Chapter Text
When Sid chased the puck into the corner, he anticipated the hit. What he didn’t anticipate was how hard it would be, propelling him forwards into the boards.
It was early in the third period and the last thing he remembered before the blackout was the horrified look of his fans on the other side of the glass, with Claude Giroux breathing out a sharp “fuck” in his ear as he made contact.
It must have only lasted a second. Sid couldn't remember falling, but was suddenly pushing himself back up, the play still in motion with the puck on his stick. He panicked, spotting Olli whipping around the net and sent him a quick pass.
Olli looked surprised, receiving it cleanly and skating up ice.
Sid looked up, hit by a sudden onslaught of sarcastic cheering and booing from the crowd. His crowd.
He forgot Claude, turning around in confusion. Wayne Simmonds skated past in a blaze, shouting a quick “Get off the ice!” at him.
Sid was too disoriented to feel really pissed. It seemed like the best idea. Maybe he was a little rocked from that hit. Sid skated over to the Pens bench.
He was surprised by the heated looks he was getting. When he reached for the door, Kunitz whacked at his hand. “You lost, bud?”
Sid’s face pinched. Before he could say anything there was a hand on his shoulder, guiding him away from the bench. The whistle was blown and play stopped in their attacking zone. The referees and linesmen where looking over in concern.
“You should go get your head checked.”
Sid jumped. He knew that voice. It was his voice.
Sid whipped around to see himself with an earnest look on his face. His face, Sid’s face, looking back at him. What the fuck.
Sid looked down and saw orange. His jersey, his socks. This wasn’t his stick, these weren’t his skates.
Sid gapped but his body was giving him a look that said Sid should be listening, that he should be paying attention. Sid looked around. All of the players on the ice were looking at them, then glancing around at their opponents uneasily, as if anticipating a fight. The boys on both benches were standing.
“This is a joke,” Sid said. He paled, that wasn’t his voice. The boys on the Flyers’ bench started calling out to Pens players, backing Sid. “This is a joke,” Sid said again, more softly now. His body looked just as scared as Sid felt. Maybe they were still connected somehow.
The linesmen were between them now, pushing Sid towards the Flyers’ bench. He was guided down between Simmonds and Voracek. He felt fucking terrified.
Wayne thumped him on the back, “’Atta boy, captain!” He yelled. A couple of the other Flyers hollered in agreement.
Jakub gave him a look, “Kind of stupid trying to get into a fight after a hit like that. What did you say to him?”
Wayne grinned, “Yeah man, he looked good and shook, or was that just from the hit?”
Claude. They thought he was Claude. Sid looked over at his body on the other bench, who was staring right back. It couldn’t be…
His coach thumped him on the back, “You ready to go on?”
“Get your head checked, Giroux!” A voice called. They all looked over to see Sid’s body hanging over the boards. There was an almost distinct French-accent to his voice. Sid felt like he was going to throw up.
“You get your head checked you brain dead motherfucker!” Wayne called back loyally, standing up to hang over the bench.
Sid tried a smile in his borrowed body, but it felt thin. Sid’s body on the other hand was giving Wayne an almost… fond smile? This wasn’t right.
Wayne sat down heavily, shaking his head. “That idiot has had more concussions than anyone in this league combined, he needs to get his damn head checked. We’ve got a game to win!”
Sid stood suddenly. “I think I do need to get my head checked,” he said, shuffling off towards the tunnel. One of the trainers was already coming over to meet him, a concerned look on his face.
Wayne was giving him a look of disbelief, “You didn’t even get hit! You did the hitting!”
Sid waved him off. He needed to get out of here. “Yes. No. Maybe. Okay.” He took off down the hall.
They were trying to get him to go to the quiet room. Sid argued against it, standing in the middle of the hall. He had to find his body.
He didn’t have to look far. Sid’s body was running comically towards him in skates on the rubber matting. A trainer was looking horrified behind him, jogging to keep up. Sid met them halfway.
Both trainers were trying to pull them apart.
“Fuck off, I’m not going to fight him.” Sid’s body growled. Sid’s trainer looked surprised.
“Easy.” Sid barked at his body. He looked back towards the trainer behind him, “We need a second.”
The trainer looked unsure, but stepped back. Sid’s body was giving Sid’s trainer a pointed look. The man frowned but stepped back as well. Neither went far.
Sid leaned in closer to his body. “Don’t fucking tell me it’s you in there.”
Sid’s body leered at him, “Oh yeah baby, it’s me.” The French-accent was too distinct.
Sid groaned, “Giroux.”
Sid’s body—Giroux—waggled his eyebrows.
Sid closed his eyes, groaning. He opened them, “We have to fix this. Give me my body back.”
Claude snorted, “Like I know how this happened? It’s your fucking arena…”
“Don’t blame my arena” Sid snapped.
Claude gave him a pointed look. It looked so wrong on Sid’s face. “Do you have a better explanation?”
Sid sighed, “Your hit?”
Claude looked thoughtful. “So we have to hit each other more?”
Sid smirked, “I can get on board with that. Easy with my head, though.”
“You be easy with your own head. And treat my body like the temple that it is.”
Sid snorted. He paused. “I’ll give it my all if you do.”
Claude gave him a crooked smile, “Oh, it’s on. Wait till you feel what it’s like to get booed by your own crowd while wearing orange, Sid. You’re going to love it.”
Sid sighed, “We just have to get through this period.”
“G? We gotta go.” Claude’s trainer called.
Sid nodded to him and turned back to Claude. “You need to ditch the accent.”
Claude smiled, “You need to gain one.”
Sid frowned, “I just won’t speak.”
Claude snorted, “Then the boys will know something is wrong. Just don’t…” Claude sighed, “Don’t go overboard there, Captain Canada. I know you got some experience from the Q, but I don’t speak French like some backwoods hick. Your French is atrocious, take it easy.”
Sid couldn’t help but laugh.
They separated, heading back to the bench. The Flyers’ trainer was back to trying to get him into a quiet room, but Sid waved him off. “I’m fine,” he said, trying out an accent. Definitely not as subtle as he’d hoped because the trainer gave him a weird look.
Okay. He could do this.
He rejoined his team—God, no. He rejoined the Flyers, getting a couple thumps on the back as he made his way down the bench. He hadn’t been there more than a couple of seconds when he saw his body go flying past, chasing the puck.
Sid held his breath and watched, ready for Claude to dump it to one of the Flyers’ using his body.
But he didn’t. Claude made a nice pass to Sheary, who took a quick shot on net. Mason made the save. Sid was impressed. This could work.
Suddenly his coach was banging on his shoulder, sending him onto the ice. He felt a little unstable, trying to orient himself. Orange. Think orange.
Claude noticed the instant Sid touched the ice, an almost predatory look lighting up his face. Sid swallowed.
Every chance they got, they were throwing each other into the boards. Sid made sure to be extra careful with Claude’s head in his body.
The hits got harder and harder. Claude was getting frustrated. “This isn’t working. I didn’t hit you this hard the first time.” He growled as he pushed himself up.
Sid was equally unhappy. The Pens players were currently giving him shit for targeting their captain. Claude watched, giving him a pointed look and jerked his chin at the offending players. The facial expression looked ridiculous on his face.
What? Sid mouthed.
Claude looked increasingly frustrated. Chirp back! he mouthed.
“Keep going for my Captain and I’ll fuck you up,” Letang growled later in French during a TV timeout.
Sid had only understood half of it, picking up on the important parts. Sid hoped that laughing was a good enough response to the situation. In the background, Claude was burying his face in his hands. Sid shook it off, going back to the game.
Sid was thinking about this as a practice. That helped his brain adjust, and he was always competitive in practice. He just wasn’t on the black team today, and that was okay, because it’s be back to normal really soon.
A couple moments later, Sid found himself slipping past the defense thanks to an excellent pass up the ice from Schenn, on a breakaway.
The crowd was booing and going crazy. Sullivan was yelling for his Ds to get back. Sid bore down on Murray, reading his body position, recognizing it. Murray was going to go down, and Sid was going to burry it top shelf. He knew it would go in.
The look of absolutely hate coming from the crowd adorn in Pens jerseys behind the glass is what made him pause, just for a second, confused. What was he doing?
Sid thought of Claude, who was genuinely working to help Sid’s team and the moment of hesitation passed. Except that the moment of hesitation had still been enough of a moment of hesitation to throw Sid off his original plan. It was too late for top shelf now and he was way too close to Murray. He flipped the puck up desperately, trying one last ditch effort to get it in. The puck hit Murray hard on the top of his mask, at just the right angle to send it flying off.
Sid gasped in horror. He was still way too close to Murray. He stopped hard, showering Murray in snow but his momentum with still too strong. He jumped at the last second, flying over the young goaltender. The crowd was on its feet, going crazy with rage. Sid was a little surprised himself, flying into the net, sending it skidding off into the boards.
All of a sudden it was anarchy on the ice.
Letang was on top of him in an instant, wailing on him. Sid tried to get his hands up to block his face, but not before Letang could land a good one. Sid struggled for a couple of moments before Letang was pushed out of the way. New hands where on him, dragging him out of the pile.
Sid caught a glimpse of Claude pulling him out of there, before jumping on Sid himself. Everyone on the ice was fighting except for Murray, who was having a trainer check his head.
Claude was on him, just pinning him against the ice. A linesman had spotted them and was already coming over to break it up. “’bout time,” Claude murmured and they were pinned against each other, effectively stopping any potential fighting.
“That was some stupid shit you just pulled, G.” The linesman yelled.
Sid swallowed, “It was an accident.” He didn’t mean to sound so sincere.
Claude gave him a disgusted look with Sid’s body, “You hesitated.”
Sid groaned.
Another referee came over to help, even though nothing was happening. Claude got hauled off him. “Let it go Sid, he’s getting the penalty. Let it go.” The referee said, directing Claude to the Pens’ bench.
Claude just nodded, shooting Sid a poisonous look. Sid vowed to never make that face again when he returned to his body.
Sid was hauled aggressively to his feet and dragged to the penalty box. He wasn’t exactly sure why, he would have gone easily enough. He was joined by Simmonds and Schultz a moment later, both looking smug.
Wayne thumped him on the back, “Nothing like a good fight against those assholes on a night like this. I almost don’t mind being down, a fight is always good for moral.”
Schultz laughed.
The Pens’ penalty box opened and Letang and Hornqvist were ushered inside. Letang was giving him a murderous look. Sid looked away. Wayne did not, and engaged in a shouting match above his head.
Play resumed, and Murray was thankfully okay. They were playing five-on-four, Sid’s penalty the only one on the board. When he got out, there would only be one more minute left and coach was likely going to pull the goalie, leaving Sid on for a six-on-five for them.
Sure enough, that was exactly what happened.
The Flyers were cycling it through the Pens’ zone. Claude was in his face for most of it, playing point.
Thirty seconds ticking down on the clock and Sid was feeling panicked. They still hadn’t changed back yet.
Schenn passed to Voracek, who passed it back to Schenn. He looked around and sent it back to Voracek who made a no-look pass to Sid, who faked one to Schenn and then slid it to Simmonds, who made a beautiful shot. The horn sounds, light behind the net going red.
Sid threw his hands up in disbelief, the crushing sensation on his teammates piling in around him. Sid congratulated Wayne. His faked French accent probably too overplayed again, but couldn't really find it within himself to care.
They made their way down the bench, giving out high fives before curling back out into center ice to take the face off. Claude was already there, hunched over, ready to take it. Ten seconds on the clock, down by one goal. Claude was giving him a fond look.
The puck dropped and Sid shot forward, snapping the puck back to his team. It was a mad scramble into the zone. The crowd was going absolutely crazy and Wayne managed to squeeze himself and the puck into the zone. Sid shot forwards, pushing Claude’s body as hard as it would go.
Wayne looked over at him and yelled, sending the puck his way. Sid had to reach for it, just catching it on his tape, working it back into a position where it could be shot—
The buzzer went off, green this time. Sid still had the puck on his tape.
He fired it off angrily into the corner, frustrated because he knew he could have been better than that. The Pens were piling in around him, literally pushing past him to go congratulate their goalie.
Sid sighed and let it go, skating over to his bench.
The hit came from out of nowhere. One second Sid was standing, the next he was splayed out on his stomach, looking up in a daze at his body—at Claude—who had taken him completely by surprise with a hard check mid ice.
“Fuck!” Claude yelled, “If that didn’t work, what the fuck are we going to do now?”
Sid was completely rattled.
Suddenly there was two guys on Claude, dragging him off. He was trying to get us back into our bodies, Sid realized, still a little dazed.
He looked up to find complete chaos. The crowd was freaking. Everyone on the ice was fighting someone. The coaches on the bench were yelling at each other. The referees were shaking their heads, taking names and trying to mediate any fights that looked particularly dangerous.
Mason was trying to engage Murray in a fight, standing off to the side and calling over tauntingly at the youth. Sid focused on that, skating over. He put a hand on Mason’s shoulder, “Let the kid be.”
Mason gave him a startled look.
Sid sighed, trying to force the accent back into his voice. He also tried a smirk, “Kid’s skin and bones. Not worth it.”
It hurt to say but seemed to do the trick. Mason huffed and went for a skate.
There was some more commotion off to the side. Sid looked over to see Claude getting hauled off the ice by referees, a fresh, already-blossoming bruise bright on his cheekbone.
Sid’s mood soured. He looked at the mess on the ice and didn’t feel any better. More than one Pens player looked like they wanted a piece of him.
Sid skated over to Simmonds, who was gripping onto a Pen. Sid couldn’t tell who it was, their jersey hiked up over his face, arms pinned awkwardly. He tapped Wayne on the shoulder, “Hey. Let’s wrap this up.”
Wayne looked surprised and mildly insulted, “We’re doing this for you, G. These fucking assholes started this.”
Sid nodded, “And I appreciate it. But let’s not get any of our guys suspended.”
Wayne sighed and dropped the Pen, who landed in a confused heap on the ice. “Alright boys,” he called. “Captain says let’s wrap it up!”
A couple of the Flyers immediately dropped their offending Pen, stepping away from the fight. Sid was happy to see Kunitz on the other side, helping to disengage players as well. Geno was still hacking at people in the corner.
Slowly, they started getting players off the ice and into the dressing room. Fans were throwing stuff onto the ice and still booing. It was a nightmare. They’d have to stay late tonight, until it was at least safe to leave.
It didn’t get better after that. The team got shit for their behavior on the ice. Then Sid got shit for his behavior on the ice, followed by mild praise for breaking everything up in the end. It was weird being yelled at by a coach he didn’t really know, but he knew Claude would be facing the same fate and Sullivan was scary on a good day and tonight way not a “good day”.
Finally they were allowed to shower. Sid respected Claude’s set up, washing it quickly and trying not to look or think about it, looking up at the ceiling and pretending he was still in his own body. He carefully avoided mirrors.
When he got back to his stall, he dressed and prepared to get onto the bus. His phone had one new message from an unknown number. He only checked it because his name was in the message itself.
Unknown 11:32pm
Sid. Go with the team. I’ll meet you in my room
Thankfully the phone was set up with Claude’s fingerprint and opened easily. He fired off a text in reply.
Claude 11:32pm
Claude?
Unknown 11:33pm
Yes idiot.
Sid paused, then added the number into the phone.
Claude 11:33pm
How did you get this number?
#1 Hockey Player Sidney Crosby 11:33pm
I know my own damn phone number
Sid blinked. Oh yeah, right.
#1 Hockey Player Sidney Crosby 11:33pm
Fuck. Keep up, would you?
Claude 11:33pm
Lay off, it’s been a long day
#1 Hockey Player Sidney Crosby 11:33pm
Whatever. Hotel. Go.
Claude 11:33pm
Okay.
Sid checked his pockets. A wallet, his hotel room key—thankfully with the room number on it—along with keys and now the cell phone. He was good to go. He let himself be herded onto the bus, ready to be done with this day but sad that it wouldn’t be in his own bed or body. Mildly panicking, mostly in shock really.
The bus ride back to the hotel felt like forever. When they finally go there, Wayne walked him back to his room, frowning the whole way.
“You’re sure you’re okay? You’ve been acting weird tonight, G.”
Sid fumbled with the keycard then slid it in the wrong way. Wayne didn’t look impressed. Sid nodded, trying to look Captainly and reassuring. “Yeah, no problem. Feeling great.”
Wayne rolled his eyes and clapped Sid on the back, making him jump. He’d never get used to that. Wayne just shook his head, “Alright G. Goodnight.”
Sid tried the door again, finally getting it open. “Yeah, night Simmonds. Uh, Wayne. Simmer. Goodnight.”
He slammed the door shut behind him. The phone in his pocket vibrated
#1 Hockey Player Sidney Crosby 12:06pm
Coming up now, be ready.
Claude 12:06pm
Okay.
Sid positioned himself by the door.
A couple minutes ticked by before frantic knocks filled his room. Sid pulled the door open. Claude scrambled through it, pushing it shut behind him, breathing hard.
Sid frowned, “Did someone see you?”
Claude shook his head, “No, still ran though.”
Sid nodded, “So what the fuck are we going to do?”
Claude shot him a glare. Another face Sid vowed to never make again. “How the fuck should I know?”
Sid sighed, “Should we call a trainer up here to figure it out?”
Claude shook his head, “No, they might take us out of the lineup. My team needs me right now.”
Sid tried not to roll his eyes at how cocky Claude sounded. “Okay, so now what?”
Claude frowned, “We wait? I think if our bodies are close, maybe they’ll just do it naturally?”
Sid sighed, “Awesome. I love spending time with you.”
Claude frowned, “This isn’t my most favorite thing in the world either, Croz.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Sorry. Do you prefer G?”
“That’s worse,” Sid snapped.
Claude smiled and stepped forwards. Sid held his breath as Claude lifted his hands, taking Sid’s face gently into his hands. He turned it over carefully.
“My face. My beautiful face. What did you do to it?” Claude whispered.
Sid slapped Claude’s hands away. Claude only laughed. “You’re one to talk, look at me! What was with that last hit?”
Claude shrugged, dropping onto the corner of the bed heavily. “Wanted to try one last time.”
“You asshole, they’ll probably suspend me for that.”
Claude barked out a laugh. “You’re Sid, they won’t suspend you. If it were me, I’d get a couple games. You’ll get a slap on the wrist.” Claude winced, “Speaking of, your coach is terrifying when he’s mad.”
It was Sid’s turn to laugh, “I could have told you that. How bad was it?”
“Bad. But I have nothing to compare it too.”
“What he red?”
“Yes.”
“Tendons popping out of his neck?”
Claude thought about it. “Not that I can remember.”
Sid smiled, nodding. “Then it could have been worse.”
Claude looked sympathetic, then turned suddenly and slapped him on the arm, “What was with that hesitation? What the fuck, I was giving it my all and you gave me that bullshit? We could have tied it up.”
Sid snorted, “We? I was doing all the work.”
“Wayne scored.”
“I had two great chances.”
“Yeah, you hesitated too long on one and started a fight that ruined my face and made me a public enemy in Pittsburgh for life, then were too slow. Excellent job.”
Sid rolled his eyes, “Don’t worry, you weren’t well loved to begin with.”
Claude laughed, “Too bad for you I softened it up for the press tonight.”
Sid turned on him, “You did fucking media in my body?” His heart was thudding in his ear and he was seeing red.
Claude laughed, “Oh yeah, of course. I wasn’t passing that up.”
Sid’s jaw worked. He thought over all of the things he wanted to say. Maybe he should just grab a knife and sink it into himself. Into something he wouldn’t need, like a kidney. Let Claude deal with that when he got back.
Claude must have read the anger on his face, because he backtracked a bit. “I was fine Sid. I didn’t say anything you wouldn’t have said. I was boring. I just told them that the last fight was all the punishment I deserved.”
“In a fucking French accent, no doubt.”
That made Claude pause. He laughed, “They’ll think you’re making fun of me, that’s all. Simmer took all the questions?”
Sid nodded, “I told him my head was hurting after your hit on me. After your coach yelled at us I head off to the quiet room. Never been so glad to be there.”
Claude snorted out a laugh. An uncomfortable silence followed.
Sid cleared his throat, “What now?”
Claude thought about it. “Sleep?”
Sid looked around the room, “You’ve only got one bed.”
“Dibs.”
“No way. Plus, if you take the bed and make me sleep on the floor, your body is going to be all fucked up tomorrow.”
Claude looked torn, “Well fuck. I’m not sleeping on the floor tonight.”
Sid felt his face pinch in disgust, “So share?”
Claude looked a little grossed out, “Fine.”
He’d come prepared with sleeping stuff. Sid watched with disgust as Claude changed his body.
Claude noticed him watching, “What, got a better idea?”
Sid cocked his head, thinking. “What if you closed your eyes and I dressed you?”
Claude gave him a taunting look. Sid also filed that one under faces he’d never make again. “You’d be using my hands anyways. Eager to get my hands on your body, Sid?”
“For fuck sakes,” Sid growled. “Just shut up and change already.”
Thankfully Claude didn’t tease him further.
Sid looked through Claude’s suitcase, opting for his briefs because he didn’t think he could stand stripping Claude’s body again and was currently looking for a sleep shirt that didn’t have the Flyers’ logo plastered all over it. He couldn’t find one.
When he turned, Claude was already in bed, watching him. He patted the placed next to him. “Get over here you handsome thing.”
Sid groaned but turned off the lights before climbing into bed. Despite the fact that it was Sid’s own body that was overcrowding him, he still felt uncomfortable.
“Well, as fun as this has been, I sincerely hope to wake up in my own body tomorrow.” Claude announced into the awkward silence.
Sid snorted out a laugh. “Yeah, that’d be great.”
Claude sighed heavily. “Night Sid.”
Sid smiled, “Night Giroux.”
The good news was that if Sid woke up in the right body tomorrow, he would be well rested because Claude was out in minutes in Sid's body. He was amazed at the ease in which Claude was handling the situation.
The bad news was that Claude would be exhausted because Sid was struggling to fall asleep at all.
Okay, so maybe there was a silver lining to Sid’s restless turning throughout half the night.
He finally fell into a fitful sleep, ready to be done with this body.
______________________________________________
The next morning Sid stretched, surprised to find his hand knocking against another human being. He yelped when he opened his eyes.
Claude was stretched out in front of him. His Flyers’ t-shirt was twisted up around his torso, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, the sheets kicked down the bed. Maybe it hadn’t been Sid who couldn’t sleep last night, but Claude’s body.
Sid held still for a couple of moments, trying to figure out if he was dreaming or not. The hit, the switch, the waking up. Maybe if he closed his eyes, he’d go back to yesterday morning before the game. He tried it. When he opened his eyes, Claude was still sleeping across the bed from him.
Sid sighed. At least he was himself.
He rolled out of bed, not particularly caring if he woke Claude or not. He pulled on his clothing from yesterday, shoving his sleepwear into the backpack Claude had brought. He couldn’t find any toothpaste so he just used Claude’s, wincing at the flavor choice.
Claude still wasn’t awake by the time Sid was done in the bathroom. He scribbled down a note of goodbye on the hotel stationary, not feeling right about leaving without doing anything. Then, he grabbed his bag and slipped out the door, closing it softly behind him.
Thankfully the halls were empty, still too early to really risk running into anyone. That was a really good thing considering he would likely be killed if any Flyers saw him after the hit on Claude’s body last night.
Judging by the keys in his pocket, Sid guessed that Claude had driven over here. The change of clothes also suggested Claude had been in his house. In his house, for goodness sake. Sid sucked in a steadying breath as the elevator doors shut, bringing him down to the parking garage level.
Sure enough, his car was there. It was just a bonus that it was in one piece with no scratches. Sid sank into the driver’s seat, already feeling more himself.
His phone buzzed.
The G stands for Great 5:56am
Left without saying goodbye asshole?
The G stands for Great 5:56am
A note doesn’t count
The G stands for Great 5:56am
What the fuck is with this name?
The G stands for Great 5:56am
“#1 Hockey Player Sidney Crosby”?
The G stands for Great 5:57am
I’m changing it
Sidney Crosby 5:57am
You’re one to talk. Goodbye, Giroux.
Asshole Claude Giroux 5:57am
Bye Sid. I’d say it was a pleasure, but…
Sidney Crosby 5:57am
I agree. Until next time
Asshole Claude Giroux 5:57am
Let’s skip this bit.
Sidney Crosby 5:57am
Agreed.
Sid sighed. He had about a hundred texts filling up his phone and even more questions to answer, but at least he was no longer a Flyer.