Sydney Crosby had never thought that breaking the NHL’s gender barrier was going to be easy. She just hadn’t expected it to be so hard.

Sidney Crosby has known a few things for most of his life: he knows that he loves hockey more than anything, he knows that 87 is his lucky number, and he knows that he’s gay.

The one where Sidney and Geno get drunk-married in Vegas, and the Pittsburgh Penguins go all in.

Sid is almost 18 when he moves to Pittsburgh for a job--and the gay scene.

Lots of people watch Geno. Like most people, really, at least let their eyes linger for a few seconds. For starters, he’s six foot three with a penchant for thick-soled combat boots and carefully sculpted hair arrangements that together can easily add 5 inches to his overall height. Then there’s the eyebrow ring, the purple streak through his dark hair, the smudged eyeliner, and typically, the tightest pants Geno can pour his fabulous if-he-does-say-so-himself ass into. All of those would be enough, any given day, to make people stop and stare. But today he’s also the guy most of North America watched in Prime Time last night, kicking ass and taking names as he as he swiped the Men’s Singles Gold from the clutches of that whiny fucking sore loser, Plushenko. So. Yeah, lots of people are watching him, but Sidney Crosby is not lots of people. He’s Sidney fucking Crosby.

Sid is almost 18 when he moves to Pittsburgh for a job--and the gay scene.