Unthinkable

I’m shaking, my hands balled into tight fists at either of my sides, damp with sweat and fear. I want to fidget, fuss with the hem of my shirt or twist my hair nervously around my finger, but the paralyzing fear has me pinned in place. I have been working up the courage to face this moment for nearly four months and no matter what justifications I try to come up with, I just can’t put this off any longer.


“Please, if you could just tell him I’m here,” I beg again to the demure face of the man standing across from me. “I promise it’s important.”

I can see his scepticism etched into the lines of his aging face, no stranger to young girls showing up at the arena begging to meet the players. Maybe it’s the tears I can feel forming in my eyes or the edge of desperation I can’t keep from my tone, but his face softens and he lets out a sigh.

“What exactly do you want me to tell him, miss?” He asks, only a slight annoyance edging into his voice.

“Please just tell him that Blake Easton is here and she really needs to speak to him. I wouldn’t be wasting anyone’s time if this wasn’t urgent,” I assure.

“And when I tell Mr Crosby that Blake Easton is here to see him, he’ll know who I’m talking about, won’t he?”

A brief moment of panic seizes me, flashbacks of a night months ago, tangled between bed sheets, fervent kisses pressed to hot skin, a quick breakfast and aging silence. God I hope he remembers me. How embarrassing to show up with an announcement like mine to proclaim to a man who doesn’t even know who you are.

I nod because I’m not sure my words are sufficient.

“Wait here miss,” he sighs. “I’ll go tell Sidney you’re here.”

“Thank you,” I proclaim with relief. “Thank you so much.”

I’m left standing in the empty halls of the Consol Energy Centre, eyes darting back and forth between the Penguins paraphernalia littering the walls. The curtains to the arena seats gently flutter in the air conditioning that blows from the vents above them, dancing in tantalizing waves that almost calm my hectic mind. My hands find my long blonde hair, tied into a loose braid over my shoulder to keep it off my neck from the late September heat that has hung around the city this year, twisting it around and around my finger, a nervous habit I’ve never given up since childhood.

I self consciously tug at the hem of my loose shirt, pulling it further down over my jean shorts and trying not to let my self esteem plummet. At four months pregnant my slim body is just starting to show the signs of the baby growing within me, stomach slightly protruding and figure filling out. With my shirt hanging loosely, it’s impossible to tell but I still am at the stage where I am uncomfortable in my own skin.

“Miss Easton?”

His voice whips me from my thoughts and I swivel to meet his gaze, face full of scared promise. I note with a plummeting sense of dread that he has returned alone.

“Mr Crosby has asked me to escort you down to the locker room. Practice is about to start and he asked me to inform you that he doesn’t have much time.”

I nod, my mouth suddenly dry.

“This way,” he motions and I set off after him. “Are you alright?” He asks tentatively after a few minutes of silence and with the first sign of care he’s shown since I approached his office and asked to speak with Sidney Crosby.

I swallow back the dry lump in my throat. “To be honest, I’m not too sure. Would it be alright if I asked you a question?”

He glances left to look at me, eyebrow cocked in anticipation. “I suppose that would be alright.”

“When you told him I was here, did he know who I was?”

I hold my breath as I wait for his answer, preparing myself for the worst.

“Honestly, it’s hard to say. Sidney Crosby is not someone who gives a lot away easily. He was silent for a minute and then asked me to bring you down.”

I still, not relieved by his answer but not filled with the hot sense of embarrassment either.
“Thank you for your honesty,” I say.

He nods with a small smile. “Here you are Miss Easton.” He point to a large set of double doors with the Penguins logo emblazoned on them. “Are you ready?”

“If I don’t do this now, I never will,” I say with a smile more brave than I feel.

He pushes them open and leads me inside, down a long corridor and through another set of double doors, a labyrinth of passages until at last we come to one filled with men in various states of undress.

I stop at the door, shaking so badly now that I’m sure it’s visible to anyone who lays eyes on me.

“Sidney, Miss Easton for you,” the gentleman says to the stoic figure to my right of a large,
almost circular room.

My eyes find the face I haven’t seen since in person since that night and my arms instinctively cross protectively over my abdomen. He glances up to me, eyes shadowed by the brim of his Pens hat, tshirt clinging to his sweaty body post-workout. His eyes are dark as he breathes me in, face a maddeningly blank slate that I cannot read. The gentleman turns to leave with a quick reassuring squeeze of my arm and I am left alone to deal with this mess we created.

“Hi,” I manage quietly.

“Hi,” he replies. “It’s been awhile,” he says after a beat.

I nod nervously, hoping that his statement is an admission of memory, that at least he remembers me. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

He stands and I am again surprised by his height next to my small frame. He readjusts his hat and sweeps his hair back from his face, securing the cap back onto his head and glancing down at me.

“Honestly Blake, practice is about to start and I don’t have a lot of time. We’ll have to make this quick.”

He isn’t rude about it, but I can sense his urgency to have this over and done with as soon as possible.

“I’ll make it quick, but I really think we should have this discussion where we can’t be overheard.”

We both glance left and right to the locker room full of his team mates, some of their curious eyes drifting over to the strange girl talking to their notoriously superstitious Captain before a practice, something I imagine is not a common occurrence.

“Anything you need to say can be said in front of my team mates. Besides, none of them are paying attention.”

For a man who is notoriously private, this is not a response I was expecting.

“Honestly, Sidney, it would be much better to do this alone,” I assure, almost plead. I can barely bring myself to confess this secret to him alone, let alone a room full of his team mates, trainers, coaches and various staff.

“Sid, practice in 5!” A voice calls from the far corner of the room.

His eyes dart up to find the face and calls back, “Be right there!” He glances back down to me, eyes full of a sense of pressure now. “Really Blake, I’m sorry but it’s now or never.”

He bends to pick his jersey up from where it hangs behind him and I seize the opportunity that his eyes aren’t boring into mine, sucking out all the nerve I have left in my body.

“I’m pregnant.”

He stills, hands tightly clenched around the fabric of his jersey but doesn’t turn to look at me. I breathe out, a sense of imminent relief washing over me at finally parting with the secret that has been weighing me down, but filled with a new sense of dread as to how he’s going to react.
He turns slowly, face still shockingly blank though much whiter than he was before. His eyes are glassy with an emotion I can’t quite place, body superbly still, breathing in the sight of me as his eyes roam up and down my body. If he does indeed remember me, his mind must be reeling through the math of how long it’s been since the night we slept together, putting together the pieces, perhaps trying to find his way out of this mess of a situation.

“Pregnant?” He repeats, spinning the word around his mouth with a thick swallow.

I nod as much as my numb head will allow, a barely discernable movement. But his eyes, which haven’t left my face, catch it and I watch as he sinks into a sitting position on his bench. His elbows find his knees and he rests his forehead in the palm of his hands, shielding his face from my view. My dread grows.

“Please say something,” I beg quietly, wanting to drop down to my knees in front of him and break down with him. But based on his reaction, at least one of us needs to remain strong and god knows I have already had my breakdown over this.

“But we were together…I haven’t seen you since….”

I can see the cogs turning in his mind.

“It was four months ago,” I whisper. “Four months.”

He stands suddenly, startling me into taking a step backwards. “I don’t even know you. I don’t even know if it’s mine,” he mutters more to himself than me.

I had expected this, had expected him to have his doubts. And rightfully so. I was a drunken one night stand that he hadn’t spoken to since that night, showing up unannounced at his arena and turning his life upside down. He made millions of dollars a year and was surely a target for some crazy women desperate to trick him into fathering their child so he would support them for the rest of their lives. But I was not one of them and I was still taken aback by the force that his words hurt me with.

“Sid, practice!!” The same voice cried out again.

He looked at me, face a mess of emotions for the first time since I walked in the room, anguish etched into the lines of his face.

“I’m sorry but I have to go.” He turned and left, throwing his jersey over his head as he walked away from me.

“Sidney!” I cried after him and while he definitely heard me, he didn’t turn back around.

I clamped my hand over my mouth, desperate to stave off the tears that were threatening to choke me. I couldn’t break down, not here. I needed to hold it together. I felt a hand slowly slide onto the small of my back and the smell of a gentle cologne fill the air around me. I turned to find Pascal Dupuis waiting quietly next to me, face full of emotion.

“Forgive me, but I heard everything,” I said gently.

He’s dressed in his suit, still held out of games by a blood clot that won’t allow him to play. “Normally I help coach,” he said, taking in the sight of me noticing his outfit, “But today I think I’ll sit out and talk to you.”

I nod, choking back the sob that is sitting in the back of my throat, eyes thick with tears that I can’t see through.

“Wait here,” he says. “I’ll just go tell them that I’m sitting out today.”

I nod because this is all so surreal and I don’t trust myself to speak. All I know are the facts. I am pregnant with Sidney Crosby’s baby and he wants nothing to do with me.

Notes