Chapter 18

yeah yeah, those of you who know me well enough by now knew I couldn't just let it be all unicorns prancing around on rainbows made of skittles and those of you who called the Troy card, yeah, you're right

There is a part of him that is genuinely relieved to find her cracking eggs and slicing bread just out of the bread-maker when he returns from his morning jog; a jog whose normal purpose is to clear the cobwebs and put to rest the game from the night before. This morning’s jog is in place of a cold shower, a cold shower he decides might still be in order as he drinks in the sight of her in nothing but one of his practice jerseys, her legs bare. There is something, he decides, about her bare feet he particularly likes, how small they are, the high arch the small and her tiny round perfectly manicured toes. 

“Bread again?” he teases, stealing up behind her, wrapping his arms around her and pressing his sweat dampened cheek to her warm and rosy one. 

“Turkey bacon,” she points to several streaky pieces bubbling and crackling in a pan on the stove, “and I was thinking scramble but if you’d rather have an omlette I think there’s some Gouda or provolone in the fridge.”  Besides bread she’s been eating her way through the cheese section at the local deli. He makes a mental note to bring her something back from the upcoming road trip. 

“Omelette it is,” he grins and reaches around her to steal a piece of bacon from the pan. She smacks his hand with a spatula but she is too late. He bites off the end, chews it and swallows it quickly before leaning in to offer a kiss. She pulls back, just enough so that he only gets her cheek. He raises an eyebrow. 

“Just...you need to give me some time to adjust. I mean...you do remember the poster over my bed?” she says focusing all of her attention on the eggs and milk she is whisking. “I’m still not sure I’ve got the two of you straight in my head.” He smirks at the memory of the dozens of pictures in her room and then shrugs. 

“I think you’ve gotten over that guy,” he offers, chewing thoughtfully on the rest of his stolen piece of bacon. 

“Maybe,” she replies seriously with a quick sideways glance at him, “but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to accept that you have real feelings for anything more than this,” she adds, her free hand cradling her protruding stomach. He nods, accepting her assertion but with a shrug leans in and presses a quick peck to her cheek. 

“Then it’s up to me to prove otherwise.” He reaches for another piece of hot, crispy bacon but this time she is quicker with the whisk and he is forced to withdraw his hand, shaking off the sting. 

“Sidney Crosby, the picture of domestic bliss, I’m not sure anyone will believe it,” she smirks and shakes her head at him. She is doing her best to keep him at arms’ length but there is a new light, a sparkle, in her eyes that tells him that though he has not yet won the war, he is coming close to winning this battle. He grabs a handful of the jersey and moves in to steal a kiss.

“Well I certainly don’t.” The sound of another voice in the room makes him freeze and one look at her now very round, panic filled eyes tells him that his ears are not misleading him. Her gaze shifts quickly to meet his and every single, solitary negative allegation about his father in the press and on the internet runs behind her eyes. The bacon has begun to burn. “I think we need to talk son,” his father says using his ‘I’m disappointed in you’ tone that Sid has rarely heard in the last couple of seasons. 

He wonders if he should introduce her. He thinks that it would be the right thing to do, that protocol requires it of him and more than that he should not leave her here thinking the worst but as often happens when his overbearing, overprotective father is around, he becomes a ten year old boy and ten year old boys have very little use for protocol, not to mention girls. 

“Sure. Let’s go to the office,” he suggests quietly and without looking back he swipes a still warm piece of bread from the cutting board and heads down the hall.

________________________________________________________________

“Well that looked very cozy.” His father seems to take up so much of the room, so much of the oxygen that the air that the room feels tight, dark and the air heavy and hard to breathe. Sid stares out the window at the pool in the backyard covered with a tarp, making a mental note to call about getting a fence and gate installed. 

“It is,” he answers dryly, trying his best to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of knowing that his father’s beady eyes are boring into the back of his head, willing him to turn around so that he can aim the full force of his disapproval at his son. 

“You don’t get cozy with the enemy son,” his father replies, sarcasm dripping heavily from his voice.

“She isn’t the enemy. She’s just...Fern,” Sid replies, just the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips as she says her name. It tastes like smooth, creamy cheesecake on his tongue. 

“I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone to handle this. You’re too much your mother’s son. You’re falling for the old trap boy, you’re starting to see her as human,” his father snorts. Sidney doesn’t need to look at his father to know that it isn’t only amusement he can hear in his father’s voice. His old man is enjoying this. 

“You think you know all about it but you don’t,” Sidney replies very quietly. It isn’t easy for him to stand up to his father. It is even harder for him to argue against him. 

“Oh c’mon kiddo, it’s the oldest trick in the book. She gets her hooks into you, bleeds you dry....” Sid holds up a hand and for once his father actually falls silent on request. 

“If anyone’s motives are suspect around here they’re mine,” he sighs, running his fingers through his still wet hair. 

“You still gettin’ your dick wet elsewhere?” Sid winces when he feels his father’s huge meaty hand dig into his shoulder and grinds his teeth at the obvious pride in his father’s voice.

“No, dad, I’m not,” he replies, suddenly tired. He shrugs his father’s hand from his shoulder and moves away. The room isn’t finished but there is a signed Yzerman jersey on one wall, Brodeur’s game stick mounted on another. There are pictures piled in one corner, moments he wants to remember, moments that he is proud of. He wonders if this will be one of this will be one of those moments. “Maybe I wasn’t sure of her motives before but...Fern is a good person...a better person than me,” he says simply before turning to his father who is looking at him with suspicion, with resentment.”She doesn’t trust me, not that she should. I haven’t done a damn thing to deserve it but I want to. I know you don’t want to hear this but I like her and I care about her and I don’t think she’d do anything to hurt me.” 

“You don’t know a damn thing about this broad,” his father counters caustically. 

“I know enough to know she has a good heart,” Sidney replies, forcing himself to meet his father’s unimpressed expression with a determined one of his own. 

“Jesus Christ son, next thing you’ll be telling me that you’re in love with the little slut.” Sidney doesn’t deny it. Not that he is...yet, but he knows if things continue the way he plans for them to it is only a matter of time. That vein in Troy’s forehead begins to throb and his face begins to turn red. Next, Sidney thinks as he stands facing his father’s impending fury, steam will erupt from his ears and then his head will blow off. “Listen son, I know that you want to do the right thing by the kid and if it turns out that it really is your kid then fine, we’ll make sure you’ve got all the access in the world. Hell if you want we’ll file for fucking custody and your mom can look after it but don’t get all invested in this girl. Hell I could pick some chick walking by and she’d be prettier than that thing.” 

Sid’s hands curl into fists at his sides. He’s never hit his father, not in anger, but now he is feeling like it might be a good time to take the first swing. He opens his mouth intending to tell his father to take back what he’s said or else, knowing that even if he gets the first swing in that this will be a no win situation but an almost inaudible gasp from behind him steals his attention long enough for him to see Fern standing in the doorway with a plate in each hand, her eyes wide, her mouth open. The sound of plates crashing to the floor fills the sudden silence and then she is gone. 

“Asshole,” he breathes, shooting his father a look of utter and complete disdain and then he brushes by the man that only a moment ago seemed to fill the entire room with his presence as if he is nothing at all. 

_______________________________________________________________________

“Whatever you heard doesn’t matter.” 

Fern hugs a pillow to her chest and does not turn at the sound of his voice behind her. She stares at the bare wall of his room, her emotions swinging violently from fury to despair. Tears slide down her cheeks and her entire body is shaking as if she has slipped into a state of shock. 

She feels his hands on her knees before she realizes he is squatting in front of her and even then it is hard for her to make sense of the face staring up at her. It’s like looking into one of those crazy mirrors in a fun house at a fair, through her tears he is short, fat, tall, thin. Taking one hand from the pillow she wipes at her tears and turns her face away. 

“He’d really do it, wouldn’t he?” she asks and hears his heavy sigh in response. 

“I won’t let him and it would never come to that so it doesn’t matter,” he promises, giving both of her knees a squeeze with his big hands. “I don’t think like he does and I have never given a single thought to custody, I promise,” he adds as she feels the mattress sink beside her and then his arm slide around her waist. 

“But he’s probably not the only one who thinks that way,” she whispers, wanting very much to feel the comfort he is trying to convey but fighting with all of her might to maintain her straight back and her own space. 

“Probably not,” she hears him admit in a tone that sounds honestly regretful. 

“So once they do the test...they’ll try and take him,” she says in a voice that is barely audible to her own ears. His arm tightens around her and she feels his cheek press against hers. 

“It won’t come to that. I promise,” he repeats earnestly. Fern closes her eyes and draws a long, ragged breath before she can give voice to the words that have just formed in her mind. 

“But it’s not all up to you...is it?” She feels him stiffen and feels more than hears his shoulders droop as he sighs. 

“Not all...but it won’t happen. It’s not going to be like that. I’ll explain and by then...by then they’ll see...it’ll be different by then.” She sneaks a peek at him, at the way he is hanging his head but there is a determination in the set of is features and it is an expression she always thought made him look very impenetrable out on the ice. Her heart tells her to trust him. Her head tells her not to. He looks up at her, worry for her, for them both, in his caramel coloured eyes. “I’ll make you see, I’ll make everyone see that I’m serious about doing this right,” he tells her solemnly as he reaches up to brush his fingers along the line of her jaw. “And as for the other things he said...they’re not true Fern.” 

She wants to argue, it is her intention not to give in to him but the intense look on his face and the sincere plea in his gaze stops her from bringing up the same old arguments about her being plain, about not being as glamorous or as skinny as all of the girls he could be dating. She feels her heels begin to skid down the slippery slope of allowing herself to believe that he, Sidney Crosby, might feel something for her and while her brain is screaming no her lips tremble as he presses a soft kiss to them that is assurance and pledge both and she lets herself slide another inch towards the abyss.