Chapter Text
Sid first notices the stranger outside the rink before optional skate one cold morning in November. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and lean hips, but what Sid registers even past his strong jaw and hound dog brown eyes is the fact that he isn’t wearing a coat.
“Aren’t you cold?” Sid asks before he can stop himself.
The man blinks, focusing on him. For a brief moment, he looks surprised. Then he tips his nose and looks scornful. “Russians don’t get cold,” he says loftily.
“Okay then,” Sid says, and goes inside.
He forgets all about the stranger during practice, concentrating on perfecting a footwork pattern and then lining up for shootouts on Flower, who’s in fine form, shouting insults at anyone who misses the net and raining curses down on the ones who find it.
Sid takes his turn, laughing as Flower calls him several creative names in French, and rejoins the line. He’s leaning on his stick and listening to Letang talk about Cath when he catches sight of a pair of broad shoulders up in the stands among the onlookers who always straggle in to watch them skate.
“Hey,” Sid says, nudging Letang’s arm. “Do you know that guy?”
Letang squints. “What guy?”
“Behind me,” Sid says, turning away. Pointing would be rude. “Next to the family with the little boy.”
Letang gives him a funny look. “There’s no one else up there.”
“What?” Sid spins back. The little boy waves and Sid returns the wave automatically. There’s no one beside them.
“You’re coming to dinner tonight, right?” Letang asks. “Cath has a new recipe she wants to try.”
“Yeah,” Sid says absently, still scanning the stands. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
He’s late the next morning, traffic slowing him down and making him white-knuckle the wheel. He rushes inside, clutching his coffee protectively, and has to swerve suddenly to avoid running into the stranger as he rounds the corner.
The man glares at him, and Sid is too late and too Canadian to point out that he’d been in Sid’s way. He just ducks his head, mutters something that sounds apologetic, and keeps going.
They play the Rangers that night and Sid has enough to worry about that he doesn’t think of the stranger again until the buzzer sounds at the end of the third period and Sid drags himself off the ice, keeping his expression pleasantly neutral for the crowd and reporters.
He sits through the media scrum and repeats his usual stock answers. “They outplayed us tonight. We know what we need to do to beat them next time. I have every faith in my team.” Over and over until the reporters give up and move on.
As they do, Sid catches sight of the stranger standing in the midst of the crowd. Is he a reporter, then? But he doesn’t have a phone or camera, and he looks more lost than anything. He lifts his head and looks straight at Sid.
Sid frowns and opens his mouth to say—something, he isn’t sure what—as Letang sits beside him.
“Come out with me and Duper.”
Sid’s already shaking his head no when Letang plays his trump card. “For Flower.”
Sid glances at Flower, unstrapping his pads silently—too silently—in his stall. His eyes are bruised, mouth set and grim, and he refuses to look at anyone as he undresses.
“Fine,” Sid says, forgetting all about the stranger.
It’s the wee small hours of the morning before Sid gets home, after delivering a distinctly wobbly Flower into Vero’s comforting arms. Sid isn’t feeling too steady himself as he unlocks his front door and takes his shoes off in the mud room.
He removes his pants in the living room, then weaves a careful path into the kitchen and fills a glass with water. He’s standing with a hip braced against the counter, drinking steadily, when movement catches his eye and he spins to see the stranger from earlier, standing in his kitchen.
Sid hurls the glass at him and bolts for the living room and his phone.
He’s scrabbling desperately through the pockets, one eye on the doorway, when what happened sinks in and he freezes.
Moving very carefully, he makes his way back to the kitchen. The man is still standing in the same spot, looking as confused as Sid felt. The glass of water had shattered against the wall behind him.
You missed, Sid’s rational brain tries to point out. Threw it and missed, all there is to it.
“I didn’t miss,” he says aloud.
The stranger looks down at his dry shirt, then back up into Sid’s eyes. “What is happen?” he says, and then he flickers, blinking in and out of sight rapidly, and disappears completely.
“Oh, fuck,” Sid says out loud, and sits down hard.
It takes him awhile to get his legs back under him. The man stayed gone as Sid cleans up the broken glass on autopilot, brain going around and around, suggesting and discarding options.
The most obvious is that Sid is losing his mind. He’s finally cracked from the stress of everything he carries on his shoulders, all the associated baggage that comes with being Sidney Crosby.
Or maybe someone is playing a prank on him. He dismisses the possibility of it being Flower almost immediately. Sid knows what Flower looks like in the middle of a successful prank, and he’s clearly not involved.
He also doesn’t think any of the rookies have the nerve to prank him yet this season. Despite being several months in, they’re all awed and scared of him still. That will wear off, but for now, he thinks he’s safe from any attempted pranks from that quarter.
Which means either he’s going crazy, or he’s haunted.
He goes back in the living room and puts his pants back on. Whatever’s going on, he prefers to be dressed for it. Then he turns in a circle, looking in the corners and shadows of the room and feeling like an idiot.
“Hello?” he says aloud, and feels even more idiotic when there’s no answer.
He wanders back into the kitchen. It’s dark and silent, no sign of anyone having been there but him.
“Hello?” Sid repeats. “Can I—look, I just want to talk.”
Silence.
He swears under his breath.
“I’m drunk,” he says after a minute. “So I’m going to bed. Please don’t… I don’t know, spy on me or anything.”
There’s no answer as he goes upstairs.
Sid wakes up early the next morning, drinks some Gatorade for the hangover, and Googles ‘how do I know if I’m being haunted’.
The results aren’t helpful. Unexplained sights, sounds, furniture being moved, temperature changes, unusual physical injuries, and lights flickering are all apparently signs of a haunting, but Sid’s furniture is firmly in place, his thermostat is exactly where it always is, the only injuries he has are the usual bruises from hockey, and he hasn’t seen any lights burning out.
He digs deeper. Animals were known to react oddly to the presence of spirits. Sid doesn’t have any pets. Maybe he can borrow one, he thinks idly as he scrolls.
Unexplained shadows and sounds are another sign. Sid hasn’t seen any extra shadows or noises. Nothing except the stranger in his kitchen and at the rink.
He finally snaps the laptop shut and rubs his eyes. He doesn’t believe in ghosts. This is ridiculous. He’s imagined the whole thing—a product of too little sleep and too much alcohol. All he has to do is get a full eight hours’ rest and stay sober, and it won’t happen again.
This decided, Sid goes to practice. He doesn’t see the stranger lurking anywhere, which he tells himself is proof that he imagined the whole thing. Flower seems to have recovered most of his spirits, so Sid doesn’t take it easy on him during shootouts, grinning at the colorful language that unleashes.
After practice, he goes to lunch with Duper and Max.
“Do you guys believe in ghosts?” he asks casually, dragging a fry through ketchup.
Max exchanges a look with Duper. “What kind of ghost?” he asks.
“Are there different kinds?” Sid says, startled.
“Sure.” Max shrugs. “Poltergeists, wraiths, lost souls, vengeful spirits—”
“No, I don’t—” Sid cuts himself off. “Wait, do you believe in them?”
Max shrugs again. “I don’t know,” he says. “They might be real. Might not. Why? Have you seen one?”
“No, of course not,” Sid says. He eats another fry, avoiding their eyes. “I was just… curious.”
“Uh-huh,” Duper says. He glances at Max but doesn’t press the issue.
The conversation turns to the rookies, who’s showing potential and who will probably be sent down to Wilkes-Barre soon.
“I’m just sorry we didn’t get Malkin,” Duper says, stealing one of Sid’s fries.
“Who?” Sid asks as he slaps at his hand.
“Evgeni Malkin,” Duper says. “Russian superstar, played for Magnitogorsk in the KHL. There were rumors he was looking at coming over here, but they didn’t go anywhere. Pity, we could have used him.”
Sid steals an onion ring from Max, who yelps in outrage. At least they aren’t talking about ghosts anymore.
He goes home and turns on all the lights.
“Hello?” he says, standing in the den.
No answer.
“You’re an idiot,” Sid tells himself, and heads for the kitchen to make dinner.
He’s slicing tomatoes for the sauce when the man pops into view right in front of him. Sid yelps and nearly cuts his thumb off as he stumbles backward.
The man stares at him. Sid holds the knife out in front of him in one shaking hand.
“Stay back,” he says.
The man doesn’t seem impressed. “Who are you?” he demands.
“You’re in my house,” Sid points out, still holding the knife. “I should be asking you that.” He hesitates. “Um. Who are you?”
“Zhenya,” the man says, as if that explains everything. He turns in a circle, inspecting the kitchen. He’s wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of soft flannel pants that have seen better days, and he’s barefoot.
“Why are you in my kitchen, Zhenya?”
Zhenya turns back to face him. “I’m not know.”
Sid eyes him warily. Zhenya doesn’t seem terribly upset by the fact that he keeps appearing and disappearing—more perplexed than anything.
“Uh… are you…” Sid fidgets. “Are you dead?”
Zhenya blinks. He looks down at himself and touches his shirt, smoothes his hands over his stomach. “Why you think I’m dead?”
“Because—” Sid doesn’t know how to say this, so he opts for blunt. “You keep appearing to me. Like… you show up and then you’re gone again.”
Zhenya makes a face. “I’m not think I’m dead? I’m not know.” Now he sounds upset, and Sid puts the knife down and steps around the counter, his need to fix the problem immediately activated.
“Okay, okay, it’s alright, we’ll figure it out, eh? I’m Sid—um, Sidney Crosby.” He holds his breath but Zhenya just tilts his head, a line appearing between his eyebrows.
“Sid,” he says as if tasting the word, no recognition in it.
Well, it’s not like everyone knows the name Sidney Crosby. Sid berates himself for being arrogant and tries for an encouraging smile.
“Do you have a last name, Zhenya?”
Zhenya goes blank, face smoothing out as he thinks. Finally, he shakes his head, hard like he’s clearing water from his ears. “I’m—” His face twists up, shoulders hunching toward his ears as he clenches his fists, and he abruptly flickers out of sight.
“God dammit,” Sid says to the empty kitchen.
He feels silly standing there staring at nothing after a while, so he goes back to chopping tomatoes and adding them to the frying pan.
Zhenya doesn’t reappear, and Sid eats his dinner by himself, watches Sports Center for an hour, and finally goes to bed.
He’s twitchy and irritable the next morning, until Letang and Flower hold a conference in hushed French and then Flower drags him out after practice.
“You need to hold a baby,” he informs him. “And think about something other than being Sidney Crosby for a little while.”
“Well,” Sid says. As if he’s ever going to pass up a chance to cuddle Estelle and watch her blow bubbles.
Vero is delighted to see him. She shoves Estelle into his arms, grabs Flower’s hand, and drags him out the door. Sid looks at Estelle, who seems unimpressed.
“Just you and me, eh kiddo?”
Estelle burbles.
“So I’m seeing what I think is a ghost,” Sid tells her as he balances her on one hip and sets about loading the dishwasher with the other hand.
Estelle coos.
“Yep,” Sid agrees, setting a plate on the rack. “He’s Russian. Keeps just… showing up. I’m either going insane or I’m haunted.”
Estelle bounces in his arms and screeches, stretching out her hands toward something. Sid straightens and turns, and isn’t really surprised to see Zhenya standing there.
“Yep, that’s him,” he sighs. “Hello again, Zhenya.”
Estelle flaps her hands at Zhenya, who cocks his head.
“She can see?”
“Looks like,” Sid says dryly, adjusting her weight.
“Is your baby?”
“What? No! No, I’m babysitting. She’s Flower’s.”
Zhenya smiles at Estelle, who giggles and bounces. Zhenya drifts closer and says something in Russian, holding out a finger. Estelle reaches for it and misses, her pudgy hand going through Zhenya’s, but doesn’t seem fazed at all. Zhenya laughs quietly and says something else, sounding doting and fond.
Sid just watches the way Zhenya’s eyes light up, the way his dimples flash when he smiles, as he and the baby hold an unintelligible conversation.
“You like babies?” Sid asks after a few minutes.
“Babies are best,” Zhenya says, glancing up.
“Well then, you can entertain her while I clean up,” Sid says, and puts Estelle on the floor. He gets back to work, watching them out of the corner of his eye. Zhenya stretches himself out belly-down on the kitchen tile beside Estelle and croons to her as she babbles.
This is weird, Sid tells himself, scrubbing a bowl. Why aren’t you more freaked out? There’s an actual fucking ghost playing with your best friend’s daughter and you’re just… letting him? He glances over his shoulder. Zhenya has rolled onto his back and Estelle is patting at his head, giggling when she can’t make contact while Zhenya makes funny faces at her.
Sid shakes his head and goes back to the dishes. Whatever he is, Zhenya isn’t dangerous. Sid doesn’t know how he knows that, but there’s no doubt in his mind.
After Sid’s done in the kitchen, he takes Estelle out for a walk and Zhenya follows. They don’t say much, but the silence is comfortable, easy. Sid doesn’t go far—even in this neighborhood, there’s a chance of being recognized and stopped, which he doesn’t want to risk with Estelle along. Still, he enjoys the sunlight and fresh air on his face, and Estelle clearly does too, from the way she chirps and babbles as they walk.
Zhenya trails behind as Sid gets Estelle ready for her nap and settled in her crib.
“You good with her,” he says when Sid tiptoes out of the nursery.
“Babies I can handle,” Sid says, shrugging. He heads for the living room and flops onto the sofa, groping for the remote. “You like House Hunters?”
“I’m not know what that is,” Zhenya says, so Sid turns the tv on and sets about educating him.
Zhenya disappears halfway through the third episode. Sid is opening his mouth to call him when the door opens and Vero and Flower stumble through, giggling and shushing each other.
“Living room,” Sid calls.
They pop into view and Sid snickers. Vero’s face is pink and Flower’s neck is littered with love-bites, his hair standing on end.
“I’m very happy for you both and now I’m leaving, goodbye.”
Vero flings her arms around him and kisses him on both cheeks. Sid hugs her back and grins at Flower before letting himself out the door.
He doesn’t see Zhenya again until he gets home and is making himself dinner. Zhenya flickers into sight by the refrigerator, and Sid just barely manages to keep from jumping.
“That never stops being weird,” he mutters. “Um. Hi. Where did you go?”
“Not go anywhere,” Zhenya says. He slouches against the refrigerator, still wearing the white shirt and soft pants. “Is like blink. With you at friends’. Now here.”
Sid shifts his weight. “Have you been… anywhere else, then? Or have you—” He chews on his lip, trying to figure out how to word it. “Have I been there, um, every time?”
Zhenya nods. He looks tired, almost despondent. “I’m see you at rink. In locker room. Here. Friends. Once, I think, at store.” He glances up. “You’re not see me then. I’m see you a lot when you’re not see me, actually. I’m not know why you start. But always, always you there.”
“Okay.” Part of Sid can’t believe he’s having a rational conversation with an actual ghost , but the rest of him is focused on the problem at hand. “So maybe you’re, like, tied to me, somehow? Oh my god, are you haunting me?”
Zhenya gives him a dirty look. “I’m not even know who are you.”
“Well, but maybe that doesn’t matter,” Sid argues. “Maybe you’re—I don’t know. I don’t know about any of this. It’s not like I know anything about ghosts.”
“Am not ghost,” Zhenya mutters, crossing his arms and slumping even more, somehow. “Am just me.”
“Well, you’re something,” Sid says. “Are you, like… solid? I mean, I can sort of see through you sometimes, but—” He squirms. What’s the proper etiquette on asking someone if they’re corporeal?
Zhenya looks thoughtful. He straightens, reaches out one long arm without moving his feet and feels the hem of Sid’s shirt as Sid holds his breath. Zhenya’s fingers pass through it, misty and insubstantial, and he frowns. He tries again, then again, until he gives a grunt of triumph and Sid suppresses a shiver as his shirt moves briefly.
“Okay, so if you, I don’t know—focus, sort of, you can touch stuff?”
“Maybe,” Zhenya says. “Is hard. Takes a lot.” He looks a little faded around the edges, like a photograph worn thin from age.
Sid takes a step nearer. “Can I… touch you?”
Zhenya gives him a deeply dubious look but finally nods.
Sid debates on where to touch him, and eventually settles on his shoulder, putting out one careful hand. His outstretched fingers slide through open air without resistance. Is it warmer in the space Zhenya occupied? Maybe that’s just his imagination.
“Can you, uh… feel that?”
Zhenya lifts one bony shoulder. “A bit… tickle? Right word?”
Sid suppresses a slightly hysterical laugh. “I have no idea if that’s the right word. I have no idea.” He looks up, struck by a thought. “Do you see a light? Do you think you can go toward it?”
Zhenya rolls his eyes. “Is no light.”
“Are you sure? Nothing like… glowing?”
Zhenya gives a loud sigh of disgust and disappears.
“Well fine,” Sid says to the air. “Just trying to help!”
He comes back while Sid is curled on the couch watching Sports Center. The Avs are playing the Blackhawks and winning when Zhenya materializes on the cushion beside him. Sid manages to keep his reaction to a slight flinch.
“Welcome back.”
Zhenya seems slightly more solid than before, less like he’s made of mist and more like an actual person sitting beside Sid on the couch—albeit one that doesn’t even dent the cushion with his weight.
“How does that work, anyway?” Sid asks idly, indicating Zhenya’s seat. “Like, you can’t touch anything without concentrating, but you can sit down?”
Zhenya looks down at himself, at the couch, frowns, and promptly falls through it onto the floor.
Sid gapes. Zhenya doesn’t look much better, his head and shoulders protruding from the cushion as he stares up at Sid in shock.
Sid can’t help it—he giggles.
Zhenya looks outraged. “Is not funny!”
Sid laughs harder, knowing he’s edging into goose honk territory but unable to stop. “Your face,” he sputters, and goes off into another fit of giggles.
Zhenya flickers out of sight but reappears before Sid can take a breath, this time sitting on the couch again, still scowling.
Sid hiccups and forces himself to sobriety. “Sorry. Uh. So I guess it’s like muscle memory?”
“Muscle memory?”
“Yeah—” Sid waves a hand. “Like… when you train your body to do something so well that it can do it without input from your brain? Your muscles sort of… hold the memory, and they perform without you. Like me, I could skate in my sleep. It doesn’t take any brainpower.”
Zhenya brightens. “Hockey.”
“Yeah,” Sid agrees. “Been skating since I was tiny, so, ya know… muscle memory.”
Zhenya nods, looking thoughtful. “I like hockey,” he announces.
“Me too,” Sid says, smiling at him.
Zhenya’s lips curve and he ducks his head, looking almost shy.
“Can you skate?” Sid asks.
“I think—yes?” Zhenya says. He shrugs. “I’m not—”
“Know. Yeah,” Sid says. “You don’t remember anything else?”
Zhenya flickers and Sid puts out a hand.
“Sorry, sorry, I won’t push. I just… feel like it’s important. Like if we can figure out who you are, then maybe we could figure out why you keep—astral projecting into my living room, or whatever it is you’re doing.”
Zhenya doesn’t say anything, looking mulish.
“How about I tell you some stuff about me?” Sid offers. “Maybe that’ll… jog something loose?”
Zhenya shrugs. He has a face made for stubbornness, set angles and lush mouth that folds into a flat line as his jaw juts forward. It shouldn’t make him more attractive, Sid thinks idly, and sits bolt upright in horror as he processes the thought.
I am not finding a ghost attractive, he tells himself fiercely.
“Okay, Sid?”
“I—yeah. So.” Sid shakes his head. “Um, I play hockey, which you know. For the Pittsburgh Penguins.”
“Pittsburgh? Is where we are?”
“Yeah.This is my second year with them. I think we have a shot at the Cup soon. We’re still putting the team together, figuring out what works, you know? But we’ve got a good core.”
Zhenya nods. “What else?”
“About the Pens?”
“No,” Zhenya says. His brown eyes are intent. “About you.”
Sid hunches his shoulders. “There’s not much else to tell. I’m from Canada—Cole Harbour. Hockey is… everything. There’s nothing else.”
“Not true,” Zhenya says, but he doesn’t press. “You live here. Alone?”
“Um, yeah.” Sid gathers his thoughts, looking around the living room. Despite his best efforts, it still looks weirdly unlived-in, no personal effects except the historical novel he’s working his way through on the end table by the recliner, and only the prints from the professional designer hanging on the walls. “I know it’s not… great. But I couldn’t keep living with Mario.”
“Is nice,” Zhenya says. He doesn’t sound like he believes it, and Sid doesn’t blame him.
“I’m not really good at anything besides hockey,” Sid says. It sounds pitiful and he flinches, but Zhenya just looks at him, listening patiently. “I have a lot of media stuff I have to do. Photoshoots, interviews, things for the press.”
Zhenya grimaces. “No fun.”
“Not really, but it’s part of the job. I knew what I was signing up for.” Sid shrugs. “Anyway, that’s pretty much it. I’m almost always busy. Hour or two in the evenings are mine, that’s about it. Hey, can you hear me when I call you, when you’re not here?”
Zhenya frowns. “Not sure.”
“Can you disappear and reappear deliberately?” Sid asks. “Or is it just random, like when you get upset?”
Zhenya’s frown deepens. “Think… is accident. I’m not try ever.”
“Maybe you should,” Sid suggests. “Like. It might be good if I can call you or something?”
“Why?”
“Well I don’t know,” Sid snaps. “I’m just throwing out ideas here.”
Zhenya sighs deeply, clearly put upon, and vanishes.
“Oh.” Sid waits a minute, but he doesn’t reappear. “Um. Zhenya?”
Nothing.
Sid clears his throat. “Zhenya,” he says again, and this time he focuses, feeling for him with his mind even as he feels faintly ridiculous. “Zhenya, come back.”
Can he feel something, a disturbance in the air, or is that his imagination again?
At any rate, Zhenya pops into view, on the couch beside him. Sid realizes at the same time that he could feel him, a whisper-soft brush against his mind like someone looking over his shoulder.
“I heard,” Zhenya says.
Sid suppresses a shiver. “This is so fucking weird,” he mutters. “Where did you go?”
Zhenya lifts a shoulder. “I’m not know. But I heard. Is good, yes?”
“Yeah,” Sid says, smiling at him. “Progress. Are you sure you don’t see a light?”
Zhenya’s glare is impressive.
“Just checking, jeez.” Sid fights a yawn. “I’m beat. I gotta sleep.” Zhenya looks almost disappointed. Sid hesitates before getting up. “You’re not gonna watch me sleep or something, are you?”
Zhenya levels a look of pure disgust at him. “I’m not creep, Sid.” And he disappears.
Sid sighs and goes to bed.