Chapter Text
Nineteen year old Sidney Crosby wanted everything to be perfect today.
Not just tidy, not just "good enough"—perfect. Like, pre-2005-lockout perfect. Like, NHL-season-doesn’t-get-cancelled perfect.
Because today wasn't just any day. It was the day.
Three weeks ago, somewhere between wind sprints and chirps at practice, Ryan Whitney had dropped the idea.
“Yo, we should hangout again. Have a sleepover or some shit like that.”
“Aren’t we all too old to have a sleepover?” Jordan Staal had asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “I mean, we’re all in our late teens to early twenties.”
“Jordan, my fellow Penguin,” Kris Letang had announced, slicking back his hair with the confidence of a guy who used a flat iron. “Nobody’s too damn old for a sleepover.”
“So whose house should we go to?” Whitney had grinned. “Geno’s place is off-limits—parents are in Russia.”
“We could hang at my house,” Sid had blurted out before thinking.
He regretted it the second it left his mouth. But then Geno lit up like a Christmas tree, Fleury giggled something about finally meeting Sid’s “mysterious, never-seen” parents, and Kris gave him a fist bump. There was no backing out now.
Now, with only four hours until arrival—1:30 PM sharp—Sid was spiraling.
The house was clean. Well, it was always clean, because Mario was kind of a neat freak and Jagr was allergic to clutter. But Sid went above and beyond: vacuumed twice, alphabetized the DVD shelf (again), Febreezed every room (twice), and even polished the family photos (but carefully skipped the baby ones of himself—just in case).
He’d ordered two large pizzas—pepperoni and deluxe, nothing controversial—and stocked the fridge with sodas, Oreos, three kinds of chips, and one six-pack of beer that he labeled "RYAN ONLY" in permanent marker.
And then, of course, there was The List.
Sid sat at the kitchen table with a fresh Sharpie, writing on neon pink notepad paper he "borrowed" from Jagr’s stationary stash. Across the top, he scrawled:
Parent Rules – Sleepover Edition
-
No baby pictures.
-
No weird pet names (e.g., “Siddo,” “Sugarbun,” “My Baby Penguin”).
-
No kissing me on the head.
-
DO NOT mention my potty-training stats.
-
DO NOT bring out that forbidden VHS of Jagr in labor in 1987.
-
(Yes, Mario filmed it. Yes, I know you think it’s “a miracle of birth.” I don’t care.)
-
-
No stories that begin with “One time Sid peed in the—”
-
Try not to make eye contact when Ryan flirts with every reflective surface.
For the love of Gretzky, just be normal.
Sid stuck the list to the fridge, then paused. He knew that wouldn't be enough.
He marched to the den, where Mario was leisurely flipping through a golf magazine and Jagr was lying on the couch doing toe stretches while watching Czech TV on mute.
"Okay," Sid began. "I'm begging you guys. Don’t embarrass me in front of my teammates."
Mario didn’t even look up. “We’re not embarrassing.”
"You once made Jack Johnson look at my baby teeth in a jar," Sid deadpanned.
“It was a teachable moment,” Jagr chimed in. “Bone development is important in athletes.”
“And you kissed my forehead and called me your ‘beloved miracle baby’ in front of him!”
“You are my beloved miracle baby!” Jagr sang out with dramatic flair. “You survived my womb. You were forged in battle!”
Mario chuckled. “He’s not wrong.”
Sid groaned and flopped dramatically into a chair.
"Just once. Just this one time. Can you please pretend to be like...normal parents? "Don’t you dare whip out those photos of me as a toddler, butt-naked covered in paint, while smearing it all over the walls!"
Jagr clutched his chest. “You wound me.”
“We’ll behave,” Mario promised, far too calmly.
That terrified Sid more than anything.
He stared down at the clock on the microwave. Four hours left. Four hours until Evgeni Malkin, Marc-André Fleury, Ryan Whitney, Kris Letang, and Jordan Staal arrived. His friends. His teammates. His brothers.
They still didn’t know Mario and Jagr were his actual parents.
And in four hours, that little secret was about to crash into their world like, Jeremy Roenick, riding a Zamboni on fire.
Sid gulped.
He simply wasn’t ready for this shit...
Ten minutes before 1:30 PM…
Two cars slowly rolled through Sid’s neighborhood, clearly lost. Again.
In Car One, Ryan Whitney was driving with Fleury riding shotgun, and Geno slouched in the back, eating sour candy and squinting at the rows of giant, identical-looking houses.
“Wasn’t it the left at the mailbox? Or the second mailbox?” Fleury asked, holding a crumpled MapQuest printout like it was a cursed scroll.
“I thought we passed that Canadian flag mailbox like three times,” Ryan muttered, turning the steering wheel sharply.
“You passed mailbox four times,” Geno said in deadpan. “Mailbox now fear us.”
In Car Two, Letang was behind the wheel with Jordan Staal beside him, shoving Doritos in his mouth like a stressed raccoon.
“This GPS sucks,” Letang huffed.
“Dude,” Jordan said, pointing. “We’ve already been down this street. I recognize that ugly-ass gnome army.”
“ Ugly-ass gnome army?”
“Yeah, look! Same twelve creepy ones. Looks like a bunch of mini Danny Devito's.”
Finally, after one more turn and a narrow miss with a very judgmental jogger, both cars pulled up to the same destination and practically stopped in unison.
And they froze.
Sid’s house was… not what they expected.
It was mansion-level immaculate—sprawling lawns, huge windows, expensive brickwork, and an arched doorway with fresh hydrangeas in matching stone planters.
“You guys sure this is Sid’s?” Letang whispered from the back seat.
“He like… billionaire rich?” Geno whispered back from car one.
“He said his dad was just a ‘retired player,’” Ryan muttered as he pulled his sleeping bag from the trunk. “Not the King of Monaco.”
They all gathered on the cobblestone path, hoisting sleeping bags, duffel bags, an Xbox 360 (Letang), a Nerf gun (Fleury), and enough snacks to last a weekend.
They were still gawking when Letang stepped up to knock.
Three seconds passed.
Then the door swung open.
And there stood Jaromír Jágr, in a lavender Juicy Couture velour tracksuit, the word JUICY boldly printed across the ass.
The silence was instant.
Jágr smiled widely. “Boys! You made it.”
His hair was perfectly cut. His gold chain glinted in the afternoon light. His tracksuit shimmered like a Y2K disco ball.
No one said a word.
Behind him, Mario Lemieux appeared, calm and regal in a black polo and joggers, one arm draped casually around the shoulders of a 14-year-old girl with a blonde ponytail, a Fleetwood Mac vintage tour shirt, and matching shorts.
“Taylor!” Fleury gasped. "Yo, Taylor existe vraiment?”
“Of course I’m real, ya dummy,” Taylor replied annoyed, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder.
The guys were still frozen, their gazes bouncing between Taylor, Mario, and Jaromír—processing what their eyes were telling them, but their brains refusing to accept it.
Kris leaned over to Ryan.
“I think we're not ready for this,” he muttered.
“Nope,” Ryan replied. “Definitely not.”
“Wait…” Jordan said slowly, eyes narrowing. “If that’s Jagr. And that’s Lemieux. And that’s Taylor…”
“Then—” Kris’s eyes went wide. “They’re Sid’s parents?”
A beat of silence.
Fleury dropped his Nerf gun.
“WHAT THE—”