Chapter Text
2005 World Junior Championships, Grand Forks, N.D., USA
Winning tastes good in North Dakota.
Sidney swears he can feel wins and losses before they happen. He told his dad this, when he was maybe nine or ten: I can feel them. I know. It’s like breathing, walking, skating. Natural and certain.
His dad had just quirked his mouth and said, The results come with hard work. You’ll always work hard.
Coach Cameron believes the same, having his boys scratch out ‘WORK’ in big, black letters across their stick’s tapejob. Sid likes their team, really likes ‘em. He’s been on a line with Patrice, who’s already been up in the big leagues. He doesn’t make a show of it though, which Sid appreciates. Their team this year is at its oldest, most experienced, but still — even the seasoned players give Sid a second look.
Entering the tournament, Sid could taste last year’s loss in his mouth: tacky and bitter.
But their exhibition games were gorgeous, and a win against the Slovaks came easily. It was everything he wanted — faster, better, cleaner hockey. Each successful round wiped the slate clean.
It’s Russia for the final.
Their opponents aren’t anything to scoff at. Ovechkin has been making waves, his name floating in and out of conversations for as long as Sid can remember. The goal scorer of a generation. Sid caught sight of him earlier in the tournament: he’s scraggly and clear-eyed. A big grin sat on his face, like he was waiting for Sid to treat him with disdain, just so he could shove it right back in his face.
There’s another centerpiece player — Malkin. He lumbers far above Ovechkin, his mouth always hanging open. Sid’s mom says he’s going to catch flies. He was second to Ovechkin’s first in the draft, and he’s supposed to be with the Penguins down in Pittsburgh. He’s not.
Sid was at their draft last year. It was crammed and crazed, cameramen following him around as names are called. It was then, watching player after player pull on a new jersey, that he realized: we will all know each other for a very long time.
In the locker room, after warm-ups, Sid bites in the inner flesh of his cheek. The boys are wild with it, barking and growling, ready to finally conquer what a Canadian team has failed to for so many years now.
Patrice whacks Sid across the arm. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” Sid says, and feels that they’ll win, right in his chest. “Let’s fucking get it.”
From puck drop to the horn at the end of the first, Sid never stops moving. Whether he’s on the ice, or leaned close to the boards on the bench, he’s shaking, fidgeting, anything. It’s closer than they want it to be — 2 to 1, Canada.
“Hey! Fuckin’ listen up,” Richards yells out, during first intermission. “I know for some of us, it feels like we’ve been here before. I know it does. But listen, we are here now. We’re in this game right now. We play our play, and we get this done, together, right fucking now.”
The boys roar, Sidney right with them.
The second period rolls out. They score, again and again, through the end of the second, and into the third, and the buzzer rings out. Sid’s climbing over the boards, yelling, screaming, tackling anyone in sight. He lays out on the ice, covered in the bodies of his teammates, pressed so close together that all he can breathe is someone else’s breath.
He finally breaks out of the dogpile, catching Malkin herding Ovechkin off of the ice. His big arms are wrapped around 8, and he thinks he sees Ovechkin wipe a tear. Malkin’s not talking, just shielding Ovechkin with his body, like one of those big, lumbering dogs.
Sidney watches them trail off, watches the Russian fans stream from their seats, and lets himself absorb the win.
They hustle off of the ice, flourished by flowers and hats, and pour into the locker room. Sid can feel his face burning from his grin, his cheeks splotchy red and boyish. He’s swarmed by his teammates chanting about beating those Russian pussies, about being the best in the world, about taking them out and fucking them raw and showing them who owns this sport.
He cheers, they all cheer, and the need to win burns brighter in his chest. To feel this way forever — complete and satisfied and just right.
Champagne bottles pop. They’re covered in it, sticky and sweaty and smiling. He’s swatted on the back, on the ass, complimented on his gross assist. He feels like he should’ve gotten a goal, but they’re a team. They work together, they win together. He’ll work harder for it next time.
Eventually, the mood simmers. Cameron congratulates them all, says they’ve created a legacy, and doesn’t that feel like something. Sid strips of his gear and peters into the showers, which are packed with teammates.
“You got anything lined up after this?” One down the way asks.
“Yeah, one of those Sudbury girls came down. Maybe her friend, too, if I can play my cards right,” another answers.
Sid listens intently as he scrubs himself down.
“Two on one, eh? I don’t think you can handle all’a that.”
“Aw, you would think about what I can handle, fag.”
“Takes one to know one, cunt!”
They both break off into laughter, tossing soap suds and shower spray at each other, drunk on each other’s laughter and their clean, clean win.
“What about you, Crosby?”
His hands work through his curls, scrubbing out the salt. “I just ah, think I’ll probably head out with whoever’s headin’ out.” It sounds lame in his mouth, like he should have someone lined up too.
“What, you don’t have a girl? Or girls, like Barks?”
“Nah, Crosby’s got girls. He plays ‘em close to his chest though, ‘cause he knows they’re just with him since he’s the Next One.”
Soap flings again.
“Well, at least I’ve got ‘em, eh? Between me and Barker, there’s none left for you!” They all laugh, and shove each other, and rinse the rest of their bodies.
There are plans after — bars, who might let them swing a couple of drinks — and then their hotel rooms, where there’s surely liquor stocked up high. Sid dresses, listening to the fanfare of making plans, and selfishly dreams of being a captain who has made reservations, organized their celebratory spots, all so they can play at their best. So they know each other, like brothers.
Then it hits him they’ll never play this exact team again. That the beatdown on the Russians was their last as this little family.
“All that ass in those jeans, Croz?”
He grins sheepishly. “Yeah, I gotta get ‘em altered. All you couldn’t dream.”
Somebody guffaws. “Yeah, I gotta tell you, I definitely dream of ass like that.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Somebody else yells, and they all cheer again, and then they start to spill out of the locker room.
Their families are swarming outside, in the pipes of the arena, and Sid flushes at them overhearing some of what was said. But his parents are there, yanking him close and patting him on the back.
“Sidney, oh Sid. I’m just too proud,” his mom says into his hair before she’s pulled back by his dad, who tacks on: “Good job, son. Good hustle. Your country’s proud.”
“Thank you both,” he says earnestly. “I’m so — you know, after last year –”
“Hey,” his dad interjects. “You promised to leave all that. You can’t cling on like that, not if you’re going to lead.” Sid’s chest tightens.
“Boys,” his mom placates. “We’re done here. We won, like we should’ve, and now we’re going to go out and celebrate.” She pinches Sid’s cheek like he’s six again, and he lets it happen.
“Yeah, where are you boys going?”
Sid shrugs. “I really don’t know. Anywhere that’ll let us have a beer?”
His dad laughs good-naturedly. “Good luck with that around here. Stuffy Americans with their drinking age, and they’ll be pissy they lost.”
“Rink language,” his mom pokes.
“We’re at the goddamn rink, and our son just brought this trophy back to our country. I think we can let it slide.”
Sid grins, staying quiet, and his mother finally acquiesces. They’re all then pulled along by Richards and his family, who’ve found somebody that knows a place. Bundled up in their jackets, they stream out into the limited-access lot. There, puttering quietly, is a large black bus, with a large, color-blocked flag plastered across its side.
“Holy fuck, it’s the Russians!” Someone from ahead calls out. Jeering and chirping starts, nasty tidbits about their game, their country, what they’re going to do to their girlfriends. Finally, one of the leadership members yells, “Alright, boys,” and they quiet again, jostling and poking and laughing.
Sid stares at the bus. The lights are still on, and he can make out their sad, beaten down faces haunting the windows. Their eyebrows are furrowed, spitting shit back in a language Sid can’t understand, can’t even hear through the glass. But he stares still, trying to make out Ovechkin. Instead, his eyes catch on Malkin.
Malkin, from what he can see, is sitting near the front, quietly seething.
Sid catches his eye, or tries to, and hopes it's in his face: I respect you.
Malkin turns away.
It buries in Sid’s stomach. Because come this summer, Sid will be drafted. Malkin’s contract sits with the Penguins, for some reason unfulfilled, and if things continue down this route — if Sid can go number one like they all expect — he might end up settling in Pittsburgh. It wouldn’t be a bad thing, hopefully mentored by Mario Lemieux, and bringing their level of play where it needs to be. Where it can be.
But Sid wants someone to play with. Lemieux is still moving on the ice wonderfully, but he has a season or two left, and lacks the speed and fervor younger players possess. Thinking of Pittsburgh, of their roster, there are players he respects. Players he can learn from.
But, but.
As their rowdy group exits the lot and leaves the Russians to rot in their loss, Sidney thinks of Malkin, thinks of Pittsburgh, and thinks of winning.