Home Ice
Sidney Crosby x MILF!Reader
Summary: you’re at your son’s draft day when the internet decides you’re a “rocket.” Your eighteen-year-old becomes an NHL player overnight. His captain calls to congratulate him. And somehow, between protecting your kid’s dream and learning to have one of your own, you end up in Nova Scotia with calloused hands holding yours and a Hall of Famer asking if you’d like to stay. (The part where your son threatens Sidney Crosby’s career over gnocchi is just a bonus)
The air in the Sphere is thick with a manufactured chill, a feeble attempt to mimic the ice that is the entire reason for this spectacle. It smells like stale popcorn, expensive cologne, and the electric tang of a thousand frayed nerves. Your own are chief among them.
Your son, Colton, sits beside you, a mountain of quiet tension in a suit that cost more than your first car. His leg bounces, a frantic, silent drumbeat against the plush carpet of the riser. He stops only when your hand finds his knee, a gentle, anchoring pressure.
“My entire circulatory system has relocated to my kneecap,” he mutters, his voice a low rumble that still sounds, to your ears, like the one that used to ask for another bedtime story.
You smooth a nonexistent wrinkle on his lapel. “It’s attached. I checked this morning when I straightened your tie.”
“You tied my tie.”
“Details.” You offer a smile you hope looks more confident than you feel. At thirty-six, you’ve mastered the art of projecting calm in the face of absolute chaos. It’s a survival skill honed over eighteen years of single motherhood.