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Will wasn’t supposed to hear anything.

“I knew you liked him!” Mack yells, after you had told him to be quiet three times before that. That was the perfect moment for Will to walk in of course.

“Who do you like?” Will asks, cautiously walking into the living room where you and Mack are.

You kick Mack in the shin who is sitting across from you on the couch. He yelps and grabs his shin. “No one.” You answer Will, ignoring Macklin’s whining.

Will walks further into the living room, choosing to sit on the chair by the TV. “Oh come on, how come he can know but I can’t?” He gestures to Mack.

You send Mack another dirty look, hoping he can feel your anger from across the couch. You had confided in your best friend about how you were starting to fall for his best friend. Before you confessed to Mack you told him he had to be quiet because Will was in the next room over on a call and might hear. Of course you should’ve remembered that Mack is the opposite of quiet, especially when he needs to be.

Mack straightens up at the dirty look. “It’s not my fault Smitty walked in at the wrong time!” He immediately goes into defensive mode.

You grab the pillow to your left and send it straight at Macklin’s face. “Shut your mouth.” You demand, worried that Mack’s already said too much.

“Who is it?” Will asks again, watching the exchange between you and Mack carefully.

“No one.” You reiterate, trying to send your most convincing smile to Will. Mack snorts, ruining your smile however.

“It’s definitely not no one.” You turn back to Mack, contemplating how you’re going to murder him.

Will goes silent, jaw tight and gaze fixed on you, a curious look in his eye. And the conversation ends there, mostly because you send actual death threats to Mack.

That was the end of it, or at least you thought.

“So what does he do?” Will asks you over breakfast one day. You nearly choked on your coffee at the question.

“What?” You ask when you gain the composure to answer.

“The guy you like.” Will says, that same look from a few days ago on his face. The muscle in his jaw tenses as he waits for an answer.

“Nothing.” You say, settling back into your seat, knees coming up to your chest. Will gives you an unbelieving look across the table. “What if he’s unemployed?” You shrug, raising your coffee to your lips.

“So you admit there’s a guy now?” You stay silent at his question, choosing not to answer. “Also I hardly believe that you’d like someone who’s unemployed. You’re too successful for that.” He adds, making you blush slightly.

You still don’t answer his question, letting the food in front of you be an excuse for the silence.

Then comes the teasing

You’re in the middle of lunch with Will when a man approaches the table you’re at. “Excuse me, you are so gorgeous. I just needed to say that.” The man says, staring straight down at you.

You open your mouth to reply with a thanks but Will speaks before you can. “She’s busy buddy.” Will says, not even bothering to look up from his menu. The stranger apologizes, quickly leaving the table.

“Will! What the fuck was that?” You scold him, sending him a glare across the table. You were going to reject the man anyways but you were planning to be a lot more nice than Will.

Will looks up from his menu finally, completely unbothered by the situation. “I just wanted to make sure you’re still available for the mystery man.”

His comment makes you scoff. He’s been saying petty comments like that a lot recently, bringing up the ‘mystery man’ every chance that he can get. It’s starting to create a little bit of a drift in your friendship because of it. Will gets awkward and quiet whenever you don’t tell him who the crush is. You get nervous and snippy with him whenever he brings it up. A weird tension just hangs between you two constantly now.

“Well maybe I don’t want my mystery man anymore.” You snap at him. Will doesn’t even know he’s the mystery man but you say it anyways as if it will hurt his feelings. Of course you don’t mean it but you’re so annoyed with him you don’t care.

Will takes a sip of his drink and holds his menu up again. Apparently the conversation is over.

Two weeks later the secret is revealed

You’re sitting on the hood of Mack’s car in the parking lot of the arena. Mack went back inside because he forgot something in the locker room, leaving you and Will alone for the first time in a while.

It’s dead silent. You stare out at the empty parking lot. Will leans against the car, crossing his arms. Neither of you want to bring up the big elephant in the room. You refuse to be the one who asks why the friendship is so rocky now.

“Did he reject you?” Will asks, finally breaking the silence.

You sigh, disappointed that it’s just another question about your crush. “No.” You answer him firmly.

“Then why do you look so sad all the time now?” Will scoots a bit closer, his expression a bit softer than before.

You feel your own face soften too. “I’m not sad.” You say quietly, embarrassed that he’s noticed. You’ve been upset that Will is so invested in getting you into a relationship with this mystery man who he doesn’t know is himself.

“Yes you are.” Will says, hand splaying across the hood next to your leg, as if he thought about laying it on your knee but decided otherwise.

You feel bothered by the almost contact. “I’m not, Will.” You say more firmly.

A long silence dulls between you two after your reaction. You stare at Will’s hand next your leg with an intense expression. Then Will lets out a dry laugh and shoves his hands in his pockets.

“I honestly don’t know why I care so much.” He says, walking backwards and away from the car. You sit up straighter at the sudden emotion change from him. “I don’t know why I want to know what he looks like so bad, and I don’t know why you’re so afraid of telling him.” He furrows his brows and shakes his head at you.

You almost laugh at his statement but somehow control it. “Will,” you mumble instead.

“What? I’m serious. You could have any guy you wanted. If you just told him, I bet he’d be yours.” Will sighs exasperatedly. He runs his fingers through his damp post-shower hair.

You’re so tired of the back and forth between you two that you decide to just tell him now. You don’t even think about the potential repercussions, you just blurt it out. “I wish it worked like that. But unfortunately he’s standing in front of me trying to convince me to ask out someone who he doesn’t think is him.”

Will’s stillness is almost panic inducing. You feel your heart beating loudly in your ears. “Oh.” He says, every memory from the last few weeks rushing to him. Every time you dismissed his question, every time Mack refused to tell him, every time you sadly refused his suggestions.

“Will.” You say, already preparing to jump off the car and run away if you need to. You’re definitely regretting your decision to tell him now that he’s so quiet.

“Me?” Will asks, finger pointed at his chest. “I’m the guy you’ve been talking about this whole time?” He questions as if the thought never even crossed his mind.

You think this whole situation would be funny if your heart wasn’t beating so fast. You nervously pick at your fingernails. “Yes.” There’s no point in denying it now. “I mean it wasn’t my choice to talk about it so often, you just kept interrogating me.”

“That’s because I thought someone else had a chance with you.” He says, his face immediately showing that he didn’t mean to say that out loud.

“Wait what?” You ask, hoping down from the car at the realization of what he just said.

“I—” For the first time since you’ve known Will he genuinely looks flustered. A small blush is spread across his cheeks and his eyes are wide. He drags a hand across his face. “This is not going how I wanted it to go.” He groans.

You can’t help the smile that comes across your face. Will notices, making a smile break out onto his own face.

“So do you need me to spell it out for you still?” You tease him lightly.

He shakes his head, stepping closer to you. You breath hitches at the closeness. His hands slowly come to your waist, gently pulling you into him and testing the waters. You respond by wrapping your arms around his neck. He looks at you so gently with those blue eyes that you feel like you’re going to melt right there if you don’t do something. So you rise up on your toes and press a small kiss to his lips. Will immediately deepens the kiss, pulling you all the way flush against him.

“Fine” you agree, “just let me save this”

It’s how you end up in Macklins apartment, brain foggy and fuzzy with alcohol, staring at the two of them on the couch from where you’re standing by the counter, “I’m a much better kisser than you” Will shakes his head, you don’t know how you got to this topic, your head is fuzzy.

“There’s no shot. You’ve kissed like two girls” Macklin retaliates, frustratedly pointing at you, “y/n. You gotta be our deal breaker”

You raise an eyebrow, lips pursed together in sheer confusion, “you’re so drunk right now Mackie”

Will chimes in, “no- no he’s right. Only you can decide who’s the better kisser”

You shake your head. The sudden movement makes your head throb, “that’s stupid as hell. And breaks like soo many workplace rules and regulations”

Macklin bats his lashes, that lazy pleading look he’s used to throwing around. When he clenches his jaw and looks up at the cameras with those big green eyes, “please”

You snort, “you two kiss before I kiss. Then it’s fair” you shrug. You don’t expect them to do it, that’s why you say it. That’s the whole reason you say it, because you think it’ll get them to drop the topic.

Will moves first, lips pressing against Macklins. Mouth opening slightly, letting Macklins tongue gliding against his.

You stare, in sheer, unashamed confusion. In partial arousal you don’t know if you should be aroused by.

Macklin moves into Wills lap, his hands invading his hair, tilting Wills head back to kiss him deeper. It’s passionate, and you can hear it- the sounds. Lips against lips, teeth clacking against teeth. A string of saliva connects them when they part, quiet gasps and grunts as they turn to you in unison.

You move slowly, first reaching for Macklin. Helping him off of Wills lap, letting him settle in front of you; hands reaching for your hips.

It’s slow, painstakingly as he moves in to kiss you, lips still slick from Wills spit. His mouth still parts yours, tilting your head back. His hands move from your hips, to your waist. To your cheeks. You let his tongue explore your mouth, feeling against the plush line of your lips. The ridges of your teeth. Noses bumping against each other as you let him eat your face, only pulling back when your lungs scream and squeal for air. Macklin holds you there, letting air fill your lungs again. Thumbs caressing against your cheeks as you wait for the tingling between your thighs to die down, “what do you think. Out of ten” he breathes, still softly gripping your face.

“Eight”

Macklin smiles to himself, still semi assured that he might do a better job at kissing you than Will. You know this because he sits down confidently. Eyes never leaving Will Smith as he stands.

You step back slightly, letting his hands settle against your body. He tilts your head back. Kissing against your lips, soft at first. Then more, waiting for you to open your mouth before inviting his tongue into your mouth. His hands don’t wander. They just rub small circles into the dips of your hips, your jaw moves in sync with his.

He pulls away first, blue eyes staring down into yours. Watching you catch your breath, “what do you rate that?” Mack asks, hands joined together.

You shrug, “an eight”

Macklin groans, “what? No. There’s no tie in this” he complains.

You still shrug, “it was a good kiss, from both of you- you’re both good kissers.” You comment, “does that work?”

Grace said it would be fine. She assured you with soft eyes and fluttery lashes. Her brother wouldn’t mind; besides, how many things have you done for their family? It’s the least he could do. You remember the days when you had just got your licence. It was weeks before Grace got hers, but she had a car under her name before you, so you drove it for her to and from college. Then, ultimately, Will started tagging along. He was quiet in the backseat alone, unless he had one of his friends with him. Then it was so loud you could hardly hear yourself think.

But then after a couple years he was gone, halfway across the country, like Boston was just a distant memory. You didn’t feel much about it then and hardly protested when Grace instead chose to drive. Protesting would require you to care about it; you certainly didn’t do that. 

Something changed that day he came back. The hockey season was over, and Will was on the next flight back home to Massachusetts. Strangely enough, so were you. After you graduated, you moved to Dallas. There was a better opportunity there for your career, but it really was that far from your family and friends; you had to swallow the homesickness over the long stretches of time. It wasn’t easy; after a while you couldn’t stop searching up plane ticket prices. 

His name brands itself over your phone, a bright flash of colour and reminiscence. The message was vague, almost hostile-seeming despite how long you've known him. 

I'm at the arrival lounge. Lmk when you land. 

Odd. Your friend did offhandedly mention how subtly her brother had changed since he was drafted into the league. A delusional part of you didn’t believe her, but maybe there was some truth to her words. You didn’t know Will that well. He closely resembled a buzzing fly in your ears for most of your youth. The annoying younger brother of your best friend, he didn’t know how to not bother you.

You slowly pack up your things once you hear that chime in the aeroplane. People rush to stand, but you know it’s pointless. You all end up in the same place anyway, and that place for you just feels a little different. It’s not like you're nervous or anything, right? 

Maybe it’s wrong, maybe it’s corrupt, but over the past few weeks your social media feed has been bombarded with the blond boy. You search his name once, and it’s like a cascade. You’d be lying to yourself if you said the edits with your favourite songs didn’t make you feel a certain type of way. You stay awake at night wondering what the fuck is wrong with you. You can’t be thinking this about him, Will Smith of all people.

Exiting out of the plane, a gust of cold air brushes over you. The chill wasn’t something you anticipated; only a thin thermal sweater covers your form, and the old pair of sweatpants does nothing to harbour the cold air. 

It doesn’t take long for him to spot you, eyes locking with one another as you filter through the bodies of people moving at a snail's pace. He looks bigger than what you remember. He's probably been putting in gains in San Jose; thick stretches of muscle bulge through his white shirt. 

“Hey.” Will mutters, arm already moving to pull your carry-on off your shoulder. He slips it over his and tightens the strap. Your keychains clink and smash into one another, and you begin to regret everything leading up to this moment. Should've just got an Uber and cried about the prices later. But no, instead you just had to mention it to your best friend, who in turn brought it up to her suddenly really hot brother. 

"Hey," you respond back with an equally awkward tone. The silence that spans between you is horrifying. “Been a while, huh?” You continue quietly, moving to start your journey through the busy airport. He hums, steps falling into unison with yours. 

“How is Texas going?”

“Good. It's good. Big, but really good. What about you? How's California?”

He makes a strained sound, like it hurts to even choke out. That stumps you; he’s been doing amazingly with the Sharks. You hear about it all the time from Grace during your regularly scheduled Facetimes. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You replicate the sound, eyes burning into the side of his face.

“I don’t know. It’s alright; it always feels like something's missing though.”

Oh. Homesickness—you understand it all too well. “That sucks. I get it though, it’ll be good to spend some time back home.”

He chooses not to say anything back, so you stop pressing. But from the corner of your eye you see him smirk, whatever that means. Will’s always been confusing like that. It used to be a silly little rumour Grace would egg you on about. Her little brother had a crush on you for the few years you knew him. It was innocent, childlike, and not something you ever thought about with substance. 

The interior of his Bronco is clean, cleaner than you’d expect from a man. The upholstery is perfectly stitched together; you admire the colour blends mentally, noting the soft scent of an air freshener perched in one of the vents. What you can’t bear to watch is the way his hand flexes around the stick shift. Or the way his jaw clenches whenever someone else on the road does something stupid. Or the way his body heat radiates off him and warms you.

“Your parents are out of town?” 

They’re somewhere west. It’s pretty common for them to fly over to see you every so often; you just really wanted to be back home for once. You tell him that, and he nods, but you can tell there's something biting at the back of his mind.

“Where are you staying?” 

“At your parents' place. Grace didn’t tell you?”

“She might have mentioned it. Don’t remember.” He confesses, hands grinding over the steering wheel. It’s bright in the city, luminous lights spreading as far as you can see down the busy streets. They’re alive with people, drunk and sober.

The family home is only a short drive from the airport, but with the nightlife traffic you expect the journey to stretch on longer than intended. Kicking off your slides, you tilt your head back and rest it completely on the headrest.

His dad ends up calling his phone five minutes later. You’re instructed to pick up something for dinner. The longer you spend time with him alone in his car that costs more than you earn each year, the more haunting it is.

You're half asleep on the couch when Will comes up to you. 

“What’s this?” 

You blame God and the way wind brushes through the trees for what happens next, but ultimately you blame yourself and your own designated stupidity. He stands there, cocked up with a grin on his face, holding your stupid pink vibrator in his hand. Why you? Why now? Why him?

It doesn’t look pleasant in his hold; it appears more ugly and sinful the way he rotates the small device like it’s the television remote. 

“Where did you even find that?” You try to move quickly, catch him off guard and snatch the dreadful thing from him, but hockey reflexes gain him the advantage of being far quicker than you. “Did you go through my bag?”

“It was there. So was I. Are you really that desperate that you need to bring your sex toys with you when you come back home?”

He thumbs over the silicone head, and you cringe. How many times have you held it against your clit? And how many times did you forget to clean it off after you finished? The view makes you wetter than you realise; you're beginning to think that was his goal. The relationship you share has always been a weird one. You evaded each time he tried locking eyes with you over dinners, and you definitely ignored the drunken messages he sent to your phone over the past few months. It was weird; you weren't crazy thinking that. He’s your best friend’s younger brother (only if it’s by a year). 

“What do you do with this, huh? How does it work?” he asks with a sarcastic lilt. He knows how it works; he’s not that dumb. You turn your head to watch the front door as he flicks the small device on. A faint buzzing sound comes out as it vibrates slowly. Oh god. 

“You want to show me?” 

It’s safe to say that you’ve gone crazy when you find yourself in the spare bedroom with him, the door closed and locked behind you. 

His belt is unbuckled; you heard it happen when you walked up the stairs. He sits on the edge of the bed while you situate yourself in the middle of it, pants and underwear already halfway down your legs. The house is empty except for the two of you, his parents and sister off somewhere. You planned on going with them, but a sick, lewd part of you held back. Maybe you were waiting for this without even realising it; maybe you did leave the small thing out in the open with a purpose. Maybe he was supposed to come across it; that same sick part of you is glad he did.

That cruel buzzing sound happens again when you subconsciously flick the on button. This time it’s louder and faster. Will blinks and shucks his boxers down. It’s mostly quiet between the two of you, but you both are able to communicate what exactly is about to happen. 

It happens gradually, a crawling pace where the two of you just decide to… do it. Your mind spins with pleasure the moment the head hits your warmth. The vibrator buzzes harder against you, the contact causing a chain-link reaction as you and Will moan almost instantaneously. 

His hand wraps around himself suddenly; he shifts it down his length once before he bites down on his lip. The silence is penetrating, but not nearly as uncomfortable as you thought it would be. Maybe you’re both just too horny to care. The stimulation on your nub is catastrophic; you peel the head off just a centimetre before he chokes out complaints. “Don’t stop.”

You don't; you place it back on and form a fist in your unoccupied hand to deal with the fast-building arousal. Fuck. The blend of excitement is too much; the visuals of him and the feeling on your cunt moulding into one unbearable pressure. He looks best like this, hair muddled like it’s busily thrown in the wind. A gentle flush paints his skin, a deepening red over his cheeks as he huffs out these little creaky sounds each time his hand catches his pink tip. 

You don’t make eye contact with one another; that would ruin this weird haze of mutual pleasure, so instead you watch him jerk his hand up and down. Previously soft movements grow desperate as he gets close to that finish; you're already there by the time you see beads of cum leak through his fingers.

RJ

Somehow, over the span of a single summer, Sloane Crosby managed to weasel her way into the good graces of every single Celebrini. However, if there was one person she had never really needed to win over, it was RJ.

As was every thirteen-year-old boy’s rite of passage, RJ had finally been granted permission to get Snapchat, and boy, had he run absolutely wild with it. Sloane despised the insipid app, but somehow RJ managed to build a streak with her that rivaled the ones she had back when she was thirteen herself.

Pictures of his breakfast. Pictures of Cali sprawled across the couch. Pictures of him and his brothers after conditioning. Oh, little RJ knew exactly what he was doing there.

Sloane responded in kind: pictures of her dad’s latest sourdough creation, her mother’s needlepoint stocking she had been working on, the pong table she and her friends were painting for senior week.

Something about RJ Celebrini reminded Sloane painfully of her little brothers when they were younger. The earnestness that peeked through all the teenage bluster and brawn.

At some point, RJ started sending her videos from the garage while he messed around with a puck. While Sloane maintained she had little to no understanding of whatever drill he was supposedly working on, it quietly became part of their routine.

Every Tuesday, she FaceTimed him while she worked on her needlepoint, RJ’s tales of summer practices and the antics of thirteen-year-old boys serving as background chatter to her stitching. Sometimes she would pause to watch him chip pucks into the net. Other times she would force him to pay attention to her thread choices.

“It’s velvet thread, RJ. Look at the texture.” He would groan dramatically at her insistence, but every so often she would be rewarded with a reluctant admisson of his interest. 

Sometimes, Macklin would wander into the frame, grabbing tennis shoes before heading out for a run, or lingering in the background while correcting RJ’s grip and angles. Sloane always noticed the way his eyes drifted toward her through the phone screen, the quick glances he thought she did not catch. 

He always said hello, asking after her and her family with an easy warmth that contrasted the boy she had met at the draft. Sometimes he lingered longer than necessary, leaning against the garage doorway while RJ rambled on about practice. Sometimes he would ask what she was working on, pretending to be deeply invested in thread colors while his eyes stayed fixed on her face instead.

“You know,” he had said once, squinting at her stitching, “I think I am finally developing an appreciation for the sparkle thread.” RJ could not help but gag loudly in the background.

Sloane knew he was flirting. And some part of her - the prideful part - relished it. She recognized it every time his attention settled on her a beat too long, every time he found some excuse to wander into RJ’s calls.

However, she could not quite forget his blasé attitude at the draft, the easy way he had lumped her in with all the other names and faces swirling around him that weekend. She had grown up around hockey boys her entire life, and she knew just as well as anyone that the chase was all that mattered to them. 

Still, these calls became something dependable those blistering months. And in a summer where everything in Sloane’s life seemed to be changing, consistency mattered more to her than she ever wanted to admit. By September, she would be moving across the country. Away from home. Away from her parents. Away from her friends. Away from the only life she had ever really known. 

But every Tuesday afternoon, somewhere in Northern Vancouver, RJ Celebrini would answer her FaceTime before the second ring. More often than not, somewhere around the 17 minute mark, Macklin would happen to wander into the frame. 

2. Charlie

“I just cannot believe I thought it was any different. That this time was any different from all the other times. Why can’t he just let me in?" Sloane’s heart ached as Charlie’s anguish crackled through the phone.

“I feel like I have to walk on eggshells all the time,” the sixteen-year-old continued through tears. “One step out of line and he just so . . . cold. A shell of this person I've known my entire life.”

Sloane closes her eyes briefly, unable to stop herself from thinking about her own sixteen-year-old self, wrapped up in a boy who had not been worth half the energy she devoted to him, yet somehow still felt like her entire world.

Charlie was all things smart and brilliant and kind and funny. She was one of those people that lit up the lives of people she let in. Fiercely loyal and oh so sweet. But that brilliance was not something any sixteen-year-old girl could see in the face of the boy she had loved forever.

Christian Nash and Charlie had known each other since they were practically in nappies. Summers spent diving off the dock between their neighboring lake houses, bike rides to the gas station for popsicles, muddy hands shaping “cakes” in the front yard while their mothers watched from lawn chairs. The kind of history that tangled itself so tightly around your heart that sometimes you could not tell where the memories ended and the feelings began. Sloane knew that kind of attachement all too well.

Now, Macklin did not make a habit of eavesdropping on his siblings, but he and Aiden exchanged matching looks of horror at the top of the stairs when they heard Charlie sobbing through her bedroom door.

Because Charlie never cried.

Between three brothers and a family that revolved around sports, tears were few and far between in the Celebrini household. And if Macklin was being honest, neither he nor Aiden particularly knew how to handle them when they did appear. Especially when it came to Charlie. They always seemed to flounder somewhere between being wildly overprotective of their only sister and wanting to treat her the same way they treated RJ.

Aiden, coward that he was, immediately bolted for their shared bathroom, abandoning ship without a second thought and leaving Macklin saddled with older-brother responsibilities. Macklin couldn't help but stare at him in disbelief.

“You are such a dick,” he hissed.

Aiden merely pointed at Charlie's bedroom before disappearing behind the bathroom door. With all the enthusiasm of a man approaching his own execution, Macklin began the shuffle toward Charlie’s room.

“Charlie” His voice cracked halfway through her name, and he immediately flushed with embarrassment. “Can I come in?”

There was a pause before the door creaked open. Macklin frowned the second he took in his little sister’s face - red and blotchy - her green eyes glassy with tears.

“Whoa, what happened? Are you okay? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” A small laugh tinkled from Charlie’s phone where it lay abandoned on the floor. Her laugh.

The laugh he found himself waiting for every Tuesday afternoon. The one he preened under whenever he managed to pull it out of her. Sloane’s laugh, albeit slightly resigned. Charlie could not help but smile at the sight of her brother hovering in panic.

“You could at least try to look a little less like you are about to lay an egg, Mack,” she teased wetly. “They are just tears.” A full belly cackle - one of those highy and witchy ones - erupted from the phone as Macklin settled beside his sister on the floor, their shoulders and knees bumping together.

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up,” he grumbled. “Laugh at the poor sucker who was concerned for his baby sister.” He focused on Charlie once more, his gaze narrowing as he took stock of her properly.

“What’s going on, Chuckles?” he asked softly. “Why are you so miserable?”

Charlie kept staring down at her palms instead of answering, and only then did Macklin notice the angry red streaks along her legs where she had clearly been scratching at her skin. His expression immediately softened.

Without another word, he looped an arm around his sister’s shoulders and tugged her gently against him, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he resigned himself to waiting out her silence. Charlie melted into his side easily, the way she always had since they were little.

From the phone on the floor, Sloane stayed quiet too. Macklin could practically feel her worry through the screen, could see the crease between her brows and the tense purse of her lips. Eventually Charlie let out a shaky breath.

"Christian is being mean again,” she whispered miserably. The word mean triggered something in Macklin. She sounded all of five years old again, complaining when the boys weren’t allowing her to play with them, fat tears falling down her face as she waddled off to their mom. Macklin’s jaw tightened as he looked at Sloane, cataloguing the close of her eyes and tilt of her head away from the camera.

“Charlie, honey,” Sloane began, her voice steady, “his actions are a reflection of him and only him. You are everything I wish I had been at your age. The way you love the people in your life is such a privilege to receive, and if he cannot recognize that, what a pity for him.”

Macklin shifted slightly, tightening his arm around his sister unconciously. “Is he like… actually mean, mean?” he asked carefully, voice lower now. “Or just… stupid boy mean?”

From the phone, Sloane let out a sharp exhale that almost sounded like a chuckle, like she could not help but laugh at his blunder but still appreciated his earnestness.

“I don’t know,” Charlie admitted. “It’s just… sometimes he acts like I am annoying him. And then other times he’s totally fine. And then if I am with other people - other guys - he gets weird about it. Mean weird."

Macklin’s expression changed immediately, something sharper settling behind his eyes. He saw the same change reflected back at him in Sloane's expression, the same bullheaded protectiveness rearing its head.

“Truly a tragedy,” Sloanes eyes with steel, “because he is missing out on a pretty perfect human being.”

3. Robyn

Macklin’s mom got in these moods sometimes.

Macklin liked to think of them as the byproduct of four incredibly busy children and one incredibly busy husband who were seldom all in the same place at the same time.

The late-summer sun was setting behind them as she corralled the family into the kitchen of their house by the coast. Late July was always strange for Robyn. Soon hockey and basketball and tennis would pull her entire family in opposite directions for the school year, and the warmth of summer would become a distant memory meant to tide them over in the cold.

Robyn Celebrini had endured a lot of sacrifice to keep the people she loved happy. Years of carpools and exhaustion and changing homes and schools and friends. Early mornings and late nights and calendars so packed they barely fit on the fridge. She would do just about anything to keep her smile reflected on each of her children’s faces.

Rick and she had reached an understanding years ago: he could push and push, but she would always be the safe place their family landed. Her husband, God love him, was a hard ass. He knew it just as well as anyone. But his one undeniable soft spot would always be her. Her and the family they had built together.

So when Robyn wanted one night away from lab reports and PT and emails and training blocks, he humored her without complaint. He simply shut his laptop, kissed her cheek, and trudged upstairs to gather the kids.

Macklin and RJ were perplexed when they came downstairs to the sound of a familiar voice echoing through the kitchen.

“It’s so easy, Mrs. Celebrini, I promise! My dad and I got really into it over Covid, much to my Uncle Nate’s chagrin. Focaccia is super simple, you just have to let it rest.” The familiar chirp floated from the iPad propped against the counter, and Macklin felt an involuntary, boyish grin tug at his lips.

“Sup, Crosby,” he called as he entered the kitchen. “Is she bothering you?” His mom rolled her eyes as Macklin wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Sloane felt warmth spread through her chest at the sight. She could not help but think Rick’s genes had not even tried when mother and son stood side by side.

“Absolutely not. If anything, I was hassling your poor mom to try out this new olive oil I found,” Sloane admitted. “She and my mom were talking last week while I was making focaccia in the background. She called to ask for the recipe so she could make it for your ungrateful self.” Her eyes narrowed playfully through the screen.

“Hey, watch it,” Macklin replied, smirking as he pressed a kiss to his mom’s cheek. “I am plenty grateful for this lady.” Robyn’s eyes twinkled as she observed their dynamic. She could not remember the last time she had seen Macklin this animated. The sweet, excitable boy she knew had grown into someone far more reserved and driven as he got older. Always chasing the next thing, the next team, the next record, the next expectation placed on his shoulders. It was good to see him slowing down this summer.

“I fear I bothered her for nothing, though,” Robyn admitted with a small pout. “Apparently the dough takes a few hours to rest, so it would not even be ready in time for dinner anyway. I just thought it would be fun for us to make together. A family project.”

Rick handed his wife a glass of wine, smiling dryly as he took in the various states of disarray currently occupying his kitchen counters: half-cut vegetables, an open box of pasta, and RJ and Aiden attempting to steal cheese when they thought no one was looking.

“I think maybe it’s best to stick with what we know if you want any of us to be of help to you in the kitchen, honey. Nobody can afford to have food poisoning right now, and RJ looks one misplaced knife away from bleeding into the sauce.” Sloane let out a laugh at RJ’s indignation as his older siblings cackled.

“Well, I will let y’all get to it then. Send me a picture of whatever y’all end up making?” Sloane called. Rick smiled as he said,

“Thanks for trying to help out where you could, kid. We still on for next Tuesday?”

“Yes! Thank you for taking the time, Mr. Celebrini, I really appreciate it!” Macklin looked quizzically at his dad, but the older man was too busy waving goodbye alongside his wife to notice his confusion.

While Sloane did not end up receiving a picture that night, she did end up receiving one a couple of days later. A picture of a pan of focaccia, albeit a bit misshapen and pale, sat proudly on the counter.

I know you helped him out with this. Thanks honey for making the time, it was delicious!

A second text followed just moments later.

Please ignore the fact that my son used pre-shredded parmesan.

4. Rick

Having a sports medicine legend for a dad came with quite a few perks, if Macklin could say so himself.

Rick had owned the facility in North Vancouver for years, and while Macklin had excellent trainers his entire life, there was no one he trusted more than his dad. It was never uncommon for him to ask for second copies of scans from team trainers just so Rick could look them over too. And when he was home, even when his father could be overbearing sometimes, there was still no one else Macklin would rather go to.

Connor, Fraser, and Macklin had just arrived at the facility for recovery work when Macklin realized his dad was nowhere to be found. When he spotted Dr. James and Dr. Patel on the floor instead, with Jack and Elizabeth assisting nearby, his confusion only deepened. He had mentioned coming in that morning over breakfast, and he was 95% sure his dad was paying attention when he said it.

Macklin tugged his bag higher onto his shoulder as he scanned the clinic again.

“Your dad ditch you?” Fraser asked dryly.

“Apparently,” Macklin muttered.

Jack looked up from where he was organizing resistance bands and immediately brightened.

“Hey Mack! Your dad is in his office,” he called. “He told me to tell you and whoever you were bringing to meet him in there today. Wanted to go over target centers and whatever before you guys started today.”

The trio exchanged shrugs as they began walking up the stairs toward his office. As they got nearer, Mack heard Rick . . . speaking softly?

“It’s okay to not have it figured out right now. You are going to a great school, and you are going to gain great experiences. What’s important right now is gaining experience and seeing what you don’t like.” Macklin startled to a stop. Who was he even talking to?

“I know, and I truly am so grateful for the opportunity to shadow you come September. I have only shadowed orthopedic surgeons so far and I would love to see sports medicine from the recovery side. I’m just . . . overwhelmed, I guess?” came the familiar voice.

Sloane.

“I have always had a plan,” she admitted, “and this feels like a moment in which I don’t.” Mack felt his heart slow to a crawl. He had never heard anything but confidence from the girl, someone always so determined and sure of everything. Hearing her uncertainty made him feel unsteady in a way he could not quite place.

Macklin didn’t notice Connor and Fraser catching up behind him until the latter knocked on the doorframe.

“One second Sloane, come in boys,” the doctor called. The trio stepped into the office, Connor and Fraser slightly startled to find Rick mid-call.

“Sorry to interrupt, Dr. Celebrini,” Fraser said quickly, ever polite. “We had no clue you were on a call.” Macklin barely heard him. He was focused on the blonde on the screen, cataloguing every expression flickering across Sloane’s face. For once, he decided he did not like what he was seeing. Uncertainty and anxiety written plainly on there, out of place on her extraordinary face.

“We were just wrapping up anyways,” Sloane said quickly, her voice a little too bright. Rick narrowed his eyes in concern, and Macklin felt his throat tighten, only half registering Connor’s elbow nudging him.

Is that who I think it is? Connor mouthed.

Macklin shot him a look. Yes. No. Shut up.

“Do you mind if we continue this conversation later next week, Sloane?” Rick asked gently. “And I do mean that. I just promised these guys we would talk through some stuff today.”

“Of course,” she said immediately, smiling again like she was trying to smooth over the moment. “Thank you for even making the time today. It was nice to meet you guys!” she added, glancing toward Connor and Fraser through the screen. Connor lifted a hand awkwardly in greeting.

Fraser nodded. “Yeah nice to meet you.”

Macklin mustered up what he hoped was a casual smile and wave as she ended the call, but his eyes immediately crossed to his dad as the man closed his laptop. Rick leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable in that way that usually meant Macklin was not going to get anything out of the man he did not already want him to know.

“Alright,” Rick said, crashing into Macklin's ruminations as he stood. “Target centers. Let’s get into it.”

+1 Mack

“I say you just ask him. The absolute worst thing he could say is no,” Anjani punctuated across the phone. Sloane groaned into her hands.

“But that is the problem. I do not want to ask,” she whined. “This feels like a humiliation ritual. And before you start, I know I signed up for it.” She cut off the beginning of Sophia’s inevitable “you joined a sorority to make friends” speech before it could even fully form in her imagination. Sloane knew that, goddammit. But in no part of that experience did she receive a handbook on asking guys to date parties.

“First off, I am right about that, thank you very much. And you aren’t even asking a random stranger or new friend. You’re asking Macklin, who you have been flirting - ” Sophia began.

“Not flirting,” Sloane cut in immediately. Anjani and Sophia exchanged an exasperated look across the country.

“ - flirting with all summer,” Anjani continued without missing a beat. “He is into you. And if he isn’t, screw it. At least you go as friends and you show up with an NHL player as arm candy.”

“It is just the thought of even giving a hint that I find him attractive that is the problem here,” Sloane groaned.

“Well, you do, so what is the problem?” Anjani shot back.

“Yeah, but he does not need to know that!” Sloane shrieked as her friends erupted into peals of laughter. Sloane couldn’t help but laugh along with them, feeling the sting of distance through the phone. They went to school together, two hours away from her childhood home. Here she was, across the country, still clinging onto them for advice like nothing had really changed. As if they could sense where her thoughts were drifting, their expressions softened.

“I personally think you should just try,” Sophia said more gently this time. “Because selfishly, I am glad there is someone I know will take care of you there. First college date party, going out in the city… I would feel better knowing it is with someone who would have your best interests at heart.” Sloane couldn’t help but pout, she truly had the best friends in the whole wide world.

“Aww, Soph, you big softie. I know you loved me deep down,” she needled. Sophia rolled her eyes with barely disguised affection and clapped her hands.

“Now chop-chop, I better get a text within this hour that this is a go,” she said pointedly as they exchanged goodbyes. Sloane closed her laptop and looked around her silent dorm. Time to rip the band-aid off.

She watched as the phone rang, a pit slowly forming in her stomach. As the rings continued, she began to doubt herself.

What was she doing? What if he was still at practice? This is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea.

Just as she was about to cancel the call, the connecting icon switched onto the screen. She felt a surge of panic and quickly smoothed her hair, suddenly hyper-aware of her appearance.

“Sorry, I was at lift. What’s up?” Macklin frowned as he looked at her expression. Sloane closed her eyes and bit her lip.

Rip off the band-aid.

“WouldyouliketogotomydatepartywithmenextFriday?” she blurted.

“Woah, slow down.”

“I know you probably have a game or Will or something, so never mind, thanks, bye.”

“Hey, knock it off. Slow down and say it one more time,” he said calmly. “I could not understand a word you said.” Sloane took a deep breath, willing herself to be the outspoken young lady she normally was. She fixed him with a mildly haughty look.

“Would you like to come to my date party with me next Friday?”

A slow grin took over Macklin’s face.

Fuck.

You’re standing, blank faced as you look at the lenses on the ground, glass, hard plastic that took you two years to save up for all broken into the ice, “fuck” you curse, you look over at will, “was that?”

His heart drops, “yeah- im so sorry I didn’t realize how much- force I’d passed that at I didn’t realize it at all I’m so sorry I’ll pay for it all” he promises

You look down at the broken camera that sits against your stomach; slowly and carefully pulling it off, “oh Dorothy” You frown, “it was nice to know you”

The team photo day gets pushed to next week because the ice is contaminated with glass.

Next week you find a brand new Sony camera at your desk, wrapped with a nice bow. As well as about twenty other lenses; some that you’d been waiting for paychecks to hit before buying.

‘Again. So sorry for the damage. I hope this covers it. If not please please please contact me Will Smith #2’

You smile fondly, because he’d covered the camera and then some.

The camera lasts three weeks before it’s destroyed.

It happened during the Bruins vs sharks game. You’d been sat by the bruins net to capture the goals, or any moments. By some miracle; it’s Will who breaks your camera again. A puck deflected off the goalie; and right into your camera. And you’d gotten it all in photos .

You’re thankful you’d gotten this camera insured, and that only one lenses had been damaged; but the camera? Toast.

Will approaches you after the game, “how much do I owe you?” He asks, watching as you jump in fright, “sorry sorry- I thought you’d heard me”

“No- shit you scared me” you exhale shakily, “um. You don’t have to buy me a new one. I got this one insured after the last incident”

Will looks down as you open the uber app, “are you- do you have a ride home?”

You shake your head, “ah my cars in the shop. I’m fine”

“Let me give you a ride home” He begs, “please. I’ve destroyed your camera again. Please?”

You give in.

Three weeks later a camera shows up on your desk. A new Sony; the same model as last time, a neat little bow around it. A note with familiar handwriting

‘Sorry for breaking the camera! I really hope this is the last time I break it! They’re expensive!! If I do.. or you wanted it.. here’s my number WS #2 - xxx-xxx-xxxx’

being back in vancouver for the summer off from university; or the off season for the hockey players; was your favourite thing. not that you hated your university, but you hated being away from home.

your brother played in the ahl, so often times he trained with some of the local players who played in the nhl. and when he wasn't training, and even when he wasn't home, they were at your house. they claimed your house was the best, for some reason.

this always led to the tension between you and the three of them; fraser minten, macklin celebrini, and connor bedard. you didn't hate any of them, you just found it kind of annoying how they're always around and in your space.

like right now. you had just walked out onto your back patio, full intentions of getting some hot tub time in, maybe dipping in the pool, getting a suntan. things you had planned to do since your brother and your parents are either gone out or at work.

what you didn't expect to see was those three hockey players in your pool. shirtless. duh.

'seriously?!' you exclaimed. 'don't you guys have pools of your own?' you asked.

'yeah, but yours is better.' macklin said.

'you wanna join us?' connor asked.

'no!' you exclaimed. you turned back around with full intentions of going back inside.

'wait, you can stay out here. we won't bother you. we'll give you your space.' fraser said. 'we promise.'

you found yourself agreeing. he did promise, after all. so, you pulled your cover up off, pulling your sunglasses down to cover your eyes as you laid down on one of the lounge chairs on your back deck. you were aware that they glanced at your ass as you moved, but you just rolled your eyes at it.

you'd only been laying out there for a few minutes when you still felt eyes on you. you tilted your head up, peering through your sunglasses, noticing macklin had migrated more towards the edge of the pool, arms crossed over the side, eyes clearly locked on your tits.

you pushed your sunglasses up. 'you're not fucking serious. you're a fucking perv.' you yelled.

'uh... i wasn't...' macklin started.

'yeah, you were.' you said. you were about to say something else, probably even more harsh, but fraser cut you off.

'hey! stop. both of you.' he said. 'macklin, apologize.'

'sorry.' macklin said, sheepishly.

you didn't even notice connor getting out of the pool and kneeling down next to you until he was right there. your breath hitched. he's really close. and he looks really, really good.

he lifted a hand, hearing your breath hitch and seeing you bite your lip. you didn't tell him to stop, so he kept moving. his fingertips just ghosted over the tops of your breasts that were spilling out from your bikini top.

'they are pretty, though.' he said, and he swears he heard you whimper.

when you didn't pull away or push him away and tell him to stop, he reached for the ties on your bikini top, untying them and letting it fall between the two of you. you instinctively went to cover yourself, but he pulled your hands away.

'hey, no. don't do that.' he said. then he looked over his shoulder. 'mack, come on. come get a taste.'

macklin was immediately scrambling out from the pool and onto the deck, going as quick as he could without running so he wouldn't fall. without even thinking, you parted your legs as he got closer to you. he fit in between them perfectly, burying his face into your tits.

you gasped when his tongue hit your nipple, the water dripping from his skin from the pool burning into your skin, despite it being cold. your back arched, and your eyes closed. but then you felt a hand on your chin, turning your face to the left.

'keep your eyes open.' fraser told you, looking down at you, eyes wide and pupils blown with lust.

they let macklin suck and nip at your breasts for a few minutes until they saw a wet patch starting to form on the center of your bikini bottoms. perfect. then fraser was grabbing macklin by the hair and pulling him back away from you.

'what? what are you- but... mmph...' macklin whined.

'i wanna fuck her.' fraser said. 'you want that, baby?' he asked.

your heart burst at the pet name, but your desire overtook that. you whined, nodding, sliding your wet bikini bottoms down your legs and throwing them to the side.

fraser reached for his bag that was on another lounge chair, pulling out a condom.

'been thinking of this every summer for the past few years.' he admitted. 'so have you, huh? want us so bad.'

you whined again, nodding, spreading your legs and reaching for him.

'on your hands and knees.' he said.

you didn't move fast enough, so connor grabbed you by the hips and flipped you into position, making you gasp out in surprise. then, he was grabbing macklin by the shoulder, putting him on his knees in front of you, his obvious bulge in his swim trunks right in front of you.

he helped macklin push them down and pull his cock out as fraser gently ran his fingertips through your wet folds. you pushed back into him.

'so desperate.' he whispered.

'yeah, she is.' connor agreed, tangling a hand in your hair to guide your mouth to macklin's waiting cock, which you immediately hollowed your cheeks and took in as deep as you could.

you moaned both at the taste and the feeling of fraser pushing into you. you pushed back further into him as his hands settled on your hips to get into a good position to start his thrusts.

connor kept his hand in your hair, pushing you down further onto macklin's cock, making you gag and your eyes water. he still had his other hand free, so he freed his own cock from his swim trunks. he guided it to your mouth, and you pulled off of macklin, a string of spit connecting you.

fraser grabbed a handful of your ass, speeding up his thrusts as you wrapped your lips around connor's tip. you reached a hand up, wrapping around macklin's base, twisting and tugging.

'that's it.' fraser whispered. 'taking our cocks so well.'

you moved your mouth over connor once more before moving back to macklin, using your hand on connor. you moaned onto macklin again, making him cry out and reach for your hair.

'oh!' he moaned out as you licked a stripe up the side, running your tongue over the vein there.

connor pulled you back off of macklin. 'my turn again.' he said.

macklin whined, but connor's hand on the back of his neck again shut him up.

'look at her.' fraser cooed.

you pulled off connor's cock again to glance over your shoulder at him as he thrust into you again. your eyes were watering and your lips were slick with spit and a mix of both connor and macklin's precum, but in their eyes, you never looked prettier.

'gonna have to do this a lot more.' fraser said when he felt your walls clench around him. oh, you like this.

'so pretty.' connor said, trailing his thumb across your bottom lip to pull it open, tapping the head of his cock on your tongue.

he turned you back to macklin, letting you wrap your lips around the younger boy again, relaxing your throat as you deepthroated him.

macklin cried out again, hand tangling in your hair. 'gonna come.' he whined.

you sucked harder, eager for him to spill down your throat. he came with another cry, sending spurts of come into your mouth, which you swallowed.

you opened your mouth and stuck your tongue out to show them, and then fraser reached up to tilt your head back towards connor. you closed your eyes as connor jerked his cock in front of you, sending his come in ropes across your face, letting it drip down to your tits.

you moaned at the taste, cunt clenching around fraser as your own orgasm hit you, sucking him in deeper and milking his cock as your orgasm spurred on his own.

he helped you ride it out, thrusting a few more times as connor wiped his come off of your face and macklin fell backwards onto the lounge chair, still whining, the pleasure overwhelming him.

'that's it.' fraser said as he pulled out.

he saw you beginning to fall forward, and reached out a hand to grab you but didn't in time, and you fell forward into macklin, both of whining again. you're both so fucked out.

connor reached a hand over, brushing some of your hair back, seeing the blissed out look in your eyes.

'you good?' he asked. you nodded. 'gonna have to do that again, yeah?' you nodded again.

'let's get cleaned up before your brother gets back, yeah?' fraser said.

You pass a sign that says “MEDIA”, then another that says “LOCKER ROOM”. It all feels wrong. You turn a corner and immediately run into a very solid human being. You stumble backwards and he doesn’t move an inch.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry–”

“It’s okay!” He says immediately, hands hovering out in front of him like he’ll steady you if you fall. “I’ve been hit harder.”

You look up and see the guy, standing with messy dark hair, Sharks logo printed on his gray hoodie. It’s Macklin Celebrini, of course it is. Your brain short circuits.

He looks down at you, surprised. “You good?”

You open your mouth, close it, open it again. “I’m looking for the physio room.”

He just stares. So you continue talking, because what else are you supposed to do.

“I’m starting my internship today. In, like…ten minutes. And I think I just walked into media? And then like, a storage closet? I don’t know anymore.”

There’s a moment of slience and then he grins. Not in a mean way, just absolutely delighted about this.

“Okay. So…funny thing.”

Your stomach drops at his words.

“You are heading,” he points behind you, “in the exact opposite direction.”

Now it’s your turn to stare in shock.

“Like,” he continues, smiling, “the straight wrong way.”

You let out a long, slow exhale. “Cool. That’s great. That’s really– really awesome.”

He laughs. “First time in the building?”

“Is it that obvious?”

He shrugs. “I did the same thing my first week here. Couldn’t find the locker room for shit. This place is like a maze designed to test rookies.”

That information settles something in you, and the embarrassed flush in your face is starting to fade.

“Do you know where the physio room is?” You ask, hoping for clear directions this time.

“Yeah, I’ll walk you.”

“You don’t have to–”

“I know.” He grins. “But if I let you wander you might end up in the zamboni garage.”

You drop your head, groaning. He laughs.

“Okay, thank you.” You accept.

He falls into step beside you like it’s nothing.

“You nervous for your first day?” He asks.

“A little.”

“That’s normal.”

And you nod, hiking your bag back up your shoulder. You turn down another identical hallway, but Macklin seems to know where he’s going, so you don’t question it. But you’re thinking that they’re really gonna need to start putting more signs up.

“So, what year are you in?” Mack asks.

“Second, doing clinicals. I’ve worked mostly in hospital setting so this is– different.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Yeah, it’s intense. But the physio team here is the best. Super smart. They’ll love you.”

“You don’t know that.” You argue lightly.

“Well, you’re about to see for yourself.” He stops, gesturing to a door. “Physio.”

You look at the hall, at the stupid room that is ten feet from where you made your first wrong turn. You laugh, slightly mortified, but also relieved.

“Thank you. Seriously.”

“Anytime.” He pauses. “Also, welcome to the Sharks!”

You glance back at him as he nods goodbye, turning to leave and almost running into someone else. You muffle a laugh as he apologizes.

you don't reach for your phone as much as anymore because there's no reason to, or when you sit down somewhere and your brain expects him to be there beside you like its muscle memory. the worst part is how normal he used to feel in your life, almost as if he wasn't even something you had to think about.

he was always just there and now he isn't, or at least he's not where you can see him and that hurt you more than you thought it would.

-

it ends up being cat who gets through to you in a way no one else has managed to do in the last few days. you're on her bed again, scrolling through your phone mindlessly while she folds up her laundry she just took out of the dryer.

"you know what i don't get?" cat says suddenly.

you look away from your phone and catch her eye, "what."

she tilts her head slightly, "you constantly acting like love is something you're supposed to be qualified for. like there's a checklist you didn't pass so you don't get to have it."

you place your phone down beside you shaking your head. "that's not what this is."

"it kinda is though."

you don't miss the way your throat feels tight. she grabs a jacket, throwing it onto a hanger before shrugging. "i mean look at it this way. will has been showing you the same thing over and over again and you keep rewriting it into something that feels safer."

"cat, he's just-"

"-being nice?" she cuts in before shaking her head. "no, he's not just nice. hes consistent. theres a huge difference."

her words stick to you like glue.

consistent.

"you deserve to be a part of the stuff you always read about,"

"what?"

"you know, like those books you like or those movies you always make us watch and then pretend you don't cry at," she pauses before walking over to sit on her bed next to you. "you talk about them like they're separate from real life, like love like that only ever happens in stories."

you shift awkwardly, playing with the hem of your sweater. "that's not what i think."

cat hums softly, "you don't think you're someone who gets those soft parts, the staying and being chosen without conditions but you are. you're literally the kind of person those books and movies are about. you just don't let yourself believe it."

now that struck something hard in you.

cat leans forward and brushes a piece of hair out of your face, a soft but sad smile resting on her face.

"and will?" she adds. "he's been acting that story out for you the whole time. you don't have to earn it, you just have to stop acting like it's not for you."

that actually hurt because it's true in a way that you didn't want to admit out loud.

-

it’s later that night when it starts to feel too loud in your head. you’re home now, your phone is face down on the counter every notification making your heart skip a beat hoping his name would flash up. but it doesn’t.

you keep thinking about cat’s words. then it shifts to will not reaching out after that night, about how he just listened and respected your boundaries without fighting you on it and somehow that feels worse than if he had.

it’s not just missing him.

it’s worse than that.

it’s the feeling that you didn’t just walk away from a person. you walked away from something that could have been real and you did it because you didn’t believe you’re allowed to have it.

before you could properly think about it, your phone is in your hand hovering over his contact.

your heart is screaming at you.

go. go. go. what’re you waiting for?

but your head is still there too.

don’t, you already ruined it. you already made your choice.

you take a deep breath before pressing call. it rings for not even a second when his voice comes through.

“hey.”

and that’s all it takes from you. his voice. still so comforting after you hurt him. you try and say something but it almost comes out as a low whine.

“y/n? hey—hey are you okay?”

you try to answer but it’s like you forgot how to speak.

“i— will.”

the line goes quiet for a second, “where are you?”

“i don’t- i don’t know what im doing.”

“okay, okay. hey, just breathe for me alright?”

you try and listen to what he’s saying, taking a breath but it comes out broken. “i can’t will— i can’t stop thinking about it.”

“about what?”

“you.”

there’s another beat of silence over the phone, then you can hear some rustling of keys. “where are you?”

“at home.”

“i’m coming.”

-

it doesn’t take long for will to arrive at your front door. the soft knock snaps you out of your thoughts. you slowly open the door and there he was. his eyes filled with concern but slightly softening when he locks them with yours.

“hey,”

the way he speaks, so quietly is what does it for you. him in front of you; after days of not seeing him. you completely shatter.

you shake your head, tears spilling before you could stop yourself. “i’m sorry will, i’m so sorry.”

“hey, none of that. don’t apologize, just talk to me.”

you angrily laugh through your tears, frustrated at yourself. “i don’t know how to be normal. be enough, be someone who doesn’t mess everything up before it even starts.”

he takes a step closer, making sure to not overwhelm you in any way.

“you didn’t mess anything up.”

“but i did though, i keep doing it. i keep pushing you away and i don’t even stop myself because i— i don’t think i deserve it.”

he goes quiet before shaking his head.

“y/n..”

you wipe away at your tears, “you don’t get it. i look at you and i think why would you ever choose me on purpose? and i know what you said and i know you meant it but i can’t—i can’t make it make sense in my head.”

you run your fingers through your hair stressfully, trying to find something to do with your shaking hands. “because i’m not someone people stay for. i’m not someone’s person.”

silence fill the room again but this time it feels different.

he exhales slowly, “you don’t get to decide that for yourself,” he says quietly.

“i do though will, it’s me. i know me.”

“no,” he says, stepping closer now, finally close enough that you have to look at him. “you know what you think about yourself, that’s not the same thing.”

your lips wobble as you look away from him at your feet. if you looked at him you knew you were going to break down again and you don’t want that.

“i’m trying,” you whisper. “i swear i am. i just don’t know how to be someone you can love without ruining it.”

his expression softens completely.

“you already are someone i love,” he says.

you freeze at that, letting his words sink in.

“don’t say that,” you mumble.

“it’s true.”

“will—”

“hey no, seriously look at me.”

you slowly up at him, and he nods in satisfaction. “i love you, okay? i’m not trying to fix you, i’m trying to be with you.”

you feel your throat close completely and this time when the tears come, you don’t even try to stop them. your hands come up to your face, shoulders shaking before you can even steady yourself.

his body steps closer to you, arms immediately wrapping you pulling you close against him. you can hear him let out a small exhale of relief.

“cmere, i’ve got you. i’m here now.”

his lips come to press up softly against your forehead causing butterflies to erupt in your stomach. you were so gone now, you’re in. there’s no backing out of this.

he pulls away taking your face in his hands, thumbs swiping away the smudged mascara under your eye.

“i don’t need you to be perfect,” he murmurs. “i don’t need you to be fixed. i don’t need you to earn anything alright? i just need you to stop running from me,”

“i dont know how.” you admit

“then start here,” he says softly, brushing a strand of your hair out of your face. “stay.”

you don’t even look up, “i am.”

will’s lying on his stomach across the top of your bed, hoodie bunched at his elbows, watching you like he has been for the past ten minutes.

“you’ve been on the same sentence,” he says.

you finally glance at him.

“stop monitoring me.”

“i’m not,” he shrugs, “i’m observing.”

you roll your eyes, but your mouth twitches.

“that’s worse.”

he smiles a little.

doesn’t argue.

just keeps looking at you like that.

you try to ignore it.

you really do.

pen taps again.

page doesn’t turn.

“will,” you say, quieter now.

“yeah?”

you meet his eyes.

“you’re distracting.”

he tilts his head, “i’m not doing anything.”

“exactly.”

he huffs a soft laugh, pushing himself up onto his elbows, a little closer now.

“come here,” he says.

you blink.

“i’m studying.”

“no you’re not.”

you hesitate.

he raises his eyebrows slightly.

waiting.

not pushing.

just… there.

you sigh.

but it’s not annoyed.

not really.

so you close your notebook.

“this is your fault,” you mutter, sliding up the bed toward him.

“i know,” he says easily.

you settle next to him, leaning back against your pillows.

he shifts immediately, turning onto his side so he’s facing you, one arm tucked under his head.

close.

“hi,” he says.

you look at him.

“hi.”

there’s a second where neither of you says anything.

just… looking.

he reaches out without thinking.

tucks a curl behind your ear.

slow.

gentle.

like he’s done it a hundred times.

your breath catches a little.

still.

“what?” you whisper.

he shakes his head slightly.

“nothing.”

then softer -

“you’re pretty.”

you roll your eyes.

but it doesn’t land.

“you’re annoying.”

“you like me.”

you don’t answer.

just smile a little.

his hand doesn’t drop.

it slides instead -

fingers brushing your jaw.

cupping it lightly.

your voice goes quieter.

“will…”

he leans in.

slow enough that you could stop him.

you don’t.

the kiss is soft.

like it always is with him.

not rushed.

not dramatic.

just… warm.

familiar.

like something you’ve both learned by heart.

when he pulls back, he doesn’t go far.

forehead resting lightly against yours.

“you were stressed,” he murmurs.

you let out a small breath.

“i was.”

“better?”

you nod, “a little.”

he smiles.

small.

“good,” he says.

your hand finds the front of his hoodie without thinking, fingers curling there like you need to hold onto something.

he notices.

of course he does.

“you’re clingy,” he says quietly.

you squint at him.

“i am not.”

he just raises his eyebrows.

you pull him a little closer by his hoodie anyway.

“okay maybe a little.”

he laughs softly.

leans in again -

another kiss.

this one even softer.

like he’s not trying to distract you anymore.

just… be close.

you sink into him a little more, your head finding that space just under his chin like it fits there.

his arm wraps around you automatically.

hand resting warm against your back.

“you’re not going back to studying,” he says.

“no,” you mumble into his hoodie.

“good.”

your notes sit abandoned at the edge of the bed.

your pen rolls onto the floor.

neither of you notices.

because right now -

you’re exactly where you want to be.

“Damn. I’m sorry I just wasn’t thinking” it sounds bad when Will says it out loud. He was tired, just lost 6-0 and barely got any ice time because his bald coach hates his guts and now he’s just backed into Malkins daughter’s car and he wants to eat himself alive. As if being chewed out by the coaches wasn’t bad enough, now he’s getting yelled at in Russian and now English

“No.” You raise your hands, “ah. Is not scratched badly. You already lost very sad, you maybe want to go home and cry” you’re smiling when you say it, pulling your hair back as you scruff your jacket up higher. Your accent comes off thicker than you want it too; usually it’s not that noticeable. But when English isn’t exactly your first language.

Will looks at your car. Because it is scratched. The paints chipped off and the headlight is cracked, “you sure? I mean I can pay for it”

You tsk, “if they do not send you to AHL before you go home”

Wills expression drops, “you’re mean”

“You back into my million dollar car! You have reverse camera no?”

You make a fair point, “at least let me take you to dinner. Y’know. Payback” Will offers

You pout your lips, mulling the idea over in your mind before saying, “I was raised by hockey player. I’m not cheap”

“Probably cheaper than fixing your car” he reasons.

“Oh. And I drive” you nod to yourself as you slip into your car, rolling down the passenger window and pat at the seat, “get in pretty boy”

It’s how it starts.

It always ends in flames. Like the second you get comfortable around him; enough to like his post on Instagram but never enough to actually follow him back; you flee.

You’re in, and the moment he does something. Like tell you he loves you as he nuts inside you- you flee. The moment he admits he needs you. You remind him you don’t need him. And then you’re out.

You’ll find him in the parking lot after a game, mock him for losing. Then you’ll press him against the side of his car and kiss him until he’s breathless.

It’s like that again tonight, you’d mocked and teased and now he’s pressed against the range rover as you kiss his neck, “why can’t we put a label on it?” He murmurs, “I like you”

You pull away, “I said no labels. Just sex- is all I want you for”

Will leans back, “there’s no way you think we can’t be something serious” his grip on your bicep tightens. You flee back even more

“I am. I told you- I keep telling you. No labels” you sigh softly, looking up at him as his grip relaxes

“At least- like. I dunno can I cook you dinner?” He offers, brushing his hands through his hair.

You pull your hair over your shoulder, “you’re going to cook me dinner? And then what?”

Will leans back in, “I lick whipped cream off you” he whispers in your ear.

Your breath hitches, “confident”

“I know what I want.”

You do go over for dinner. You end up on his couch, pantless, wearing his hoodie. Your feet tucked under his thigh to keep warm. His hand rests on your ankle. It’s domestic, and it’s natural. Natural in a way that panics you. Natural in a way you said you were going out with friends instead of meeting your dad and Sidney for dinner, “be honest” you start, “how many times have you seen home alone?”

Will exhales, “like a million times”

“Remote”

He hands you the remote, you flick onto Netflix. Opening the movie ‘Endless love’ and playing it, “I thought we were watching home alone”

“You are not home alone? You are with me. We watch what I want”

Will nods, leaning back against the couch, his hand settling on your thigh as you scoot closer to him.

You fall asleep like that, pressed against him. You wake up in his bed, his arm tossed over your side as you curl inward on him. Drool coating your cheek. You wake up; unsettled. A feeling in your stomach that you can’t control. You’d spent your entire 9 months of adult life fleeing. And for the first time, you experience the opposite.

You loved San Jose, you truly did. It’s been three years since you first landed with your mom’s teary eyes still reflecting through the hot summer heat waves, an oasis of what you were leaving behind. 

But it’s also been three years since you’d spent your last summer cooped up in a room too big, too unfamiliar. Only this time, this type of unfamiliarity wasn’t welcomed. The one that your dad spent weeks setting up every year. Planning through focused eyes, and unreliable Google results about what kids your age liked. Not that you knew, though. You always assumed too much and trusted too little. But how could you not? Three years since you’ve seen his face, the childlike glee that simmered in his eyes as his nervous hands shakingly held up a big, dramatic, welcome home sign. It was cruel, he was cruel. 

But that was before. It was before your world tilted on its axis, the one it’s been teetering on for years. Before heartbreak took on a clever disguise, and betrayal lingered hotter than the warmed tears forcing its way down your cheeks, ones that resembled the man you left behind.

So, you went home early. Back to your mom, back to Canada. For a while, it was good, great even. Until it wasn’t. It was the same vicious cycle, an event that haunted your timeline. After all, you were your father's daughter. Your eyes crinkled up the same way whenever your heart bloomed too fast, your smiles lighting up your entire face with a sheen of light. And the way everyone always did, they caught it.

Old friends, relationships, every single person you’ve ever talked to for longer than a fleeting conversation, eventually found out. And then you were that same little girl back in Pittsburgh holding back her tears, and suffocating under the weight of the name on the back of her jersey because the world didn’t know about her. Every relationship in your life circled back to your dad, and they all ended the same. Only this time you didn’t allow your dad to soothe the pains with poolside (virgin) piña coladas and extra sunscreen, you resented him. With no other choice, you blamed him.

So you changed the straw for a pencil, and the sobs for hums. You blocked a few numbers too many, and deleted photos that not even amnesia could make you forget. You erased everything with a flimsy eraser, graphite-filled holes littering each corner. And then you wrote over it as if your skin didn't shed with it, as if your pencil wasn’t fueled by the tears you’d spilled. 

But San Jose didn't bleed black and gold, it bled blue. After years of sitting like a wounded fish in water coloured by your own damaged fins, waiting for the circling sharks to lunge, you finally became something more.

The walls you built were strong enough to keep them out. And to keep you safe. Distance meant security, and secrets meant everything you could mutter out between clenched teeth. It didn’t burn the same when you never allowed yourself to feel it.

Even now, your sacrifices seemed worthwhile. The sharps of your troubled heart sometimes made themselves noticeable, but it was worth it. It had no choice but to be. But somewhere along the late nights you’d spent perfecting your albums and pushing yourself to perfection, you lost everything.

It’s a weird paradox of delusion that you were still far too blind to come to terms with. It wasn't always this way, and there was no one to blame but yourself- and the secret you’ve been forced to carry your entire life. 

But still, you closed yourself off to the world. And in response, the world kept spinning. People aged and the seasons changed, but you were still exactly where you left yourself. In San Jose. 

Your transformation was gradual since the beginning. It started with the rare out-of-body experiences, the echoes of the voices from the people you left behind bouncing off the walls of your apartment, their voices sharp as they spoke in tongues. Your body grew used to moving on autopilot as your mind forced itself into the passenger seat.

Because now, it is easier to pretend that nothing happened than to accept the fact that your entire world ended those few years ago. To pretend that you never succumbed to a shell of the person you once were, the type of person who didn’t flinch at the sight of every happy family you couldn’t help but watch through the slightly fogged windows of your favourite cafe buried deep in the heart of Silicon Valley.

And when you finally looked away in an attempt to hide your tears, your mind finally caught up. Your hands weren't yours, the nail beds were unfamiliar. And the overhead lights were too bright, too loud to be left on. But you weren’t your father's daughter anymore, so it was worth every slowly blinking away tear.

But now with your vintage sunglasses perched comfortably over your nose (not because it was sunny, but for fashion. Always for fashion) with your, just as loved, brown coach clutch practically glued to your bare thigh, it couldn't be clearer.

Nothing compared to San Jose. 

Your hands cramped with each swirly “Y” that you delicately carved into your notebook, your pencil suspiciously sharp beneath your much smoother fingers. But the burn only fueled the fire in your mind, words coming together and practically writing themselves, your stress-bitten pencil becoming your muse.

Your voice was low enough to get lost in the ambience, the tunes you turned to melodies floating far enough to dance with whichever elevator music the cafe usually played around this time. Playful, and light. Not that you were aware of it, though. Your headphones didn't allow for any sudden noise to interrupt your flow, your instrumentals coming in one ear and fluently travelling across to the other.

You read between the lines, the notes that carried heavier than they used to. The poems translated well onto paper, your emotions seeping through each new sentence. The words weaved between commas and ended after your periods, only to start back up again without a hitch. 

It wasn’t until a tap against your shoulder, one too light to ignore, but sudden enough to pull a harsh flinch out of you. You looked up too sharply to be played off as something less, your headphones suddenly feeling heavier against your done-up hair. You sat frozen as your mind travelled through excuses because normal people didn't flinch when someone noticed them. Normal people did not hide their faces even after the sun had set with glasses too dark to see through.

Before you could stammer out some sad sentence that you knew would come out too heavy, too rehearsed to be natural, you were cut off by the same elderly woman who’d tapped you. She spoke as if she were repeating herself, your eyes watching the slopes of her mouth as your music replaced her voice.

Even though you were finally writing something after a month of silence, your mind was empty every time you even dared to picture your notebook, you slid the headphones off. “–closing in a few minutes, dear.” You blinked once, your body relaxing when you realized what this was. Or wasn’t, about.

“Thank you, ma’am.” You nodded your head to show your thanks, your voice quiet with lack of use. The lady lit up, her warm smile growing – which you almost thought wasn’t possible. Her mouth opened as if she already had something to say, but then she stopped herself. Instead, she nodded. Her greyed hair swung with the motion, your eyes following the braid as if it held its own gravitational pull.

You watched through a confused gaze as she turned on her heel a little too fast, her braid swinging around and slapping across her frail shoulder. Your heart leaped the same time your legs did, your hands abandoning the one thing that had your everything in it.

She didn’t fall, but she didn’t have a chance to trip – thanks to you. She waddled on her feet for a second, her palm coming up and wrapping around one of your arms that wrapped around her from behind.  “Whoa, I got you.” You helped her gain her balance, your hands never straying far.

She turned around much more carefully, her smile a bit stunned but genuine. Up close you can see her face more clearly. She was beautiful. Her eyes that held warmth for a stranger she’d just met gleamed unashamed, her irises bright as if she’d been staring into the sun for too long. 

Her eyes carried deep lines, ones that branched down her cheeks and joined together at the bends of her mouth. It was obvious she’d spent her life smiling, perhaps loving everyone she'd ever encountered. Your heart ached, jealousy rooting over you. It was times like this that made you wish you weren’t alone. But standing in front of her with her nurturing gaze washing over you, you almost felt the ghost of it.

The lights began burning your eyes and her voice transformed into something you didn’t recognize. You spoke back in a voice soft enough to combat her, but you couldn’t hear your thoughts. Noises rang in your ears as you watched her walk away, round the corner of the counter, then disappear behind the back doors.

You’ve been coming to this cafe for all three years at every possible time you could, yet you’ve never met her before. But you couldn’t dwell on it now, not when your hands began shaking, your palms burning as you tried to feel something human-like again. 

By the time the bell rang one last time to announce your departure your body was already numb. It was dark enough that no one would recognize you but your glasses stayed on. Because what if they did? What if someone saw you walking this street yesterday and decided to camp out? What if the elderly lady was the same person who contacted Deux-Moi about some outlandish rumours that only made sense to the incels who believed them?  

If you were in your right mind you would know that you were overthinking everything. But growing up being forced into being a secret had its consequences, the eggshells still exist just as much now as they did back then. The burning in your palm could only keep you conscious long enough for you to get home. But when your apartment's lights remained flicked off, you spiralled.

There was nothing to comfort you when you were alone. Not even the voices that ricocheted off the walls had anything to say, not worth remembering at least. 

It was a few days later, but again you were found in the place your body almost always found itself during each short break you had. And as always, your notebook was sitting beside you. The same bitten pencil was placed absentmindedly adjacent to it. 

Your body was sunken down into the seats with a type of exhaustion that was downright criminal at this time of day. It was barely noon, and already the gravity was pulling you down and away from the world – into a secluded space that held no room for anything but you and your thoughts.

Your feet, clad in lacy red tights, swung gently beneath you. Your other leg was pushed under it, your warmth radiating across it enough to keep the bite of air away each time the door opened with a new unfamiliar face. Your black kitten heels were kicked off somewhere between your seat and the one across from you, not that it mattered at the moment. 

People watching was just as heartbreaking as exhilarating. While you loved watching the way every individual went about their days, some beaming with bright smiles, others with stained cheeks and tears lining their waterline – it was daunting. 

You made stories up for them in your head, some more heartbreaking than others. But it wasn't the sad ones that hurt the worst. No, it was the happiest ones that carried the melancholy.

It was the ones that had no choice but to be real.

The ones with loving parents nurturing their children, their voices soft as they spoke between hushed giggles and half-apologetic glances towards everyone who glanced over when their child cheered a bit too loudly when their favourite drink was placed in front of them. 

The ones where small groups of friends leaned over each other as they whispered into the night, their voices overlapping but never straying too far away. Notebooks crossing over each other enough to become obvious, but not enough for anyone to move them away.

It was the couples with their sides pressed as close as possible, their mouths whispering sweet nothings into the other's ears as they knocked their knees together in an affectionate bump. Cute, and hidden enough for it to be missed by anyone who wasn’t watching for it.

And it was the longing that filled your entire body when you observed them. Sure, you had some people you considered friends. But they were kept at arm's length, far enough that the collapse of the friendship couldn't possibly trap you beneath the rubble. You couldn’t do that to yourself, not after you barely survived the last one. 

Your fingers were cold against your drink. A milky, almost hazelnut taste lingered. It was the same elderly lady from the other night who surprised you with minutes ago, “a secret drink for our favourite regular,” she winked as if it meant nothing, but enough to untangle a part of you that you've been protecting. A regular, so she noticed you before. It did nothing but make you feel guiltier. If only she’d met you today, on a day when the world seemed a bit easier to hold.

The condensation that’s been collecting alongside the outer cup dripped down your fingers without a care, as if they were in a race towards a destination only they knew. Not that it was important right now, because whilst your journal was near, it was far enough that it couldn't get wet. 

It was folded open on the page you’d spent the last few nights buried in. And even though it was now in its review, the lines were still bare of worthy writing. The poems you sculpted weren’t as meaningful as it was the night you reminisced too long, when you let the world slip out from between your hands.

Your mouth tasted too sweet to hum along to the notes that held enough depth to bring salty tears to the surface, your hands too cold to hold the warmth of your collapsed lungs, your breath knocked out of your chest as the words became too real – too honest.

The world doesn’t just pay for honesty, it pays for emotion. Your lies used to sell for just as much as your truths, so you sold them for more. And by the time the bell rang with new customers, you were already losing your train of thought.

When you saw the type of girls who just entered the cafe, you sank deeper into your seat. You used your sunglasses – different ones than last time – as a mask, and your cup as a shield. When one of their eyes began sweeping across the seats you almost wished you’d grabbed your red hat instead of your same crimson shade of glasses. But when her eyes didn't linger, you exhaled a deep breath. 

It was risky being out in public, you knew it too well. Your indiscreet outfit didn't help either, your lips curling into your mouth to swallow your curses.

It wasn’t easy going unnoticed, not when the entire world was watching. But here, in this very cafe, it’s been the only place you could breathe without it being baited into being more. But it didn’t mean you didn’t flinch every time someone who looked a little too much like someone who’d listen to your songs walked in. 

Through your distracting thoughts you missed the door ringing, the world on mute as two pairs of feet made their way towards you, their footsteps unheard. It wasn’t until they spoke that you jumped, until you thought your safe space was corrupted for good.

“I like your jacket, is the leather real?” Blue eyes stared down at you with a boyish lightness, his amusement swirling around his expanded pupils before exploding across his irises. But then you remembered the question and you barely held back a scoff. Is the sky blue? 

“Dude, what kind of person asks that?” This time green eyes blinked owlishly at you, the strikingly beautiful colour almost enough to make you want to write a song about – what is wrong with you? You opened your mouth to respond, only to resemble a guppy as your trance dramatically dragged on. Your eyes traced the green-eyed man’s face, your mind already memorizing the arch of his eyebrows and his cute gummy smile – ok, so you were definitely not about to ogle some man who decided to come ruin your favourite cafe for you.

“I mean, by her silence I'm assuming she’s too embarrassed to admit it.” The same playful voice from the blue-eyed man finally pulled you back to earth. You openly gaped at him in shock, your eyes wide under your glasses. There’s no way he thought your Miu Miu leather jacket was fake, right? 

“Will!” The green-eyed man backhanded the blue-eyed man, who you now know is “Will”. Judging by the way both boys stifled a laugh, you knew he did. Your eyes caught sight of what they were wearing, oh? Lo and behold, the same man who was attempting to bait you, was clad in the most obvious fake denim jacket you’ve ever seen. You might even go far enough to say out possibly the worst one you've ever seen in your entire life.

You made a sound low enough to sound like a hiss, the air sucked behind your teeth dramatic enough for both men’s attention to be drawn towards it. They shared an amused look, Will looking almost triumphant to get a reaction out of you.

“I wouldn’t be talking this much if I were you.” You clicked your tongue in disapproval, your words sharp enough to cut through the smile on his face. Your eyes traced across his jacket slowly enough to pull both boys’ eyes down at it, confusion reflecting across both of their eyes. “Hopefully you didn’t pay more than a few bucks for that fake denim…” Will’s eyes shot back at yours. “It’s tacky, really.” You kissed your teeth.

The other boy laughed out loud, his eyes shining with amusement as he cupped his hand around the other man’s shoulder. Will looked from him, to you, down to his jacket that suddenly felt too heavy, then back up to you. “I–“ he stammered, “I got this from that one vintage store.” That one vintage store… very descriptive.

You shrugged cold enough for his eyes to narrow, “Dumpster diving must be competitive this time of year.” A scandalized gasp left his lips, “I’ll have you know I paid like what… fifty bucks for this?” He pretended to think even though you’d bet money on the fact that he knew exactly how much he paid. 

“If you say so.” Will, still trying to explain himself, nudged his friend. “Mack, tell her it’s real.” “Mack” just shrugged, his eyes moving down to take in your messy table. And as if he’d just remember him and Will were standing awkwardly in front of you, he glanced over at the empty seats across from you.

Will was still spiralling when you caught Mack’s eyes, your own following his line of vision. You hesitated when they met yours once again with a questioning look. Usually, you wouldn’t think twice before shaking your head no. But you usually never entertained anyone else, so today you suppose you were feeling bold.

Which explains why both boys were sitting across from you with their long legs pushed beyond the invisible line between you and them, Will’s shoes gently knocking against your bare ankle with each shake of his foot. It itched against your skin the way contact usually did, but you tried ignoring it.

You didn’t have to endure it long because he suddenly shot up as if he’d been struck with a thought, probably the first one he’d ever had. You snicker to yourself at the thought. His eyes were wide with excitement, his teeth gleaming under the artificial light as he smiled towards you. He was cute, you’d give him that.

“I have an idea.” You raised an eyebrow and shared a look with Mack – which was odd considering the fact he couldn't see your eyes – who was currently playing with your pencil that rolled across the table when he accidentally knocked into it while sitting down. “I sense you don’t have those often, huh?” You tried your best to replicate his playful tone, your chest burning with anxiety.

Something that comes with keeping everyone at arm's length is the inability to read their cues. But thankfully for you, Will playfully nodded his head in agreement, his voice holding a faux disappointment as he mused you, “first ever, actually.”

Mack giggled into his sleeve, his black sweater long enough to reach his knuckles. Your eyes watched the fabric roll down his wrist for a second too long when he suddenly adjusted his position, Will’s voice bringing you back once more.

“Hear me out, ok?” You nodded as best as you could with your drink nearing your lips. Will continued, “What if…” You raised an eyebrow high enough for them to see under your glasses, “You come hang with us,” his pointer finger gestured between him and Mack with a laziness to it that proved it was purposeful, “And help me choose a new jacket. Since mine is so “tacky”.” He bunny-eared the last word, his voice mocking yours a bit too accurately. 

You froze, uncertainty bubbling across your skin. This wasn’t a part of your schedule. You barely had over a week off, and you were already about four days in, and it felt almost too early to break the cycle. Your joints still burned with each movement you made, your back silently cracking when you straightened it to sit eye level with the waiting boys. 

Your tour was grovelling, and long enough for you to have no time to hang out with any of your so-called friends – the ones who only reached out when they wanted something from you. An invite to the beach, which was usually a photo for their Instagram. A request for your presence at an exclusive party, which served as their ticket in.

But with two pairs of hopeful eyes, you gave in. One day won’t hurt, and your favourite cafe will still be here tomorrow for when you’re back in at the same time as yesterday. Plus, it wouldn’t hurt to add a few more jackets to your collection. 

“Fine.” Both boys lit up, matching smiles growing more excited. “But…” You leaned forward, your eyes carrying an emotion you usually never allowed yourself to feel around strangers. “Only if you buy me a macaroon first. I’m famished.” Both boys sprang to their feet, their shoes loud enough to pull looks. 

You were proud of how naturally your words came out compared to how hard they came up. Maybe today would be a good day and your palms could thank you later by writing some new lyrics. Who knows.

“Done.” Mack was faster than Will to push his seat out far enough to squeeze past. Will was almost out right behind him, only to almost trip on something. He looked down over his shoulder as he speedily walked Mack’s path.

His eyes furrowed at the sight of your heels lying beneath his and Mack’s seats, “I knew I smelled gloves.” He winked at you with the same look he’s been giving you since he met you (five minutes ago). You shook your head and almost smiled. Almost. After all, he’s still the reason you have to abandon your warm… perfect spot.

You didn’t realize he said ‘gloves’ casually, nor that he seemed to throw the word around too easily. In your mind, you connected his words to the memory of your dad's hockey gloves, the stench that was enough to burn whatever small hairs your nose used to have. You didn’t think twice about it, which is weird because you usually think about what people say about three times.

You were too focused on not thinking of the fact that you were actually about to go out with two guys you’ve never met before, two guys who don’t even know your name, and reached down to grab your shoes. You put your notebook into your clutch, which was the perfect size to hold it, and stood up.

You were unaware of the two boys standing near the counter without the small divider, the spot designed to pick up orders, with their ears anticipating the fake names they gave for their order, watching your every movement. They both watched as you smoothed your matching black leather mini skirt, one that barely touched your upper thighs. Then as you used a small circle mirror, one that you managed to pull out of thin air, to check your lip gloss. 

You walked as if the world folded and blended for you, your feet unhurried as you made your way towards them. You felt their stare prickling your skin, yet you stayed silent. Even with your kitten heels, your height was obviously enough for others to notice. 

Will whistled low, “gotta say, fake leather suits you veryyyy well.” He smirked when Mack hit him again, only for it to fade into something softer when your nose wrinkled up shyly. “For, uh… Butthead?” Will perked up and Mack groaned low enough for just the three of you to hear. 

He looked at you and rolled his pretty eyes, “Don’t know why Butthead over here got his order first, I clearly ordered it before him.” He tried to act annoyed, but his small smile gave him away. Will came back over with a small pep in his step, his teeth exposed as he handed a small bag over towards you, “for the pretty lady.”

You huffed, but graciously took it with a polite smile, your voice soft as you murmured out your thanks. To which he replied with a gentle smirk, his eyes still soft as he gazed at you. “For Beavis?” When Mack lit up, you let out a genuine laugh. Perhaps your realest one in months. Will’s eyes flickered down to it right away.

“Beavis and Butthead?” Will nodded seriously, “our parents loveddd us.” He dragged on the word the usual way he does, as you’ve been learning. When Mack returned, both yours and Will’s jaws dropped. In his hand was a clear container, easily twelve inches long, and filled with macaroons.

“Dude…” Will trailed off, his eyes glancing from the container his friend bought, to the bag he handed you. Will shook his head before anyone could say anything, “Nope. Now I have to buy two of those.” He nodded his chin towards the clear container that Mack was graciously holding for you.

By the time the next song ended, you were walking out the door with three boxes of macaroons, and an empty bag, the macaroon taste rivalling your earlier drinks. Right before you got to the door a new song started. It was your song, the newest release. 

You didn’t freeze, but you noticed. It was rare that you went anywhere without hearing your music at least twice. But when the two boys beside you, one on each side, suddenly gasped as if something insane happened, you realized that maybe they too knew your name. Even if they didn’t show it.

You’d all agreed on going to your choice of store first, your insistence that it was close enough to walk to enough to convince them without any extra persuasion. 

The air burned hot enough to cause your skin to be warm to the touch, your leather doing nothing but pulling it all in even more. Both boys were flanked by your side, one on each. Both kept an obvious gap between you and them, but every time a car came a bit too close to the sidewalk you could see Will stepping a bit closer to you, as if he was trying to guide you more into the sidewalk, and away from any potential upcoming danger.

You barely made it down the street when Will was already complaining about the heat. “Dude, it’s so hot.” You side-eyed the man who was dramatically fanning his face, as if the warm air wafting across his skin was going to help.

You made it another two steps before Mack chimed in with agreement, "I think my skin is melting off.” Both boys rode off each other’s statements and tried to get a reaction out of you. They were aiming for a laugh, or a smile at least. It was weird how easily it came out of you, but later when you return to the comfort of your room and begin recalling your day, you’ll brush it off as if you were too hot to think.

Small, meaningless, chatter was shared between the three of you for the rest of the short walk. Though, it was mostly the two boys talking – you only chimed in when it got too silent and both of their expectant gazes turned to you. 

Will held the door open for you and Mack to enter first, his footsteps softer than before as both he and Mack stood in place. Their eyes were wide as they took the store in. You tried not to preen at the sight of their mouths open, and started walking right towards your favourite section right away.

You didn’t need to turn to know that they followed after you, their playful voices trailing after you. Your eyes lit up at the colourful rack of clothes in front of you. Your hands brushed against all sorts of textiles as your feet brought you towards a specific skirt that you somehow managed to spot amongst the many, many others.

Your feet paused when you finally reached it, your hand naturally falling to rest against it. It wasn’t necessarily as soft as it appeared, but it definitely wasn’t scratchy. With hands gentle enough to pluck it from its spot, you held it up in front of you.

Typically, it wasn’t the type of skirt you went for. Denims and leather are your recent go-tos. But it was nearing summer, and the soft blue hue was enough to conjure ocean breeze and fruity scents. Scenes of mid-day beach brunches paired with the exact sandals you suddenly remembered you owned, played in your mind. The shirt was already in your elbow before your toes even touched the sand, and your eyes were tracing across the array of options before the next scene could commence.

You absentmindedly pushed your glasses up, the need to see the colours exactly as they were was overriding the desire to hide. You’d processed the action too late, but for some reason, you didn’t care as much as you anticipated. Maybe it was Will’s following words that made it easier to deal with the anxiety that followed, or maybe the way you could finally make out what the mystery colour in Mack’s eyes was. 

Hints of blue, the colour in your arm. You already knew San Jose bled blue, maybe you could too. Your cheeks burned when you realized you were staring too long, not that either boy noticed. Will earlier declared that he saw another denim jacket, his voice holding notable amounts of awe. You’d think he’s only ever seen his jacket by the way his eyes sparkled at the sight of another, “in the wild denim jacket.” he’d say on his way to it.

Mack giggled, and you halfheartedly complained, when Will began dragging Mack behind him, both their eyes meeting yours over their shoulder. You moved on too fast from your skirt shopping, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to turn around and walk back over when Will’s proud smile beamed bright at you.

“So?” He held it against his front, his eyes not yet searching for a mirror. He stared at you as if he only cared about what you thought, which should've been a sign. Your expert eyes only traced the fabric once before you nodded, your expression confident.

“It will look really good on you, Will.” For the first time in a while, you were honest. “Really?” He asked, his gaze finally leaving you and wandering to find a mirror. You almost smiled and responded with a small hum. Both you and Mack took on a role familiar to ducklings, and followed Will as he guided the three of you around the store as if he’d chosen this spot himself.

Time passed in a blur, and the clothes in your arms started getting lighter. Not because you were putting them back, but because both boys started holding them instead. They both picked out different articles, their voiced opinions resonating with you enough to comply. Because yes Will, that shirt will look good with the low-rise jeans that Mack silently held up. 

Small talk was forgotten, and louder giggles were exchanged. For once, you weren’t yourself. You were just a girl out shopping with friends, a budget that only existed when you thought about it. 

You spent hours twirling in front of them with a boost of energy you haven’t experienced in a while, each article of clothing having its own fashion show. While your joints still argued, they didn’t complain. The boys gave their honest opinions, ones that actually managed to make sense, oddly enough.

You laughed when Mack tripped over his shoes when he tried mimicking your twirls, and your shoulder pressed close enough to Will to feel his natural body heat. This time, you offered better styling advice than they did for you. Which Mack took well, his eyes never leaving yours with an expression akin to pure attentive patience.

You smiled between each curtain Will disappeared behind, your eyes becoming shy while you and Mack tried your best to avoid eye contact that you knew you’d read too much into. But it got easier when Will got stuck in a leather pair of pants you just had to make him try on (not to buy, but for your amusement) and fell over, his hand catching on the fabric separating him from you both hard enough to expose him in all his fallen glory. 

It wasn’t until you were outside with your arms weighed down by bags that both boys could no longer hold, both their forearms mirroring your white lines, that you realized how many hours had passed.

The three of you awkwardly lingered there in silence, the quiet almost louder than everything you’ve said today. You weren’t exactly sure where to go from here. You were all aware that you’d only gotten to one location, and the day had already passed enough for the sun to set.

“Um…” The three of you laughed when you all spoke simultaneously, their laughter much louder than yours. You were the first to calm down, which unfortunately, wasn’t shocking to you. You were quite surprised you’d laughed at all today. And as if it’d all just dawned on you, you pulled away.

You knew they knew who you were. Not only because of their reaction to your song playing, but also by the way they both individually spoke your name without you ever introducing yourself. It didn’t bother you any more than it did when other strangers recognized you. But the way they treated you was definitely new. New enough for you to doubt their intentions.

But you already realized that not once did one of them pull out their phones, and no hidden click sounded whenever you turned your back for longer than a few seconds. There weren’t any leading questions, no words that came out disguised as something else.

But you were cautious. You didn’t have time for real friends, for people like them. There wasn’t room for heartbreak, you weren’t sure if you’d be able to deal with it all over again. It was easy this way, you reminded yourself. Which is why when Will asked with his breath hitched, Mack’s eyes wide with eager anticipation, if you'll meet them again tomorrow, to continue what you couldn’t finish today.

7am, he said. A cafe you’d never forget the name of, following after. You’d never heard of it before, but you knew your brain wouldn’t allow you to forget it. Not when you’ll spend the rest of your night researching everything there is to know about it. Not when the address was already written in your maps before you rounded the corner away from them.

You parted with a promise you weren’t sure you’d be able to keep. Yes, you’ll be there, that's what you said. But did you mean it? You weren’t sure yet. 

And you weren’t sure until you woke up the next morning to a silent phone. No calls from your PR team about a leaked photo. No headlines holding precarious attention grabbers. Nothing but the silence you created.

You hesitantly left your notebook, the pages slipping from your grasp at the last second. Your jeans were low enough to carve your waist the way you wanted, but not enough to guarantee any safety when you inevitably bent down. But it’s what you felt like wearing, so it was worth it. You were already cheating on your cafe by going to a different one, you can only sacrifice so much in one day.

You didn’t walk with a pep in your step on your way to your car, and you didn’t turn the radio on high enough to get lost in it. But the song that played hit deep enough to leave a mark. Soda. By Nothing But Thieves. Your windows were down, but the lyrics didn't leave your car.

Your lips moved to the words, venom catching on your teeth and burning beneath your tongue. Maybe it was performative. The lyrics, and their hypocrisy. But you didn’t have time to dwell in the wave of self-pity when the cafe came into sight. 

You parked along the road, not directly in front of the cafe to be seen by the two boys you could already see standing in front of it, but close enough not to worry about breaking a sweat.

Your glasses were a bit different this time, a pale pink matching the LA symbol on your denim hat. Maybe you felt inspired by Will’s outfit yesterday, or maybe you just really loved the way pink and denim looked paired with your complexion. Neither option mattered anymore, not when you were walking up to the boys, only to freeze when they both turned over and looked at you.

Will was wearing a navy blue track suit that he left unzipped, the top half having an almost bomber look to it. Beneath the open jacket was a white shirt whose neckline was low enough to display his silver chain. He had a red bull hat on front facing, the colours somehow not clashing with the rest of his outfit.

Mack was also wearing a hat, but unlike Will, he opted to flip it backwards. He wore a button-up black top that cinched perfectly along his arms, his biceps flexing when he crossed his arms across his chest. Your eyes looked down at black (slightly) baggy jeans. They were baggy enough to make it look purposeful, but not enough to stereotypically find him on a skateboard. 

Then you looked at your own outfit. Your shirt was the same pale pink that decorated your accessories, a tube-top styled bandeau crossing your cleavage before coming together in a tulle diagonal side triangle. One side of your stomach was exposed, the other covered in pink. The side triangle stopped just shy of your waistband, leaving just enough skin to catch the light. 

To other people, your outfits didn’t correspond in the slightest. But all three of you knew what it actually was, and what it meant. Each of your outfits consisted of the clothes you bought yesterday. 

You picking Will’s tracksuit, Mack choosing his top – his voice sly when he made a joke too low for you to hear, but funny enough for Will to cackle at.

Will finding Mack’s baggy pants, you throwing in the shirt that you pretended didn’t make your heart race at the thought of him wearing it.

Mack choosing your jeans, Will forcing the shirt into your hands with an exaggerated wink.

You clutched your diesel bag closer, as if the feeling on the rough denim against your bare skin could bring you back down to earth, and away from the scary thought that just crossed your mind. The warmth that spread along your chest was uncanny, and something you wish you could never experience again.

“Dressed up just for us, huh?” Will smirked when you rolled your eyes, a minuscule smile pulling on your lips. Mack nodded, his eyes lingering on your exposed waist long enough for you to feel it, “‘course she did.” You now regret having forgone bringing your notebook, your brain sparked with inspiration. Lyrics built up with the melody you’d already fine-tuned, letters coming apart in jumbles that actually made sense now.

Before standing in front of them you’d felt confident enough to leave your glasses on top of your hat. But now you weren’t sure. You’d been around enough people to read the look in their eyes, your mind distinguishing between each flash of colour, nitpicking every micro twitch.

They weren’t nervous, but relaxed. The opposite of you. You didn’t know it now, but they too had experienced similar scrutiny. Being in the public eye made them realize quite early on that some people didn’t mean what they said, or say what they meant.

But they couldn’t read you. Your walls high enough for them to see from the get-go. It only made them more convinced to break them, to climb over the ruins and help you build it into someone stronger, something that allowed them in.

And when the sun set that night, you almost wanted it. All three of your backs pressed against the blanket Will shoved in his car, your shoes kicked off and lost somewhere around the frills, your toes dug deep into the sand. But before that, Will had chosen to spend the first hour of the morning people watching, your guilty pleasure. 

You’d finally spoken your observations aloud, the same type of people you’ve seen in your cafe following you everywhere you went. You only feared the boy's judgment for a minute, long enough for your hot drink to fog the sunglasses you finally put down. Until they caught your bait. They added their own ideas, storylines that merged into yours with spilled ink.

Then you’d spent the afternoon stuffed in his apartment (one that he, unsurprisingly, shared with Mack), which you almost outright refused. It took them nearly half an hour to convince you to come, with promises of not making it weird enough for you to try it. You grew comfortable by the third hour, the melted chocolate mirroring your resolve.

Will acted like the chocolatier he seemed to think he was, directions falling from his lips as if he’d made these exact chocolate bars a hundred times. You found out he didn’t when your chocolate came out better than his, accusations of beginner's luck echoing off the walls in his kitchen. He’d done it a dozen times more than you, Mack barely matching half his attempts. 

Dubai chocolate never tempted you to break your strict diet before. But Will’s begging eyes, and Mack’s soft pleas, were enough for you to finish it. The three of you ate all three bars by the  dinner time came around. And just as you feared, it spoiled it. Dinner was undoubtedly your favourite meal, which was yet another part of your routine that the boys changed.

Then finally, Will dragged two very tired bodies behind him and towards his car. He woke up a few hours earlier than he was supposed to, just to stuff his car with supplies for his final idea. “I know a spot.” He boasted when you urged to know where he was bringing you, Mack silent from the back seat. (which was another thing you tried to complain about. Being beside Will was scary. Not because he was, but because you could tell that you were already letting them in. After only two days.)

Constellations used to be nothing more than lines between the stars, traces of figures you couldn’t make out with your naked eyes. But with Mack’s warm breath wafting against your cheek each time he turned towards you to explain what Will was trying to point out, it wasn’t what it once was.

You wanted to turn your head, just to see how pretty he looks in this lighting. Would the red that permanently stained his cheeks still be visible? How about the freckles that now reminded you of the very constellations you were looking for, would you be able to find the lines?

Will’s voice was low enough to match the ambience, “See? This one is the small dipper.” Your eyes squinted in the spot you've been searching for minutes, your heart still racing with the realization that the only ones you wanted to memorize were the ones belonging to the man pressed against your shoulder, whose voice still heard even with his mouth shut.

But then you saw it, and your body didn’t feel real. Down here you were everything you’ve ever wanted to be. Famous, rich, everything you’ve ever dreamed of. But out there, you would be nothing. You’d be as free as the next dying star, as bright as the supernova you’d become.

Planets wouldn’t spin for you, but for themselves. The fans that orbited you, who were drawn by your gravitational pull and hypnotized by your siren song, would turn to moons. Moons that had a purpose outside of you, craters that were unique to them.

In a universe of everything, surrounded by the nothingness that space left in place of time, you weren’t anything, not really. It spooked you, the cool air awakening goosebumps across your arms. Was this really what you wanted? You’d spent your life being a secret, something unshared beyond the people who already knew. 

Was that your purpose? To push everyone away in fear of being linked back to your absent dad? No, it wasn’t. It took these boys two days to make you realize something that no one else has ever managed to pull out of you. For the first time in years, you were willing to make new friends, Actual friends.

With the epiphany still on your mind, you agreed to exchange numbers with the boys. You smiled freely when Will offered you a ride home, and nodded with the wind that blew through your hair. Your car was still at Will’s chosen cafe, but you knew you’d get it back, you allowed yourself to trust in them. One last time, you told yourself. One last try, the final one.

Your arm hung out the window, your fingers spread enough to catch the salty air that lingered. Your eyes were wide with life, cheeks blossoming as loud singing left your beaming mouth. Mack, who was in the backseat and currently singing along to the song blasting from Will’s radio, was distracted. His eyes flickered to you every few minutes, his body buzzing like a life-sized kitten. 

You looked happy. Actually happy. He’d known you for less than forty-eight hours, and he was already obsessed. He noticed more than he wanted to, more than he ever expected himself to ever notice about anyone else. The way he held his breath when you looked at him was pathetic, but he couldn’t help it. And when he looked away between the time the song ended and the next started, he saw Will’s eyes glance at him in the rear-view mirror.

Then, he knew. He knew that Will knew. That he noticed. It was all starting to feel too real, so Mack spoke before he could really think about what he was saying. “Is it possible to get your number?” His cheeks warmed when he realized what he said, so he tried backpedalling far enough to explain himself. “I- well- for my day tomorrow.” You didn't turn around to face him yet, but you tensed. You watched the trees highlight the horizon as Will drove over the speed limit. Not enough to actually be speeding, but enough for your neck to feel the tension, the speed. 

“‘Cause we’re on for tomorrow, right?” You had limited free days left, but you still agreed. You were committed this time, almost convinced that this time was going to be different. Which is why when you got home, you turned the lights on.

Your shoes were carelessly kicked off at your door, your hat and glasses following suit. Then you grabbed your notebook and pen, the same lyrics you’d created earlier still ringing through your mind. Your legs barely touched your couch, half your knee still hanging over the end and beneath your other knee, before you had the cap of your pen in between your teeth.

You didn’t hum this time, didn’t drown the thoughts in loud music. Instead, you wrote until you couldn’t, until your fingers burned and callouses stiffened. Only this time, you had a new muse. Your interactions with Mack flashed in colours, scents that coaxed your room into a dreamlike state.

You felt the way his fingers grazed yours yesterday when you leaned in a bit closer to whisper about the next ugly shirt Will shamelessly modelled for you. The faint Chlorine scent that followed your bodies when you ran along a random splash pad that Will found around the corner from your house on his way to drop you off, one that he made you stand in front of for “photos”, then with himself for “memories”. Then finally with Mack, for “his fridge.”

By the time morning chimed you had three songs done. Not polished, but perfect in the sense that only mattered to you. You were committed to change, so you were honest. Your phone lit up with a text, a group chat already created with texts rolling in. You read it right before bed, your eyes half lidded with exhaustion. You were just about to put it down when a text from Will caught your attention. You read it once, then a second time. Macklin, a name you didn’t know until now.

When you finally put your phone down and closed your eyes, a dream of a boy named Macklin unpaused. It’s only been two days now, and you were addicted. 

Macklin chose to spend the morning at another cafe, yours this time. He sat across from you and Will, his arms resting in front of him, whereas Will had one of his behind you. It wasn’t touching you, but it was there. It didn’t feel romantic, but almost brotherly. 

You were deep into a story about something that happened on tour. One of your dancers accidentally unplugged your speaker system (and snapped the cord)  when she almost tripped over the cord. You giggled remembering the chaos that ensued. Sure it wasn’t funny when it happened, but now you could appreciate it. You told them about how the weight of your electric guitar felt on your hands, about the stinging it left on your fingers when you went backstage after the show.

You spoke of the media it brought, the fans believing it happened on purpose in order for you to showcase your musical abilities. The piano, your crumbs, the guitar you learned one summer after your dad heard about your obsession with the Big Time Rush show and panic bought three.

The mention of your dad caused their eyebrows to raise. It was the first time you mentioned your family, which is quite normal since you’d only met them days ago. “Three guitars? Dang, you must’ve been happy.” Will gurgled between loud slips of his milkshake. 

You shrugged and picked at a croissant, “not really. Three guitars didn't make up for his absence.” You weren’t trying to trauma dump this early on, but their comforting presence made it feel welcomed. After all, they’d already spoken about their childhoods, hockey coming up now and then. You still weren’t aware what their jobs were, but you didn’t want to push.

You took a smile bite to gather up the courage. You tried to start nonchalantly, but your voice shook the same way it always did when you talked about your dad. “I used to see him every summer.” Your eyes burned, but tears weren’t beaded yet. “I’d spend hours wrapped up in his arms with his hands rubbing my back, soft reruns of shows I could only name after I coaxed them out of him.” The ghost of his touch caressed your body, a cruel chill stemming up from your bones.

“He would decorate my room with cheesy toys and clothes that didn’t fit right. But the walls stayed the same. Drawings I did when I was barely a toddler showcased around wherever I could reach.” You could see the squiggles you proudly named “Daddy and Me.” with an arrow that he helped you write, his hand warm as he guided your much smaller ones to wrap around the black pencil crayon. But once you started thinking about him, you couldn’t stop.

“I loved it at first. But then I got older and realized what it meant. The clothes didn't fit me because he didn’t know what size I was, only the size kids my kids were expected to be. The toys weren’t my thing, not when I was in my movie phase.” You spent at least twenty minutes stuck in nostalgia, both boys hanging off your every word and chiming in with small awed comments.

“I loved my dad until winter came around.” You tried to finish it off there, to no avail. “What happened when winter came around?” Macklin’s curiosity won. You looked at him with glassy eyes and a thinned smile, “He was gone.”

The silence didn't have time to make itself known before a familiar voice came from the end of your table. “For you, dear.” All three of you looked up, both boys looking confused, but you with a small smile. Will saw the way you tried to stand up to greet her and shifted out of the booth.

Both he and Macklin had a silent conversation as you and the woman before you talked. By the time you sat back down with a plate of desserts and the same drink as the second time you’d met her, and Will slid in beside you, the scene was different.

Both boys stared at the treats in front of you. And after you nudged it more in the middle, they dove in. “Do you know the owner here?” Will smoke through mouthfuls, your nose wrinkling up at his open-mouthed eating. But you nodded. You did know her, but not any more than you knew them.

“I met her a few days ago when she almost fell.” You smiled at the worry on their faces and clarified, “Don’t worry, she’s okay.” You didn’t mention the fact that when you woke up the next morning sans notifications you deep dived into everything about this cafe, and the owners. She was the main owner, and the other staff you usually see are her grandkids. She didn’t come around often, but something must’ve pulled her back after all these years.

Macklin didn't have anything special planned until mid-evening, when he was going to introduce you to their life. To his life. The three of you spent the day hopping between lowkey stores that he’d called ahead of time, pleading with the owners to close their shops to the public with the promise of promoting them the following week. When the NHL picked up again after the Olympic break.

After shopping he drove the three of you over to get your car. They followed you home, his car remaining visible in your mirrors the entire time. He left the car running when he pulled up right behind you. He hopped out without hesitation and opened the door for you with a shy smile and blotchy cheeks that burned crimson when you thanked him with a pretty smile.

Then he was pulling out with his arm wrapped around the passenger seat headrest, a singular hand twisting the wheel with enough ease to come off as natural. You were in the backseat this time, even though he offered to make Will move.

There wasn’t any small talk, or any loud singing. Until Will got aux. A familiar song started playing, and your head snapped forward. Will was turned towards you with a shit-eating grin, his lips already mouthing to your lyrics. Mack giggled the way he always did and sang aloud, his blush softened now.

“I’ll tell ‘em one by one, show ‘em one by one, twist my wrist.” Mack sang badly on purpose, completely off tune and in a way that you wish you’d recorded just to listen to again. Will piggybacked off of his friend and in a voice just as bad he continued, “Goes like this, start with the track, eyes on me, archin’ my back.” They alternated between lines, surprisingly not messing up. 

You didn’t join in until the next song, Revolving Door. You were barely halfway through the song when Macklin laid information on you, “When this song came out Will probably listened to it thirty times in the first two days,” You gasped and looked at Will, who nodded with enthusiasm. “Gotta rep Boston.” 

Right, his birth town. Your mouth opened in an O, you already forgot that they both went to school there. Still, you teased Will. “Aw! Are you my fan, Will?” He nodded the same way as before and dragged out his responses the way he did when you’d met him, “biggesttttt fan!”

“He’s not lying.” Mack solidified it, and he wasn’t lying. He had to endure many hours listening to your songs on loop. It wasn’t that he didn’t like your music, it’s just the fact that Will loved to overplay music for days. It was a coincidence that it happened to be you more often than not.

Your songs played one by one up until Macklin was pulling into a place you recognized right away. You’d recognize it by scent alone if you were to be blinded. You froze, your hands numb as you stared up at the arena from your window.

The boys jumped out, Will opening your door this time – which caused Macklin to playfully huff. You stepped out slowly, every hair in your body standing up straight. Macklin stayed back to match your pace whilst Will walked ahead, his voice spewing out his endless thoughts.

“You okay?” You almost reverted to your prior self, barely stopping your flinch before it happened. You fixed your face and nodded with an unconvincing smile, “Yep.” You popped your p. Mack, though not convinced, didn't push. He just smiled a small grin, his eyes still searching your face.

You could feel his hand twitching by his side as you walked. Did he want to hold your hand? No, you were definitely looking too much into it. You must’ve imagined the way his eyes glanced down at them between every other twitch, his eyes clouded as if he was deep in thought.

The warmth of the lobby hit you right away. It was weird being here during the hockey season. Usually, you’d come during early summer mornings, your eyes closed as you dreamt about your chalk waiting for you to get back to your dad’s house. Because while p it wasn’t rare that your dad brought you to early practices, you’d spent your entire time in small closed rooms. Uncomfortable couches become your temporary bed as you sleep with one of his away jerseys as a blanket.

Your eyes lingered on the ice that seemed bigger up close. This wasn’t a professional hockey arena, but a small, local one. You saw cases filled with figure skating awards, the small numbered ribbons placed beside that correlating badge for that level. 

Yes, there were some hockey cases too. But your eyes lingered on the young girls who beamed in their group photos. Pretty purple frills with matching San Jose-coded blue bows tied up in their hair. You felt a weird sense of longing. You would’ve loved to experience the ice the way they did, maybe in another life.

Mack disappeared behind a door after he asked for your shoe size, only to return with a pair two sizes smaller. “For a snug fit.” He shrugged when he carried them on his own, his own pair in his other hand. Will was the next to disappear, choosing to meet the two of you in a dressing room with a helmet in his hands. A bubble.

Macklin looked at the helmet and shook his head with a laugh, his gums exposed enough for your heart to skip a beat. Or two. “For you, Miss Singer.” He playfully bowed as he passed it to you, which made all three of you lose your composure and laugh like little kids. 

By the time the three of you were on the ice – which took longer than it was supposed to because Will kept laughing every time he glanced at the cage over your face, which made Macklin laugh, his fingers pausing their attempt to tie your skates. Because you didn't play hockey, or figure skate, you weren’t even sure if you’d ever skated outside of your yearly school friend trips.

You wobbled on the ice once before Macklin was already holding your hands – which he grabbed after getting your permission. Will skated circles around your slowly moving figures, chirps falling from his lips. “Lookin’ real professional, miss singer.” You weren’t sure what made him start calling you that today, but you weren’t hating it as much as the first time he said it.

You scoffed, your hands tightening around Macklin’s when he rotated your body too fast – to which he apologized for with a soft look, “As if you’re a professional, Will.” Both boys stopped skating suddenly enough to not only make you wobble, but also for misted snow to come shooting at your skates.

Their faces were shocked, both of their eyes wide as they stared at you in disbelief. “What?” You nervously bit your lip, did you say something wrong? You were so prepared to make new friends on your own terms you’d forgotten about the fact that they’d need to feel the same. Did you ruin it already?

“Did you…” Will skated up to you, his shoulder pressing against Macklin’s. “Do you not recognize us?” Now you were confused, enough for it to bleed onto your face. “Oh my god?” Will wiped his hand across his face before slapping Macklin’s shoulder. “Dude, she doesn't know.”

Now it all made sense to them, everything from the day you met to now lining up. Why you looked normal when they first said their names. Why you gave them a weird look when people stared at them too long. Why you paused when you’d arrived at the arena.

“Y/n, we’re professional hockey players,” Macklin said it so gently you almost missed it, what? “You’re what?” They both nodded, “Yep, for the San Jose Sharks.” Will shook his head, his eyes still in awe. “I didn’t know.” Your voice shook, your hands trembling enough for Macklin to feel from his hold in you.

“Hey, that’s okay. You’re okay.” He was quick to reassure you, his thumbs rubbing circles on your hand. But it wasn’t okay, not really. Hockey was the thing you ran away from when you moved here, and now, when you finally opened up your heart once again, it followed. Macklin looked anxious, and his voice sounded with the same feeling, “It doesn’t change anything, right? We’re still Will and Macklin, the boys you've been hanging out with for days,” You nodded and said okay, but you didn’t mean it. It changed everything.

You kept it in the back of your mind for the rest of the day. It only came up one more time when the boys took turns shooting a puck through your shaking legs after Will made Macklin go get from his car after only twenty minutes on the ice.

But by the time they made you act like Bambi disguised as a goalie, you’d already gotten over it. They weren’t your dad, they probably never talked to him more than a few seconds, maybe a chirp or two landing. When it was Macklin’s turn to play the goalie, you basked in victory. He deflected all of Will’s shots, but used his skate to push the gloves you guys used as the net bounds for enough for your super out puck to come gliding in.

When he declared you the winner with a loud laugh and warm hands that rested against your waist to guide you to circle a faux disappointed Will, you loved whatever version of hockey they made for you. Your music career is going to love it even more, and your notebook is undoubtedly going to be littered with a few more songs by the time tomorrow rolls around.

After a few hours at the rink that Macklin also rented out, he brought you back to his and Will’s apartment. You spent the late night watching highlights of them playing, which made them look more excited than you've ever seen. There was a childlike gleam in their eyes as they explained plays. They shit on bad calls and icings that cost them a few victories. And for the first time in your life, hockey wasn’t about your dad.

The next few days flew by too fast. You’d spent all hours of the day with the boys, your bonds strengthening with time. The day after Macklin’s day was the first time you spent the night, your body too tired to love, your stomach full with oven-made s’mores – A recipe Will admitted to stealing from TikTok.

You woke up to Big Time Rush reruns, the exact ones you got the boys to watch last night after hearing they’d never heard of it besides the times you’d spoken about it. The lady at your cafe learned their names by their third visit, and by the fourth, they were already drinking the same drink she made just for you,

They infiltrated every inch of your life, and you loved it. Eventually, your break came to an end, but your friendship thrived. Weekly sleepovers included the same s’mores – Will sometimes trying to sneak in his pistachio mix that he had memorized by now. 

You actually found yourself watching their games over your phone between studio sessions, your new album is planned to be released within the next few months. You’d spam their phones with congratulations, or soft encouragements after each game. 

It was the day before their game against the Blackhawks when you called for your bi-daily FaceTime. You were in a hotel room that felt less stuffy than usual, your face squished against your pillow as your tired eyes stared at your reflection on your screen. Your bags disappeared enough to be hidden perfectly under light makeup, your sleepless nights scurrying off with your friends on the other line.

Macklin was the first to answer, his face still glowing from yesterday's win against Nashville. “Hey, Mackie.” You took on the nickname a few weeks ago after he surprised you with a customer jersey that had your first name on the back, and his and Will’s numbers – one on each arm. “Hi, pretty.” Also a new nickname, one that Will always mocked without fail. 

Which is why it was suspicious when no other voice chimed in. You were about to question it before you heard his distinct voice calling out in the background, “Mack! Don’t call little Miss singer until after my shower!” Macklin didn't try to hide his laugh when he saw the expression on your face, which meant you heard it.

Will’s groan was loud enough to get caught by Macklin’s microphone when the younger boy countered his request, saying you called them first. Macklin pushed his damp hair back with one hand and adjusted his phone, his eyes openly moving across your face with a cute smile. “I miss you.” He was earnest, his voice barely louder than his room's AC. 

You melted into his soft words and reciprocated the saying. But knowing you had a secret, you weren’t as sad as he was. “Are you excited for summer break?” He already knew you were, but he still asked. Just to see the way you’ll light up, to see your excited smile. You've been counting down the days until their summer break starts, plans of bringing them around with you for a few weeks enough to get you through the harder days where the world felt as heavy as it used to before them.

You nodded, “super excited! I’ve never been a fan of winter.” He knew why, but he also knew that he had been trying to change your mind. He wanted you to love it, to look forward to it the same way both he and Will always did. “I’ll change your mind.” Your head tilted with a half-confused smile, “What?”

Macklin looked more serious than you've ever seen him, and he nodded again. “When winter comes around again, you’ll love it.” You laughed like it was a joke, a quiet sure thing coming from your lips. But he doubled down, “You won’t be alone next time. You’ll have me.” Before it could get too serious, Will gasped from the door. “Um… and me?”

Will sat down beside Macklin, his bare chest exposed. He waved with a vigour he never failed to pretend didn’t exist. “I miss you more than Mack.” Macklin rolled his eyes with a shake of his head, and you smiled and playfully whispered back, “I believe you.”

The three of you talked into the night, up until it was getting late enough for all three of your eyes to begin dropping. You tried your best to hide the fact that you were in a hotel, and maybe it was because of their exhaustion, or maybe you just did a really good job, they didn’t realize.

Your phones stayed connected through the night and into the morning, them hanging up only when they met Tyler Toffoli, whom you’d met a few times while picking or dropping the boys off for practice, for breakfast. You woke up shortly after, your body naturally rising without an alarm.

You were excited, your body alive with nerves when you stepped out of the shower. Your housecoat felt softer than usual against your skin, perhaps because of the number of times you've exfoliated lately. A mixture of album nerves causing enough brain fog for you to do everything twice.

Your tights were the first thing you put on after your undergarments, a dark blue colour that matched spots on your jersey. Well, both of your jerseys. You weren’t sure which one you should wear yet. Your first choice was the one Macklin had made, your hands drifting towards it. But then again, you weren’t a regular fan. You were invited by the other team to sing the national anthem long before you’d ever met the boys. It was after a successful concert there, one where almost all players and their significant others attended.

Back then when your manager first accepted it you dreaded it. But now, you were nothing less than thankful. So you played it safe and grabbed both. You’ll wear the Blackhawks one for all public appearances, but change into your Sharks one after making it to your private suite.

Your manager’s voice faded into the background the closer you got to the arena, your heart stuck in your chest. You entered the arena earlier than the fans, and in an area that was constricted to only the home team players. You stopped a few times to talk to a few players that you recognized, having done your research before arriving. 

Specifically, you talked to Connor Bedard. You knew of him for a few different reasons, one being the fact that he’s friends with Macklin. Your conversation lasted around five minutes before your manager beckoned you over. You’d parted with a silly handshake, both your smiles evident.

You knew some media people were around so you were on your best behaviour, your Blackhawks jersey feeling imposterious knowing you weren’t exactly cheering for them, not that anyone knew. Your manager's bag held the real jersey that you cared about, the one you were itching to get your hands on.

It was hard to find a time to sneak off between all the photos the media team had you posing for, and the short interviews they scripted. But you found it, and you were off. You weren’t sure where you were going, but it was in the opposite direction so it must’ve been the right way. Because that’s definitely how it works.

You heard a few voices from down the hall after three minutes of blindly walking, and you perked up. Then you heard a loud scream of misery that your mind clocked as Macklin’s. He screamed about forfeiting, saying everyone else sucks. You were almost there, your body counting on your feet as you neared. Then you made the mistake of pausing to glance around the corner to where the boys were playing with a ball. Michael Misa, Sam Dickinson, Collin Graf, William Eklund, and your favourite two boys.

You waited a second too long before you heard one of their teammates start talking. “So now Mack is too good to play with us, huh?” You paused, your chest filling with a weird defensive energy. You knew his teammates were joking, but you didn’t know the context so you were offended on his part. Sure his season was good, but that doesn’t mean he was suddenly too good for them?

Then the heartbreak followed. Another teammate laughed, “Too busy kissing on Crosby’s daughter–“ he said more, but you couldn’t hear it. Crosby’s daughter? Betrayal burned like the lava that filled your eyes and you staggered back on weak ankles. 

Like you were the butt of a joke, another person added, “First, he goes off to Milan for the Olympics, then he gets close enough to Sidney Crosby to learn about his secret daughter, and now both he and Will are best friends with her?”

Milan, your hands shook, Macklin went to the Olympics? The pieces fell into place. Macklin, a Canadian athlete, played with Sydney Crosby, your dad, at the Olympics. Macklin, your Macklin. The one you confided in about your father, about how much he’d hurt you. He sat there and pretended like he cared, pretending that he didn’t already know. 

He almost let you love him. All these almost’s fell into place, and you fell out of them. Your throat burned as the sobs forced their way out, your presence already long gone before you allowed the first sniffle to sound. You yanked open a door to a random room when your body got too heavy to hold, your back sliding down against the door as you curled into yourself.

Meeting them wasn’t a coincidence, was it? Somehow they knew you’d be there at that exact time, knew you’d be alone. They pretended that you were a stranger, a random girl who sat with a leather jacket that you’d fought to prove was real.

It was a lie. Everything was a lie. They never cared for you, not the same way you did for them. Because you, you would’ve never done this to them. Until now you thought your dad was evil, but now you have realized that no one was as evil as Macklin and Will. 

You regretted everything. Every lyric you wrote about them, every secret you've ever told deep into the long nights, every message you've ever typed. Macklin was right in one way though, he did change your mind. You didn’t just dislike winter, you hated it. And you were sure that the next time it came around, you weren’t going to be here.

There wasn’t anything holding you to San Jose, you realized. You could easily go anywhere, studios were located all over the states. Your manager actually tried convincing you to move to Anaheim a few weeks ago. But at the time, you outright refused. But now? You considered it. Maybe you’d be the fool they thought you were by running away, but it’s what you did best. 

You've become a pro at packing your bags and leaving without a trace, ask anyone who’s ever known you for proof. Your phone vibrated in your pocket, which you fished out with trembling hands.

It was a text from Will. Before every game, you sent them a photo of you in your jersey, whether you were home or not. But instead of getting the photo he requested, you blocked both their numbers and locked your phone. You didn’t leave the group chat, not when you knew they were both huddled around Will’s phone waiting for a response, 

You saw the time before you put the phone away, it was ten minutes before you were supposed to go out. So, you played the role you used to have mastered. Your walk to your room was quiet, nothing but soft sniffles landing. By the time you opened your door, there were three minutes left.

Everyone was out waiting near the area you’d enter from. The room was bare except for the snacks you’d requested, and a bag that you recognized as your manager's. It hurts to open it and see the jersey inside, but as long as you don’t touch it, it doesn't exist in your mind.

After a few years of rushing between short outfit changes you’d mastered the art of fixing makeup in a limited time. Your makeup was already back to perfect when the sharp knock sounded, a staff official letting you know that your cue was coming.

On your way there, you realized something. The only way to get rid of ghosts was to confront them, to become them. So you whispered a plan into your manager's ear, one that might change the entire trajectory of your life. You weren’t going to be a secret anymore, not when secrets had a history of ruining your life.

The silence of the crowd when the announcer announced your name, your real name, dads last name and all, didn't compare to the roar that vibrated the ice when you stepped out. The microphone was held just under your chin, and your other hand was pressed against your chest. Unlike your dad, you were born in Pittsburgh. So coming into the world you were American. And coming out his daughter, you were red white and blue.

You tried your best to avoid looking over at the sharks, knowing two familiar pairs of eyes would be locked on you. But you couldn’t stop your eyes from wandering halfway through. Macklin Celerbini, and Will Smith, stood there gaping at you. Their faces etched with disbelief and something you couldn’t name.

They both tried to smile at you discreetly enough to be unseen by the crowd, but you didn’t react. Your blank eyes were worse than whatever anger they could’ve held. Will was the first to realize something they missed when they read your name, and it was the use of Crosby, the name you've spent your life running from.

Hot panic rose through his body. You knew. He was just about to turn to tell Macklin, when he noticed his eyes glazed over, Macklin knew too. But right now, as they were about to start their second-to-last regular-season game, there was nothing they could do but watch as you turned on your heels and walked out.

Macklin stood frozen when he processed the look on your face, and memories from the week before he met you came in flashbacks.

Macklin could feel his legs shaking from a mixture of nerves and something more. They’d just won Silver. Not Gold, but Silver. He was spiralling in his own mind, his thoughts loud enough for him to miss Sydney Crosby crossing the room to sit in his stall, which was right beside Macklin’s.

He didn’t play the final game, his injury happening at the worst possible time. But he knew what it was like to lose something you wanted more than anything, so he comforted him the only way he could think of. His hand landed against Macklin’s back suddenly enough for the young boy to jump in fright, his eyes wide and glassy as he looked into the hockey legend's eyes.

“I’m sorry–“ Macklin began apologizing for anything he could think of. For losing. For not being good enough. For not living up to the expectations people had for him going into today’s game. For not being as good as the man he was talking to.

But the older man shook his head and cut him off with a stern voice, “Don’t apologize for trying your best, Celebrini.” Mack’s frown didn't lift, so Sydney tried to distract him by admitting something he’s never told anyone besides his closest friends, and teammates.

“You remind me of someone.” Macklin tilted his head when Sydney started, his eyebrows furrowing at the ss look that crossed the older man’s eyes, “Of my daughter.” Macklin froze,p and his mouth dropped, it was enough to make him forget about everything he was sure would haunt him for the next four years.

“I haven’t seen her in years, she moved to San Jose early spring in 2022, almost four years ago.” Macklin stayed silent, and Sydney’s grip grew tighter around his shoulder. Sydney told him about the things he now knew you liked because right when you pulled away, that was when he really learned. He spoke of cafes and certain clothing stores. He whispered out your name through bitten lips, and with eyes as delicate as Mack’s he asked the thing he's been sitting in.

“She’s amazing, Macklin. But she’s alone.” This wasn’t the best time to ask such a thing of a heartbroken boy, but Sydney Crosby was a man who lived in milliseconds. “I think you’ll be able to help each other. You with the loss, and she with her loneliness.” Macklin didn't know why he agreed to such a thing, but he was desperate to feel okay again.

So he went to his room and called Will. They started searching all the Cafes in San Jose, and the day Macklin got back they’d begun hitting them, two a day. 

But when he agreed he expected a singular day with you, a fleeting memory that would fade with time. He didn’t plan to fall in love, but Sydney was right. You were amazing. And watching you disappear behind the door was worse than losing Gold. Because the Gold he could chase again in a few years. But you? You were gone by the time his game ended.

All that was left was a voicemail. He didn’t know that he was blocked earlier, then unblocked for just enough time for you to leave a voicemail. You knew he wouldn’t answer, so you did it then. Will was left with one too, just as heavy, just as heartbreaking.

Macklin listened to his the entire way back to San Jose after their game against the Jets, because while you could go home during the game, he was stuck on a tight schedule. He was in Winnipeg, too far to stop you from leaving.

By the time he and Will landed and hopped in Macklin’s car – Will driving because Macklin hasn’t stopped shaking since you blocked them. Your place was empty, and you were gone. And he and Will wouldn’t see you again until the next winter came around, when he found himself at another cafe, buried somewhere in Anaheim before a game against the Ducks. (Which also wasn’t much of a coincidence. Both he and Will spent months trying to convince the owner of your former favourite cafe to give them your address, which she only gave under one condition. To bring you home.)

But until then, all he had to prove your existence was the only thing you’d left. The voicemail, and the realization that he’d lost the only person he’d ever be able to love as much as he loved you, even if it was only for a few months.

And even thought Will wasn’t in love with you, he loved you like a sister. Enough to feel the lack of you, to miss you when not even Macklin could fill the gaps you left. Without your giggle to bounce off theirs.

“You knew. You both knew, and you still did it. I should've known that it was too good to be true, that I was too happy for it to be genuine. But you’re just like everyone back at home. You’re not special to me anymore, Macklin. You’re just mean. You’re worse than every friend I've ever had that found out, worse than every friend that used me for my name. Because I actually trusted you, I even started loving you. Was that your plan all along? To make me fall in love with you, to believe that you and Will actually cared about me? Everything always circles back to Sydney Crosby, I can never be happy if I’m still hiding behind him.” You paused long enough for Macklin to think your call ended here the first time he listened to it, but then your voice came back softer than before. You weren’t just crying, you were sobbing. “Even now I just wish you guys would’ve told me the truth from the start, or even from the day you told me you were hockey players. Because maybe we could’ve ended differently, maybe it would've been enough for me to stay. But I hope it was all worth it, Macklin. I really hope it was. Don’t tell anyone that you knew me, because I never knew you.”