Chapter Text
Gene got to the rink early because that was easier than getting there on time.
Early meant quiet. It meant the parking lot still half-empty, the building not yet crowded with voices and expectations. He sat in his car for a minute with the engine off, listening to the tick of cooling metal, then grabbed his bag and went inside.
The rink smelled the same as every other rink he’d ever known—cold air, rubber, stale ice. He liked that. Some things didn’t change, no matter how big the stage got.
The locker room lights were on, but only a few stalls were occupied. Dryers hummed along the wall. Somewhere, tape ripped in long, clean pulls. Gene found his stall near the end and stopped.
**GENE — G**
He read it once, then again, like it might disappear if he didn’t. Backup goalie. He didn’t say it out loud, but he felt it settle into place.
He set his bag down and started dressing.
He took his time. Pads first, lined up straight. Skates next, laces loosened but neat. His mask went on the bench beside him, cage turned inward. It had always felt wrong to leave it facing out, like it was watching him.
More players filtered in as he worked. Voices grew louder. Someone laughed hard enough that it bounced off the concrete. Gene didn’t look around much. He didn’t need to. He learned rooms by sound.
One voice carried differently. Not louder. Just steady.
Sidney Crosby came in like he belonged there because he did. People shifted without thinking. Conversations bent toward him. Gene glanced up once, then back down to his skates.
“Morning.”
Gene turned slightly. A teammate he didn’t know well stood behind him.
“Morning,” Gene said.
That was enough.
On the ice, the starter took the main net. No discussion. Gene slid into the other crease and tapped the posts, left then right. The ice was clean, almost too bright.
Warm-ups were simple. Shots meant to wake the body up. Gene tracked the puck, moved when he needed to, stayed still when he didn’t. He didn’t rush saves. He didn’t fight the play. He let things come to him.
As drills picked up, the shots got harder. Faster. Less predictable.
Gene stayed the same.
The puck hit him and stopped. His glove swallowed shots clean. Pucks died against his chest. Rebounds dropped straight down instead of spilling into space. He reset after every save, squared up, waiting.
He noticed when guys started looking back at him after shots. Not frustrated. Not impressed. Just checking.
During a break, Crosby skated past the net and slowed.
“Good tracking,” he said, like it was nothing.
Gene nodded. “Thanks.”
Crosby nodded back and pushed off.
The moment passed.
By the end of practice, the starter leaned on his stick, breathing heavy. Gene felt loose, steady, like he could have gone another round.
Back in the locker room, the noise came back fast. Music on. Someone arguing about drills. Someone else already talking about lunch.
Gene undressed quietly. Folded his base layers. Packed his gear the same way he always did. He kept his head down until a voice near him said, “Good first day.”
Gene looked up. One of the defensemen was already pulling on a hoodie.
“Thanks,” Gene said.
The guy nodded and moved on.
Gene slung his bag over his shoulder and headed out. No one stopped him. No one called after him.
But as he left, he felt it—something subtle, almost nothing at all.
They’d noticed.
And for now, that was enough.
The next day felt easier.
Not because anything had changed—nothing had—but because Gene already knew the shape of the place now. The drive. The door. The turn down the hallway where the air got colder. Familiarity settled his nerves better than reassurance ever had.
He got there early again.
This time, there were more cars in the lot. More movement inside. The locker room wasn’t quiet anymore, but it wasn’t loud yet either—just in-between, that liminal stretch before the day really started.
Gene went straight to his stall.
His name was still there. That helped more than it should have.
He dressed the same way he had the day before. Same order. Same care. If anyone noticed, they didn’t say anything. If they thought it was strange, they kept it to themselves. Hockey rooms tolerated quirks as long as you did your job.
He did his job.
On the ice, practice ran sharper than the day before. Fewer warm-up shots. More situational drills. Plays breaking down on purpose, pucks thrown into bad areas to see who reacted first.
Gene didn’t rush.
He never had.
A scramble in front turned into a quick shot from the side. He dropped, sealed the post, felt the puck hit his pad and die there. No rebound. A forward circled back with a small shake of his head, not angry—just recalibrating.
Gene reset.
Another drill. Another rush. A pass across the slot that forced him to slide hard. He got there in time, glove snapping shut around the puck with a dull, solid sound. Someone tapped their stick against the ice, once, absentmindedly.
Between drills, Gene drank water and listened.
He heard names now. Jokes he recognized from the day before. He didn’t join in, but he wasn’t completely outside it either. He stood close enough to be part of the circle without needing to fill the space.
That was where he was comfortable.
After practice, he stayed out an extra few minutes, taking low shots from one of the assistant coaches. Nothing fancy. Just repetition. Muscle memory. Trust.
When he finally skated off, the starter was already gone.
In the locker room, someone had turned the music up louder than usual. Gene didn’t mind. He undressed quietly, the rhythm of it familiar, grounding. Sweat cooled on his skin as he folded his clothes and tucked them into his bag.
A stall or two over, a couple of guys were arguing about a missed pass from practice. Not heated. Just noise.
Gene listened, smiled faintly to himself, then stopped when he realized he was smiling.
That was new.
As he zipped his bag, someone passed behind him and bumped his shoulder lightly, not hard enough to mean anything.
“See you tomorrow,” the guy said.
“Yeah,” Gene answered. “See you.”
It wasn’t much.
But it was more than yesterday.
The first game he dressed for didn’t feel like a milestone.
It probably should have. NHL game. Backup goalie on the bench. A full building humming with anticipation. But sitting there, mask resting on his knees, crowd noise pressing in from every direction, it felt like any other night he needed to be prepared for.
He watched Marc-André Fleury warm up.
Fleury moved the way he always did—loose, playful, confident. The crowd reacted to him instinctively, cheers rising and falling with every save in warmups. He had that effect on people. Gene didn’t resent it. He understood it. Some goalies carried the room with them.
Gene stayed quiet at the end of the bench, water bottle in hand, eyes following the puck out of habit. When the goalie coach leaned in to say something, Gene nodded, even though it was nothing he hadn’t heard before.
Stay ready.
The game started fast. Pittsburgh controlled the first stretch, pressure heavy in the offensive zone. Gene stood when he needed to, sat when he didn’t, body loose but alert.
Midway through the second period, things shifted.
A bad bounce behind the net. A defensive breakdown. Two goals against in quick succession. The building grew restless. Fleury slammed his stick once, sharp frustration flashing across his face before he skated back to the crease.
Gene felt it before the coach said anything.
He always did.
“Gene,” the coach said quietly. “You’re in.”
That was all.
Gene stood, pulled his mask on, and skated out while the crowd buzzed—confused, curious. He tapped both posts, crouched low, and settled.
The first shot came immediately. A hard wrister from the circle, meant to test him.
Gene caught it clean. No rebound. No hesitation.
The second came through traffic. He tracked it late, adjusted, felt it hit his chest and drop straight down. He covered it without looking for the whistle.
The noise in the building changed.
Not louder. Just sharper. Focused.
The next stretch blurred together. A breakaway he read early. A scramble he sealed off at the post. A point shot he steered safely into the corner. Nothing dramatic. Nothing desperate. Just controlled hockey.
On the bench between whistles, Fleury sat a few seats away, helmet still on, staring straight ahead. He didn’t look at Gene. Not once.
Gene didn’t look back.
When the horn sounded to end the period, the score hadn’t changed. Gene skated to the bench, breathing steady. A defenseman reached out and tapped his pads as he passed.
“Good,” the guy said.
Gene nodded.
In the locker room, the energy was tight and focused. No speeches. Just adjustments. Gene stayed at his stall, tightening a strap, drinking water.
Across the room, Crosby glanced over and nodded once.
That was enough.
The rest of the game stayed the same.
Gene didn’t steal it. He didn’t give anything away. He held the line. Pittsburgh won by one.
Afterward, reporters clustered around Fleury first. Then they drifted toward Gene.
“How did it feel?”
“Were you nervous?”
“Did you expect to go in?”
Gene answered calmly. Short sentences. No emphasis. Like he was talking about a drill, not a debut.
Later, back in the locker room, Fleury left without a word.
No glare. No acknowledgment. Just distance.
Gene packed his bag carefully, same as always.
As he stood to leave, he felt the shift settle in. The room wasn’t hostile.
But it wasn’t welcoming either.
And Gene, as he always had, accepted it without comment.
The next practice felt different.
Not louder. Not sharper. Just… angled slightly wrong, like the room had shifted overnight and no one had bothered to move the furniture back.
Gene arrived early again. Habit more than choice. The parking lot was fuller than it had been all week, and inside the rink the energy felt awake in a way it hadn’t before. Game days did that. Even the day after.
In the locker room, people were already talking when he walked in.
Not to him. Just around him.
He went to his stall and set his bag down. His nameplate was the same. His space unchanged. He dressed the way he always did, but he noticed things now—the way conversations dipped when he moved past, the way Fleury’s stall stayed quiet even when people gathered nearby.
No one was cruel.
No one needed to be.
On the ice, Fleury took the main net again. That hadn’t changed either. Gene slid into the backup crease and waited.
Warm-ups were normal. Drills followed their usual rhythm. But the shots felt different. Harder. Less forgiving. A little closer to the body than they needed to be.
Gene absorbed them all the same.
A shot hit him high in the chest and dropped straight down. He covered it quickly, reset. Another came in low, pad save, puck kicked harmlessly to the corner. He stayed composed, breathing steady, movements clean.
He didn’t look at Fleury.
He didn’t need to.
Between drills, Gene stood with his stick resting lightly against the ice, listening. A defenseman skated past him without a glance. Another circled wide instead of cutting through his crease.
It wasn’t deliberate. That was the worst part. It felt instinctive. Like the room had decided something quietly and moved on.
After practice, Gene stayed out for extra shots. The assistant coach flipped pucks at him from the slot. Routine work. Repetition. Familiar ground.
When Gene finally skated off, Fleury was already heading down the tunnel.
In the locker room, the noise returned in pieces. Music on. Someone joking too loudly. Someone else already replaying last night’s goals on a phone.
Gene undressed quietly.
He felt eyes on him now and then—not hostile, not approving. Just… measuring. Like people were deciding where to place him in a picture they thought they already understood.
A few stalls down, someone laughed and said Fleury’s name, something about bad bounces and unlucky nights. The tone was light. Forgiving.
No one said Gene’s name at all.
He didn’t expect them to.
As he zipped his bag, someone brushed past him without apologizing. It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t meant to be anything.
Gene adjusted the strap on his shoulder and stood.
Across the room, **Sidney Crosby** looked up at the same moment. Their eyes met briefly. Crosby’s expression didn’t change—still calm, still unreadable—but there was something there. Awareness, maybe. Or hesitation.
Gene nodded once.
Crosby nodded back.
That was all.
Gene left the locker room and walked down the hallway alone. His skates echoed softly against the concrete. He liked the sound. It reminded him that he was still moving forward, even if no one else noticed.
He didn’t think of it as being pushed out.
He thought of it as making room.
And he told himself—quietly, carefully—that this was fine.
The games came faster after that.
Back-to-backs. Short travel days. Morning skates that blurred into evenings. Gene stayed in the same rhythm—early arrival, quiet preparation, careful attention to details that didn’t ask anything of anyone else.
He sat at the end of the bench and watched.
Fleury started most nights. When he played well, the room was loose afterward—music louder, jokes easier. When he didn’t, the mood tightened, but it bent around him in a familiar way. Grace given. Trust assumed.
Gene learned the pattern quickly.
He dressed for every game. He stayed ready. He didn’t play unless he was told to.
When he did go in, it was usually sudden. A goal against that shifted momentum. A timeout that ended with a tap on the shoulder. No warning.
“Gene. You’re up.”
He never rushed. He never asked questions. He skated out, tapped the posts, settled.
He played the same way every time.
Calm. Compact. Nothing spilled. Nothing dramatic.
After one game he closed out late in the third, a defenseman leaned over on the bench and said, almost surprised, “You make it easy back there.”
Gene nodded. “Just doing my job.”
The guy smiled, then turned back to the ice.
That was the extent of it.
In the locker room, Gene felt the distance more clearly now. Not hostility—he would’ve understood that. This was quieter. More careful. Like people weren’t sure how close they were allowed to stand.
He didn’t take it personally.
He told himself that over and over.
One night after a win, Crosby sat down two stalls away from him instead of his usual spot. They didn’t talk at first. Just the sound of gear coming off, skates clacking against the floor.
After a minute, Crosby said, “You’ve been solid.”
Gene paused, tape halfway peeled from his wrist. “Thanks.”
Another pause.
“Stay ready,” Crosby added. Not unkind. Not distant. Just… careful.
Gene nodded. “Always.”
Crosby stood and moved on.
That was it.
Later, alone in his apartment, Gene replayed the moment without meaning to. Not the words. The tone. The way Crosby hadn’t looked at him for long, like eye contact itself might say too much.
Gene pushed the thought away.
He’d learned early how to do that.
The next morning, he showed up early again. Did the work. Stayed quiet. Took what was offered and didn’t reach for more.
If this was the shape of his place on the team, he would fit himself to it.
He always had.
It happened on a Tuesday.
Not a rivalry game. Not a night anyone circled on the calendar. Just another road stop folded into a long stretch of travel that made days lose their edges.
Fleury gave up three in the first period.
None of them were disasters. A tipped shot. A rebound that kicked wrong. A clean look off a broken coverage. Still, the bench felt it. The way sticks stopped tapping. The way the air thinned.
Gene felt it too.
He stood before the coach reached him.
“Gene,” the coach said. “Second period.”
Gene nodded, already pulling his mask on.
The crowd murmured when he skated out. Not booing. Not cheering. Just uncertain. He tapped the posts, crouched, waited.
The first shot came fast. Gene stopped it. The next one came faster. He stopped that too.
By the end of the period, nothing else had gone in.
On the bench, Fleury sat with his helmet on, eyes forward. Someone tried to say something to him—quiet encouragement, probably—but the words fell flat. He nodded once and didn’t respond.
Gene didn’t look over.
He didn’t need to.
The third period was tight. Physical. The kind of hockey that turned mistakes into headlines. Gene didn’t give them any. He stayed compact. Stayed patient. Let the puck hit him and disappear.
They won in overtime.
The horn sounded, and Gene stayed where he was for a second longer than necessary, breathing steady, heart calm. When he skated to the bench, a few guys reached out—quick taps on the pads, shoulder bumps that didn’t linger.
“Nice work,” someone said.
Gene nodded. “Yeah.”
In the locker room afterward, the mood was strange. Happy, technically. A win was a win. But it didn’t bloom the way it usually did. Music stayed low. Conversations stayed clipped.
Fleury undressed quickly. No jokes. No comments. He left before most of the room had finished.
No one stopped him.
Gene packed his gear slowly. He felt the space Fleury left like a draft—cool, unsettled. A few players glanced his way, then away again, like eye contact might turn into something they didn’t want to manage.
Across the room, Crosby watched the door Fleury had gone through, then looked back at Gene.
For a moment, it felt like he might say something.
He didn’t.
Gene zipped his bag and stood. As he slung it over his shoulder, Crosby finally spoke.
“Good game,” he said. Quiet. Neutral.
Gene met his eyes. Just for a second.
“Thanks,” Gene said.
Crosby nodded and turned back to his stall.
That was the moment Gene understood—not all at once, but enough.
This wasn’t about performance.
It never had been.
And Gene, as always, adjusted himself to fit the space that remained.
The city felt quieter at night.
Gene liked walking after games, even when they got in late. Especially then. The streets around his apartment were mostly empty, lights reflecting off wet pavement, traffic thinned down to the occasional car passing through. It gave him space to think without having to commit to any one thought.
He hadn’t told anyone he walked.
No one had asked.
The next practice came too soon, like they always did. Morning skate after a late arrival. Coffee in paper cups. Bodies moving on muscle memory alone.
Gene arrived early again.
The locker room was already half full, but the mood was flat. Not tense. Just drained. He took his stall, set his bag down, started his routine. Same order. Same care.
He noticed Fleury wasn’t there yet.
When Fleury did come in, the room shifted almost imperceptibly. Not relief—more like recalibration. Someone cracked a joke a little too loud. Someone else asked a question that didn’t need asking. Fleury smiled briefly, the way you do when you don’t feel like smiling but know you’re supposed to.
Gene kept his eyes down.
On the ice, the starter took the main net. No announcement. No explanation. That was how these things worked. Gene slid into the backup crease and waited.
The drills were sharp. Short. Unforgiving.
Shots came in tight and fast. Screens set directly in front of him. Pucks dumped into his pads on purpose, testing rebounds. Gene absorbed them cleanly, covered quickly, reset.
No one commented.
At one point, a shot deflected off a stick and caught him high on the shoulder. He barely flinched. Just rolled his shoulder once and stayed square. A defenseman glanced back, surprised, then skated on.
Between drills, Gene drank water and stared at the ice. He didn’t listen to conversations anymore. He didn’t need to. He already knew the tone.
After practice, he stayed late again. Fewer coaches this time. One assistant, half paying attention. Gene didn’t mind. He liked repetition more than feedback.
When he finally skated off, Fleury was already gone.
In the locker room, Gene undressed quietly. Music played, but no one was really listening to it. He packed his bag, zipped it closed, then sat there for a second longer than usual.
Across the room, Crosby was still in his gear, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor. He looked up when Gene stood.
Their eyes met.
Something passed between them—recognition, maybe. Or just the understanding that they were both pretending nothing was happening.
Crosby opened his mouth, then closed it.
Gene nodded once.
Crosby nodded back.
Gene left the locker room without looking over his shoulder.
In the hallway, the air felt colder. He adjusted the strap of his bag and kept walking. He told himself the same thing he always did—that this was temporary, that things evened out if you waited long enough.
He told himself that because it was easier than wondering what it would cost to ask for more.
It took a while for Gene to realize he was being left out.
Not in any obvious way. No invitations rescinded. No jokes aimed his direction. Just small absences stacking up until they formed a pattern he couldn’t ignore.
Team dinners planned in the hallway that somehow happened without him. A group leaving the rink together while he was still untying his skates. Conversations that picked up speed when he wasn’t nearby and slowed when he was.
He didn’t blame anyone.
He told himself they were busy. Tired. Creatures of habit.
That was easier.
At practice, nothing changed. If anything, he was better. Quicker reads. Cleaner rebounds. The game stayed slow for him even when it sped up everywhere else. Coaches noticed. They always did. Quiet nods. A few extra reps.
The room didn’t follow.
Fleury stayed polite. Distant, but polite. He never said anything unkind. Never said much of anything at all. When Gene passed him in the hallway, Fleury nodded once, eyes already moving past him.
Gene returned the nod and kept walking.
One afternoon, after a short practice, Gene lingered by his stall longer than usual. Not because he needed to—just because he didn’t feel like leaving yet. The room emptied around him in pieces.
Crosby stayed.
Gene noticed because Crosby usually didn’t.
The captain sat two stalls down, peeling tape from his stick in slow, careful motions. The music was off now. The room felt hollow.
“You good?” Crosby asked, not looking up.
Gene hesitated. Just for a second. “Yeah.”
Crosby nodded, like he’d expected that answer. “Good.”
Silence settled again. Comfortable on the surface. Heavy underneath.
Gene zipped his bag and stood. Crosby finally looked up then, eyes steady, searching in a way that felt too direct to be casual.
“If you need anything,” Crosby said, then stopped. He didn’t finish the sentence.
Gene waited.
Crosby exhaled quietly. “Just—keep doing what you’re doing.”
Gene nodded. “I will.”
That seemed to satisfy him.
Gene walked out alone. The hallway lights buzzed faintly overhead. His footsteps echoed, steady and unhurried. He liked the sound of them. Proof he was still there.
Outside, the air was sharp with cold. Gene stood for a moment before heading to his car, letting it bite into his lungs. He told himself, again, that this was fine. That this was what it meant to be dependable. To be easy.
He didn’t notice how small his world had gotten.
Not yet.
The rink emptied faster than usual.
Practice ended, gear got packed, voices drifted down the hallway toward dinner plans Gene wasn’t part of. He stayed seated at his stall, untying his skates slowly, not because he needed the time—because leaving felt worse than staying.
When the room finally cleared, the silence settled in.
Gene stood, slung his bag back under the bench, and headed back toward the ice instead of the exit. He didn’t tell anyone. He never did. Late ice was easier. No eyes. No expectations. Just work.
The lights were dimmed when he stepped out, only half the rink lit. The ice crew wouldn’t be back for a while. He liked it this way. Quieter. Honest.
He dropped pucks at the top of the crease and worked on movement. Push. Set. Reset. Over and over. No rush. No scoreboard. Just muscle memory and breath.
He didn’t hear Crosby come out.
Only noticed when a puck slid across the ice from the far circle and stopped at his skates.
Gene looked up.
Crosby stood at center ice, stick resting against his hip, helmet off. He looked surprised too—like he hadn’t expected to find anyone there.
“Didn’t know you were still out,” Crosby said.
Gene shrugged lightly. “Just getting reps.”
Crosby nodded, then hesitated. “Mind if I stay?”
Gene shook his head. “No.”
Crosby skated closer, slow and easy. He picked up a puck and flipped it lightly toward Gene’s glove. Not hard. Not testing. Just movement.
Gene caught it, dropped it, reset.
They fell into a rhythm without talking. Crosby shot from different angles, never full power, just enough to keep Gene moving. Gene stopped everything cleanly. No rebounds. No wasted motion.
After a while, Crosby leaned on his stick. “You always do this?”
Gene shrugged again. “Helps.”
“With what?”
Gene thought about it. Then answered honestly. “Keeps things quiet.”
Crosby nodded like that made sense.
They stood there for a minute, the only sound the low hum of the lights. Crosby broke the silence first.
“They don’t mean to,” he said.
Gene didn’t ask who.
“I know,” Gene said.
Crosby looked at him then, really looked at him. There was something tired in his face. Something careful.
“You’re good,” Crosby said. Not about hockey. Or maybe about everything.
Gene swallowed. “So are you.”
Crosby smiled faintly, like that wasn’t something he heard often enough.
He skated closer. Too close for it to be just about shots now. Gene stayed where he was.
Crosby stopped at the edge of the crease. “You ever get tired of being the easy one?”
Gene thought about all the ways he could answer. Chose the simplest. “Sometimes.”
Crosby nodded, then stepped forward. Not fast. Not sudden. Like he was testing the ice.
Gene didn’t move.
The kiss wasn’t dramatic. No rush. Just Crosby leaning in, tentative, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed. Gene met him halfway without thinking.
It lasted only a second.
They pulled apart quickly, both of them breathing a little harder than before.
Crosby let out a quiet laugh, half disbelief. “We should—”
“I know,” Gene said.
They stood there in the crease, the ice cold beneath their skates, the rink empty and holding their secret without judgment.
Crosby lifted his stick again, deliberately this time. “One more?”
Gene nodded.
They went back to work like nothing had happened. Shots. Saves. Silence.
But something had shifted.
And for the first time in a while, Gene didn’t feel quite so alone in the quiet.