Chapter Text
In the long roundabout way Sid justifies it, the whole Geno thing is born from pure morbid curiosity.
In the dark of his bedroom, with cum drying on his stomach, face lit only by his laptop screen and the faint sounds of moaning still quietly echoing from its speakers, he goes through the series of events in his head with only minimal shame.
Porn was never very appealing to Sid – ever since he learned how to shove his hand down his pants, his imagination had always been more than sufficient. But, in the grips of a gritty playoff grind and grueling back-to-backs, it became harder and harder to activate his mind to create a vivid enough picture. He hadn’t hooked up in a while either, so all his usual go-tos had started to get a little foggy, anyway. So, really, it was a matter of convenience to turn to the internet.
Call him old fashioned, but there really was nothing appealing about the waxed and oiled actors that infested the main page of every porn site, so he always navigated to the amateur tab, choosing whatever pixelated phone-shot video looked most promising. Usually titled something along the lines of: real couple have tender sex or real love or multiple orgasms while we say i love you.
That’s all just to say it’s not at all in-pattern for him when he finds Geno. Stumbles upon him, really. It’d been late after the last game on a long road trip, fresh off a much-needed win, still a little floaty with the head rush that came with a couple of points for himself and the team. Buzzing and smiling to himself, he’d settled comfortably on top of the hotel bed spread and pulled up the site, navigated to all the old faithfuls, and decided on a whim to be adventurous.
He clicked to the second page, lazily gripping himself through his boxers looking at the thumbnails, his dick just starting to get on the same page. At the top there was a recent video. A little better quality than a phone, angled down at a bed like the camera was on a tripod. The title was hot jerk off alone (соло-сессия), and the video showed a man spread out shirtless and lazy, one hand trailing down his broad chest to the waistband of his pants, his half-lidded eyes looking right at the camera.
Notably, for Sid at least, there were a couple hockey posters on the wall, half-way cut off, but Sid still saw it, a poster of him just barely in frame. He recognized the black and gold branding, the curve of his own calves, an old poster, maybe from rookie season.
With the hot press of guilt and arousal curling in his gut, he clicked the video and shoved his hand fully in his boxers. He gave himself a few cursory dry tugs, but his dick had clearly already gotten with the program, already at full attention. He thinks that probably says something about him.
The video starts with the man already laying on the bed, rubbing one palm slowly over his chest, fingertips brushing feather-light over his nipples. There was already a sizable tent in his baby blue boxers as his hips twitch upwards at every little point of contact.
“Hi, I’m Geno,” he said, a sly smile on his face like he was actually saying I know what you’re doing right now. His voice was deep and had a thick accent, the constants all soft and mushy. Sid hastily leans over to the nightstand beside the bed to get two pumps of lotion and coat himself. “Just me today. You know, wake up and think, maybe make video for all you.”
Sid pushes his boxers down and kicks them off completely. He can’t tear his eyes away from the poster – his poster – just a couple feet above the man on the bed. He strokes himself irritatingly slowly, trying to follow along with the man’s languid pace.
Finally, after a minute or two of teasing, Geno shoves his own boxers off, exposing himself to the camera. His dick is long and thick and pretty pink at the tip. Sid shutters, squeezing himself roughly. He can’t get off just at the sight of this dude’s dick, that’s embarrassing, but god, it really is pretty. Can a dick be pretty?
They jerk off in tandem, Sid hunching over to get close to his laptop, trying to hear every little gasp and moan over the slick sound of lotion and skin-on-skin without turning up the volume. Geno’s moans sound real. It was hard to explain how exactly, but he didn’t seem interested in exaggerating them, like he didn’t care if the camera picked them up at all because they weren’t for the camera anyway.
Sid’s starting to get close watching Geno writhe on the bed, one hand fisted around his dick, swiping periodically over the tip and spitting in his hand, his other hand still toying with one nipple.
“I think I’m–” Geno gasps out, his cheeks mottled with a delightfully vibrant flush. “Hmm, don’t wanna come yet, video not long enough, I think,” he says with a breathless laugh. “What you think?” he asks the camera, and Sid unthinkingly nods.
Wordlessly, Geno pulls his knees up to his chest and pushes one finger against his rim. Sid has to close his eyes and stop stroking himself to stave off an orgasm. When he opens them again, Geno is still just toying with his hole, pressing lightly and squirming against his own finger.
“Fuck,” he breathes, then says something in a different language under his breath. He pulls his hand away to spit in it and then brings it back to rub the spit in a messy stripe under his balls. “Just one finger, I think– think that’s enough,” he pants.
True to his word, he presses one long finger into himself and Sid comes quick and hard, striping up his shirt and over the back of his hand. He keeps watching, his hand still around his dick as he catches his breath and watches Geno throw his head back against the bed.
With a mix of horror and delight, he realizes Geno isn’t looking at the camera anymore, his eyes fixed on the poster on his wall that the camera can’t see. His dick gives a valiant twitch, one more drop of cum pulsing out as Geno comes, gaze still fixed out of frame.
Geno lays there for a moment, bringing his legs back down flat on the bed. He wipes his hand messily on his stomach and smiles big at the camera. His hair is mussed and his forehead is gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat, his entire face and chest blushing bright.
“Okay, guys, all done, yes?” He props himself up on his elbows, the muscles in his abdomen flexing tight. “You think one finger not enough, too bad.” Sid laughs a little at the ridiculousness, of himself and of Geno, ridiculing his audience after coming desperate and shaking on camera. “Kidding, kidding, but if you want more, I do live video with more than one finger, okay? Check out sometime. Thanks for coming. Ha,” he laughs at his own joke, and the video ends, leaving only the still image of Geno with the ghost of a smile on his face.
Sid strips the shirt off of his chest, tossing it across the room, vowing to try and scrub the stain in the sink before their flight tomorrow. A small, desperately curious part of him forces him to click on Geno’s profile.
No profile picture, just the username Geno71 and a short description.
Help pay for college. Videos sometimes but mostly live wednesday friday monday (11pm ET) Enjoy))))
There’s a couple lines in a different language – Russian, just based on how it looks, and Sid, still naked and starting to get cold, opens a new tab to google translate it.
I make videos to help cover costs for university in America. Check out my page to watch past videos or watch my live streams on Wednesdays Fridays and Mondays (9am YEKT) (Sorry about the awkward time difference) Enjoy))))
—
And so, simply through genuine morbid curiosity, a little bit of ego, and coincidence, Sid starts watching Geno.
It’s a little nervewracking, at first, to tap into the live stream. It wasn’t something Sid had ever done before, and he felt oddly exposed by it. Even though he knew, logically, that there wasn’t any possible way for anything to be traced back to him, he still kept looking around his room anxiously like someone would jump out with a camera and a microphone like, gotcha! Before he’d even logged into his computer, he’d pasted a yellow post-it over his webcam and taped it down for good measure.
It was 11pm on the eve of a rare off-day, no game, no practice. He’d already stripped to his boxers, not trying to ruin another t-shirt.
At first he barely even jerks off. He doesn’t really know how it works, if he’s supposed to watch the whole thing and play along, or if most people just come quick and log off.
There’s a live chat and tip function, and Russian and English comments roll across the far left edge of the stream. Sometimes, Geno would look away from the camera, presumably to a computer out of view, and read a couple.
Clearly there were regulars, names that Geno saw and smiled at.
“Ball man three hundred four! Hi again! Yes, I use purple one if you want, but gonna cost you, okay? Who agree with ball man three hundred four? Who want purple one?” And the comments would start rolling in, the tips too, which appeared with a sparkle at the top of the chat.
There were more English comments, but when a Russian one caught his attention, he’d respond in kind, his voice somehow even deeper in his native tongue. Sid liked those ones.
After almost ten painstaking minutes of teasing himself, Geno arranges himself on his hands and knees, displaying his ass towards the camera. “What you think guys? One finger or two? Two might hurt,” he teases, glancing over to watch the comments again. “Okay, twenty dollars, you get one, fifty you get two.” He slathered lube over himself as he waited to reach the goal.
It wasn’t a viral stream by any means, maybe thirty five viewers on the whole, sometimes closer to eighty and sometimes closer to fifteen, but Geno didn’t seem to mind. He ended up getting fifty two dollars after five minutes of waiting and so, “as a special treat for my friends here,” he fingered himself open with two and then three fingers.
Sid kept having to stop jerking off, prying his hands away to lay limp at his sides as his dick twitched angrily. He didn’t want to come too soon, miss anything. Every once in a while, when the comments were preoccupied begging Geno to fuck himself harder, Sid watched him look up at his wall. That was when he really had to stop touching himself, an orgasm threatening to unfold every time.
“So nice to me, guys,” Geno was fucking himself with the chat’s favorite purple dildo. Leaning on his knees and elbows, one arm contorted behind him to push it inside, he looked absolutely filthy. His ass was front and center, Sid unable to do anything but watch the exact place the silicone disappeared inside of him. “So nice, always so nice, pay tuition tomorrow no problem you guys so good to me,” he smiled, his face almost hidden behind his shoulder.
A hot, slimy feeling crept up Sid’s spine. In a sudden rush, he realized that Geno was a real guy, a student trying to pay his bills. He knew that, distantly, but hearing him say it bent over and panting, it became real. His hand flew to the screen, almost slamming it shut before he stopped himself.
Maybe this wasn’t so bad, if he actually tipped instead of lurking. He had the means, obviously. And then, it wasn’t so bad. He watched porn for free, usually, so wasn’t it better if it was going to a good cause? I mean, Geno was streaming of his own free will, right?
He duplicated the tab, not wanting to stop the video and miss anything and went to his account. Quickly, trying not to think about how to explain this to his accountant, he browsed the terms and conditions, the words ‘discreet billing procedures’ soothing him slightly. He got up, pulling on his boxers with a hiss at the rough fabric, and fumbled for his wallet from the pocket of his discarded jeans.
As he hooked up his card, wanton moans were still filtering into the dark of his room, “oh, fuck,” and strings of breathless Russian that Sid desperately wished he could understand.
With sudden urgency at Geno’s quick, desperate panting, Sid (LordStanley87, now, according to his hastily clobbered together username) opened the tip option and fumbled in $200.
“Holy shit,” Geno was glancing at the screen with wide eyes, the hand that was holding the dildo suddenly stilling. “Stanley! You give too much money, you meant twenty! You give two hundred!” He started fucking himself again but slower as he read the chat.
Other chatters were laboring compliments (“you deserve it geno,” “thank you stanley for doing what we cant LOL”) and Sid felt suddenly embarrassed. Maybe that was too much, coming on too strong? He felt like a teenager again, fumbling his way through pick-up lines.
He sent a chat with a comment, No, that was the right amount.
Briefly, he considered adding something else like, you’re very sexy, or something, but didn’t in the end.
“What you want me to do?” Geno asked, beginning to fuck himself faster again. “Stanley, you pick, you pick,” he was panting again, little grunts forcing themselves through his lips. “For two hundred, you pick,” he said again, eyes still trained on the out-of-frame computer.
Sid, now flush with power, paused. What did he want? He wasn’t expecting to have to choose and he felt like Geno was waiting for him, the chat rolling quickly with ignored suggestions.
He sent another tip with a comment:
LordStanley87 has tipped $50!
Can you lay on your back? Thanks
Geno laughs, a surprisingly loud and honking one – authentic. “You say thanks! I say thanks! Yes, of course I can lay on my back,” Geno flips himself over quickly, pulling up his knees while he fumbled for more lube. “Thanks, you say, thanks,” he’s laughing to himself even as he pushes the dildo in to the hilt. “And fifty more! Two hundred fifty! Stanley, you crazy,” he gasps out.
Sid is jerking off like he hasn’t in years. His tip leaks drops of precum everytime Geno moans as he tries to sync the thrusts of his hand to the thrusts of the purple dildo. Sid isn’t moaning, that’s a little too much while he’s alone in his room, but he can feel them bubbling in his throat as Geno’s chest starts to heave.
“Fuck, I’m gonna come like this,” Geno announces, reaching a hand down to stroke himself, slowly, in complete contrast to the quick thrusts he’s doing with his other hand. “Gonna– ah, ah, fuck,” his back arches off the bed and Sid watches as he keeps his eyes trained on the poster.
His poster, his face, his body that Geno’s staring at, mouth agape, as he comes.
Sid quickly follows, keeping a tight grip on himself as he thrusts upward into his hand, riding out his orgasm that seems endless. Words he’d never say aloud floating in his head, ridiculous and embarrassing things like, ‘yeah, look at me when you come, you like that, huh? You want it to be me? You want it to be me fucking you like this?’
Finally, when the hot balloon of pressure subsides, he lets go, content to catch his breath watching Geno do the same. He looks completely fucked out, lolling his head back and forth on the pillow, grinning wide. The dildo is laying on his bed spread as he sluggishly thrusts into a loose hand, already spent, shivering and spasming at the sensitivity.
The video is still playing as Sid wipes down his chest with a couple of tissues, feeling a little disgusting but plenty satisfied. He doesn’t know if he should click away. Is it weird if he stays and watches Geno float back to himself, all soft and happy? Really, he doesn’t know what the etiquette is here, if everyone is meant to avert their eyes in the tender moments of afterglow, or if that’s part of the draw of stuff like this.
To Sid’s surprise, Geno fumbles around for his boxers, gray plaid, and slides them on. He sits up and moves to the edge of the bed, combing a hand through his hair, which Sid thinks he should probably find gross, but doesn’t.
“Wow, guys, thank you for all the nice words and big tips,” he smiles brightly. He looks sweet and pretty like this, his plush bitten lips and long dark lashes staring up at the camera. “Stanley, you still here?”
With a jolt, he realizes that Geno’s talking to him, and he types out ‘Yes’ in the chat and watches it scroll by on the edge of the screen. Geno’s reached out of frame and grabbed a large, gray laptop. He sits it on his lap, glancing between it and the camera. The back is dotted with a couple of stickers. Sid doesn’t recognize or understand any of them except an old, chipped KHL Metallurg sticker and, to Sid’s secret glee, a Penguins logo.
“You new biggest fan, right?” he laughs. “You come back Friday, okay? I be here and you can give me big tip again. I lay on my back or stand on my head, whatever you want.”
Sid sends, ‘I’ll be here,’ even though they have a home game on Friday against the Flyers, and he doesn’t know if he’ll be in the mood to jerk off or not.
The viewers have dwindled, a meager thirteen still left, and Geno chats with them casually. It must be a regular thing, because there seems to be little inside jokes here and there, secret meanings that get lots of laughs from the other viewers. Sid feels a little excluded, but for some reason, he can’t seem to click away. He watches Geno tuck his legs up, crossing them in front of his body, talking and joking and smiling like they hadn’t all just watched him bent over and begging. It was intimate, almost, the way he lavished in praise and scoffed and ribbed the usernames he recognized.
“Lord Stanley eight seven,” Geno said suddenly, bringing Sid back to the reality that he’d really dropped two hundred and fifty dollars into Geno’s pocket to watch him come. God, he had a lot of awkward phone calls ahead of him if this website showed up on his bank statement. “You hockey guy?”
For some reason, Sid immediately felt caught, like Geno had said ‘I know who you are, pervert,’ instead of an obviously innocuous question.
LordStanley87: Yeah I’m a big fan
LordStanley87: Nice poster by the way
“You see that?” Geno whipped his head around to look at the poster on the wall. Sid almost wished he hadn’t said anything, he should’ve kept it his own little secret. “How you recognize that? Eight seven, you must be Crosby fan then?”
LordStanley87: Haha yeah
LordStanley87: Go Pens
He cringed internally. God, he should’ve picked a different username, but for some reason he’d expected this to play out a lot more anonymously. He was suddenly embarrassed, wanting to take it back. He should just exit now, close this tab and act like none of this has happened.
“Go Pens!” Geno grins. “I think maybe they win it this year, good team, Crosby best.” Sid put his hand in his hands. Was he so hard up for validation that he’d taken to paying cam boys to tell him he was a good hockey player? And why was he enjoying it? He’d never liked picking up fans – they always had this idea of him that he could never live up to.
LordStanley87: Hey, don’t jinx us
Then, quickly after hitting send, so he didn’t have time to unpack his motivations about it, he sent another.
LordStanley87: Gonna kill the Flyers on Friday.
Geno laughed and Sid felt a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Yes, they die. Die Flyers, die!” The chat was a slow trickle of encouragement, though it was mostly disinterested in the hockey talk. It must come up often, because one chat just said ‘not this again.’ “Hey, no one be mad I talk hockey, okay? I come hard and want to talk about Penguins, I talk about Penguins.” He nodded, self-assured. “Hey, what about this, if Flyers win Friday, no video.” He laughed as chatters protested. “See, now you care about Penguins, too!”
–-
Sid wakes up feeling like a million bucks. Down $250, but feeling all the richer anyway. With a spring in his step he can only attribute to a satisfying orgasm and a newfound, steady source of orgasms to come, he can’t help but smile all the way to the rink.
He shouldn’t even be there, really, but Sidney Crosby doesn’t do off-days. So he drinks one cup of decaf coffee when he gets there, lounges into the cafeteria to cobble together some continental breakfast and goes to the gym.
He doesn’t bring headphones, just works out in silence as he moves through a perfectly curated tried-and-true low intensity circuit. He’s supposed to be resting, after all. After the first time around, he’s sweat a damp semi-circle through his t-shirt and can feel a couple droplets streaking down his forehead. He feels good – warm, loose, strong. Besides, he has to be at his best for tomorrow. Unbidden, Geno’s voice laughs out in his head – die, Flyers, die!
He takes out his phone during his cool-down stretches, scrolling through his library on Spotify, considering what audiobook he should listen to on the way home. A notification pops up from his personal email – XXXHub: New Direct Message from Geno71: hey st…
He jumps to dismiss it, looking quickly over his shoulder. What the fuck? Why was there a direct message option on a fucking porn website?
Sending another cursory glance around the gym – empty, except for him – he opens the email to look it over.
Geno71: hey stanley)) i know that is not really your name but i don’t know what else to call you! since youre my new biggest fan i posted video special for you, you will know when you see it! i hope pens beat flyers so you can tip me a lot of money again (joking) but also just wanted to say thank you. i paid lots of bills because of you and youre nice guy. thanks again (go pens!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
The English wasn’t perfect but it matched the exact way he talked so well that Sid could almost hear his voice reading it. He’d look at it when he was home, and then mute notifications from the site from his email. Obviously, Geno was trying to keep him on the hook after his flagrant tipping the night before. It was a good strategy, really, Sid kind of admired the tenacity of it.
Obviously, he was going to keep watching Geno, and keep tipping him. He wanted to tell Geno he didn’t need to message him or give him any special treatment to keep him interested. Maybe he had other big tippers that were lacking attention and felt special when they got this kind of thing, but Sid was content enough as it was.
When he got home he showered off the sweat and musk of the workout and wandered down to his kitchen to make lunch. He brought his laptop in tow, unable to lie even to himself that he wasn’t at least a little curious about this special video.
He threw a tupperware of leftovers (chicken and rice with some kind of sauce he’d found the recipe for on the internet) in the microwave to thaw and cracked open his laptop. Tabbing through his history (he really had to get better at remembering to clear that) he found Geno’s profile.
There was, as promised, a new video. From the thumbnail alone, Sid knew why it was meant for him.
The camera angle was different, further towards the center of the bed and lowered so it could point almost upward. From this angle, the poster of him was fully visible. He was right, it was from his rookie year, his own young face staring intensely back at him. Seeing it in full, he could tell it was old, a fat wrinkle through the middle, two of the corners curled inward, one with a little chunk taken out. God, really, it must be ancient at this point.
He tried not to curl his lip at how old it made him feel, that this man (god, young man) had a poster of him in his bedroom from years past like an idol. Notably, it wasn’t the only decoration. Above the poster was a hockey stick mounted on the wall, Bauer, Sid realized with a scoff. Below that, next to the poster, in a place Sid knew had been blank the night before, was a jersey. His jersey, his club, his last name, his number.
“Fuck,” he muttered, to no one in particular. His dick was starting to chub up, despite the embarrassing origins of his arousal. Jesus christ, he really had to unpack this in therapy or something, it really shouldn’t turn him on this much. At least in his mind he could attribute his half-stiffy to the rest of the screen, where Geno was sitting on his knees, one hand around his dick. The title, Sid realized with a short exhale, was ‘i fuck myself for pittsburgh penguins.’
There was probably a messy intellectual property lawsuit waiting to happen there, but Sid doubted anything would come of it. Wouldn’t that imply that someone else would have to stumble on this video, then admit that to a board of big-shot lawyers? Not likely.
The microwave beeped, but his food was long forgotten. He pressed play, shoving one hand down his shorts (shit, he was going to have to do laundry again if he kept jerking off so much).
It added another layer, in the light of day, in his kitchen, to watch Geno. It wasn’t live this time, but it wasn’t really edited, either. It’s a short video, but Sid doesn’t need much anyway.
“I thought, maybe, I do a video for best team because I know I have some hockey fans who my fans, too,” Geno was already jerking off the moment the video started, but there was a long, black dildo next to him, lying in wait. “So, I put up my favorite stuff,” he jerks his head back to gesture to the wall behind him.
Sid is jerking off with him, shamefully spitting a little in his hand and recoiling at the scent. He’d have to shower again, too. It really does feel like the video is just for him, more than Geno knows, really. It sent a shiver of excitement through him, that Geno had no fucking idea that Sid was seeing this, getting off to it.
“I prep already, sorry, got too excited to wait,” Geno says as he sits down on the toy he had out. “Mm, fuck, little bit big,” his face is screwed together in concentration, but it slowly softens into pleasure as he sinks down.
Sid jerks off with a little intensity, his wrist starting to get irritated by his waistband. He watches, a little wide-eyed as Geno starts to squirm, babbling about the Penguins season stats. Surely no one else could possibly be enjoying this, right? It’s just for him?
“I’m sure you guys know Sidney Crosby, like, everyone knows, he’s best,” his usually loud voice is weak and breathless as he continues. “I’m like him so much, like, his hockey of course, but nice to look at, too.” He glances behind himself to stare at the poster for a second and Sid swears he can see a drop of precum spring up from the tip of his dick. “Mm, fuck.”
Sid can feel his balls starting to draw up, release so, so close. He’s trying to hold out, reveling in the waves of praise that Geno seems so willing to bestow him with.
“Hope Pens win it this year, that would – ah, fuck – mm, that would be so fun for me,” Geno isn’t even really fucking himself anymore, just grinding his hips down and thrusting hard into his hand. “Wanna watch the game, see Sidney Crosby– fuck!”
Geno comes hard all over his own hand and Sid does, too. It takes him a little by surprise, his hips suddenly canting forward and forcing him to grip onto the counter to stay upright. He comes hard, pulsing in wave after wave, fucking his fist. He’s shaking as he removes his hand, feeling cum soak into a wet spot in his boxers. What the fuck was he doing?
Looking back at his screen, Geno was smiling wide, now reclined on the bed stroking himself into oversensitivity again, staring openly at his wall as he flexed and fluttered at his own touch.
“Okay, thanks for watching,” he grinned, looking back at the camera. “You can thank biggest fan Lord Stanley for this video, okay? Tell him thanks tomorrow on video. Bye.”
–--
They win on Friday – a crushing 4-0 in an absolute runaway. By the third, the whole bench is buzzing, alight with energy all the way up to the buzzer. Sid can’t stop smiling, slapping guys on the back, practically flying up and down the ice every shift, itching for the next goal, next point.
They go out as a team, after. It was an early game and with no threat of a back-to-back the next day which meant everyone was chomping at the bit to celebrate. Sid sufficiently fulfills his captainly duties, staying for a respectable two drinks and making the rounds saying goodbye.
“Ahh, man, no way you’re leaving,” Kris groaned, his arm around the shoulders of an already-way-too-drunk rookie who’d finally scored his first goal in the show. “Stay! Celebrate! What else do you have to do?”
Sid shrugged, the tingle of secret anticipation already sparking inside him. “Just thought I’d call it an early night, get some sleep. Gotta be playoff ready now, eh?”
This earns him a laugh and permission to leave and he gets home a little buzzed and happy. Geno starts promptly at 11, keeping the jersey on the wall, but shifting the camera back to its usual angle, leaving just the corner of it visible. What a tease.
Sid comes in the first five minutes, the second Geno’s hand disappears into his boxers. Still, he stays and tries half-heartedly to will himself to a second orgasm he knows won’t happen. To his credit, he does get hard again before the stream ends, a warm, fuzzy kind of pleasure with no pressure to release it.
He tips Geno a hundred dollars after he comes and revels in the excited way his eyes widen. “Stanley, I told you Pens win! Two Crosby points! See, everyone, Pens are the best!”
He really doesn’t even have a reason to finish the stream, but he does anyway, content to stroke himself slowly and study every plane of Geno’s back, the swell of his ass, the vein that pops out of his neck when he hits the right spot inside of him.
Even after Geno comes and then fucks himself back to full hardness and comes again (oh, the joys of being young) Sid keeps watching. Then, as most viewers trickle out, he watches Geno clean himself up and put clothes on, some sweatpants and a frumpy hoodie.
“What? It’s cold in here, okay? You all know what I look like naked, just imagine it!” He grumbles at the playful bemoaning in the chat. Sid is smiling, unable to wipe it off his face and not really wanting to, anyway.
“Everyone leave now, okay? I want to talk to Stanley alone, yes, really, bye! See you Monday, bye!” Sid thinks he’s joking, but most viewers really do leave, until it’s just him and Geno and a couple of stubborn viewers that are either asleep or curious enough to stay and listen in. “Hey, Stanley, biggest fan ever, you watch the game?”
LordStanley87: Haha yeah it was a good one. What’s up?
“Well, I just wanna say, like, ugh–” he shrugs, turning away for a moment. “I know I say, like, you biggest fan, you biggest tipper, all that, but you don’t have to give so much every time, you know?”
LordStanley87: I don’t mind
“I know! Okay, you probably have lots of money, huge house, so many cars, all this, but you know, I just don’t want you to think, like, you have to give two hundred, three hundred every time, okay? Like, it’s too much, you know. Feel bad.”
Sid wants to laugh, but can’t. It wasn’t like he was being held at gun point and forced to tip, but he didn’t want Geno to feel guilty about it either. Wasn’t it the whole point that he was trying to do something good to assuage his own guilt?
LordStanley87: Ok
LordStanley87: Can I just do it sometimes?
LordStanley87: Like when the Pens win, I’m allowed to tip you a lot?
Geno sees this, thinks for a moment and nods. “Okay, maybe that’s okay. Feel better now. You still watch, right? Even if Pens lose?”
LordStanley87: I’m really busy some nights so I might not be able to watch every time
LordStanley87: But yeah, even if they lose of course I’ll watch when I can
In a spur of confidence and in the safety of anonymity he sends another message.
LordStanley87: I like watching you
“Mm, Stanley, you’re gonna make me hard again, talking like this! Well, I like when you watch, too. Is okay if you can’t every time, you busy making lots of money I get it, but I’ll be here, okay?”
LordStanley87: Okay
LordStanley87: Goodnight
“Goodnight, Stanley!” The streams cuts to black.
—--
The rest of the regular season crawls by. Now that they’ve secured a cushion beneath them to push them into the playoffs, the sparking struggle has morphed into nauseating anticipation. Every game had the unspoken feeling hanging over the bench of, ‘hey, seriously, don’t fuck this up now.’
Still, Geno had morphed into something more than a guilty pleasure. He didn’t like to call it superstition. Call it routine. After the Flyers win, Sid wouldn’t – no, couldn’t – go to bed the night before a game without coming to Geno. He’d come once to the video with his jersey on the wall, just as he did the day before the Flyers game, and then tune into the lives if he could. It just made him feel better, made him feel correct and prepared and right.
It was on a hard road trip stretch in the Pacific where he starts to slip a little in his devotion. Jerking off four nights in a row is fucking ridiculous and it means he’s collapsing into exhausted, dreamless sleep every night as soon as possible. He just can’t justify staying up until four in the morning on a long stretch. Maybe ten years ago he could bounce back from that, but not now.
Sometime around 10pm the night after a bad loss Sid gets an email. He’s changed the settings to discreet, so it shows up as a blank ‘see more,’ but he knows it’s from Geno.
Geno71: hi stanley, sorry if this is awkward but i not see you in a while((( everything okay? i know pens lose but im still doing videos!! joking again. sorry again if this is weird but i miss you ha ha no one else wants to talk about hockey with me!!
For some reason, Sid can’t help the slight bubble of annoyance rise up in him. Okay, it’s probably just leftover from a bad fucking loss, but he feels suddenly offput. Maybe Geno needed money or something? He types up a reply and deletes it when he reads it back and it sounds petty and insolent. Fuck, he really shouldn’t care this much about the guy he pays to get his rocks off to.
Still, a small part of him, deep, deep down, has come to a hesitant kind of affection towards Geno. When he smiles, Sid finds himself smiling too. His pink cheeks and watery brown eyes make Sid’s stomach go wobbly in a way it hasn’t in a long time. It makes him feel stupid and old and perverted, but he couldn’t really help it. The urge for Geno to know him – to like him, even – claws up his neck, angry and relentless. He tries two more times to draft a reply before rolling his eyes at his own pointless indecision and just sending one.
LordStanley87: Hey. I’ve been super busy with work stuff and I’m in a different time zone right now so it just hasn’t worked out. Hopefully I can watch soon, probably not until Friday, though.
To Sid’s surprise, a gray typing bubble appears immediately before he can even close out of the website. It appears and disappears a couple of times before Geno’s reply pops up.
Geno71: that is totally ok!!! sorry no pressure to watch or anything haha forget it i was just being dumb
Geno71: school been really busy for me too so im maybe thinking of doing a different time anyway. something work better for you?
Sid pauses and thinks about the fact that Geno wants to change the time of his streams so he can watch. Maybe that says something that Sid doesn’t really want to unpack. For all Geno knows, Sid is some ugly, balding millionaire from Wexford. He knows it's dumb to pry and there’s really no point, but there’s a certain curiosity about Geno that he can’t tamp down. He just has to be careful about what he reveals about himself, not that Geno would believe him anyway even if he came out and said, ‘hey, by the way, I’m Sidney Crosby!’
LordStanley87: I’ll be back home on Friday so the time will work out better. My schedule isn’t really regular so the day doesn’t really affect if I can watch or not.
He shouldn’t. Really, really, he shouldn’t.
LordStanley87: What are you studying?
Geno71: okay i might change to tuesday streams because i have lots of class on monday
Geno71: exercise science))) i want to be team trainer for the penguins!
Sid laughs. Wouldn’t that be something? He’d pop a stiffy every time he went in to get a cramp massaged out. He’d probably have to start wearing his jock 24/7 to avoid the embarrassment.
Geno71: can i ask what you do for work? or is that secret? no worries if not
Fuck. This is why he should’ve minded his own fucking business. He didn’t want to lie but he couldn’t tell the truth.
LordStanley87: Tuesdays work good.
LordStanley87: Exercise science sounds interesting, is it difficult? I work in media.
Geno71: so difficult! you not even believe how many muscles there are its so many!! and now i have to learn them in english too its really really terrible
Geno71: must be good media job you make so much money yes?
LordStanley87: Haha yeah, I do okay.
Geno71: you do okay haha youre funny guy stanley you probably have huuuuge house and lots of fancy sports cars or something
Geno71: what do you look like? if youre ugly its okay you can lie i wont know hahahahaha im just curious you know
Looking down at himself in pajama pants and an old, ratty team shirt, Sid doesn’t really know what to say. How could he describe himself? He doesn’t want to exaggerate or be self-depricating. He tries to be as honest as possible.
LordStanley87: It’s weird to describe myself haha. I’m 5’11 and have short dark hair and brown eyes and I’m 29. Old, I know.
Geno71: mmmm my type i think
Geno71: you go to the gym? remember its okay to lie too
LordStanley87: Yeah I go every day. I have a home gym too, so it’s easy. I like to stay fit.
Geno71: what are you wearing right now?
Jesus fucking christ, Geno’s trying to sext him. Sid scrolls up in the messages and realizes that was probably his goal the whole time. How had he not picked up on that? He reaches down to rub his dick through his pants, his arousal starting to stir at the thought of Geno. Was he already hard? Already touching himself? Against his better judgement, spurred by his hard-on, he replies.
LordStanley71: Pajama pants and a t-shirt, nothing special. You?
Geno71: no underwear???? haha joking again sorry
Geno71: im in my boxers
Geno71: and socks
LordStanley87: Can I see?
For a brief moment, when the typing bubble doesn’t appear, Sid is horrified to think that maybe Geno will say no. He’s still rubbing himself over his pants when the picture appears. It’s Geno splayed out on his back, shirtless as promised, a hand draped just over the waistband of his boxers with his thumb tucked under the elastic. Just the bottom of his face is visible and his thick bottom lip is caught between his teeth.
Fuck, this is so hot. Sid shoves a hand into his pants in earnest, eyes trained on the photo. With one hand, he clumsily types.
LordStanley87: You’re so beautiful.
Geno71: can i see you too?
And then, when Sid doesn’t immediately reply:
Geno71: its okay if not. don’t have to show your face too
He’s in a hotel room, no identifying items around him. He doesn’t have any tattoos that a picture could tie him to. If he keeps his face out, there’s really no reason not to, right? He pulls his hand out of his pants, adjusting his dick a little but the tent is pretty unmistakeable. Knowing that Geno probably wants something to look at, he pulls up the hem of his shirt to reveal a thin sliver of skin just above his waistband, speckled with a trail of hair. He takes the picture and sends it.
Almost two whole minutes goes by and Sid triple checks the photo for any incriminating details. He’s cut his head out of frame, just the base of his neck visible.
Geno71: oh my god i didnt know you were such sexy guy
Geno71: can’t stop looking at you
Geno71: and nice shirt ;))
Sid laughs, having forgotten that he was even wearing a Penguins shirt.
LordStanley87: Haha thanks. Figured it’s only fair to send a picture since I get to see you all the time.
Geno71: wish i could see you all the time since you look like that
Geno71: can i see more? ok if not
Before Sid can ask what he means, Geno sends a picture pointing down the length of his abdomen with his dick in his hand, red and angry. A sharp spike of arousal shoots through him, seeing every little detail up close like this – Geno’s long, slender fingers gripped tight around himself, already leaking. The thought that Geno’s hard and wanting for him, only him, sends an arc of electric current up his spine.
Then, Sid takes in the blurry background. It sends him a little off-kilter, how intimate it feels to look. The rest of Geno’s room is visible, the part the camera never shows. There’s a couple framed pictures that Sid can’t make out on the wall, a desk with a monitor, scattered with papers, and an open closet. With a strange, prying fondness, Sid tries to see what clothes there are, taking a secret joy in now knowing that Geno prefers gray and navy blue.
Fuck, he really, really, really shouldn’t. This was like the one thing he really shouldn’t do. Of course, his head this cloudy and skin alight with the thrill of the forbidden, he does it anyway.
He shoves his pants and boxers down just under his ass and gives himself a couple strokes for confidence. He hikes his shirt up to his chest to show the smooth, hardened swath of his chest. He doesn’t really know the right angle but he brings the camera up to not show any other part of the room and takes a picture.
Geno71: holy fuck
Geno71: yo ure so fucvking hot
Geno71: hard type with one hand
LordStanley87: Thank you
LordStanley87: Wish I could watch you right now.
LordStanley87: You’re always very pretty when you come.
Geno71: fuck
Sid doesn’t respond. He’s too busy furtively fucking up into his hand, looking at Geno’s photo, his eyes alternating between the smooth, pink head of his dick and the fuzzy outline of hoodies on hangers.
He comes with a muffled groan, body shaking, trying to keep his eyes open to look at his phone. Slowly, he drifts back to sanity and realizes that he’s done something very, very dumb, and realizes shortly afterward that he doesn’t really care.
Should he say something? What could he even say? Hey, thanks again for another earth-shattering orgasm, please don’t look too hard at that picture and figure out that I’m not who I say I am?
Before he can decide, Geno sends another picture, this time it’s his stomach, smeared with come. Fuck.
Geno71: see you friday?
—---
And so Sid and Geno strike a little balance.
The playoffs are fucking grueling – every game feels like he’s sacrificing his soul, body and sanity. They can’t seem to clinch a series before game six. It reminds him of the tilt-a-whirl at the county fair, the ups and downs and the way his stomach churns in excitement and dread and everything else.
Then, there’s the sexting. They never exchange numbers, keeping it strictly within the confines of the website, but it becomes so regular that it becomes the first thing Sid checks in the morning before he leaves and the second he gets home at night.
It starts with the off days of the streams, usually the weekends. Geno messages asking something innocuous, like whether or not moving the stream an hour earlier would be better or not. The pretense always drops quickly and they move into exchanging desperate bids to see each other, hear each other, whatever else. Sid keeps his pictures limited to his stomach, his dick and his plain, gray comforter.
The first time he gets a morning text from Geno he’s a little surprised. Still, he opens the chat and sees with even greater surprise that he’s not in his bedroom. It appears to be taken in a kitchen with white tiles and linoleum countertops. It only shows Geno from the neck down, pointing at the ground, showcasing a sizable erection poking out the fabric of his boxers and his green polka-dotted socked feet.
It’s hot, obviously, but also a little domestic. The chat beneath the picture says: woke up after good dream last night, guess about who?
Sid replied: Hmm. Me?
Geno’s reply spurred a manic giggle from his throat.
Geno71: haha no you wish ;P it was crosby!!!!
By the end of the regular season, without any conscious effort, it’d somehow morphed into something else. At night, Sid could still message him and get something cloying or flirty in response, but during the day, they talked about anything but.
Sid learns that Geno moved to Russia alone on a student visa, but he’s working towards permanent citizenship. His real name is Evgeni, his friends back home call him Zhenya, but in America he’s come to like the nickname Geno better anyway. He’s a cat guy. He used to play hockey, all the way through juniors, but tore up his knee and decided on sports training instead. He likes action movies and loves sushi and hates drip coffee.
Something always went tight in his chest when he had to bend the truth to Geno. It felt a little sick, to try and lean into a budding – whatever it was – and still have to keep himself at such a distance. He tells Geno he’s originally from Canada. Played hockey growing up (true, in a literal sense, but a serious omission). He likes routines and loves the lake and hates slow walkers.
Geno sends him near-constant random pictures of things he thinks Sid would like. Funny graffiti and his cat, mostly. Sid sends minimal pictures of the mild inconveniences in his life like annoying traffic jams and muddy shoes. They lapse into easy conversation and laugh often – Haha. becomes hahahahahhaha!!!
Sid still watches the streams, still tips big when the Pens win. Geno tries to get him to stop, but he can’t. Hearing firsthand about Geno’s two jobs and rigid class schedule makes him all the more motivated to give him what he can. Sometimes he jerks off to the streams, when he needs to, but mostly he just watches and appreciates, listening to Geno moan and squirm and laugh.
After a while he can’t stand to read the chat at the side. It doesn’t feel right to read the filth that gets thrown around when all he can think about is the fact that he knows what Geno’s cat looks like and has seen his kitchen and knows how he takes his coffee. Eventually he puts a post-it on the side of his laptop screen to cover it, but when that’s not enough, he jerks off with one finger over the mute button to cut off the audio completely when Geno starts interacting with the chat.
It makes him feel a little dirty, really, to still tune in. The only thing that helps at all anymore is closing his eyes and imagining he’s actually there, forgetting about the screen at all. He imagines Geno’s long, pale body in his bed, tangled in the comforter, arching and begging and smiling. Like that, it’s okay. He tips big to hear Geno say ‘Stanley,’ and with concentrated effort, rewrite it in his head – Sidney, Sidney, Sidney. It’s safe and it’s easy and it’s good.
People start to notice. He gets asked if he’s started taking vitamins or something, or if he’s getting laid, and he just shrugs and laughs it off. Wouldn’t they like to know?
He comes three times the day before the Cup finals. He watches the jersey video twice, coming just at the sound of his name tumbling out of Geno’s mouth, and then to his own surprise, again to the live.
Geno couldn’t stop talking about hockey. Sid assumed there must be a barrage of complaints in the chat but Geno didn’t seem to care.
“Game seven! At home! Stanley cup in the building! You guys, pfft, you don’t even know, okay?” He fucked himself deep and slow, too distracted to pay it much mind.
Stupidly, after both Sid and Geno came, he typed out a tip and a message, riding high on all different kinds of adrenaline and endorphins and all the other things that made him stupid. He wanted to see Geno smile, the real one, where he can see all of his teeth.
LordStanley87 tipped $1000!
Buy some tickets and go to the finals tomorrow
“Oh my god, Stanley.” Geno’s jaw was slack as he mindlessly wiped cum from his stomach. They’d talked about it, how Stanley wasn’t his name, and Geno had labored endlessly trying to get the real one out of him to no success. “No, no, you can’t do that, okay? Pens not win last game, can’t tip that much, okay?” Despite his words, Sid could see the excitement on his face.
LordStanley87: It’s the finals, you have to go
LordStanley87: Just let me do this, okay?
LordStanley87: I think you’re our good luck charm
“Okay, I go.” Geno easily agrees. “Oh my god, I can’t– I can’t believe–” He’s smiling so wide, Sid thinks his face might split in two. “I’m going to Stanley Cup finals! I’m really going!”
Geno thanks him so profusely that Sid’s dick is trying to get hard again by the time it ends. He clicks off the stream feeling warm and fuzzy and feeling oddly well-fucked.
His phone and laptop ding at the same time.
Geno71: i cant accept this i feel so bad
Geno71: we friends now i cant take it its too much
LordStanley87: I already sent it and I want you to go! I know how much it means to you. And I know how hard you’ve worked all semester so just go okay?
Geno71: do you wanna come with me? enough for two tickets
Fuck. The worst part was, he did. He wanted Geno to sit in his box seats and celebrate with him afterward. He wanted Geno to see him, like really look at him, and smile like he did at the camera. But life wasn’t always fair like that, especially not when it comes to this.
LordStanley87: I’m really sorry, I can’t. I would if I could, you know that right? I have a huge work thing, something I really can’t miss.
He knows he sounds overly apologetic, but he is, after all.
Geno71: you sure its work thing?
Geno71: you not just trying to be secret still?
LordStanley87: I promise.
LordStanley87: Will you go?
Geno71: its cup final of course i go
Geno71: ill send lots of pictures and you will be so jealous :P
LordStanley87: Yes, I will.
–-----
They win it.
It’s a fucking blur, the entire third period a big fat blank in his memory, but in the end the buzzer sounds and he looks up and they’ve done it. The Stanley fucking Cup.
He’s entrapped in what seems like endless hugs and yelling and tears and pats on the back. As he skates around the rink, cup hoisted high and heavy in his hands, he sends a cursory glance around. Geno’s out there, somewhere. In the chaos, he can’t find him, of course, but he doesn’t stop looking until they’re stomping off the ice to drown themselves in beer and glory.
They get mobbed for hours. When they get downtown, disgusting and sticky and covered in champagne and sweat, they feel like fucking rockstars. He’s taking pictures and signing things and he knows he probably looks hammered and downright dreadful but he can’t get himself to care. They fucking earned it, why not bask a little?
Walking between bars, he steals a glance at his phone. It’s flooded with messages but he sees a blank one from his email and clicks it, keeping his phone tilted towards his chest.
Geno71: thank you again for money for tickets i bought best seats!!!
A picture is attached. With simmering amusement, Sid realizes Geno was sitting directly behind the bench all night. There’s another picture right under it, his own back and the side of his face peeking out from behind his shoulder.
Geno71: see??? im right behind crosby!
Then, from a while later:
Geno71: PENS WIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Geno71: i know you at work but)))))))))))) pens win the cup!!!!!!!!!
Geno71: did you watch the game???!!!!!
Finally, another one from just ten minutes ago:
Geno71: t hank yuo again!!! having so much fun tonight because of you u! wish you were hereeee
Sid can’t trust himself to type out anything intelligible, his hands already starting to go clumsy from the booze, so he just tucks his phone back into his pocket with a fresh, impossibly wider smile.
The night keeps sprinting along until they’re closer to bar close and alcohol poisoning than anything smart. They arrive at their last stop, the only place still open, to raucous shouts. Sid’s lost count of his drinks long ago, so he stumbles to the men’s bathroom shaky and hounded by whoops and cheers.
Blinking his vision back to clarity, he saddles up to a urinal and pulls himself out of his pants. He sighs in relief and slaps his hand on the wall to let his body sag when he feels a painfully intense stare on the side of his face. Fuck, he hates getting recognized at the fucking pisser. They always try to get a glance of his dick.
“Sidney Crosby?” The voice is deep and foreign. “You’re– you’re best, I–”
He looks over, half-dreaming. Geno’s long, sharp face is staring back at him, mouth agape. He doesn’t know what comes over him, maybe the drinks, maybe not.
“Geno?”
He watches Geno's face twist and contort in confusion, trying to reconcile the sound of his own name. Sid suddenly blanches in fear – no, abject horror. How the fuck was he getting out of this one? What the fuck had he just done?
“You know me?” Geno says, a finger pointing to his own chest in shock. He’s wearing the jersey. His jersey.
“I mean–” Sid can feel the pounding of his heart in his head. “I– Geno,” he breathes. What was he supposed to say?
“No way, no way,” his voice is suddenly squeaky. “You’re Stanley, right? It’s you? Stanley? Eighty-seven? Sidney? Crosby?” Every word lilts up at the end, its own question.
Weakly, with nothing else left to do, Sid nods.
“I thought, I didn’t know, of course, but the time zones and you so– won’t tell me name, don’t talk about work, I thought, no, impossible, but–” Geno’s rambling, his hands flapping wide. His cheeks are bright pink, eyes wide.
“I–” Sid starts to talk, but can’t finish his sentence. Firstly, he has no idea what to say, but secondly, the bathroom door bangs open and a couple guys barge in.
“Aye, Sid! Shots!” One of them glances at Geno, mercifully failing to pick up on the shocked expressions of them both. “Give the kid an autograph and let's go!”
Unable to do anything else, he looks away from Geno and joins his teammates at the door. He doesn’t think he’s doing a good job at keeping his face neutral, but it’s dark and everyone is too drunk to pay any mind. Just before the door shuts, despite any better judgement, he glances back. Geno’s looking at him, still wide-eyed, but with his eyebrows knit together tight. With a sharp stab to his chest, Sid realizes that it looks like he might cry.
He tries to put it behind him and enjoy the night in full, but he keeps glancing around, searching for a tall mop of brown hair. He was so beautiful in person, so strikingly soft and sweet, gangly limbs and pretty pink lips.
He does what he’s supposed to: he drinks. And then he drinks some more. And a little more after that, at the rabid encouragement of everyone around him.
By the time the bouncers are pushing them out the doors, Sid can barely see straight and his legs feel like blended jello as he kicks and stumbles his way outside. Outside is warm with a newborn summer breeze and Sid tries to suck down the fresh night air in deep gulps.
“Fuck, Sid’s hammered,” there’s an arm around him, he realizes, but the person it’s attached too doesn’t seem much more stable than him. They sway on the street, trying to sloppily flag down cabs to no avail. The group has thinned, those smarter than him already gone. He wishes–
“Hey, boys,” a high, sweet voice is suddenly beside them. A beautiful young woman with long brown hair is waltzing up to them from inside the bar. “Need help here?” There’s a chorus of slurred thank you’s from the group as they retreat from the curb.
Sid blinks hard a couple times, trying to will his eyes to focus. A couple of the guys are trying to chat this girl up as she walks into the street to hail a taxi for them. Sid is confused on why she’d help them, who she even was, when he notices someone standing a couple feet away.
“Anya, stop,” the man groans, and Sid thinks it must be her boyfriend before he recognizes with a sickening jolt that it’s Geno. Sid can’t stop himself from staring.
His mind is rife with conflict. Geno is here. Sweet, beautiful Geno, who Sid’s seen come so many times, who makes the softest, breathiest noises when he does. Geno, who he’d ignored and ran away from. Geno, who laughs at his own jokes and wears hoodies two sizes too big. Geno, Geno, Geno.
And then there was the team, who hadn’t picked up on the staring yet but would soon if he didn’t knock it off. The ones he’d won it all with. The best people he could ever hope to know. His best friends. The ones that didn’t really know him at all.
He and Geno’s eyes are still locked together when a yellow SUV pulls up. Clearly this woman – Anya, Geno had said – was a more attractive customer to a cab driver than their rag-tag group of drunks. “Okay boys, behave yourselves, okay?” His teammates piled in and Sid tried to stumble forward with them before a thin, cold hand caught his arm. “It’s okay if I take this one for myself?” She calls into the cab.
The guys laugh and chirp – “have a good night, Sid, don’t stay up too late!” or, “no visible hickeys at the parade, eh?”
She has a Russian accent, more subtle than Geno’s, but there. The cab pulls away with his teammates' heads poking at the window, cheering and laughing.
“Hi,” Sid says dumbly, his words coming out drunkenly sloppy. He knows, without having to ask, that she knows everything, and he’s hit with the sudden urge to run away as fast as he can. “Nice to meet you, I’m Sidney.” He sticks out a hand that she doesn’t shake.
“Yes, I know,” she says in a way that makes Sid feel even stupider than he already did. “Okay, Zhenya, I’m closing up now, I’ll leave you two alone.” She nods her head at the bar, then looks back at Sid, her eyes sharp and narrow and voice barely above a hiss. “By the way, I don’t care who you are. Don’t fuck him up any more than you have already.”
Sid obediently nods as she walks away. He looks back at Geno, who looks like he’s going to be sick. His hands are folded neatly in front of him, thumbs twitching in nervous little circles.
“I’m sorry I told her,” he says meekly. Sid wants to be mad, but the churning guilt in his stomach about everything means he just shrugs. They’re still about ten feet apart, neither taking the first step to get closer. “But, you– you lied. How am I supposed to know? You lie about everything, and watch me, like,” he sighs. “I show you videos where I talk about Sidney Crosby – about you! – and you say nothing!”
“I couldn’t, Geno, I couldn’t,” he mumbles out, feeling too drunk and out of his depth to come up with anything of substance. “I just, I liked you and I couldn’t say anything, I’m not, like–” Out? Gay? Worthy? Not able to decide, he lets his sentence trail off.
“I know, okay? I know this not gonna work like that, now.” Geno says, suddenly annoyed. “You too drunk, you sleep at mine.”
“Geno, I can’t,” Sid pleads.
“Not like that.” Geno sighs again, taking a couple steps forward to close the gap between them. Sid had never realized how tall he was before now, where he was towering over him and looking down his nose. “I live above the bar, you sleep on the couch.”
Without much reason to protest, Sid nods.
Walking up a couple flights of stairs does nothing to help Sid’s aching stomach. There’s a dark cloud over the both of them, like they’re walking to a funeral instead of Geno’s apartment. It feels so tangibly like something, somewhere has withered and died. With each step, his sweating hand gripped tightly on the hand rail, Sid feels a new apology rise up in his throat. With the next, he pushes it down.
They reach Geno’s apartment and Sid studies his back as he leans over to fiddle with his keys. How many times had he imagined this? Tried to piece together Geno’s apartment from backgrounds of pictures and created his own collage of it in his mind?
The door swings open and Sid follows quietly behind him, slipping his shoes off on the rug and stumbling inside. Distantly, he thinks, oh, I see now, the kitchen is on the left, and has to ignore the throb behind his ribs.
“Okay, if you want to shower, bathroom is down the hallway on the right. Couch is there,” Geno points into the living room and Sid thinks, I know. They stand in the entryway in silence for a moment and every second that passes seems to lodge deep in his throat.
“Listen, Geno,” Sid starts.
“You can call me Evgeni.”
“Hey, don’t do that,” He says and realizes how whiny he sounds, how young Geno looks. A new wave of guilt crashes over his head, a bucket of ice cold water in the dark of the apartment.
“Why not? Since we doing real names now,” Geno shrugs flippantly.
“You have to understand why I couldn’t tell you, Geno. Is that what this is? Like, you’re mad that I lied? And I– okay, I shouldn’t have ignored you at the bar, I just wasn’t thinking and I’m so, so fucking scared. I shouldn’t have done any of this, like, at all,” Sid felt hot bile rise up in his throat, wishing he could go back in time and slap his fucking laptop right out of his lap.
“I know! I know, okay? You not even have to say, because I know. I just thought maybe, like, I like this Stanley guy, maybe for real. Now I know I never be able to have him, okay? So I’m a little bit, like, sad I guess. Mad.” He pauses to think. “Not really mad at you, but at me.” Geno keeps his eyes fixed on the floor. A feeling Sid doesn’t recognize sweeps over him. At that moment, he wanted to be someone else.
“I’m sorry, Geno.”
They stand there for a moment longer. There’s a million things he should apologize for, really.
“It’s okay. I’ll get over it.” He turns to go to the kitchen, pulling two glasses down from a cupboard. He speaks again as he fills them both with water from the tap. “Don’t watch videos anymore, okay?”
“Okay,” Sid weakly agrees, still frozen, his knees suddenly locked up tight.
Sickeningly, Sid realizes that in two days, Geno will have another stream. There will be the same people watching, maybe new ones, too. They’ll beg him to do things and he will. He’ll smile and laugh and joke as always and he’ll come quick and pretty and Sid won’t be there. He’ll go to work and go to school and come home and won’t send Sid any pictures of his cat or random stories about his day or anything at all.
Geno walks past him, setting one glass of water on the end table by the couch. Then, without a glance behind him, he disappears down the hallway and out of sight.
Suddenly hit by the crushing exhaustion of the night, Sid pads over to the couch. He unfurls a neatly folded blanket and tosses it over the cushions, aware of his disgusting state and thinks maybe it’ll be his final act of kindness to Geno – not getting sweat all over his couch.
After desperately chugging down the glass of water, his stomach turns again. For what seems like it could be forever, he tosses and turns against the cushions, gripping his stomach and alternating between thinking of Geno and thinking of the cup. What a fucking night.
With a particularly threatening lurch in his stomach, Sid pops up from the couch and dashes towards the bathroom. Seconds after flinging open the door he’s hunched over the toilet bowl in the dark, wretching up still-foamed beer. Something about it is a little cleansing. An atonement of sorts. He rests his head against the rim of the bathtub and considers that maybe this is what he deserves.
The lights flip on. Geno is standing in the doorway in a t-shirt and boxers, a freshly refilled glass of water in his hand.
“Drink slow,” he urges as he hands it to Sid. He nods and takes one delicate sip before setting it on the ground.
“I’m sorry,” he says again before spitting once into the toilet and reaching up to flush. “I really, really am.”
“You said that already.” Geno’s voice is flat.
“I know, just, let me say something, okay?” He leans his head back on the bathtub and lets his eyes close. Against his will, he remembers Geno’s smiling face, accepting the opportunity to come to the finals. The memory feels safe and warm, though a little tainted, now.
“You gonna talk, or?”
“Okay, geez,” Sid laughs at himself. “I wish things were different. I knew, fuck, I knew that I was getting in too deep with you, okay? At first it was just fun and it was nice to talk to someone who didn’t know that it was me. Who didn’t have any, like, ideas about who I was, you know?”
When Geno says nothing, he continues, eyes still shut. “And I liked you. Geno, you’re so funny without even trying and every time I saw that you texted me I would get excited to know what you were doing, what you were going to say, like, I wanted you to know me like that, too. You’re so fucking pretty. And you have so much going for you. I guess I just can’t fuck that up, okay?”
“How you fuck that up?” Geno prods and Sid opens his eyes, glancing over to see Geno’s confused expression. Maybe not confused – incredulous. “Who say I want to tell whole world I talk to Sidney Crosby? Sidney Crosby watch me fuck myself online? Why would I want to say that to anyone?” he asks, voice getting louder and louder to the point where Sid’s head is thumping.
He hadn’t really thought of that. He considers it. “I– I don’t know.”
“We not have to get married, okay? Like, not asking you, Sidney Crosby please marry me,” he scoffs. “Why you think this so serious? I like you, like seeing your dick. Not have to be end of the world.”
A light, airy wave washes over Sid. He feels the tiniest bit forgiven.
“So, are we–?”
“We fine. You have to tip even more now, though. I know you get big salary. Take up all the cap space.” They both laugh. Sid’s stomach has started to quiet, though his head is still tightly thrumming.
“You’re still gonna stream?”
“What else can I do?” Geno asks, back to being somber. “You gonna pay my bills?”
Without thinking, Sid replies, “yeah. I will.”
There’s a long time where neither of them says anything and Sid thinks he’s fucked it all back up. He wants, desperately, to see Geno smile again.
“You too drunk. We talk about it tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Sid quietly relents. “Can I–?”
“Shower first. Then you can sleep in my bed.” Sid climbs slowly to his feet, gripping the counter. He was too fucking old to party like this. “Be fast, I’m tired, someone in here puking so loud it wake me up.”
Sid sheepishly apologizes, watching as Geno leaves and shuts the door softly behind him. Though he can feel the hangover creeping up on him, he still gets the feeling that he’s going to be okay. Both of them would be.
He strips down and showers quickly, taking in the lemon-musk scent of Geno’s soap, trying to commit it to memory. When he’s washed off the beer and the sweat and the grime, he wraps himself in a towel and carefully wanders to Geno’s room.
Cracking open the door, it’s pitch-black inside, but Sid knows his way around well enough. He can hear near-silent, grumbling snores from the bed and smiles to himself. Looking around, it feels like he’s having an episode of deja-vu, the same-but-slightly-different look of the room a little disorienting. Opening a couple drawers of Geno’s dresser he finds a pair of boxers to slide on and walks to the bed.
Geno wakes a little as he slips under the blankets, mumbling, ‘come here,’ as Sid presses his chest to Geno’s back. His body is warm and Sid throws his arm around him, pressing his face to the back of his neck.
“I really like you, Geno,” he says softly.
Though his voice is low and gravelly from sleep, Sid can hear the smile in his words.
“I know.”