Rating: PG
Original Date of Completion: 2006
Pairing: Sidney Crosby/Matt Murley, appearances by Ryan Whitney and Shane Endicott.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make no money from this. It's all fiction, so read and enjoy.
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Being “The Golden Boy” has its disadvantages. Like the media will never leave you alone after games, you can go blind or deaf on any given day from overzealous fans, you can be forced to pose for magazines wearing only hockey pants and sandals. . . Okay, so that last part is only me, but it’s my least favorite part about the whole thing. Not for any embarrassment or anything, it’s not like I’m ashamed of my body, or shy about it. Quite the opposite, in fact, I’m know I’m doing well for myself in that department. It’s just the repercussions of those magazines that suck. I might actually like them, if only my teammates could be banned from seeing the pictures.
“Hey Sid, turn around,” I hear a Boston accent command me from behind. I know on this team that’s one of two people, and neither one of them is ever up to anything good. But I’ve learned in recent times that it’s impossible to ignore them. They’re loud enough to wake the dead, and not dumb enough to believe I’m deaf. Again, anyway.
Reluctantly I turn around, groaning when I see Whit standing there with Endo, holding up yet another copy of that damn GQ I did. I swear to Gretzky they have an unlimited supply of those things. I can’t tell you how many of them I’ve destroyed. It obviously wasn’t enough.
“What now?” I sighed, crossing my arms over my chest.
Ryan grinned and shook his head, stepping up to me to push my arms down. “I’m trying to prove to this fucktard stoner that you weren’t airbrushed. Show off the goods.”
I snorted a laugh, rolling my eyes as I stretched my arms out to the side. “You guys have really beat this joke to death.”
Ryan laughed, rubbing a hand over my abs. “Hey, I’m defending you. Stoner boy here is the one saying you were airbrushed.”
Shane nodded, smirking. “I still think he was,” He holds up the magazine, pointing to it, then pointing at me. “Doesn’t look the same,”
“Well it is,” I rolled my eyes, dropping my arms down. “Just like it has been the 50 other times you guys have done this.”
“We only do it so often because it’s not conclusive,” Shane laughed, grinning.
I rolled my eyes again, preparing to speak my rebuttal, before the magazine being yanked from Shane’s hand cut me off. I glanced around his rather large frame, grinning when I saw Matt standing there. He winked at me, rolling the magazine up, then smacking Shane atop the head with it.
“You only do it to check him out, you’re not fooling anyone,” He said with a smirk, tossing the magazine into my locker.
Shane paused for a moment, and for a brief second I thought maybe he WAS capable of thought. But then that dopey stoner grin swept across his face, and I realized how impossible that really was for him.
“Yeah, you’re right,” He nodded with a laugh. “This was Whit’s idea, though.”
Whit grinned and shrugged. “Just wanted to prove he wasn’t airbrushed. I think I have.”
He rubbed his hand over my abs again, then gave me a wink as he turned to walk back to his locker. Shane was quick behind him, leaving me gloriously alone with Matt. For as much as the rest of the guys teased me about that stupid magazine, Matt was always quick to come to my defense. Leave it to the boyfriend to save the day.
“Thanks for that,” I said with a smile, wrapping my arms around his neck.
He grinned, wrapping his arms around my waist to pull me against him. “Just wanted to prove you weren’t airbrushed,”He said with a wink, leaning in to kiss me.
I grinned against his lips, nipping the bottom one. “Why don’t I show you how airbrushed I’m not?” I murmured, flicking my tongue against his lips.
He kissed me firmly, slipping a hand down to pinch my ass. I jumped from the goose, purposely leaning more into him, and tightening my arms around his neck. He flashed a smirk, and tightened his arms around my waist.
“Mr. Crosby,” He murmured, planting a soft peck to my lips. “It’s time for your close-up,”
You know, maybe those magazines aren’t so bad after all...
END
© 2006 Triple X
