Chapter Text
Head aching, Sidney groans and presses his face into the pillow. This is the worst he’s felt in a long time and the thought of moving is enough to make him want to die. A hand settles on the base of his neck, fingers digging in and some of the pain immediately ebbs and he settles deeper into the bed with another groan.
It feels so good it takes his mind a moment to catch up with the fact there’s someone in his bed when he distinctly remembers going to bed alone. He’d stripped down after getting back from Philadelphia and face planted in his bed, sprawled across the king mattress and completely dead to the world in seconds.
Sidney jerks from under the soothing touch and rolls over, freezing in place. Ovechkin is looking at him from barely open eyes, a faint smile twisting his lips.
There’s no reason for Ovechkin to be in his bed. He hasn’t even seen him for the last month. “Why the fuck are you in my bed?”
Ovechkin’s grin falls away, turning into a deep frown and he reaches over, fingers skimming along his hair line. “Sid, did you hit head last night?”
Sidney shakes his head as he backs away. This must be some kind of trick the rest of the team is playing on him. He slips out of the bed and moves away though he doesn’t look away. Ovechkin is sitting up now, the sheets and blankets pooled in his hips and this isn’t right, how comfortable he looks in the bed.
Feeling unsure he snatches his phone off the bedside table and ducks out of the room. He makes his way downstairs, the pounding in his head increasing. Stumbling into the living room he stops. There are obvious signs of more than one person, in the pairs of shoes and other odds and ends spread around, things he doesn’t recognize. He looks at the wall, to the pictures there and feels his heart stutter.
There are two, one of them from when they won the Cup, but instead of Geno, its Ovechkin, sweaty and beaming, his gap-toothed smile unmistakable. The other is more recent, of he and Ovechkin in the middle of their families, smiling. Ovechkin’s arm is around his shoulder and he is leaning into Ovechkin, almost imperceptibly but it’s there and he takes a deep breath. None of this feels right, and coupled with his pounding head, is just serving to make him feel even more irritated.
He becomes aware of the way the edges of his phone are digging into his palm and he raises it. He had gotten so distracted by the photos he had completely forgotten what he had come down here to do. Unlocking his phone he taps the contact icon.
Thumbing through his contacts he finds Geno and dials the number, unable to look away from the pictures on the wall. It rings several times, and he doesn’t even give Geno a chance to say anything. “Fucking hilarious. How much did it cost?”
“Sid? Cost what? And why call so early?”
Rubbing at his temple Sidney tightens his fingers around the phone. “How much did you pay to get Ovechkin in my bed? And it’s seven in the morning.”
There’s a long pause and when Geno speaks his voice is heavy with worry. “Is four in morning here Sid. And why I have to pay Sanja to be in bed with you? Did you hit head in game last night?”
“No. Why does everyone keep asking me that? Where the fuck are you that it’s four in the morning? We have a game tomorrow.”
Geno makes a sound. “LA Sid. Let me talk to Sanja.”
Sidney doesn’t want to, but Ovechkin is standing in the doorway, wearing sweats and a Penguins T-shirt, and looking at him expectantly. He holds out the phone and Ovechkin takes it. From there it degenerates into rapid Russian and Ovechkin is watching him, eyes bright and obviously worried.
He turns away, uncomfortable under the scrutiny and finds his eyes again drawn to the pictures. The more he looks at them the less sure he is that they’re fakes. If they are, Geno and the others spent a lot of money to get them done.
“Sidney.” Ovechkin moves to stand next to him and holds out his phone. “Zhenya and I agree. You need to see trainer. Something not right.”
Sidney snatches his phone back, noticing one of them ended the call. “Not right. What the fuck are these pictures?”
Ovechkin frowns. “When we win Cup. Our wedding.”
“What?” The team must have pooled their resources and got someone who is good at Photoshop because there is no way in hell the pictures on the wall are real. He never would have married Ovechkin, has only just lately been able to talk to the man without wanting to roll his eyes and he looks at the pictures.
If they are, Geno and the others spent a lot of time looking for someone who is good at these kinds of things. But at the same time if this is joke it is far more involved than they usually get. And he can’t imagine Ovechkin going along with something like this. The other man is still been trying to be friends with him and must know this wouldn’t win him any points in Sidney’s book.
He curls his fingers around his phone until the edges dig in. It gives him something grounding though his stomach still twists at the concerned way Ovechkin is looking at him.
“Why is Geno in LA?” It seems easier to focus on that than the pictures and the way Ovechkin’s face is creased with worry.
Ovechkin frowns. “Capitals play Kings today. You know Sidney.”
At this point Sidney isn’t sure he knows anything, but he still isn’t going to give in. “Who did we play last night?”
“Flyers. You have one goal and assist.” Ovechkin’s gaze is strong, the worry still heavy in his voice. “I have two goals.” He raises his hand like he wants to touch, dropping it when Sidney takes a step back. “Sure you not hit head?”
Sidney nods. The Flyers had been out for him, like they usually are, but he had managed to avoid any serious hits, though they had managed to trap him against the boards a few times. “Positive.” And he had managed a goal and an assist, though one of the goals had come from Jordan and the other from Tanger.
“Sidney.”
He can’t help but look at Ovechkin when he says his name, as the other man always calls him Sid when they run into each other, with a challenging, amused smile. “What?”
“We have review in hour. Promise you talk to staff?”
Worry is written plainly across Ovechkin’s face and Sidney finds himself nodding, though it intensifies the pounding in his head. “Alright. I’m going to go shower.”
He doesn’t give Ovechkin a chance to respond and heads upstairs, with a quick look at the pictures. They look flawless, as real as the other pictures he has at home and it makes something uncomfortable twist in his stomach. Entering his bedroom Sidney closes the door for privacy, before tossing his phone on the foot of the bed. He doesn’t think Ovechkin is going to come check on him, but it makes him feel better.
He has no idea of what he’s looking for, some proof this is all a joke, so he heads for the closet. Pulling the door open he turns on the light on, the pit of his stomach falling even further, if that is even possible. He recognizes his suits, shirts and shoes hanging on one side of the big closet, but the others are alien to him, in colors he would never wear. Opening the dresser on the left side reveals shirts and pants, all things he wouldn’t own, and he takes a deep breath.
Sidney scrubs a hand across his face and steps back. He feels hollow, because there is no way the team is quiet, or coordinated enough to pull something like this off. Exiting the closet he does go into the bathroom to take a shower, not wanting to be a liar, and because he hopes the hot water will make him feel better. It does ease the pounding in his head a little and while he doesn’t feel better, he feels a little steadier.
He takes his time dressing, needing a little more time before he must face Ovechkin again. Once he thinks he can manage to keep it together he heads downstairs. He hears Ovechkin’s voice, and he goes into the kitchen, not surprised to find the other man on the phone. Dropping into the chair he waits for Ovechkin to finish his conversation and he can’t help but wonder who he is talking to, since the conversation is in English.
Ovechkin ends the call and sets his phone on the counter. “Breakfast?”
“I can make some, if you want to take a shower before the review.” Faced once again with Ovechkin’s intensity Sidney finds he isn’t quite as ready to deal with it head on. It must show in his face because Ovechkin gives a sharp nod before striding from the room. Sidney waits for the sound of the door closing upstairs before he unlocks his phone and goes to the Capitals’ roster. Sure enough, Geno’s name is there and Sidney frowns. A quick look at the Penguins’ roster show Ovechkin’s name and Sidney slumps back in the chair. That is beyond the team’s abilities and plants a seed of doubt.
Scrubbing a hand across his face Sidney looks around the kitchen. It looks the same as it did last night when he had a quick snack before heading to bed. He looks back at his phone, sitting on the counter and it suddenly comes to him that maybe this is a weird, lucid dream. It would certainly explain the rosters not being correct, why they’re in his house. He has never seen the inside of Ovechkin’s place and he has had some odd dreams before.
Granted, none of them have involved him being married to a rival captain, and Ovechkin of all people, but he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. So much of their real lives are tangled together, no matter how much he tries to convince the press and everyone else, they don’t need to be. There is no reason to compare them, but no one can ever seem to help themselves.
Realizing he has spent most of his time thinking, rather than making food Sidney heads to the fridge to find something to eat. He is already a little unnerved by the intensity of Ovechkin’s gaze and he doesn’t know how much more of it he can take. Plus he doesn’t want to have to explain to Ovechkin how he was doubting everything around him rather than eating breakfast.
The contents of his fridge are exactly the same as they were last night and it gives him pause again. He can’t ever recall having a dream this vivid, with this much detail. And none have ever stirred this level of emotion in him. He seems to be waffling between out right annoyance, at this whole situation and an uncomfortable knot of unease. Everything seems too real to be a dream, but there isn’t any other logical explanation for what is going on.
Hoping some food will settle his stomach Sidney scrounges through and finds some fruit and yogurt and eats it while he waits for his toast. He has just finished cleaning up when Ovechkin comes back into the kitchen. Even with what has happened so far it is still jarring to see him wearing a Pittsburgh shirt and Sidney tamps down on the urge to make a snide comment. He doesn’t want to start a fight.
“Better?”
Sidney can tell Ovechkin wants to ask more, and he’s grateful when he doesn’t. He still doesn’t have the words to explain anything, feels off balance and he keeps hoping there will be some sign this is just a very odd dream, but there has been nothing. “I’m fine.”
He can tell from the twist of Ovechkin’s mouth he doesn’t believe it. Instead he gets a sharp nod, and he makes a sweeping gesture towards the hallway. “Need to go.”
Sidney bites back the words on his tongue. He knows exactly how long it takes to get to the practice rink and he doubts it will be any different now. Slipping off the stool he grabs his shoes from the closet and pulls them on, trying not to stare at Ovechkin does the same, before pulling on a hoodie and grabbing keys from the table near the door.
Pulling out another hoodie Sid shrugs it on, glad to find it is his, if the fit is any indication. He reluctantly follows Ovechkin outside and he wishes he could justify taking two cars. He knows he can’t, as it will look odd to the others and the pounding headache from earlier is starting to come back. Taking a deep breath he climbs into the car, pulling the seatbelt across his chest.
The drive to the rink seems to drag on and Sidney feels the tension in the car, like ants crawling across his skin. It feels like Ovechkin keeps stealing looks at him, worried frown still pulling at his mouth and Sidney curls his hands into loose fists. He wants to ask a million different questions, but he can’t seem to articulate them, and he isn’t sure he would like the answer. So instead he settles for staring out the window at the familiar scenery and tries to ignore the pounding in his head and the heavy weight sitting in his stomach.
They get to the practice rink and Sidney’s stomach knots in anticipation. He still can’t bring himself to believe this isn’t some elaborate joke put into place by his team. They’ll get to the rink, everyone will have a good laugh at his expense, Ovechkin will fly back to DC, with a story to tell, at his expense. He’ll get to go home, take the pictures down and everything will be back to normal. The team will expect him to be angry at them for a few weeks and he’ll indulge them until it becomes a waste of energy.
He steals another quick look at Ovechkin, not sure what he’s expecting. The same frown is creasing his face, as it has been since they woke up this morning and Sidney isn’t sure what to think. If this is the joke he thinks it is, the other man is putting a lot of effort into it. By now he would have expected to see some crack in the façade, a sign of the irreverent Ovechkin he knows. Instead there have been worried looks and more than one aborted attempt to reach out and touch him.
Sidney gets out of the car and heads for the building, Ovechkin a few steps behind him. He opens the door, letting Ovechkin go ahead of him. The man might irritate him, but Sidney does have manners, and this is his home, no matter what else is going on. It takes him a moment to catch up with Ovechkin and Sidney can’t help but frown. The other man seems to have more than a passing acquaintance with the facility, as he is headed straight for the video review room.
Frowning Sidney follows and almost walks into him when Ovechkin stops right outside the room. A strong hand curls around his elbow, steadying him and he swallows against the intensity of his eyes. He steps back, needing space between them and Ovechkin’s hand lingers for a moment before falling away. “Have time to talk to trainer.”
The question mark on the end is obvious but Sidney shakes his head. “I will after.” He needs a little more time to get his thoughts together. And he’s hoping as the others start arriving there will be more proof this is a weird dream. Jordan will have green hair and Flower will have grown a third arm and everything will be right.
He’ll wake up and he won’t think about it again, letting it fade away. Entering the screening room he takes his usual seat, surprised when Ovechkin sinks down next to him, close enough their shoulders are touching. He shifts slightly, leaning away and tells himself he’s imaging the quick flash of hurt that flickers across Ovechkin’s face.
A few minutes later he hears voices, and he twists in his seat, away from Ovechkin. He wants to see the look on the others’ faces, the quick flicker of amusement, something that will give them away. Jordan comes in first and he waves, making his way towards them. “Hey Sid, Alex. If I didn’t know better, I would think you two were psychic.”
Sidney looks at Jordan, expecting some tell, all the ones he is familiar with, but there is nothing. Flower flops down next to Jordan, in the row behind them, gaze darting between them. “I keep telling you Jordan, this is what happens when you get married. Some weird link, and you can tell what the other is thinking.” He grins. “Unless the garbage needs to go out. Then no one knows anything.”
Slumping back in his chair Sidney watches as the rest of the team files in, in small groups. They all wave at them, calling out and Sidney feels the knot in his stomach tighten. There is no way the entire team would have been in on the joke. None of them can keep a secret, and it only gets worse the more people know. A number of surprises have been ruined because one person too many knew about it.
Bylsma and the rest of the coaching staff come in and Sidney twists to face the screen, feeling a little nauseous. No one seems to find it odd Ovechkin is here and Flower leans forward to say something to him. Sidney can’t quite make it out, but Ovechkin glances at him, a frown pulling at the corner of his mouth, and he looks away.
Sidney wants to pay more attention to the review, the familiar, soothing glide of people across the ice but he can’t seem to focus, at least not on the screen. He feels painfully aware of Ovechkin next to him, the rise and fall of his chest, the quiet sound of his breathing. And to make it worse there is actual proof on the video, of Ovechkin on the ice, in a Penguin jersey, the number 8 on his back. They seem to be on the ice together a lot and seeing Ovechkin like this, he does have a new appreciation for his skill.
At ice level it is different, some of the subtlety of Ovechkin lost, but like this, on the video, Sidney can see his skill. And whatever other problems he might have with Ovechkin, about his way off the ice, and the way he dresses he can admit, the man can play hockey.
The review feels like it drags on, Bylsma’s voice falling into a drone and Sidney presses hard against his temple. He had thought sitting in the dark, watching something familiar would help, but the intermittent pounding in his head has been steadily getting worse.
“Sidney?”
Ovechkin is leaning towards him, hand resting on his leg and Sidney manages to wave him off. “I’m fine.”
Sidney doesn’t have to look to know Ovechkin is frowning, still worried and he sinks back into his chair. The other man must get the hint, as his hand falls away, but Sidney can still feel the tension in the big body next to him.
Finally, the review ends, and Sidney closes his eyes. He can hear the others filing out of the room and he’s glad they aren’t having practice today. The thought of moving, the piercing shrill of the whistle is enough to make his stomach roil. Jordan and Flower haven’t moved and are talking to Ovechkin, what they’re saying lost in the sound of people leaving the room.
Once it sounds like everyone is gone, Sidney finally sits up. Jordan and Flower are indeed still in the room, watching him and he glances at Ovechkin, wondering what he told them. Instead of asking he stands, heading from the room, the three of them following him like ducklings.
Entering the hallway he stops, wishing there were a way to duck out, but there isn’t. He did agree with Ovechkin about seeing the trainers and he isn’t going to lie. They might not be able to help with the one problem, but they might have a suggestion to help with the fact his head feels like it might explode.
Flower leans towards him. “Are you going to hang out for the optional, or are you going home?”
“Sid need to see the trainers.”
Flower and Jordan look at him, both looking worried. Flower frowns. “Did you take a hit last night I didn’t see?”
Sidney shakes his head, the movement sending a jab of pain through his temple, and he winces. “No. My head just hurts.” He isn’t sure why he doesn’t say what he’s thinking, the accusation that this is all a joke, and he hopes they’ve gotten a good laugh out of it. Instead the looks at Ovechkin, who has taken a step forward and he presses his fingers against his temple. “I’ll be right back.”
He doesn’t give the men a chance to respond and heads for the trainers. One of the doctors is even in and Sidney gladly hops up on the bench, though he can’t help the wince of pain that follows it.
The doctor frowns. “Problems with your head Sidney?”
With a shrug Sidney sighs. “I woke up and it was pounding. The feeling seems to come and go, but everything else feels off too.”
That makes the doctor’s face crease with worry and Sidney suddenly wishes he had just stuck with his head hurting. He can’t think of any way to explain what is going on with Ovechkin and the others and not come off like he is talking about some bizarre fever dream. And he doesn’t want to run the risk of the doctor putting him on IR. Right now hockey is the only normal thing he has going, and he doesn’t want to lose it.
Frowning the doctor leans towards him. “I know you would have seen us if you had taken a hit. Do you think this might be related to any of your previous injuries?”
Sidney manages to remember not to shake his head at the last second. “I doubt it. I just woke up this morning and my head was pounding.”
“Hmm.”
Sidney fights the urge to rolls his eyes at that sound. He has heard it from more doctors than he wants to think about, when they couldn’t figure out what was wrong with his neck. It means they have no idea what might be wrong and they’re going to grasp at straws until they have an answer.
“And everything is okay, between you and Alex?”
That makes him start and he looks at the doctor. “Why would you ask that?”
The doctor smiles, leaning back slightly. “I am married and have been through my fair share of arguments and fights with my lovely wife. Stress can manifest in odd ways, and this might be part of it. Add in the fact you work together in a high pressure arena, and this could just be that. Although, if it doesn’t get any better, don’t hesitate to come back in.”
Sidney nods and stands, not really surprised at the doctor’s decision. He isn’t sure what he was expecting, especially when he can’t explain what is going on, not without coming across as a little weird. Part of him is still trying to hold onto the belief this is just a very odd, lucid dream. The larger part of him though, is starting to believe this might be something else and he isn’t sure what to make of it.
Ovechkin, Flower and Jordan are all waiting for him and Sidney isn’t surprised the other two waited for him to come out. Besides Geno, they’re the two who always worry the most about him and by now, he is used to it. What he isn’t used to, beneath the worry is the hint of something else and his gaze cuts to Ovechkin.
The other man still looks concerned, and Sidney can’t help but wonder what he told Flower and Jordan. If they now know how he woke up this morning, the way he had slunk out of the bed, convinced this is a joke. But it can’t be, because by now Flower at least would have broken, smiled and clapped him on the shoulder, dark eyes filled with humor. Now though, Flower is looking at him like he’s a different person and Sidney doesn’t like it.
“Sidney?”
Sidney stops looking at Flower, gaze sliding to Ovechkin. “I’m okay. The doctor said it is probably just stress related.”
It isn’t hard to tell the others don’t believe him and Sidney can’t find the energy to come up with anything better. Without knowing what Ovechkin told them he doesn’t want to say anything that might cause any further problems. What he really needs now is some quiet, so he can think in peace and try to figure out what is going on.
Ovechkin’s frown doesn’t fade but he pushes away from the wall. “Alright. Then we go home so you can rest.” He looks at Flower and Jordan. “See you tomorrow.”
Sidney manages to say goodbye and he catches up with Ovechkin. The skin between his shoulders feels like it is prickling, and he knows if he turned around his friends would be staring after him, eyes narrowed as they tried to fit his behavior into whatever Ovechkin had told them and he wishes he had asked.
The drive home is long, and Sidney rests his head against the window, the chill glass making him feel better. A dozen times he starts to ask Ovechkin what he said to Flower and Jordan, but each time he closes his mouth, not sure he wants to hear the answer. The only thing he is sure about is that something isn’t right, but he still doesn’t know what.
It isn’t a joke, not with all the evidence, and it isn’t a dream. Everything about it feels too real and he knew if he could gather up the courage to reach over, Ovechkin would be warm and breathing, his concern almost palpable. Which leaves him with nothing, and Sidney isn’t sure what to do about it. He can’t think of any other reason this is happening, and it makes his stomach knot uncomfortably.
Sidney has always prided himself on being as in control of his settings as possible, and this is anything but under control. He is starting to feel like he doesn’t know which way is up and he hates that he doesn’t know what is going on. Ovechkin’s ongoing concern isn’t helping matters, as he would really like the chance to be alone, to try and think his way through this.
The car is barely in park before Sidney has his seatbelt undone and he gets out of the car, ignoring the way the hair on the back of his neck prickles. Ovechkin is watching him and Sidney is going to have to get used to the feeling.
They get inside and Sidney makes a vague motion when Ovechkin looks at him. “I think I’m just going to go, do something.”
Ovechkin nods. “I be in kitchen.”
Sidney heads for the office in the back of the house, not liking the way he feels like an intruder in his own home. Short of having Ovechkin and his things in the house, Sidney knows this is his home, could get around it with his eyes closed, but it doesn’t change the feeling. Like everything else going on, there is an almost palpable feeling that this isn’t his home.
Even the office looks the same, with the desk and filing cabinet against the wall. In the closet there is a small safe and Sidney turns on the light before sinking down to the carpet. Of course, because nothing makes sense, the combination is the same as his and he frowns as he opens it. All of his important papers are in an envelope on the bottom, but there is another one on top.
He opens the clasp on the envelope and reaches in. The paper feels fine against his fingers and he draws it out. Skimming the paper it doesn’t take long to realize it is a marriage license. His signature is at the bottom, with Ovechkin’s on the line next to it and Sidney carefully tucks it away, setting it aside. He might not want to believe it, but it isn’t his and he doesn’t want to damage it. More papers are stacked on the second shelf and Sidney leafs through them, the deed for the house, with both of their names on it, titles for the cars and dozens of other pieces of paper, linking him with Ovechkin.
There are several ring boxes on the top shelf, and he takes them down, heart caught in his throat. The first holds his Championship ring and he runs his hand over the face. This at least is something familiar and he smiles, though he doesn’t really feel it. The second holds another ring and he somehow knows, without having to look at the band it belongs to Ovechkin.
He can’t help though, and he lifts out of the box. It feels the same as his, though the band is bigger, and Ovechkin’s name is engraved on it. He puts it back in the box and sets it next to his before pulling out the third box. This one contains two thick platinum bands, one slightly smaller than the other and he knows these are the wedding rings. He isn’t sure why, but he takes the smaller band out.
It is cool to the touch, and he slips it on his finger, at this point not surprised that it fits perfectly. He flexes his fingers, and the weight feels not quite right. Pulling it off he tucks it into the velvet with the other one and puts everything back into the safe, quietly closing the door. Sidney scrubs a hand across his face. He isn’t sure what he was hoping to find by looking in the safe, but it has just left him feeling more unsettled.
He had wanted to keep denying it, but with proof like this, he can’t. This isn’t an elaborate joke, or some kind of hyper-vivid dream. Somehow, some way, this is real.
“Fuck.” Sidney drops his head back against the wall, wincing at the jolt of pain it sends through his head. He knows this is real, or what passes for it, but he has no idea why or what is going on. Last night he went to bed alone and this morning has been a confusing hell and he just wants to know why.
With a groan he gets to his feet and leaves the office, turning off the light. He thinks about finding Ovechkin, to pump the man for information, but he doesn’t. Even from the hallway he can hear him talking to someone and Sidney doesn’t want to intrude. Instead he finds himself caught by the pictures on the wall. Now that he’s paying more attention, he sees there are more pictures than just the wedding picture and the one from when they won the Cup.
There are several pictures of just he and Ovechkin, on what looks like their wedding as well as during the summer. They’re both smiling and Sidney feels disconnected, seeing pictures where he is obviously happy, but not having any memories to go with them. He picks his way down the hall, taking in more pictures, that include his family as well as Ovechkin’s, everyone smiling. There is even one with Taylor sandwiched between them.
Reaching the end of the hallway Sidney heads upstairs, wanting to lay down. His head is swimming, and he makes it upstairs and into his room. The bed is still a mess of twisted bedding and Sidney twitches is straight before kicking his shoes off and climbing into the bed. He curls on his side, pressing his face into the pillow. He feels better now, and he can’t help but hope maybe if he manages to fall asleep, he’ll wake up and everything will be back to normal.
It can’t hurt to try.