kneesocks

Every morning, [WILLMACK BABY] wakes up in his own room at the Smith house, sunlight spilling across dinosaur sheets and the little bookshelf Bill built for him. He pads down the hallway in his pajamas, hair sticking up in every direction, and climbs straight into Will’s childhood bed for morning cuddles with his dad.

[WILLMACK BABY] spends breakfasts helping Colleen make pancakes, which mostly means standing on a chair and stirring empty bowls with tremendous concentration while flour somehow ends up on his nose, his cheeks, and his hair.

“Perfect,” Colleen praises with a delighted laugh each morning. She says it with the exact same certainty she probably used when Will was that age.

Bill takes over after breakfast. Every day he heads out with Rigney and [WILLMACK BABY], usually with his grandson perched on his shoulders like a tiny king surveying his kingdom. They walk through the neighbourhood and [WILLMACK BABY] points out every dog, squirrel, and passing car with excitement.

It’s a much needed reset after a season that had been long and exhausting. Months of hockey and travel and pressure and airports and hotels. It makes Will happy to see [WILLMACK BABY] getting to be a toddler again instead of a kid living out of suitcases, being passed between San Jose and Livermore depending on game schedules and childcare and whatever fresh chaos the Sharks decided to throw at them each day.

Here, [WILLMACK BABY] gets to stay in one place. He gets to wake up in the same bed every morning. He gets to spend hours chasing bubbles in the backyard and helping Bill water flowers and following Rigney around like they’re partners in whatever important business occupies dogs and toddlers.

And Will gets looked after, too. His mother makes enough food to feed an army. His father quietly handles every little inconvenience before they become problems. Nobody expects him to be anything except a tired hockey player trying to ease his way into the offseason.

It’s nice. Maybe a little too nice.

And that’s where the catch comes in, because every night, right around bedtime, everything falls apart. Every night, [WILLMACK BABY] remembers exactly who’s missing.

The six hour time difference is brutal. By the time [WILLMACK BABY] is ready for bed each night, it’s already well past midnight for Mack.

And yet, without fail, Mack calls every night. Will falls a little bit more in love with him every single time.

For twenty uninterrupted minutes, [WILLMACK BABY] delivers a comprehensive report on everything that happened that day. He shows Mack every toy in the house, discusses every snack he’s eaten that day, and gives him a full rundown of his adventures with Rigney. Mack laughs from some hotel room halfway across the world, his face grainy with bad Wi-Fi and the time difference turning the shadows beneath his eyes dark. Will can see the exhaustion pulling at Mack and yet he dutifully listens to [WILLMACK BABY]’s every word.

Eventually, though, the call has to end. Kisses are blown and goodnights and love you’s are exchanged and everything is fine until the screen of Will’s phone goes dark.

It always starts with a tiny frown and a confused blink.

“Dada?”

Will’s stomach sinks immediately because he already knows what comes next. [WILLMACK BABY]’s small hand starts smacking against the dark screen as his voice wobbles. 

“Dada?”

The phone remains dark and the tears arrive. They’re not the overdramatic tears of frustration Will’s come to expect from his son when he gets told he can’t eat dog treats with Rigney.

These are full-on, devastated sobs of pure, unadulterated grief. [WILLMACK BABY] cries like his little heart is breaking.

Will gathers him up, settling into the rocking chair in the corner of [WILLMACK BABY]’s room as [WILLMACK BABY] cries harder, burying his face against Will’s neck.

“Hey, hey,” Will murmurs, bouncing him gently. “You’re okay. Daddy’s here, buddy. I’ve got you”

[WILLMACK BABY] shakes his head violently.

“Dada.”

“I know.”

“Want Dada.”

Will presses a kiss into his hair.

“I know, Teddy Bear.”

Will rubs circles across his back and rocks him and hums the tune Mack usually uses to settle him but nothing works because what [WILLMACK BABY] wants isn’t comfort. What he wants is Mack.

And honestly, Will can’t even fault the kid. Will kind of wants to cry about missing Mack too.

When Bill appears in the doorway, [WILLMACK BABY] is hiccuping so hard he’s struggling to catch his breath. Will doesn’t look up, too focused on rubbing circles between [WILLMACK BABY]’s shoulder blades and trying to soothe him through the worst of it.

“Everything okay in here?” Bill asks softly.

Will finally glances up. [WILLMACK BABY] is red-faced and soaked in tears, tiny fists twisted tightly in Will’s shirt. His face is buried against Will’s neck, seeking comfort the only way he knows how.

“Yeah,” Will says automatically.

It isn’t even remotely true.

Heat creeps up the back of Will’s neck as he imagines what his dad is thinking as he watches the three year old root around at Will’s neck. 

They’d worked so hard on weaning, making slow progress over the last few months, but the end of the season had been chaotic and filled with road trips and different cities every week before they went back to Vancouver as part of Mack’s prep for Germany and now they’re here. It had been too much change all at once for poor [WILLMACK BABY] and he’d slid right back into old habits. 

Will had warned his parents before they came because Colleen made her opinions quite clear about [WILLMACK BABY]’s suckling over Christmas. Still, embarrassment burns low in his stomach when he notices Bill politely looking away as [WILLMACK BABY]’s loud sucking noises pick up. 

“He just—he won’t settle without Mack,” Will whispers. “I know I shouldn’t be letting him suckle but…”

Bill’s expression softens but before he can say anything, Colleen appears behind him carrying one of [WILLMACK BABY]’s favourite blankets.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Her voice is so gentle it almost makes Will emotional. She crosses the room and drapes the blanket over [WILLMACK BABY]’s back before smoothing a hand through Will’s hair.

“Leave him be.”

Will blinks at his mother in surprise.

“Huh?”

“He’s little,” Colleen says with a shrug. “His routine’s completely upside down and he misses his dada.”

At the word dada, [WILLMACK BABY] lets out another broken sob. Colleen hushes him gently, rubbing the toddler’s back before looking at Will again.

“Just make sure he feels safe,” she says softly. “Everything else can wait until he has Mack back.”

Will’s throat tightens unexpectedly as he settles deeper into the rocking chair and tightens his hold on the toddler. [WILLMACK BABY]’s still sucking determinedly at Will’s neck, like if he sucks hard enough he can drag Mack’s scent out of Will, when Colleen and Bill quietly drift away toward their own room.

Little by little, the sobs become sniffles before devolving into sleepy little sighs. Eventually, [WILLMACK BABY] goes completely limp against his chest.

The room is dark except for the soft glow of [WILLMACK BABY]’s night-light. Will thinks of Mack, curled up in some hotel room in Germany, exhausted and probably missing them both just as badly. Will knows he’s probably scrolling through the photos Colleen’s been sending of [WILLMACK BABY] each day instead of sleeping.

The thought makes something ache sharply beneath Will’s ribs.

His phone buzzes on the arm of the chair. Carefully, he picks it up without disturbing the sleeping toddler.

MACK: did he fall asleep yet MACK: tell him dada loves him if he’s still awake

Will stares at the messages for a long moment then opens his camera app and angles his phone carefully to snap a shot of [WILLMACK BABY] tucked beneath his chin. His cheeks are blotchy from crying and his eyelashes are clumped with tears. One of his tiny hands remains curled in Will’s shirt.

The edge of Will’s neck is visible too, a faint bruise already beginning to bloom where [WILLMACK BABY] had been gnawing on him.

WILL: he’s down for the count WILL: but he knows baby WILL: we love you too

The typing bubble appears, disappears, and then reappears.  Will smiles, picturing Mack flicking back and forth between typing out a response and zooming in on the photo, trying to memorize every detail.

Eventually the reply comes.

MACK: god i miss you both so bad it hurts