Apple Juice - Sidney Crosby x Reader - Pt. 1
Sidney Crosby x Reader (romantic/sexual)
Summary: You find our you’re pregnant and have no clue how your boyfriend will take it.
Warnings: implied sex, spiraling, pregnancy
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
Word Count: 3,300
requests open :)
Three weeks.
Your period is three weeks late.
Not a few days. Not something you can brush off or blame on stress or travel or your body just being weird for no reason.
Three full weeks of waking up every morning with that quiet, creeping thought in the back of your mind. Three weeks of checking your phone calendar like maybe it’ll magically change. Three weeks of telling yourself it’s fine, it’s probably nothing, even while your stomach twists a little tighter each day.
At first, you ignored it.
You told yourself your cycle’s been off before. You told yourself you’ve been stressed, that Sid’s schedule has been crazy, that you’ve been sleeping weird, eating weird—your body just needed time to catch up.
But then a week passed.
Then another.
And suddenly every little thing started to feel suspicious. The random wave of nausea when you woke up two mornings ago. The way your chest felt sore, heavier than usual. The exhaustion that didn’t quite make sense.
You tried not to google it.
You did anyway.
That was a mistake.
Now your brain won’t shut up. Now every symptom feels louder, more real, more terrifying. Now there’s only one thought that keeps circling, over and over and over—
What if you’re pregnant?
You bought the tests yesterday.
You told yourself you’d take them this morning, when Sid left for skate. When you’d have the apartment to yourself. When you wouldn’t have to look at him while you found out something that could change everything.
You almost didn’t do it.
You stood in the hallway for a full five minutes after he left, just staring at the bathroom door, your heart pounding, your palms damp. Like as long as you didn’t take the test, it wasn’t real yet.
But you had to make yourself move.
You lock the bathroom door behind you, even though you’re the only one home.
Your knees are trembling, your hands are gripping the edge of the sink. he morning light slants in through the blinds, but it doesn’t warm you. It just makes the white tiles look sterile, uncomfortably bright.
You stare down at the tests in your hands. Two pink lines. They’re clear, undeniable, and impossible to ignore. Your stomach twists in a way that has nothing to do with nausea.
You sink to the floor, letting the cold tile bite through your sweatpants. Your hands tremble as you wrap them around your stomach. There’s nothing to feel yet, nothing moving, nothing tangible, and yet you know there’s a baby in there. Your baby. Sidney’s baby.
Everything is about to change. Sid’s still at a morning skate. He doesn’t know. He wouldn’t even know for days, maybe weeks, if you don’t tell him. You press your palms harder against your stomach, fighting to make the panic stop, trying to breathe through the sudden hotness in your chest.
You think of the one time—just once—when things got heated one night and kissing turned to grinding and hands started to wander. He warned you he didn’t have a condom. “We can stop if you’re not okay with that,” he said softly. You’d said you were on the pill. Mostly true. Mostly. But some nights you forgot. Sometimes you just doubled the dose the next day, and it always worked.
Until now.
Your mind started to wonder.
Sid is thirty-eight. Thirty-eight. He’s thirty-eight and he’s Sidney Crosby. He’s not showing any signs of slowing down with hockey any time soon, either. He probably has other priorities. He should have other priorities. Kids? He’s never even had the kid conversation with you. Why would he want one now? Why would he want one with you?
You grab the test again and stare at it as if the lines might change or fade.
You shove it into your pocket, and your hands keep trembling. You catch your reflection in the full-length mirror mounted on the wall. Your hair is messy, your eyes are wide and rimmed with red, your shoulders are hunched like you’re trying to disappear into yourself.
You’d always wanted this. You’d always wanted a family, you’d always wanted a strong man taking care of you, you’d always wanted to be a mom. This isn’t what you expected it’d feel like.
You lift your shirt slowly, almost afraid of what you’ll see. Your stomach is still flat, obviously. but your fingers trace over it, soft and hesitant.
Tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them. You lean your elbows onto the sink, pressing your hands to hands over you face.
You don’t know how long you stand there. Minutes? Hours? Time doesn’t exist in the bathroom with the sun glaring through the blinds and your mind screaming at you with a million what-ifs.
You almost can’t move, but then a thought strikes you: you can’t hide this. You could never forgive yourself if you kept it from him. But how do you even begin to tell him? You panic, hyperventilating slightly, and the idea of talking—saying the words to him, making it real—feels impossible.
So instead, you do the only thing that makes sense in the moment.
You leave.
You grab your coat and purse, your legs unsteady, and leave the bathroom. You walk through the house quietly, holding your breath, every step toward the door feels like moving through molasses, but somehow you make it to the front door.
The bakery down the street comes to mind. It’s almost absurd, but your mind latches onto it. You can make it tangible. You order a simple white cake, yellow icing. You ask them to write “Congrats Daddy” in black letters and almost laugh at the ridiculousness of it. But you can’t. Not yet. Not when your chest feels like it might explode with panic and hope all at once.
The bakery clerk gives you a warm look, like she’s the one who just found out she’s pregnant, as you pay, but you’re barely aware of her. You’re already back out on the street, clutching the box like it’s a lifeline. Your fingers are trembling so badly that you have to balance it carefully. Every step back home feels like a countdown, every car horn or passing footstep makes your stomach twist.
Back in your home, you set the cake on the dining table, pour champagne for him and apple juice for you, since you can’t drink anymore now, and place the tests in front of them like fragile evidence.
You sit in the chair, hands folded tightly in your lap, and just stare. One hour passes. Maybe two? You’ve lost track. Every creak in the house, every muffled sound from the street, makes your chest jump.
And then you hear it.
The garage door.
Your body stiffens. Your hair suddenly feels like a mess. Your palms feel clammy. You smooth your shirt for what feels like the hundredth time, try to steady your breathing.
Your eyes flick to the table again.
The cake.
The glasses.
The tests.
It looks ridiculous. Like some weird prank instead of the most terrifying moment of your life.
This was a mistake.
Your heart starts racing.
Your should hide the cake. You should just tell him normally. You should say it casually. You should—
But before you can even stand up, the front door opens.
Keys hit the bowl on the side table in the entryway.
His voice carries down the hallway, warm and familiar and completely normal. “Baby? I’m home,” he calls.
Your throat tightens.
For a second you can’t make a sound.
You stare at the cake like it might answer for you.
“Baby?” he calls again, a little louder now. “You here?”
“In the kitchen.” You respond, almost too quietly.
Footsteps.
The steady, familiar sound of him walking toward you.
Your pulse starts hammering so hard you can feel it in your neck.
This is it.
He’s about to find out his 23-year-old girlfriend accidentally got pregnant.
He’s thirty-eight. He still wants to play hockey. He has a career. A life. A schedule. He didn’t sign up for this.
He didn’t sign up for this.
Then he appears in the doorway.
His hair is still damp from the locker room shower, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He looks tired the way he always does after morning skate, but when he sees you sitting there he smiles automatically.
“Hey—”
But the word cuts off halfway through.
He sees you first, he always sees you first, but then his eyes move.
To the table.
Then to the cake.
Then the glasses.
Then the pregnancy tests.
You see the exact moment his brain starts trying to piece things together.
His brows knit together slowly.
“…What’s this?” he asks.
Your mouth goes dry.
You had practiced this in your head. On the walk home from the bakery. In the hour you sat here waiting.
You can’t remember any of it now.
Your fingers twist together in your lap.
“Um,” you start.
Your voice cracks.
You clear your throat.
“Surprise?”
It comes out sounding more like a question than a statement.
His eyes flicking between the cake and the tests again like he’s trying to make sure he’s seeing them correctly.
He sets his bag down.
Walks a little closer to the table.
His voice is quieter when he speaks again.
“You’re… pregnant?”
The word hangs in the air.
Your chest feels like it caves in.
You nod again.
“Yeah.”
Your voice barely exists.
“I—I found out this morning.”
Sid doesn’t say anything right away.
He just stands there.
Looking at you.
The silence stretches.
Your brain immediately fills it with the worst possibilities.
He’s in shock.
He hates this.
He’s thinking about how young I am.
He’s thinking about how stupid I was with the pill.
Your throat tightens.
“Please say something,” the words spill out suddenly.
Sid’s head snaps up.
“What?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know, I’m sorry,” you repeat quickly, panic starting to climb up your chest. “I—I was on the pill, I swear I was, I just, sometimes I forget and then I’d double it the next day and it was always fine before and I didn’t think—”
“Hey,” he says quickly.
You keep going anyway.
“I know you didn’t sign up for this and I know you’re still playing and you probably don’t want a kid right now, I think I’m excited, but you don’t have to be excited, we haven’t talked about this, and I should’ve been more careful and if you don’t—”
“Hey.”
His voice is firmer now. Louder.
Before you can keep spiraling he closes the distance between you in two quick steps.
His hands come up to your arms.
Not tight.
Just steady.
“Look at me,” he says softly.
Your eyes lift slowly.
He studies your face for a second, like he’s trying to understand how you got from cake-announcement to full panic attack in under thirty seconds.
“You’re pregnant?” he asks again, steadier this time.
You nod.
“Yeah.”
Your eyes drop automatically.
“I took two tests.”
A shaky breath leaves you.
“They were both positive.”
There’s another pause.
You brace yourself.
Your mind is already racing through what happens if he says he doesn’t want it. If he says he’s not ready. If he says—
Then suddenly he pulls you into him.
It happens so fast you gasp.
His arms wrap around you tightly, one hand coming up to the back of your head like he’s instinctively trying to steady you.
“Hey,” he murmurs into your hair.
Your brain short-circuits.
“I’ve got you.”
You blink against his shoulder.
“…What?”
He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at your face.
Then his hands slowly slide down your sides.
And settle on your stomach, with his thumbs near you belly button.
It’s completely flat.
There’s nothing there yet.
But his palms stay there anyway.
His expression is something you’ve never quite seen before.
Wide-eyed.
Soft.
A little stunned.
“You’re really pregnant?” he asks again, almost like he still can’t believe the words.
Your voice is small.
“Yeah.”
Another pause.
Your heart starts climbing into your throat again.
“Sid, if you don’t want—”
But before you can finish the sentence he leans forward and presses a kiss to your lips.
It’s not rushed.
Not panicked.
Just warm.
When he pulls back his forehead rests against yours.
“You scared yourself half to death waiting for me to come home, didn’t you?” he murmurs.
Your eyes burn.
“…A little.”
He huffs a quiet laugh.
Then his hand slides back to your stomach again, thumb brushing lightly over the fabric of your shirt.
There’s still this stunned look on his face.
Like his brain is catching up to the reality.
“You got me a cake,” he says slowly.
You glance weakly toward the table.
“Yeah.”
The corner of his mouth lifts.
“Congrats Daddy?”
You wince.
“I panicked.”
He actually laughs then.
Soft.
Disbelieving.
Then he looks back at you.
And squeezes your side gently.
“You’re having my baby.”
It isn’t a question this time.
And the way he says it makes your chest feel tight for an entirely different reason.
Your voice shakes when you answer.
“Yeah.”
You’re watching him too closely now, searching for any flicker of doubt, any hesitation you might’ve missed in the shock of everything. But it’s not there. He looks… overwhelmed, yeah. A little stunned.
But not upset.
Not pulling away.
If anything, he’s leaning in.
His thumb brushes absentmindedly over your shirt again, right over your stomach, like he’s already memorizing the spot.
Then his eyes lift back up to your face.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches.
“You’re okay,” he says gently, like he’s reminding you. “You’re okay.”
You let out a shaky laugh that sounds more like a breath breaking. “I didn’t think you were gonna say that.”
“Yeah?” he asks softly.
You nod, eyes dropping again. “I thought you were gonna freak out. Or—like—shut down or something.”
He tilts his head a little, studying you.
“I mean,” he exhales, a small smile pulling at his mouth, “I am a little freaked out.”
Your stomach drops instantly.
But then he squeezes your side.
“Not in a bad way,” he adds quickly. “Just… big. This is big.”
You nod, swallowing.
“Yeah.”
There’s a small pause.
Then his gaze drifts over your face again, slower this time. Like he’s really looking at you. Taking you in.
And then—
“You look different.”
Your heart stutters.
“…Different how?” you ask carefully.
He steps a little closer, one hand coming up to brush a piece of hair away from your face.
“Good,” he says immediately. “Really good.”
You blink at him.
“I literally found out like two hours ago,” you mumble. “There’s no way I look different.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
“I don’t know,” he says, softer now. “You just… do.”
His eyes flick down to your stomach again, then back up.
“You’re glowing.”
You let out a small, disbelieving breath. “Sid—”
“I’m serious,” he cuts in gently. “You’re… you’re beautiful.”
Your chest tightens at the way he says it. Not flirty, not teasing—just honest. A little awed.
“This is—” he gestures vaguely between you and your stomach, like he can’t quite find the words. “This is the most attractive you’ve ever been.”
Your eyes widen a little.
“Okay, that’s—”
“I mean it,” he insists, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “You’re carrying my kid.”
The way he says it makes your stomach flip in a completely different way now.
Not panic.
Something warmer, something heavier.
You look down at your stomach again, almost instinctively, like maybe this time you’ll actually see something.
“I don’t even look pregnant,” you murmur.
“You will,” he says easily.
Your head snaps up.
“What?”
He shrugs slightly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“You will,” he repeats. “And you’re gonna be even more beautiful.”
Your face heats a little.
“You’re biased.”
“Well, yeah,” he agrees without hesitation. “Obviously.”
That pulls a real laugh out of you this time, shaky but genuine.
There’s a small pause after that.
A quieter one.
The kind where the reality starts settling in instead of crashing.
Sid’s hands slides from your stomach to your hips, but he doesn’t let go of you. Not completely.
His eyes drift around the kitchen slowly.
The table.
The cake.
The space.
And you can practically see his brain shifting gears.
Planning.
Adjusting.
His gaze lands on the glasses.
He pauses.
His brows knit together slightly, and he gestures toward the table.
“Wait,” he says, looking back at you. “You— you can’t drink that.”
For a second you just stare at him.
“What?”
He nods toward the champagne glass, a little more serious now, like this is suddenly a very important detail.
“You can’t have that,” he says. “You’re—” he gestures vaguely toward your stomach, like the word is still settling in his mouth, “—pregnant.”
There’s a beat.
And then you laugh.
It bubbles out of you before you can stop it, light and a little disbelieving and so relieving after everything.
“Honey,” you shake your head, reaching past him to pick up your glass. “It’s apple juice.”
He blinks.
“…What?”
“Well, mine is apple juice, yours is champagne,” you repeat, holding up you glass slightly. “I’m not an idiot.”
There’s a half-second where he just looks at the glass.
Then back at you.
And then he lets out a breathy laugh, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck.
“Okay—yeah,” he huffs. “Yeah, that makes more sense.”
You smile a little, setting the glass back down.
“Wow,” you tease softly. “Already policing me?”
He looks at you again then.
Really looks at you.
“Just making sure,” he murmurs.
The way he says it—gentle, almost absentminded—makes your stomach flip.
Because it doesn’t feel like panic anymore.
It feels like care. Like instinct.
Like he’s already thinking about you differently.
About both of you.
“…We’re gonna have to change the guest room,” he says suddenly.
You blink.
“What?”
He nods toward the hallway like it’s already decided.
“The guest room,” he repeats. “We can turn it into a nursery.”
Your breath catches.
“A nursery?” you echo.
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “It’s the biggest extra room. Gets good light in the morning too.”
You just stare at him.
Because he’s not hesitating.
He’s talking like this is already happening.
Like the baby is already part of your life.
“We can move the bed out,” he continues, thinking out loud now. “Maybe put a crib against the far wall… dresser over by the window…”
Your heart feels like it’s swelling in your chest.
“Sid,” you say softly.
He looks back at you immediately. “Yeah?”
“You’re… you’re really okay with this?”
The question hangs there, fragile.
He doesn’t even hesitate.
“Yeah,” he says.
Simple.
Certain.
Then, softer, “Yeah, I am.”
Your eyes sting a little.
He squeezes your hip gently.
“We’re gonna figure everything out,” he adds. “One thing at a time.”
You nod slowly.
“Okay.”
Another small pause.
Then he tilts his head slightly, like something just clicked.
“We should find you an OB.”
You blink again.
“An… OB?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Doctor. For the pregnancy.”
“I know what an OB is,” you mumble, still trying to catch up.
He smiles a little.
“Good. Then we’re on the same page.”
You let out a soft, overwhelmed laugh.
“We’ve got time,” he murmurs. “We don’t have to have everything figured out today.”
Your shoulders relax just a little at that.
His hand drifts back up to your stomach again, almost unconsciously now.
You don’t feel panic when he touches you there.
Just something steady.
Something real.
“…We’re having a baby,” you whisper.
Sid smiles softly.
“We are.”
