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It’s 2pm when Geno’s phone rings. He’s having lunch with Sergei, eating takeout straight from the styrofoam containers, because Sergei’s family is out and they’re both too lazy to deal with dishes.
He feels a brief flash of annoyance, because morning practice has left him starving, and he’s got a forkful of chicken halfway to his mouth. But as soon as he sees Sid’s name flash on the display his annoyance dissolves into a grin. He’s had games the past couple days in a row, so he’s been too busy to do more than send a few brief texts. The prospect of talking to Sid after a long week is even better than food.
“Sid,” he starts, making a face at Sergei, who is rolling his eyes at the happy tone in Geno’s voice, the way he can’t stop himself from smiling. Like Sergei has any right to judge him, stupid old sap.
He’s about to launch into the usual pleasantries (‘how are you, how is Pittsburgh, any news?’) when Sid cuts him off.
“Geno. It’s over. Come home.”
And just like that, something inside Geno shifts, something he’s been holding back and ignoring for days, weeks, fuck, months now, as if he’s been waiting for this very moment. He goes stock still, images flashing through his mind: his house in Pittsburgh. The locker room at Consol, loud and raucous after a victory. Sidney, giving him their good luck handshake. Sidney, sitting in Geno’s kitchen, bitching about how his Russian cooking is going to make them both fat, but cleaning his plate anyway. Sidney, flashing that private grin that the cameras never catch. I
t’s over. It’s time to go home.
“What is it?” Sergei asks, hovering over Geno like a worried mother hen, because, Geno realizes, he’s sort of spaced out in the middle of a conversation. He waves Sergei off, making a shooing everything’s ok gesture, while trying to catch up to Sid’s rapidfire chatter, filling him in on details that are really unimportant right now, because all that matter is that it’s over.
“What is going on?” Sergei demands, at the exact same moment his own phone rings, and he dives to answer it. A moment later he’s smiling and nodding, much more subdued than Geno feels right now, despite the fact that he can’t seem to do anything but smile in dumb shock .
“Geno? Geno, are you there?” Sid asks from the other end of the phone, from halfway around the world, from home, and Geno has to pull himself together. There are things that need to be done.
“Yeah, yeah I’m here. I, I’ll…I’ll see you soon,” is all he can think to say, because fuck, what does anything else matter? He’ll have to call his agent, get in contact with both the KHL and NHL and figure out what this all means in terms of contracts and obligations, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? He’s booking the first flight he can get to Pittsburgh, before they can find some way to try and keep him here, again. The thought sends a lightning bolt of panic through his guts. “First flight,” he promises, to himself and to Sid.
“Alright,” Sid replies, and Geno can just hear the smile in his voice, that high pitch he hits when he’s really happy or excited. “Text me the details when you know. I’ll meet you at the airport.”
Geno wants to tell him it’s ok, he can get a cab. But really, he wants to see Sid as soon as he can, right this minute if he could. But the airport will have to do, as soon as he can get himself there, because, finally, he’s going home.
As soon as Geno hangs up Sergei comes over and claps him on the shoulder, looking both happy and concerned, like he knows just what Geno’s thinking. “Don’t worry, Zhenya,” he soothes, taking on that fatherly voice he uses with his girls. “You go pack what you need, I’ll call your agent, see how soon he can get you a flight.”
Geno nods dumbly, mind still sticking on the most important fact: it’s over. The details still seem distant and abstract, and he’s glad to have someone else to worry over them on his behalf. He doesn’t feel capable of more than a few stilted words right now.
Just a few hours later they have him packed and booked on an overnight flight. In just about 12 hours he’ll be back in America, back in Pittsburgh. Sergei drives him to the airport, though he isn’t coming along. He has his family to consider and make arrangements for, can’t go running off like an excited child, ready for adventure. It’s just as well; Geno won’t be very good company on the long flight, probably too wound up to sleep much, and too busy inside his own head for conversation. Sergei seems to understand this too, giving Geno a warm hug and sending him off with messages of well wishes and good luck for all his old teammates.
Geno spends most of the flight in a daze, thinking about what awaits him. Soon they’ll all gather for training camp, and it will be so good to see all the guys again. The guys in the KHL are great, and it was fun to get to play together with Sergei again. But they’re not his team, don’t run as the same well-oiled machine, honed over many seasons. They don’t have the same inside jokes, the same rituals. They’re not Pens.
And none of them are Sidney Crosby. He doesn’t want to admit it to himself, mostly because it sounds pathetic, but he’s missed Sidney most of all. Maybe it’s only natural, because Sidney is his captain, the foundation of their team, but he’s also Geno’s best friend, such a large part of his life in Pittsburgh.
He’s missed playing with Sid on the ice, because Sid’s presence always pushes him to work harder, to be better; but also because of the joy he feels, knowing that when he scores a goal, Sid’s will be loudest voice in the whole arena, as he jumps over the boards to crus Geno in a hug, his stoic captain’s façade forgotten. Sure, his KHL teammates had offered him rough hugs and slaps on the back, and Sid had texted him congratulations after every game they won, but it wasn’t the same. Because none of them would hug Geno for scoring a goal in practice, didn’t understand that simple thrill and joy; that there was no better feeling than playing hockey, that is was something to celebrate, even when there were no trophies to be won.
By the time Geno lands in Pittsburgh, he’s exhausted and oddly nervous, the two feeding into each other in an endless loop. He knows there’s nothing to worry about; he’s made it, he’s here, nothing’s stopping him. It’s over, he’s home.
And seeing Sid certainly shouldn’t make him nervous. But it does. Because there are feelings that Geno’s been keeping pretty well under control for years now, feelings which he’d thought might fade a bit with prolonged separation. Maybe not seeing Sid’s smile every day would reduce the direct effect it had on his own.
Which, it turns out, is absolutely not true, because if anything, time away from Sid has only made Geno miss him and think about him more. Now he’s worried he might make a fool of himself when they finally see each other again, might give himself away somehow. He’s terrible at hiding his emotions, and Sid’s an expert at reading him, even though he’s so crap at reading everyone else. The way Geno feels right now, like he’s about to burst with happiness, there’s no way Sid’s not gonna see that and know that it’s at least partially because of him.
His flight lands at 7am, and when he gets to the baggage claim it’s almost empty. So it’s pretty hard to miss Sidney Crosby, even in his ‘incognito’ ball cap, looking anxious and trying very hard to seem casual as he scans the incoming crowd of disembarking passengers. But when his gaze catches Geno his stance changes. Geno can read Sidney’s posture just like he can read his face, has learned to from playing on the ice together.
When Sidney sees Geno the tension leaves his shoulders and it’s like something clicks into place, like Sidney suddenly looks at home in his own skin instead of fidgety and awkward, more like he is on the ice, happy and in control. He doesn’t even try to hold back the stupid, goofy grin that splits his face, that grin that Geno loves all the more for its rarity. Geno doesn’t try very hard to hold back his own smile.
“Hi, Sid,” he greets, standing an awkward few inches away, pushed together by people anxious to get to their baggage. From this close he can smell the familiar scent of Sid’s body wash, that clean minty scent that reminds him of locker rooms and warmth and happiness. Of home.
“Hi,” Sid says in return, still grinning. There’s that awkward moment of hesitation, like Sid’s at war with his own instincts, mind probably running over all those things he has to be constantly aware of: the public around them, the possible presence of cameras, being recognized. So Geno makes the decision for him, dropping his carry on and pulling Sid into a tight hug.
It’s been a while since they hugged without several layers of padding between them, but Geno still remembers exactly how tall Sid is in comparison to him, how he fits right under his chin. Sid doesn’t even resist, lets himself be pulled in to a hug that’s probably a little too tight and too long to be strictly between teammates, but it’s fine. That’s what people do in airports, so no one’s paying them any attention. Geno’s waited so long for this, he’s not gonna let the presence of a few dozen people stop him now.
And fuck, he thinks, as Sid’s arms squeeze firmly around him, just as unwilling to let go as he is. How long has it been since Sid’s been hugged like this? Or at all? He’s not big on being touched, unless it’s during a game, and there haven’t been any of those for him in…well, months. The stupid idiot would be too proud to ask for a hug if he needed it, too aloof for it to feel natural from anyone else. But it doesn’t matter now. Geno holds on and tries to make up for months of missed hugs with that one embrace.
When they finally pull apart, Sid clears his throat awkwardly, but his smile is still there, slightly more subdued, but no less warm. Yeah, Geno thinks. This is what he’s been missing. Why even being home hadn’t felt like home. If his fellow Russians knew his traitorous thoughts they’d probably disown him, but whatever. Russia’s a long way away right now, and Sid is right here, smiling at him and insisting on carrying his heavy duffel bag, which Geno is too tired and happy to argue with.
“So,” Sid says, hefting the bag up on his shoulder, “I’ll give you a lift home?”
“Yeah,” Geno replies, following after him like a puppy at its master’s heels, happy to go wherever it’s lead, “home.”