Nothing

except everything logan's worked towards, all the glory he rightfully deserves, he's only gotten from the az/uta beat and the occasional wc based hockey pod while everything else goes to mack

being the youngest son born into a rich family neck-deep in the sports world is already a weight that's impossible for any kid to carry, but it's easier when you're talented, and talent is real, it's always been real, there's proof in the way these two kids skate. the first step in fostering talent is realising you have it--the second step is getting addicted to it. these two kids get dragged out to try outs (one kicking and screaming no matter how hard his mother tried to calm him down, one swallowing back all words at the look from the corner of his father's gaze) and they hit the ice and they fly.

and they never look back

there's two childhood bedrooms nearly identical in shape and size, with the bed closer to the door and the window shades permanently dusty and clothing strewn all over. the one in north van has a display shelf full of trophies next to a nice big canucks poster and a smaller but just as nice sidney crosby poster perfectly aligned. the one in pittsburgh is a mess of juniors jerseys, sticky tacked newspaper clippings, and so so much fucking ovechkin merch, it could be it's own shrine. there's an ovi sticker inside the sock drawer, and every time you pull it open to reach for new socks, ovi stares back with his hart and his pearson and his art ross and his rocket richard and his terrible late 2000's haircut and his smile

(mack picks sidcros because every canadian kid picks sidcros. logan picks ovi because his brothers already like kane, so kane is off the table, and everyone else in town likes sidcros, so sidcros is off the table, and logan has to be different. everything about them as kids are the same, except this one thing, because logan has to be different--he needs to be different)

separated by two years and a country border and thousands of miles, there's a kid taking face-offs and practising long, sage award acceptance speeches in the shower, cramming on a yellow and black toque with his sedin 22 jersey when he goes to watch the penguins at the canucks, and there's a kid moving his non dominant hand up the stick and pulling out the most annoying cellies for meaningless peewee games, forcing his whole family to wear red when they go out for the capitals at the penguins. they're loud and they've got toothy smiles and they never really grow out of that baby fat (and they both hate that so, so much)

there's friendships that falter because they're introverted and terrible with new people but won't admit it there's always more hockey to be played, there's brothers who grit their teeth and push and push but never grasp at half the success they do, there's parents who have to watch them take a plane and head hours away for college because no matter how hard they tried, they couldn't keep them tied down. there's more winning and world juniors and college--and then there's losing and frozen four and losing frozen four

there's temper--so much fucking temper. ugly checks, too many penalty minutes for this much talent, bitten tongues, snapping at teammates during intermission. feelings that boil under the surface, threatening to set every inch of skin on fire. big egos that have to be reigned in by stern captains, skills honed to razor sharp blades cutting through all the competition in their conferences, competitive urges that keep their feet planted at the flip cup table. impatient hands, impatient feet, impatient impatient antsy impatient, and throwing themselves right into the show. facing the noise at 19, because nothing will ever be big enough for them in college cities

except this is where things split. because logan cooley went third overall, highest ever for a player from pittsburgh, highest of his pack of yotes, and proceeded to have an awful rookie year. the last words ever posted on r/coyotes before the kachina went down is a thread calling cools a bust. fighting and grasping and begging for ice time, watching his team give up around him and being helpless to force them back upright. playing in the mullett for pocket-sized crowds, lifelong fans that died with the reds, that couldn't be paid to step foot into the delta center. breaking sticks out of rage and watching shadows climb up the penalty glass and swearing up and down to a god he doesn't believe in that next season will look different--it has to look different. the powder blues in slc will fit over his shoulders snug if he has anything to say about it

but macklin celebrini gets it. macklin celebrini gets the first overall and macklin celebrini comes back from injury and macklin fucking celebrini lights up the wc like a goddamn fucking rocket. the sharks are tanking, everyone knows the sharks are tanking, yet somehow he's making highlight reel plays every week, all while logan's packing up his bags to lug to a new state while arizona says goodbye to the 52 year history it was too cheap to keep alight. macklin celebrini's pissy and he's easily ragebaited and he's lightning in a bottle and the yotes should've committed to one last tank so they could draft him how could they miss out on him and all this bullshit and logan's heard enough about this fucking guy to last a lifetime

that december game, the hunger would be fucking crazy, the kind that pulls at your teeth and tears into your lungs and claws in your stomach--the kind of hunger that festers into something ugly and bitter and hot when it's tied in the third period of a dogshit game that keeps going nowhere, the kind of game where everyone's slammed someone into the boards or shoved someone out of their way or slashed without caring about the bones underneath, all of it dragging out the kind of hunger that wants to taste blood

logan gets the first hit in, and the second, and the third and--

mack gets the rest. it's not even close

it gets worse each time, uglier each time, hungrier each time. obsession processes hunger into anger, and if there's one thing mack and logan are more obsessed with than winning, it's hockey--if there's a second thing they're more obsessed with than winning and hockey, it's themselves. it's harder to own your ego when it smiles at you sharp around a chewed-up mouth guard on the other side of the dot, when it scores on you off a play that doesn't even look humanly possible. it's harder to stay level when the stare being levelled at you over the shoulder of a ref is the same set of eyes you see in the mirror every night: the same set of eyes that dares you to play better, that bets against you every night

no one knows how to play you better than you. mack will never outplay logan, but logan will never outskate mack. they're each other's worst nightmare, because they're each other and they are their own worst nightmare--all the holes, all the flaws, all the brains and the hands and the creativity and the edgework and the desperate need to prove a point that's already been made, everything wrong with logan but everything right with logan are all shoved into this taller, brawnier, younger piece of shit from north van. and one of them is, very obviously, better

every fight, all the bruises and the bites and the blood, keeps them fed. every taste makes the hunger grow, because the hunger never has enough. satisfaction, satiation, contentment, these are not words you learn when you're born talented. 4 goals and 8 assists and gold to bite down on isn't enough, 8x10 isn't enough, the first natty hatty in franchise history isn't enough, not for logan's hunger. because mack's still getting all the lights and the crowds and the flowers, and he gets to play with his hero, and he gets the A, and he gets to watch his team of superstars in the making blossom while logan helps his two best friends pack for the fucking buffalo sabres. it's almost funny, when mack loses the calder too

shoving macklin celebrini, punching him, flipping him over and tackling him to the ice, it's more than just shutting up the one person no one on his side of the states can shut up about, it's more than just feeding the roaring fire in his veins every time blue plays teal. both locker rooms feel it, the weight in the air and the sharpness in every inhale every time they see each other again. there's a need in there, a desperation to be on top of a race no one's watching, an itch that won't get scratched until every muscle hurts and every organ screams in pain by the time they're being pulled apart

it's logan fighting himself, fighting what he could've been, fighting what he needs to be, fighting what he wants to be and winning. because logan wins the one in october. that one's not close either

maybe it's because the fight is never close. maybe it's because, deep down, we already know who will be the franchise star and who will be the league star. maybe it's because underneath the arrogance, underneath the pride, there's a truth logan hates more than he hates how he's improving too slow, a truth he knows will become a fact years down the line, a truth that feels much better absolutely decking with his fists than it does being swallowed. there's a reason why they only talk about one and not the other, and for that reason, logan's going to throw himself in every time to give the media something else to talk about. yeah he has two hat tricks on the season too now, go fuck yourself

which sticks out to me. because there's a truth mack hates, and there's a truth mack knows will become a fact, and there's a truth mack would rather punch than swallow. it's just that mack doesn't punch first. maybe that truth is named connor bedard maybe that truth is the same, that he's improving too slow, that he's not good enough for himself, that underneath the arrogance, underneath the pride, there's a little kid who's quick to cry and quicker to get pissed, a little kid who doesn't text his brother(s) enough, a little kid who was born talented and stayed talented and is terrified more than anything that the talent will run thin soon

they're two sides of the same coin, the same word in two different fonts (or maybe the same idiom--weather the storm), the same archetype dropped into two different worlds. there's three two big kids holding onto three two little kids separated by a few states and a few hundred miles. and they're setting the western conference on fire. all three of them both of them are screaming. one of them is trying to scream louder.

all of us are watching and waiting for them to take over. the future is up, and which way it falls will only be a matter of time. but even then, it still won't be enough for them

anyway here's a photo of the logan mack fight because it makes me laugh every time i see it they look like feral animals