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Geno hops down the stairs one-footed, hair still dripping water on his neck.
“Sid,” he calls out.
“SID!” he shouts, reaching the landing.
“What, G!”
He hears Sidney’s voice from the breakfast table. Geno shuffles over, and finds Sidney dressed in jeans and a boring polo for lunch with the boys who are still in town. He's sitting at the table with - is that stationary?
“Sid - you write with fancy paper?”
Sidney looks up from whatever he is carefully writing and gives a scornful look. “Is that why you were shouting?”
“No - was looking for other shoe - not important. What you write on fancy paper, Sid? Why never write on fancy paper for me? Write - I love you Geno, you best Geno.”
Sid looks fondly at him, but as ever undeterred, goes back to what he’s writing. “I text you nice enough things, Geno. I’ve never had to mail you.” His nose wrinkles a little as he leans in, holding his pen a careful distance from the paper, deciding on his next line.
Evgeni sidles around to the opposite side of the table, looking over Sid’s shoulder to see what he’s writing that couldn’t have been sent by email or text.
Sidney leans into him reflexively for a moment, head to sternum, and then whips around, putting his hands on Geno’s belly to push him back.
“Don’t drip!” he scolds. “Go dry your hair, we can leave in a minute.”
But Geno has already seen the first line - Dear Mr. President.
“Sid,” Geno whispers, “you write President?”
Sidney rolls his eyes and gets up, walking to the kitchen island to grab some paper towels before coming back to mop at Geno’s neck.
Geno uses this moment to look at Sidney. His face is open. It’s a good change from the playoffs. Geno loves to see Sid determined, focused – but he’d hated the creases that had deepened in Sidney’s face. That fold between his nose and the left corner of his lip, the squeeze of his eyes, limiting light to his irises, darkening the color.
Now, Sidney’s face is slack, sweet, his eyes hazel from the bay window’s light. There’s some of the certainty that accomplishing a task gives Sidney, but little strain. Geno spends a moment distracted by the way Sidney licks his lips as he finishes patting Geno’s nape dry.
“Yeah, we’re penpals,” Sidney snorts, balling up the wet paper towels.
“No, really, Sid! You write him? What you ask for?”
“Well we won the cup, right? You remember meeting Former President Obama.”
Geno does remember. He had confessed the night before to Sidney, leaning against the headboard of a hotel bed together, that he had a huge and unmanageable crush on Michelle Obama. “Second best arms, Sid. After you. You best, of course, but her - wow. And so smart! I don’t think she play hockey, but could!! Could do anything.”
“Well that means we’re invited back this year. And I’ve been talking with some of the guys, asked most of them before they left town, and we’re going to decline.”
“Decline?” asks Geno, palming Sid’s waist a little because he’s still nearby.
Sidney smiles. “Yeah. None of us want to meet him. Cullen said he didn’t want his sons to see him shake Trump’s hand. Flower - you can ask Flower today but good luck if he speaks English. Kuni said his wife probably wouldn’t let him share a bed with her if he went. Even the rookies, all of them said they’d rather not go. Guentzel wrote me a letter. So i’m writing to RSVP no.”
Geno stares down at Sid. Sid is getting restless, wriggling inside Evgeni’s grasp, likely because they’re running fifteen minutes late to lunch. But his eyes remain patiently trained on Geno, waiting for his response.
“RSVP no to President,” Geno ghosts, still thinking about it, thumbing absently at the hem of Sidney’s polo, loose around his playoff weight loss. Geno hasn’t - well he can’t vote here. And he’s never really been in a mindset where one said no to one’s president about anything. But now he thinks, he thinks there’s no reason not to?
“You tell Mario? PR?” asks Geno, loosening his grasp on Sid.
Sid slips out, and goes back to the table to neaten his pile of thick, cream paper and envelopes, cap his fountain pen.
“Yeah, I told Mario after dinner last night. You were there!”
Geno had been there. But he’d had a few glasses of the good wine Nathalie had pulled out, and had gotten distracted talking about movies with Alex and Stephanie. But he does remember seeing Sid talking to Mario in the corner.
It was hard to tell with the two of them, both so serious and composed, if they were debating the merits of cheesecake versus custard, or solving another potential lockout. But Mario had hugged and patted them goodbye, giving Sidney a brush of a kiss on the forehead before saying, “I’m proud of you, both of you.”
There were a lot of reasons for him to say that, Geno had figured, feeling tipsy and flush under the Pittsburgh moon. Sidney had unlocked the car, and Geno had thought about all the reasons to be proud of him. His captain. His friend, his lover. His Sid. He’d verbalized a little of this, which led to some making out over the arm rests before Sid’d backed them out of the driveway.
“Mario okay,” Geno confirms.
“Everyone’s okay with it,” says Sid carefully, popping out from under the table where he has emerged with Geno’s second shoe. He looks at Geno seriously, assessing..
“Okay,” says Geno, accepting his shoe and reeling Sidney in closer.
“Okay,” he repeats in front of his lips. He kisses Sidney for his effort, pulling away slowly and looking Sid straight in the eye.
In the car, he can’t resist chirping him.
“Sidney Crosby, so polite. Write letter to president, say thank you, no thank you, signed – Stanley Cup champions.”