to Donut?"

"Oh, what?" Seabrook looks up at him, then back at the phone. "I stole his phone earlier. Switched the number for his girlfriend's phone with the number for this one, then sent him a text that she'd found an English professor who's really hot, so they're breaking up as of now."

"So wait, he thinks that you --."

"-- Are his girlfriend, yes." Sidney isn't sure that he likes the manic evil on Seabrook's face when he smiles like that. "Just wait until he calls her to see what's up and gets 'the professor' on the phone."

"How's he going to get the --."

"Shhh!" Seabrook shushes him, and Keith makes waving motions in his direction to be quiet as the phone in Brent's hand begins to ring. "Do you wanna --" he says, at the same time that Keith says, "I'll do it," so Seabs pushes the phone into Keith's hands and he presses the answer call button.

"Hallo?" Sidney has never heard Keith attempt to do a British accent before. He's really really bad at it. All three of them stare at the phone as it squawks at them. Sidney can't quite make out the words, but the tone is certainly irate.

"Nay," says Keith, "Nay, you've got the right number." A pause, in which the phone fusses loudly in an electronic imitation of Doughty's voice. Sidney can hear where and who the hell and give her the phone in among the jumble of words. "Well, I can't do that, proper, see?" says Keith. "She's uh, ooh. Indisposed, like." More squawking. "No, she's. Her mouth is full, see? There's -- ah! -- not much room for talking. She's really good though, I promise. Quite." Keith gives a loud, overly dramatic groan and the phone emits a squeak so high-pitched that Sidney is unwillingly impressed. He hadn't known Doughty's voice could get that high. "No," says Keith, "No, I'm sure she says hello. Don't you dear?" He looks over at Seabrook who nods furiously. "Yes, she definitely says -- oh, oh that's good -- hello."

Sidney manages not to laugh out loud, but it's a close thing. Through the windows of the restroom, he can actually hear Doughty outside the restaurant yelling, in addition to hearing him over the phone. Keith holds the earpiece away from his ear so as not to be deafened by the threats coming his way.

"No, actually," says Keith. "Well, I do thank you for your kind thoughts sir, but --." Another round of yelling. "Well, perhaps she just prefers professors. We are prefer-. Profer-." Keith coughs. "We are professerable."

And with that, Sidney has had it. He cracks up, which in turn sets off Seabrook and Keith. The phone goes deadly quiet, all the yelling outside ceased.

"Shit," says Seabrook. "Come on, let's get out of here."

When they re-emerge from the loo, Doughty is back at the table, his head in his hands, still visibly upset. The rest of the team seems to be smiling, though, and Eric Staal is patting him on the back while trying not to laugh.

"That wasn't funny, guys," Doughty says quietly.

"Aw, come on, Donut. It was a little funny." Seabrook is not very talented at being comforting. Nash and Marty seem to agree with him though; there's snickering all around the table.

"Hey," Keith says gently, quieting the snickers, and Doughty looks up. "It's okay. You can call her after dinner, I kept the number in my phone. And you can have Seab's cheesecake to make it up to you, he's fat enough as it is."

"Oy," says Seabrook without much fire, and Keith touches him on the arm to quiet him. Doughty sniffs and nods, and that seems to be the end of it. They sit back down, and Sidney resumes his interrupted meal. It really is good food.

At the other end of the table, Niedermayer explains the uproar to the coaching staff. Hitchcock chuckles and Lemaire laughs out loud. "I can't believe I'm expected to win medals with you morons," Babcock says.

*

Marian Hossa slides up the half-boards to take a drop pass from Demitra, kicks the puck from his skate to his stick, dangles back down toward the near face-off circle, and fires a pass to a wide-open Gaborik for the one-timer and the score. The buzzer goes off and Chara pile-drives Gaborik into the ice in celebration.

"Okay, stop it there and rewind it eight seconds," says Babcock's voice into the dark of the dressing room, and the video on the screen pauses in mid-fist-pump and rewinds to just before where Hossa took the shot. "Where's the breakdown?"

There's quiet in the room for a moment, then Morrow's voice. "Their near-side D is back too far. He's covering a pass that Hossa can't make, and it leaves the lane open for the pass across."

"Exactly." A small red laser dot hits the screen and circles jerkily around the out-of-position defenseman. "Hossa got himself into position for that one, but that was not a pass that it should have been impossible to defend. Sweden gave that one up." A moment of shuffling papers.

"King should have had that one," Flower says softly. "He had clear eyes on it the whole way."

"Farside D should have had his stick in the way," Seabrook adds.

Babcock clears his throat. "Okay, next clip."

On the screen, the Swedish defense corrals a dumped puck and the whole Swedish line circles back to regroup -- a 2-2-1 formation, two men up either side along the boards and a defenseman trailing them to feed the puck to whoever gets open. The trailing D yells to his forwards, a short sharp word that Sidney can't understand, then shoves the puck along to the furthest forward up. Two passes and a confused defensive assignment later, a turnover. Slovakia takes the puck on a two-on-one rush towards the Swedish goal. Lundqvist bets the farm on the puck carrier being the shooter, and loses that bet when the man -- Zednik, Sidney checks the roster sheet he's holding on his knees -- passes instead. Goal Slovakia.

"Pause it," says Babcock, and this time doesn't even have to ask.

"Bad turnover," says Bergie. "Fifty-five there for Sweden should have been the second defenseman back up at the blue line, or even behind it, but he stepped into the zone to make that hit and hung his partner out to dry. There wasn't anybody to stop the two-on-one break going back."

"Rewind it," says Babcock. They watch it again. "How should Sweden have defended it?"

"Don't leave your zone," says Pronger, bored. He's fiddling with the chinstrap on his helmet.

"Don't leave your zone," echoes Babcock, dry, and something in his tone makes Sidney suddenly very glad that he is not Pronger at this moment. "Don't leave your fucking zone to make the flashy hit. But when we played goddamn Russia in the biggest match of the Games yet, what do we find Mr. Christopher Pronger doing?"

Sidney winces, and sees Corey Perry beside him flinch too. The video starts; it's the Russia game this time, not Slovakia, and Sidney recognizes himself skating off the ice at the end of a change. The Russians have the puck headed into the Canadian zone, and Sidney recognizes this play from memory, knows exactly what's going to happen. From the uncomfortable shifting around the rest of the dressing room, most of the others on the team do too. Sidney can see Pronger drop his head into his hands, not wanting to watch.

On the film, Volchenkov lines up a shot, and from across the corner of the frame comes Pronger's jersey. Pronger makes the hit, but Volchenkov gets a pass off and a half-second later the light flashes behind the goal, Kalinin burying the one-timer that Pronger was too far out-of-position to defend. Babcock pauses the tape on a picture of Pronger on his ass, the puck in the net several feet behind him.

"You leave your position, the other team scores. We have one chance at this, one chance to get this right, and every other team on the ice would like nothing more than to see Canada go home without a medal. So for god's sake stay in your fucking positions."

Nods all around; hopefully they've learned their lesson, and the tape switches back to the Sweden-Slovakia footage as they try to figure out how Slovakia beat Forsberg and Lundqvist, looking for chinks in the armor that might help them win tomorrow's game. The realization is unreal -- Sweden gone and Russia gone. Powerhouses disappeared, and with only two more games to go, it weighs like an ocean in the back of Sidney's head: there but for the grace of God go we.

They have to win this next one, there simply isn't any other choice.

*

Sidney returns to the room with every intention of doing nothing but falling into bed. After supper and the video session was another media scrum -- more questions of Does Canada have what it takes or Is Canada feeling any pressure -- and then a meeting of the captain and alternates with the coaching staff at night before he was allowed back to the hotel. When he reaches the room, the lights are already out and Jonny is a snoring lump beneath the covers of his bed, Sidney's bed. He blinks and tries not to think too hard about why this strange thing they're doing makes him feel warm to see his bed occupied, then dumps his bag in the corner as quietly as he can and steps to strip out of interview clothes. Changing requires more care than usual, and he favors the shoulder that Weber had nailed in practice while slipping out of his jacket and button-down shirt. The undershirt beneath the button-down is another matter entirely, and Sidney grits his teeth but doesn't manage to entirely contain the grunt of pain that raising that arm above his head brings.

The lump in the bed snorts, then goes quiet. After a moment, Jonny mumbles, "You back?"

"Yeah, finally escaped," says Sidney. Jonny had dealt with a media scrum of his own, but had gotten out at least an hour earlier.

"Mmmph," says the lump that is Jonny.

Sidney strips out of pants to his boxer-briefs, considers changing into sleep pants, and gives up on the idea. Washing his face and answering the emails he'd meant to get to tonight can wait until tomorrow, all he wants is sleep. Sidney runs his fingers through his hair, and glances once more over at the bed.

When he lifts the corner of the comforter, he discovers Jonny is shirtless and laying on his side, curved in a lazy semi-circle with his face twisted toward the pillow in shadows. Sidney crawls in behind him and presses himself to the contours of Jonny's body, hesitating for a moment before draping an arm over Jonny's waist. Jonny isn't like a girl and Sidney doesn't want to insult him, but the position is comfortable and familiar. Jonny leans back against him, settling in, and after a moment Sidney feels a hand skim down his forearm and cover his own, moving it down until his fingertips dip just under the elastic waistband of Jonny's pants.

Sidney hesitates a bit, then slides his hand all the way in and loosely fists Jonny's cock. "This what you want?" he whispers into the hair on the lower curve of Jonny's neck, and Jonny makes that same sleepy "Mmmph," sound, so Sidney strokes him lightly, tugging in a lazy rhythm set by the small twitches of Jonny's hips. It's slow and shockingly easy, like this, the feel and smell of Jonny in his sheets and in front of him, the soft and wet head of his cock under Sidney's thumb, the aborted sleepy noises Jonny makes every time Sidney rubs just right down the slit of his cock to the delicate flare beneath.

"'s good," Jonny breathes, and Sidney presses his nose between shoulderblades, exhausted after the long day, exhaling into the cleft and dip of muscles beside spine.

Touching seems more familiar like this, holding Jonny's cock just like he'd hold his own -- same hand, same grip. Not nearly as awkward as the day before, and after long moments with no protests and only Jonny's sleepily unguarded noises to guide him, Sidney begins to enjoy himself, to play. He varies the strokes whenever Jonny gets close, backs him off and listens to the resulting unhappy, wanting sounds. Jonny whispers something into the pillow, and Sidney can't quite hear him.

"What?"

Jonny lifts his head and turns blindly over his shoulder. "A little rougher. Just a little?"

"Like this?" and Sidney adjusts. Jonny's moan and the way his hips jerk forward is answer enough.

"Yeah," Sidney whispers. He can feel Jonny swell, tremble in his hand. "Wait." Jonny gives a complaining noise. Sidney soothes him with a press of palm against his balls. "Just, take your pants off, okay? Less laundry."

Jonny snorts but obeys, pushing the pants down to a lump beneath his feet at the very end of the bed. Sidney rewards him with long deliberate touches, as rough as Jonny seems to like it. It doesn't take much time for Jonny to come in soft panting breaths, and Sidney has barely finished wiping off his hand on the bedskirt off the edge of the mattress when the rise and fall of Jonny's chest grows even and slow.

"You didn't --" says Jonny, thick and hazy, reaching back to touch Sidney's thigh warm through the boxer-briefs. Sidney catches his breath at it, then covers Jonny's hand with his own and presses it back in front of them both, Sidney's arm once more around Jonny's waist. He links their fingers.

"I don't need to," Sidney says, and shoves forward a little with his hips so Jonny can feel that he isn't hard. Thick, yes, turned on but too tired to bother doing anything about it.

"Owe you."

Sidney thinks for a moment about how it makes him feel, to be owed an orgasm by a teammate. "Go to sleep," he says.

They do.

In the morning, Sidney awakens to the feel of Jonny touching his hand, tracing his fingers curiously and tapping at his wrist. Sidney grunts, slides the hand down to press firmly against the line of coarse hair below Jonny's navel, and curls closer. "Oh," whispers Jonny, and presses back so that they fit together well. Sidney lays his hand over the buffalo on Jonny's hip. For a while they simply lie there, and Sidney times his breathing to the expand-contract of ribs beneath his arm.

Then Jonny shivers and leans forward a bit, drawing away and reaching back. Sidney chokes on a quick gasp when Jonny palms his underwear and reaches in to fish his cock out through the slit. The touch is both matter-of-fact and intimate, a combination that mingles with the lingerings of sleep to send Sidney's vision thick and white with mist.

"This way," Jonny whispers, and shifts back so that they're once again pressed flush and Sidney's cock is trapped between Jonny's naked thighs, warm and snug and incredible. When Sidney hitches his hips forward, he can feel his cockhead push against the base of Jonny's balls, and the thought is almost unbearably arousing.

"Jonny," he says, meaning to ask are you sure or what made you think this or is this what you really want, but what comes out of his mouth is just a groan. Jonny pushes his hand down again, following that trail of hair. Sidney wraps a fist around him and thrusts experimentally, listening for the stuttered out breath when the thrust pushes Jonny's cock through his grip.

The feeling is strange, too dry and the friction is almost too great. Sidney is careful with his movements for a while, trying not to chafe them both in unbearably tender places, but sweat and the clear liquid that leaks from his cock soon aid that problem. Jonny's inner thighs are strong and tight, and covered lightly with hair. It's -- different. Like nothing he's ever felt before, and he wonders what it feels like from the other side, what it might feel like to have Jonny do this to him, with him. He tries to make it good, strokes with the rhythm that he remembers from last night and feels a sharp spike of triumph through his throat when Jonny ruts back against him, trying to get more of all the sensation at once.

It doesn't take long for either of them to come, and the entire time they're taking showers and getting dressed, Sidney feels something deep and proprietary well up in him at the thought that he'd come right up against Jonny's balls, that Jonny had taken it and liked it.

Nash tells him that he looks cheerful when he walks into the locker room for practice, a suspicious note in his voice. Sidney tells him to go fuck himself, and smiles through the first round of pre-practice interviews anyway.

*

It's the eighteenth time he's answered this exact question, with this exact wording. Sidney is keeping count. The total rises to thirty-one if he allows for variant wording. The morbid humor in the ever-growing numbers lets him smile briefly and look pleasant before answering. They also keep him from fucking strangling the reporter doing the asking.

"I do think I could be better, yes. And it's something that I work on every day, in practice and with the coaches in video. I look for ways to make myself more effective, ways that I can help this team. But at the same time, it's a team sport, and I'm lucky enough to play on a team with guys like Eric Staal or the Sharks boys or Chris Pronger, so when the bounces don't go my way, there's still everyone else out there playing huge for Canada." He smiles again at the end, this time a little more forced. It's a non-answer, but polite enough to end the line of questioning if the reporter isn't a complete asshole.

This one is.

"But you personally," he says, and Sidney could rip the smug little puke-green square right out of his coat pocket, the way he thrusts his chest out and puffs up toward the camera, as though his 5'7" will ever be as large or imposing as Sidney. "You personally do agree that you've not been playing well?"

Sidney grits his teeth through the next mechanical smile and hopes that the grinding noise of his molars doesn't make it down to the microphone. He'd only had that happen once, but it earned him a three-hour lecture from the Penguins media relations department and another hour of 'Media 101' refresher course. "I don't agree with that statement, no. I've not been scoring as much as I'd like to, of course, but I've got goals in a couple games and I think I've gotten an assist in a couple more. I'm doing okay in the dot, and I think I've been contributing when I'm not on the puck. Of course I wouldn't mind scoring more --" he laughs, make it sound jovial, show the world he's not worried, "-- but no, I wouldn't say that I've not been playing well."

"Time," says the clerk standing just off-camera, and Sidney could kiss her. This morning, she's become his favorite person in the world. The reporter and his camera crew and his stupid puke-colored suit shuffle off to where Lu is holding court at the other end of the room, surrounded by a pack of jackals bearing TV equipment. "Sid, you need anything before the next one?"

"I'm going to take five minutes and hit the can," he lies through his teeth, and flees the green room to the hall outside for a break.

The cast of players in the media junket is different today than it had been for earlier games. Today, Toews and Richards have both been conscripted into answering questions about shutting down Ovechkin in the Russia game. They, along with he, Lu, Neids, Pronger, and Iggy, were tasked with disseminating the team's talking points, and combating potential negative storylines for the series. The one he's been getting asked about a lot today is the idea that he isn't scoring enough. Sidney had been sick of the questions about what he needs to do to score more after the first half-hour. Now going on three hours, he's rapidly approaching the point of wrapping his stick around the head of the next reporter to ask.

Sidney wanders to the dressing room and sits down on one of the benches opposite the white boards, still covered with Hitchcock's X and O diagram of their plans for Hossa in the next game. The X for the slot winger on a planned faceoff is too high, it's a bad angle. Sidney carefully skirts the maple leaf in the center of the floor as he crosses to the board and erases the X with a finger, redrawing it in the proper spot. A noise from behind him, and Sidney checks over his shoulder. Niedermayer is standing in the doorway.

"Bad angle," Sidney says, as though that explains why he's hiding in the dressing room instead of out there doing his duty for the team.

"I saw them chase you," says Nieds. Sidney sighs.

"It's just a five minute break. I'll go back in. That little shit from the Juneau Star --."

"I know. We've been getting it too." Sidney could bang his brains against a wall. Nieds clears his throat and runs a hand through his greying hair. "We've got your back on this, Kid."

He nods and Nieds disappears back into the hall. Sidney sits down again, puts his elbows on his knees and stares at the maple leaf in the carpet.

The clock on the wall says that three minutes have passed when he stands, squares his shoulders, and takes the rest of the way back to the green room at a trot.

The clerk sees him and waves him over, checks his hair and makeup, and gives him a little shove towards the stool they've got set up for this one. The reporter is a woman, tall and blonde. Sidney recognizes her vaguely -- Carrie something, out of Toronto. She covers the Leafs. Sidney gives her a smile and she nods to the cameraman; the green light above the camera lens comes on and she starts, "I'm here with Sidney Crosby of Team Canada Hockey. Tell me, Sidney, you guys gave a great effort in the Russia game, but you personally were held off the scoresheet. Are you concerned about your lack of scoring lately?"

Tally number thirty-two, Sidney thinks. "I think I could do better, yes," he starts in again.

*

Lemaire is standing directly behind him and has been for most of the game. During this time, Sidney has developed a healthy admiration for his lung capacity, and possibly some minor hearing loss. It's gotten worse in the last few minutes, as Canada makes mistake after mistake against the Slovakians in their own zone.

"For fuck's sake," Lemaire shouts in Sidney's ear as the referees lift the net from on top of Luongo. Above them, the jumbotron shows a slow-motion replay of the train wreck: Weber drops his stick, picks it up, then drives Michal Handzus into the goal from behind, nearly decapitating Lu with the crossbar as the net falls on top of him. Beside Sidney, Iggy shifts uneasily. They came awfully close to losing their goalie.

On the ice, Bergeron flubs the faceoff -- second in a row that he's lost -- and the biscuit stays near Lu's net. It caroms behind the goal then off the boards to Demitra. "No," yells Eric Staal from Sidney's other side, "No, Bergie, no!" but it's too late. Bergie follows the puck toward Demitra's stick, and runs straight into Doughty. They all go down in a heap. Sidney has two seconds of time to think, that leaves Duncs defending two -- before the puck is in the net and the light is on for the goal.

"Goddamn it," Iggy growls. Across the bench, shoulders slump and Sidney grits his teeth into his mouthpiece until it hurts. Their comfortable three-goal lead has been reduced to a one-goal lead in only the past five minutes, and there's still five minutes of hockey left to play.

Bergie skids up in front of where Babcock is chewing furiously on his pen cap. "I'm sorry coach," he says, and is interrupted by Babcock's furious yell of "Sit your ass down." Bergie nods, white lights of the arena flashing off the scratches on his face shield, and shuffles to a spot on the bench as far from Babcock's wrath as he can get.

Lemaire taps Toews on the shoulder, and Jonny looks up then nods, already in motion to vault the boards for the center ice faceoff. Sidney blinks. At the beginning of the Games, this faceoff would have been his; his job to turn the momentum back around with a strong shift after the other team scored. Now it's Jonny out there on the ice, trying to set a tempo that will let Canada hang on to this slim lead for the next four-and-a-half minutes of insanity.

"Kid out next," says Babcock from behind him, so Sidney slings a leg over the board, motions to Eric and Iggy, adjusts his grip on his stick and traces the path of the puck behind Halak's goal. Toews floats high toward the blue line and flicks his stick toward the benches. A signal. A few seconds later, he cycles up toward the bench, and Sidney is over the wood and dashing toward the biscuit on the far side of the ice.

They hang on. Lu plays like the puck is magnetized to his pads, save after save. The rest of them play like they just stepped out of juniors. Doughty runs over Bergie again, Weber falls twice, Thornton turns it over in the neutral zone. Sidney skates as hard as he can when he's out, and spends his time on the bench on his feet, shouting encouragement and chewing his mouthpiece like he could punch a hole through the rubber if he tried hard enough. His shoulders feel tight, his gloves too small. They can't lose this game, they just can't.

Sidney comes back to the bench after a shift pinned back against the goal -- Eric saved them from disaster with a quick clear toward the end -- and takes deep jerking breaths as Jonny's line heads out to pick up play. The scoreboard shows 90 seconds left. Play settles into a crazy pace near the goal: stumbles, falls, a four man screen on the crease with Lu desperate to see the puck. Sidney's mouth is achingly dry, but he doesn't dare look away for long enough to reach water. Every man on the bench is standing and craning to see, the whole team desperately willing the puck to stay away from the net. To Sidney's right, Seabrook screams, "Near high, near high, take it" and Keith hears just in time to shift his stick to block a shot, trusting Seabrook's judgment blindly and playing better for it. Halak comes in to the bench for the extra Slovak attacker and Chara heads out with the apparent intent to kill Nash. Sidney is pretty sure his heart has stopped beating and has instead decided to explode.

The shift stretches interminably, as though the speed on the ice has slowed down everything else in the world. The Toews line has been out for a full minute, playing the fastest pace Sidney has seen yet at the Games, while Keith and Doughty have been out for nearly two. "Push it, Duncs," Seabrook shouts, and Sidney can see their defensemen struggle, force through the scream in their legs and the crush in their lungs, and he knows how it feels to find that extra reserve of something that lets muscles go hard for just a little longer.

Thirty more seconds.

No one comes in for a change, because there's no time between the dull thuds of shots on shinpads, the sharper ticks of sticks on boards. Richards's board work is starting to get reckless, desperate for a clear so that the exhausted line can get off the ice. They can't allow in another goal, and Sidney is openmouthed, his gloves locked around the boards in preparation to go out. He needs to be out there, it's killing him to stand still and watch bone-tired teammates try to keep Canada ahead. He should be out there, where he's able to do something.

Ten seconds. Still ahead.

Suddenly the slice and slide of skates, the thunk of blocked shots, the cowbells and airhorns and the deafening crowd gives way to a different sound -- a high clear ping that puts Sidney's heart in his throat so quickly he feels like puking. Oh God, please no. Demitra has his hands in the air for Slovakia, but there's no light and no whistle, not yet, still hope. The split second of celebration is also a split second of hesitation, and it lets Nash clear the biscuit back to the blue line. Still no whistle. It's enough. A buzzer sounds, but there's no light at the goal and when Sidney looks up, the clock shows zeros on the time. They somehow held on.

On the ice, Toews collapses against Keith as though he's too tired from that last unending shift to stand without support. Richards practically takes a header over the boards when his knees give out just as he's reaching over for water. Seabrook skates over with a water bottle for Keith so that he doesn't have to come get it himself.

Around them, the entire building quivers with a chant of "We want U-S-A," loud enough to rattle his stick when he leans it against the boards, but at that moment Sidney can concentrate only on trying to soothe his body's visceral panic responses. The noise is both friendly and menacing. All those people, all those eyes, all those expectations after a game so unspeakably, uncomfortably close. Bile burns in his throat like sour poison, and he takes deep breaths, finally reaches for a water bottle. In two days they somehow have to play America like a team that knows they can win, and they just came two centimeters, one goal post, and five seconds from losing everything.

*

Part Five

*