going up flying, going home [5/6]

[antumbral]

going up flying, going home



*

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

*

The walk back becomes appropriately miserable about ten seconds after Sidney steps out the rear entrance of Canada Hockey Place. It's raining, a few degrees too warm for snow. While the others run to the bus, Sidney hangs back and shakes his head when Babcock raises questioning eyebrows in his direction. Yzerman says nothing, so Babcock shrugs and steps through the open bus doors, pulling them closed behind himself. Sidney trudges off towards the sidewalk that will take him around the bay, and doesn't wait to see the bus leave the parking lot.

At first he trudges slowly, head bowed and hood pulled up, not wanting to attract attention. The wind pushes raindrops into his face, stinging cold and just at the edge of freezing properly. They bite like frustration, like punishment, and Sidney feels himself deserving. The truth is that they'd let that game go. They'd slacked off and felt comfortable when the slightest edge of comfort could have cost them a medal chance.

By the time he reaches the main sidewalk, the rain has become tiresome, less the penance he deserves and more just one more in a list of things that have turned out badly this night. He glances around at the crowd walking near him, all buried under umbrellas or walking quickly with their heads bent into the wind. His people, their people. Sidney sighs, then gives up on walking slowly and breaks into a jog. It isn't comfortable, his feet protesting in shoes that weren't made for running, but it lets him avoid questions even if someone were to notice him, and it covers ground quickly to get him back to the Village checkpoint in less than seven minutes.

When he gets to the room, Toews is still in the shower, and Sidney can hear the sounds of running water through the closed bathroom door. His clothes are soaking, so he strips down to boxer-briefs and leaves the rest in a heap by the door for housekeeping to pick up and launder in the morning. One spare towel from the closet later and he's drier, if not feeling any more settled. The frustration of those last minutes of the game still runs tar-thick beneath his skin. If he were home in Pittsburgh, he'd head down to the gym that Mario keeps in the basement and take out the violence he's currently feeling on a hanging bag. In the Village, though, someone would notice if Sidney Crosby spent two hours beating the stuffing out of a bag. Someone would tell a journalist and he would likely see the news of it on the headlines in the morning. One more complication that he doesn't need right now, not with so much that needs to be fixed on-ice before Sunday's final game.

Instead, Sidney throws himself onto his bed and folds his arms behind his head, trying to come up with a way of working out anxiety and pent up adrenaline. Toews's phone rings once, twice on the nightstand, but Sidney ignores it. It's only a minute or so before the sound of the water stops and Toews steps out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist.

"Oh," he says, "You're back."

"We sucked tonight."

"We were up for most of the game."

"And then we sucked." Sidney sits up on the bed, still too keyed-up for rest.

"Yeah, eh," Jonny runs a hand through the wet hair at the back of his scalp like he doesn't know how to deny the accusation.

"Fuck," whispers Sidney to the far wall. He stands, walks out to the balcony and looks down, walks back into the room, pacing. "We won," he says finally.

"Barely." It's taut, clipped, and in Jonny's voice, Sidney can recognize the edge of fear and frustration that's echoing through his own marrow. He wonders briefly what Toews does when he's home in Chicago to take off these rough edges. Perhaps he has his own hanging bag somewhere to hit.

"Whatever. Move." Sidney walks around him into the bathroom and spends longer than necessary getting ready for bed. He takes a blistering hot shower, warm enough to raise steam on the tile and turn his skin bright red. The water begins to soothe out the aches of the game in a way that the perfunctory post-game shower before facing the media couldn't. The bruise on his chest is getting worse, and one of his hands is sore after getting hit with a puck from Hossa. When all the sweat feels like it's gone from his skin and his muscles are loose enough that he can raise his arms to rinse his hair without pain, Sidney turns off the water and steps out to brush his teeth with more force than necessary. It's a debate over whether he should bother with fresh boxers, but in the end he decides against it and steps out naked.

Toews is waiting for him, standing in the doorframe with his arms crossed around his chest and his face tight. "Move," Sidney says, and isn't surprised when the command goes ignored.

He pushes Jonny aside to get past him, heading for his own bed, but Jonny pushes back, fierce. Sidney stumbles with the unexpected force of it. He falls facedown into the mattress that isn't his and bounces, then flips himself over and pushes up for a confrontation, but Jonny pushes him back again before he can truly get his balance. "Hey," Sidney starts to say, but he only gets about half the sound out before Jonny is on top of him, blunt knee forced into his side hard enough to hurt. One hand twists at his nipple, rough so that it hurts with a burn through his chest. Jonny bites at his mouth and shoulders, grabs his wrists and struggles to pin his arms, but Sidney returns with shoves so hard they border on punches.

With a growl that's still more frustration than aggression, Jonny manages to get a palm on Sidney's bare cock. He isn't even hard yet but as soon as he's touched, Sidney realizes in a flash what's happening here: adrenaline can come out as fight or fuck, and since there isn't anything to fight, they might as well pick the second option. Sidney is abruptly on board with this plan, and their battle shifts from a true fight to a clawing, frantic fumble for contact. They aren't even completely on the bed, but it doesn't matter; Sidney needs rough, not comfortable.

Jonny's hand doesn't feel good on him per se, borderline violent and too demanding for what Sidney should enjoy, but damned if he isn't on the verge of coming so fast it shocks him. Neither of them is wet enough to keep a handjob from chafing, and the rhythm is too uneven for what he would ordinarily call pleasurable, but after tonight he doesn't want something easy. He suspects that his own hand is no better on Jonny, but Sidney's head hums too much with the need to get off for him to worry about niceties like rhythm or what kind of grip would be perfect. Jonny bites at his mouth and buries his face in Sidney's neck, pumping his hips into the harsh, furious strokes on his cock. Sidney returns the motion so that they're restless against each other, gritting teeth and straining for some sort of release. He thrusts up again, grunts against Jonny's mouth, and comes.

Jonny's hand doesn't stop moving, jerking him through it, and when the roughness starts to hurt, Sidney throws him off to the side. Jonny shoves Sidney's hand away and strokes himself, four hard tugs until he's coming too. They lie there side by side, both panting up at the ceiling. They still haven't managed to get completely on the bed, knees hanging over the edge, and even though it's not precisely comfortable, Sidney contemplates not moving and just falling asleep right there. He'd probably regret it in the morning.

A little convincing is required to get Jonny to climb up with him to where there are pillows, but when they flop down again, Sidney decides that the extra effort was worth it. Adrenaline crash and an orgasm is a hell of a sleep aid, and they drift off with the lights still on, ten feet to the wall too far to move to bother with the switch.

In the morning Jonny catches his eye in the mirror. "Last night. Sorry if I --."

"Nah," Sidney interrupts and waves his razor dismissively. "It's fine."

A pause.

"We won," Sidney says. There's little of the frustration of the night before, most of the jittering anxiety melted away with sleep into a settled acceptance.

Jonny nods, and that's the end of it.

*

He reaches for his sticks off the rack on the wall, then realizes that the rasping sound on his right is Eric, already using the hand saw to cut one of his own sticks down to size. Sidney stands behind him to get in line. The blowtorch and glue stick are on the table to the side, so Sidney picks them up, twirling the glue stick aimlessly in his fingers until Eric turns around and they wordlessly exchange positions, Eric taking the torch and glue, and Sidney wedging a stick into the vice to cut.

When he's finished with the saw and has glued his stick caps back in place, Sidney heads back into the dressing room to finish prepping. The noises are familiar and sound like home: the soft rasp of Marty and Lu rubbing silicone into their pads to buff out the streaks, seated together side-by-side on the floor, both their faces pictures of quiet contemplation; snickering laughter from Donut and Perry on the other end of the benches, in a conversation that Sidney can't quite make out; Keith leaning lazily against Seabrook with eyes half-lidded and weary, watching as Seabs wraps sticks; the rhythmic skritch skritch of tape unrolling; short snaps and scuffs of teammates fastening buckles or velcro on gear. Sidney sits down at the stall with his name placard on it and reaches above himself for his tape, wrapping methodically in circles to form a knot at the top, then down the shaft for a grip, then the toe and back to the heel of the shaft. He's halfway through with his second stick when Toews sits down beside him and goes to work on his own sticks, the acidic smell of adhesive rising from their tape, fingers sticky with blade wax.

There is a certain comfort in these rituals. Even though it's boiling in Sidney's gut that tomorrow he will play the biggest game of his life, the pre-practice routines are still the same. Nerves don't change them, the magnitude of the game doesn't change them, the names or skills of his teammates don't change them.

When he's content with the wrap on his sticks, Sidney finishes getting dressed -- socks, tape on the socks, tape on his finger where Hossa hit him with the slapper yesterday, deoderizer spray for his gloves and pads and inside his skates, lace up the skates then tape the laces -- and after all is done he looks up to watch the rest of the room. The Sharks line are crowded together, handing the deoderizer can back and forth between each other, Thorts testing Marleau's shoulderpad for cracks. Keith stands and wanders over to speak to Toews, who looks up and chews on his mouthguard while he listens. Niedermayer is already kitted out and watches the whole room with the proprietary air of a captain whose men are doing their jobs. None of the coaches are in yet, so it's just them. Team Canada gearing up for battle.

When Babcock steps through the door, the quiet and relaxed air of the room changes. It's subtle but unmistakable to Sidney, who tends to notice such things with a long habit of monitoring his team's mood: everyone tenses a hair, and the reassuring routines of preparation are finished quickly so that everyone is intent by the time Babcock reaches the white boards. "So. America," he says.

Off to Sidney's right, Iggy nods.

"We know what they're bringing, and we know what we can do," continues Babcock. "We tried a few different things in the third yesterday, obviously it didn't work, so for practice today and the game tomorrow, expect to go back to what we started the Slovakia game with. Same lines, and you'll be looking at the same system, so about the same amount of ice time. Crosby and Sharks scoring, Toews checking, Getzlaf grind. We've got the ice for a short no-contact skate this afternoon and video after that, I'll remind you again when we get done this morning." A moment at the whiteboard to sketch out lines and he turns back to the room at large. "We've got a lot of guys in this room who've been in big games before. You guys know what this is going to be like. The goal for today is to get better. Do that, and winning will take care of itself."

Niedermayer levers himself to his feet with his stick. "Two more days," he says. "After today and tomorrow, nothing we can do will matter. Let's make today count." He takes a step toward the door, and the rest of them rise to follow. Sidney is the first in line, not only because it's his duty as an alt captain, but because the ice is the only thing that will wipe away the memory of the last minutes against Slovakia. When he steps onto that clean sheet of ice -- smooth and unmarked, peaceful -- Sidney truly believes they are capable of anything.

*

They eat supper together by unspoken agreement after the video session that afternoon. There's no restaurant booked, nothing scheduled, but without a word of planning the whole team treks over to the cafeteria together.

Sidney doesn't realize until they step into the food court exactly what it means that they are the only athletes at the entire Games still competing. Even curling finished earlier in the day. Since they've come straight from practice, many of them are in jerseys and a hush falls as soon as Niedermayer finishes giving his jacket to the coat room and steps through the credentials check into the cafeteria proper. Sidney is next, and for the first time ever, the room doesn't buzz with noise. When Toews and Weber follow him, the silence becomes nigh absolute. No one asks them for autographs as they cross the room, and seats mysteriously open up at the longest table in the room until there are enough for the entire team to reserve its spot and sit together. The noise level resumes a low hum when they split up to go get food, leaving Bergie, Nash, Pronger, and Thornton to save their spots.

The odd deference continues in line for food. "Vous prenez ma place dans la ligne," says a delicate-looking man who wears a hoodie with the Swiss cross on it.

Sidney's French is rusty, but Jonny translates for him and for Seabs, who has followed them to the queue for the steak station. "He says that we can have his spot in line." Sidney frowns, not wanting to be treated as special or a diva, and Jonny catches the look with a raised eyebrow and nods.

"Merci, mais il n'est pas nécessaire," Jonny says, then for Seabrook's benefit, "I told him he didn't need to do that."

"Oh," says Seabs, just as the Swiss man says. "Non, j'insiste." He smiles, dark hair falling into his face. "Vous savez, nous avons presque vous battre dans la ronde préliminaire."

Jonny laughs. "Ne vous offensez pas, mais nous sommes très heureux que vous n'avez pas gagner ce match."

"Vous et le reste de votre pays. Maintenant, j'espère que vous gagnerez contre les Etats-Unis depuis qu'ils ont éliminé notre équipe. Ici." The Swiss man gestures again for them to pass him, just as the woman standing beside him says, "S'il vous plaît, ce n'est pas la peine."

Jonny gives them another, "Merci," then shrugs and jerks his head to lead Sidney and Seabs past the Swiss group to the front of the line, where the grill cook takes their orders. "What was that all about?" Seabrook asks.

Jonny frowns at one of the tines on his fork and bends it straighter. "They insisted that we pass them in the line. He seemed pleased that the Swiss team had almost beaten us in prelims, and I told him we were pretty happy that they didn't. Now he wants us to beat the Americans since it was USA who took them out of the tournament."

"Oh."

Sidney himself had been able to follow most of the conversation, though his own French is nowhere near as smooth or fast as Jonny's. Still, as he spoons up mashed potatoes and green beans onto his plate, waiting for his steak to finish cooking, Sidney wonders how many other countries want for Canada to win. He'd known throughout the tournament that the team carried the hopes of all his countrymen, but it never occurred to him that there might be other countries as well, people around the world who were counting on him and his teammates to pull off the gold. It's a sobering thought.

When they get back to the table, Sidney takes Nash's seat so that Rick can go get food. Seabrook sits down next to Keith and elbows him in the gut, then spoons some of his broccoli off onto Keith's plate, taking a portion of Keith's carrots for himself. Iggy sits down on Sidney's other side, and he glances curiously at Iggy's plate. "Thai?"

"Vietnamese, but you were close."

"I just wanted something normal," says Sidney. "I did have Moroccan yesterday, that was good."

"Normal." Iggy is watching him out of the corner of his eye as he spoons up noodles and beef from his soup.

"Yeah. When I'm home I usually do either steak or salmon the night before a game, so I figured I'd stick with that."

Iggy nods with his mouth full, and swallows before saying, "Nerves?"

"Yeah."

That's the most that they talk about it for the rest of dinner. The whole team seems subdued, quieter, but they laugh at Nash's jokes, pick on Getzy for his hair, and Sidney fends off barbs about his inability to grow a playoff beard. With the medal game looming on the horizon, the playoffs seem very far away. When they've finished eating, they stay around the table just talking, Nieds and Thornton telling stories from previous Olympics that make Marty blush. Iggy joins in for the tale of a prank on Gretzky during the Salt Lake Games that nearly got him benched for the whole of the elimination tournament. Sidney listens, rapt, and doesn't talk much. He notices Doughty, Seabrook, and Weber doing likewise; the young guns learning from their elders. There isn't much time left for this camaraderie -- in another day or two they'll all be on planes again and back to different teams. The bubble of isolation they've all been living in will burst and the season will resume, as though the Games were some strange dreamspace, forbidden to touch the reality of the NHL. Sidney finds that he will miss this, even if it's only been two weeks in the making.

It's 9 p.m. by the time they're ready to leave, and Sidney walks with the team back to Canada House, his shoulder bumping companionably against Jonny beside him. Mike Richards is on Jonny's other side, and the two of them are engrossed in a conversation about the finer points of Kane's game and how to contain him, but Sidney finds he doesn't mind that he's being ignored. The weather has turned cold again and yesterday's rain is now snow, thick enough to muffle the sounds of celebrations around the Village. He takes a deep breath, cold enough to sting in his lungs, and holds it until the sting turns to a burn. Then he releases the air and watches the steam disperse, feeling the tension that has been building in his shoulders release briefly. One way or another, it will be over tomorrow. By Monday, the team and the snow and the electric crowds will all be one more memory.

*

"Are you awake?" whispers Jonny from the other bed.

Sidney is, in fact, awake. He's been lying awake for nearly an hour and a half, after the two of them shrugged off the rest of the team's plan to play ping-pong into the wee hours of the morning in favor of trying to rest. So far, it's not working. The nerves won't let him settle down; his mind keeps straying to practice that morning, to what he knows of the American players, to the video session in the afternoon and the coaches' analysis of Parise on the power play. The nerves and the thinking aren't helping him sleep, though.

"Yeah, I'm awake." Sidney stares at the ceiling -- Kane likes it along the half-boards, force him deep to the corners if you can but watch him if he gets behind the net -- and isn't terribly surprised when Jonny gets out of his own bed to climb beside Sidney and flop down on his stomach. They hadn't mentioned anything to each other about the sleeping arrangements tonight, but Sidney isn't a good enough liar to pretend that he's unhappy now that Jonny is closer.

"I'm going to be terrible tommorow," Jonny whispers, his nose against Sidney's bicep. "There's no way I'm getting any sleep."

"You nervous too?"

"Yeah."

"You'll be fine."

Jonny snorts as though the words aren't convincing him any more than Sidney is convincing himself. "Wonder if Nieds or Iggy will be able to sleep tonight?"

Sidney hums. "They've both done this so often they could probably play the entire damn tournament in their sleep."

For a while they both are quiet, listening to each other breathe, then Jonny says, "My cousin sent me a text message while we were at dinner. She's six."

"What'd she say?"

"That we had better win so that she can get a puppy. My aunt told her she could have a puppy if we win the fucking game."

"Jesus," says Sidney.

"Yeah."

"I hope your six-year-old cousin didn't use 'fucking' in the text message."

Jonny laughs. "No. But still, it's so --." His voice goes quieter, more a hum or a whisper than real words, and Sidney can feel him shudder where they're pressed side-by-side. Sidney hesitates for a moment, then gives in to his impulse and with a few pushes and tugs of shoulders and hips, he turns Jonny over onto his back and pulls his t-shirt off.

"Do you remember Worlds, the year it was in Québec?" Sidney asks, finding the World Championship scar by touch, letting his fingers press in enough not to be ticklish.

"Yeah."

"Was it this bad?"

"No." They both sigh, and Sidney rubs his nose and chin against the nearest stretch of Jonny's arm. "I mean, there was some pressure, sure, but not like this. It wasn't the Olympics." His voice rumbles scratchy in his chest, and Sidney moves a hand higher to wrap against Jonny's throat, where he can feel the vibrations most strongly.

"No puppies on the line?"

A snort of laughter. "No." Sidney's thumb traces circles under the hinge of his jaw. There isn't really any hair there, the skin soft and smooth and easy to stroke. Jonny raises his chin to give more room for Sidney's exploratory touches.

"My dad really wants this one," Sidney confesses. "It's sort of weird. Even when we got the Cup last year, I knew he wanted me to win, but I knew he wanted the win because it would make me happy. With this one..." He drifts off into silence and reaches to graze Jonny's ear, trace the shell, then moves his hand back to wrap again around Jonny's neck. His thumb is pressed against the pulse on one side and his fingers against the pulse point on the other, just light pressure, enough to feel the blood pumping against the touch. "With this one it's more, because he wants it for himself too, you know, for him and Canada. Mom's the same way."

Jonny makes a noise of agreement, and Sidney enjoys the way it quivers through his Adam's apple. For another second they're quiet, then Sidney shifts again and kisses him. Jonny allows it, kisses back with little urgency, easy. With a soft exhalation into the mouth below his, Sidney shifts so that he can be on top, their thighs tangled and Jonny solid and muscular beneath him. There's a contented low noise that might have come from either of them, and Jonny slips a hand around to cover the small of Sidney's back in a gesture that sends goosebumps across his shoulders. Jonny's hair is still damp from the shower where Sidney touches it.

Jonny leans up into his mouth and, more by instinct than by conscious decision, Sidney licks out at the soft lips beneath him. There's a startled noise but Jonny opens for him, lets Sidney explore with his tongue. Certain kisses draw gutteral noises or throaty grunts, and Sidney presses down more with his hand to feel them. This gets him a swift inhalation through Jonny's nose, and a hand wrapped around his wrist, but not to pull him away. It's just touch, very light touch at that, so Sidney doesn't move, keeps his hand where he can feel every noise made, every slight movement of Jonny's mouth or jaw, every breath he draws.

When Sidney leans forward to touch their foreheads together, Jonny murmurs, "You could choke me like this."

"I won't."

"I know." There's no question there, only steady assurance, and though it flushes Sidney's chest with warmth, there's a pause that threatens to stretch out to awkwardness. "Babcock would kill you," Jonny says at last. The thought makes them both laugh.

Slow shifts of hips rub their whole bodies together, not enough for anything more than a melting, gentle arousal. They could do this all night, just forget about nerves and the game and tomorrow, stay slow and heated. Sidney lets himself float on the feeling.

At last, Jonny reaches up and tugs the hand that had been in his hair down between their bodies. "Touch me," he says. Sidney kisses him deep and hungrier.

"You want these off?" Sidney cups the shape of his cock through his pants.

"Yeah. Here, can I --?"

"Yes," says Sidney and reaches out again to touch.

Afterwards, Jonny lies quiet and stares up at the ceiling. Sidney stares at Jonny, unable to see the scars in the dark but cataloguing them in his head: Worlds, World Juniors, World U-17. He wonders where the Olympic scar will fit in, what it will look like, whether the lines will be thick or thin. When he returns to Pittsburgh, he'll put his medal -- whichever one they win -- in the big trophy case beside the fireplace in Mario's house, but he likes the idea that Jonny will carry his most personal sign of their Games with him where ever he goes. Maybe when Sidney gets home he'll get a tattoo, someplace inconspicuous, just something that will go with him all the time.

First they have to win, though. Sidney's mind drifts to the video session from that afternoon, all about what to expect from the American system: powerplay shooters are usually Rafalski from the top of the near circle or Kane from the far half-boards, the book on Parise is watch for odd man breaks down the far side, Ryan Whitney doesn't see much ice time so take advantage of the fact that he's slow while he's out there.

The clock on the bedside table flashes twenty minutes gone by when Jonny says, "Scouting on Miller is mainly screens and distractions." Sidney jumps at the words, unexpected after so much silence. His heart rate is still returning to normal as Jonny continues, "Shoot low corners for pad rebounds, and if you're close in try to roof it if he goes down blocker side because he kicks up slower on blocker than glove."

Sidney takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. "Rafalski's the priority on the backcheck if the D are behind the blueline, Parise and Malone and Drury are priority if the D are forward." He imagines Babcock's voice in the darkened dressing room, the laser pointer dancing across the video screen.

Jonny's voice at his side is contemplative. "Miller's not a puckhandler, so footspeed on the forecheck, look to crash him if he goes back for it."

The clock shows 4 a.m. when Sidney finally drifts off to the sound of Jonny thinking out loud about how to get into Kane's head. They have to be up for breakfast by 8 a.m. They have less than eight hours until the game.

*

A soccer ball ricochets off the far wall of the concrete corridor beneath the stands of Canada Hockey Place with a thud that no one can hear. There's still an hour and a half to go until puck drop at noon, but the crowds outside the arena are already 10,000 strong and cheering. The outdoor projection screens are replaying the telecast of the Canada-Russia game, and within the building, the noise is enough to require them all to speak in low shouts.

"Heater, that's on you," says Nash, and Sidney watches Heatley jog off to retrieve the errant ball. Behind their circle and further down the hall, well out of range of the soccer group, Lu is skipping rope, headphones in his ears, locked away in his own little world. The crowd noise from outside likewise drowns out the rhythmic slap of his gym shoes on concrete or the slap of the rope. Sidney bounces on his toes, waiting while Heatley hustles back to the group.

Around them, the underbelly of the arena smells like popcorn, fried dough, and the sweat that's beginning to form across their shoulders from the nerves and their warmups. The atmosphere reminds him of every other game he's played for the last four years, helping to slightly calm the buzzing of nerves in his stomach.

"Heads up," Heater yells, and knees the ball up across to Boyle, who flails to catch it back up with an ankle, sending it left to Doughty. Sidney waits and bounces some more on his toes, then manages to knee the ball to Weber with a "Hup," when it's his turn.

"Hey, watch --," Flower says, before the ball flies wide to hit the wall and Boyle is forced to make a heroic save on the deflection to keep it in the circle.

"Fucking watch it, Flower." Dropping the ball or sending it down the hall are the cardinal sins in this game.

"Yeah man, no coordination." Nash flips the ball expertly to Sidney, who returns it just as neatly.

"Eh, fuck off," Flower says good-naturedly, and deliberately sends the ball at Nash's head the next time it comes to him.

"Hey!"

"Quit your bitching."

"Bitching my ass." Nash takes a couple steps into the center of the circle, dodges the flying ball, and takes a playful swipe at Flower, who darts to the side with the lanky grace that only goalies manage. It leaves enough space in the circle for Nash to settle into a spot beside him, where they can elbow each other whenever the ball comes near in a try to make the other miss. The rest of the circle gradually readjusts until everyone is evenly spaced again, and Sidney finds himself kicking balls to Flower just to watch him avoid Nash's attempts to trip him as he returns the kick.

"Does Nasher have his panties in a wad?" Heatley laughs.

"Play nice, kids." This from a grinning Iggy, who's just wandered up to join the game. Nash kicks the ball at him and Iggy parries easily.

It feels natural, all of them together like this, getting limbered up. Aside from the noise overhead and the constant fission of nerves along his spine, it could be any other game. They feel like a team; they felt like a team yesterday on the ice in practice.

Niedermayer jogs up. "Time," he says, which means that the next person to touch the ball grabs it instead of kicking it, and they all trot back to the dressing room for the pre-game coaches' meeting. Just like any other team. Like any other game.

Lemaire is already at the whiteboard, which is covered in a mess of line combinations, match-up plans, and systems. It's Babcock and Yzerman who turn to speak to them, though, while Lemaire is still writing.

"It's a little late in the tournament to be making major changes, so we won't," says Babcock, gesturing at the whiteboard. "We'll just execute on what we've already got. You guys know this stuff, just check your lines for the opening faceoff before we head out." He presses his lips together, takes a moment to make eye contact around the room. "I need your best out there, today. Nobody takes a shift off, we can't afford it. You all know what we're up against, and you all know what that American team can do." A snort goes round the room, all of them remembering the deafening silence after the loss, barely a week ago. Around them, the building quivers with sound -- the noise of expectations, of celebrations pent up and waiting. "You all know what's at stake here, there's not much more I can say about it." Babcock leans back against the white board and crosses his arms over his chest, still watching them all carefully.

Yzerman takes a step toward the front of the room, motion drawing all eyes. "We don't have any more time to waste on this. We know as a team how good we are and we haven’t reached that limit yet," he says quietly, and despite the cheering overhead, it doesn't have to be loud. No one in the room is moving, all of them for once on the same page, focused and still.

"We didn't play this far to let it go," says Sidney, and Niedermayer glances over at him, nods. At his side, Toews nods as well and elbows him gently in agreement.

"Let's get out there and prove it," says Nieds.

"We've got one more game to take this thing," Babcock says, "So dig a little deeper, guys." He jerks his head towards the door, where Lu leads them out onto the ice to go to work. Sidney takes a deep breath, stands, and follows, trying to convince the raw feeling in his stomach that they can play like champions.

*

Sidney collapses to the bench, just off a shift and panting. He's in the process of reaching for the smelling salts when the puck sails over his head to land in the crowd. He glances up to the ice to see Nash wheeling back past the bench toward their own zone. The faceoff will be close to Lu, then. From out of the corner of one eye, amid all the motion in the crowd, Sidney catches a glimpse of Babcock waving his clipboard like a madman toward the ice. He holds the smelling salts up to his nose and takes a whiff that makes his eyes stutter shut with the acrid burn, but the salts do their work and open his lungs with a gasp, so that he barely hears the sound of the whistle blowing over the heaving rush of his own breath.

Babcock has called a timeout for Team Canada.

When Sidney opens his eyes again and looks up, the clock reads :54.8 remaining. The score reads 2-1, Canada's lead. They're fifty-five seconds from a gold medal.

Around them, the crowd is on its feet, not a single person still sitting. The constant motion through the stands -- people jumping against the glass, people shifting to try and see, people waving towels or lifting signs -- makes the whole building seem fluid around them, as though the puck and the team and the still ice are the only solid things in the midst of massive flux.

The plan, according to Lemaire's whiteboard, is simple: get the puck off the faceoff, dump it deep in the Americans' zone, and keep it there for as long as humanly possible or fifty-five seconds, whichever comes first. Fifty-five seconds to go. "Defensive faceoff. Getzy, you take the draw. Toews, right. Nash, left. Hard shifts, people."

Jonny shoots Sidney a look as they skate out to hunker down at the circle. It doesn't make sense for Getzlaf to take the faceoff, he's never practiced it. Jonny is the defensive faceoff specialist, and Sidney specializes in offensive zone draws. For what might well be the most important draw of the game, one of the two of them should be on the dot. Getzy hasn't even practiced with Jonny or Nasher in the last week, it's always been Richards on the right, Toews at center. Sidney throws a worried glance at Babcock, whose face is impassive. Behind him, the crowd surges and crests against the glass, banging fists and pressing themselves against the panes to get closer to the ice.

The ref leans over and the building holds its breath. Getzy doesn't win the draw.

"Fuck," Keith says from Sidney's right, banging his stick hard against the boards in disgust. The scramble in the zone makes Sidney's stomach turn; for the next fifty seconds, anywhere behind their blue line is too close for comfort, there are too many things that could go wrong.

Toews recovers the puck from Pavelski and dumps it past the red line, but the surge of relief is cut short when the Americans get it back almost immediately and Stastny throws a slow shot from the point at Luongo, who gives up the rebound back towards center ice. The puck skitters off a stick and then someone's skate to end up behind the net, with Luongo shifting frantically post to post, trying to figure out where the next shot could come from. "Left," screams Sidney as hard as he can, hoping to be heard over the bedlam of the crowd. His voice is cracked and painful from yelling at the top of his lungs all game long. The other players on the bench take up the cry, "Left, Lu. Left."

The puck does go into the left corner, just as Luongo settles against the post. Getzlaf isn't fast enough to the boards to keep the American forward from shunting it back to the middle. There's a flash of puck on Kane's stick, but after that Sidney can't see, there are too many people in front of the goal, frantic action and too many skates for a certain view of the biscuit.

He's sure enough that the puck is headed toward the crease to yell, "Clear it! Clear --," but the rest of his words are drowned out by the stunning buzz of a goal siren.

The crowd goes insane. Sidney feels diminished and helpless behind the boards instead of on the ice as the former shift of motion around them turns into a storm, equal parts boos and cheers, loud enough that the second airhorn blast of the goal siren is inaudible above the fury. He turns to meet Keith's eyes and winces at the shattered expression on his face; Sidney wonders if his own face looks so devastated. It's unreal, doesn't seem like it should be possible, but the clamor of the crowd around him and slump of his teammates' shoulders bring it all crashing down to reality.

With :24 on the clock, the game is tied. Overtime.

*

Part Six

*