✨kachow✨

Will doesn’t expect it to go down like this.

He’s just trying to help, honestly. Mack’s silent in the passenger seat, his cap pulled low, hoodie tugged up over his ears like armor. They lost in overtime, which hurts on a regular night, but hurts even more when it’s the end of the season and the arena’s too quiet and nobody knows what to say.

Mack hasn’t said a word since they left the locker room. Not on the walk through the loading dock. Not when Will handed him a protein bar and nudged his shoulder with a tentative, “You okay?”

Just a nod. That’s all.

Now they’re in Will’s car, coasting through the dark, and Will’s trying to figure out what to say. Mack gets weird after games sometimes—especially the bad ones. He goes quiet and clenched and glassy, like he’s bracing for a hit that never comes. Will usually just hangs out. Distracts him. Gives him a hoodie, plays Mario Kart, puts on a movie they’ve seen three times before and watches Mack slowly settle again.

But something feels… different tonight. Tense. Like a coiled spring between them.

Will’s halfway through asking, “Wanna crash at mine tonight? I’ve got microwave pizza we could—” when Mack cuts him off.

“You don’t have to keep doing this.”

Will frowns, glancing over. “Doing what?”

“This,” Mack says. His voice is sharp, too sharp for how tired he sounds. “Looking after me like it’s your job. You can stop now, okay?”

“What—?”

“I’m serious, Will. You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

Will pulls over.

He doesn’t even think about it. Just signals and rolls to a slow stop on the side of the street, hazards blinking. It’s dark and quiet out here. Residential. Streetlamps flickering in that sleepy, orange way.

Will turns to face him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Mack won’t look at him. His jaw’s tight, lips pressed thin. “I know my dad set it up.”

Will blinks. “What?”

“You being here. With me. The whole draft thing. I know he made sure you’d land in San Jose.”

Will stares at him. Mouth open. Heart hammering.

Mack laughs, low and bitter. “It’s not the first time. He’s been doing it since I was, like, ten. Throwing tickets at kids, inviting them to games, letting them skate with me in practice like they earned it. And surprise, surprise—they all wanted to hang out after that. They all liked me.”

Will’s stomach twists. “Mack—”

“And I didn’t care,” Mack says. “It made things easier, you know? They got what they wanted, I got to pretend I had friends. No big deal.”

“Mack,” Will says again, but Mack’s on a roll now.

“So when you showed up, and you were… you,” he says, and his voice cracks a little, “I thought, fuck, maybe I got lucky. Maybe it’s real this time. And then I found out you were set up too. And I’m just—I’m done pretending it doesn’t suck.”

He finally looks at Will. Eyes dark, wounded. “You can stop now. Whatever deal you made with dad or the Sharks or whoever—it’s over. Season’s over. You don’t have to babysit me anymore.”

The silence rings.

Will feels like the air’s been punched out of him.

Then—softly, because he means it—he says, “Jesus, Mack.”

Mack exhales, shaky. Like he was expecting a fight. Maybe hoping for one.

Will doesn’t give him that.

He leans forward slowly, resting one hand on the center console between them. “You think I’m here because of Rick?”

Mack doesn’t answer.

Will swallows. “Yeah, okay. Rick pulled strings. But not for me. I didn’t even know until months later, and by then I didn’t give a shit because you were already my—” He cuts himself off. “Because I already liked being around you. You’re smart and funny and way nicer than people think and also kind of an asshole in a way I’ve weirdly grown attached to.”

Mack snorts softly.

“I didn’t stay because of Rick,” Will says, more firmly now. “I stayed because I love being with you.”

That stops Mack in his tracks.

Will exhales, then reaches over, slow and steady, and curls a hand around Mack’s forearm. “Do you really think I’d fly across the country with you? Wake up at 4am for practice with you? Sit through another dinner with your dad and his ten-point post-game analysis if I didn’t want to?”

“I mean, maybe,” Mack mutters, but his voice is shaking now.

Will slides across the seat, unbuckles Mack’s seatbelt, and just wraps his arms around him. Pulls him in tight.

Mack stiffens for half a second—and then sinks into it like a stone sinking to safety, like he’s been trying to hold it all in and Will’s arms are the first thing that’s felt real in hours.

Will hugs him tighter.

“You don’t have to earn this,” he murmurs into Mack’s shoulder. “You don’t have to fake it, and I’m not here because anyone paid me. I’m here because I like you. I love being with you. I want to be with you.”

Mack breathes out, sharp and shaky. His arms come up slowly, hesitantly, and then wrap around Will’s waist like he’s holding onto something he never thought he’d get to keep.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t be,” Will says, pulling back just enough to press their foreheads together. “Just… next time you spiral, maybe tell me before you call me a fake friend, yeah?”

Mack laughs, a small watery sound, and nudges his nose against Will’s in apology. “Deal.”

Will smiles. Lets his thumb swipe under Mack’s eye, catching the edge of something soft there. “You coming over?”

Mack sniffles once, nods. “Only if you still have those pizzas.”

“I bought like four boxes.”

“Then yeah,” Mack says, leaning in again, voice quiet and fond. “I’m coming over.”

And Will drives them the rest of the way home with one hand on the wheel and the other resting between them, fingers tangled with Mack’s.