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Julie LeClair knows very well who Will Smith is. For the past 3 summers, he’s been coming to Willowbend expecting her to let him drink with that lame-ass fake ID. He thinks with a wink and brush of that blonde curly hair she’ll melt and give him his way, but no. Except this summer, she can’t tell him no. He’s officially 21, and he’s planning to spend as much time at the country club as possible.
Julie
-23
-Leo
-Bartending at Willowbend country club during the summer, teaching 2nd grade during the school year.
-Fiercely independent and self-sufficient. Does not need or want a man!
-No relationship with her family due to her not wanting any part in the family Law Business.
reading the most insane primer in the whole world. when people reference the usntdp, there's always this aura of heaviness present and finally searching it up and reading it literally broke down my whole psyche because wtf is that fucking program. the amount of content that detailed smitty's experience from it, the abuse, the psychological torture, and the absolute power imbalance that were happening in that program.
it really puts into perspective why the bc line are so close even now and no matter how messy or how seemingly they've drift apart, they can't get rid of each other, they've trauma bonded.
reading all the articles and sources that were listed in the primer just makes me more saddened and angry about smitty's place in the sharks. oh im so fucking angry about warso omfg, i have to kill that guy. smitty doesn't deserve to get treated like whatever the fuck happened in the latter half of the season. not only that but the increasing talks about trading, benching, and so much hate that he receives especially now is so goddamn frustrating.
still despite all of that shit happening to him, he still maintained relatively true to his personality despite how seemingly the usntdp tried to get rid of it. same with the players i've imprinted while being in the hockey fandom who happened to also survived that program (z and cole).
i urged everyone to read the primer especially those who are new to the fandom and/ those who just were here for the willmack of it all. it's critical wsh lore and it's truly such a fascinating read about the absolute insanity that is the north american ice hockey sports. pt.1, pt.1.1, pt.1.2, pt.1.3, will in usntdp
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summary: You‘re attending BU and your boyfriend has come back into town just in time for Marmon which ends with a little tipsy Macklin
warnings: underaged drinking ig but cmon he‘s canadian…
masterlist
The music is loud enough that it sort of blurs into the background, bass thumping through the floorboards of the frat house while sunlight pours in through half-open windows. It’s too early in the day for this level of chaos, but it’s Boston Marathon Monday, which means nobody cares.
You’re wedged between your friends in the kitchen, red cup in hand, laughing at something that probably isn’t even that funny anymore. The air smells like cheap beer and sweat and something citrusy someone spilled twenty minutes ago. Every few seconds, someone shouts, someone stumbles, someone starts chanting for no reason.
Mack had been fine earlier.
More than fine actually. Annoyingly charming, a little buzzed, arm slung around your shoulders while he kept pressing quick kisses into your hair like he had to make sure you’re real, after having been away from you for so long. Then he’d gotten dragged off by his brother and a group of guys chanting something about a keg, and you’d just laughed, letting him go.
That had been… a while ago.
Your phone buzzes in your hand, but you ignore it for the moment, still mid-conversation, until someone bumps into you hard enough that your drink sloshes over the rim.
“Okay,” you laugh, stepping back, already excusing yourself from your friends. “I’m gonna go find him before he—”
You don’t even finish the sentence before you spot him. Across the living room, trying, and failing, to walk in a straight line.
You immediately start laughing.
“Macklin—” you push through people just in time to catch him as he stumbles over absolutely nothing, your hands grabbing his arms before he can faceplant into the hardwood.
“Whoa, okay,” you steady him, biting back a grin as he blinks down at you, eyes glassy and unfocused.
“Oh,” he breathes, like he just discovered something incredible. “There you are.”
His grip on you tightens instantly, like he’s afraid you might disappear again.
You take him in properly now. His cheeks flushed, eyes bloodshot, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat despite the fact it’s barely 40 degrees outside. He looks like an absolute mess.
“What happened to you?” you laugh, pushing his damp hair back from his forehead.
He groans, letting his head tip forward until it drops onto your shoulder, his full weight leaning into you. “Someone made me do a keg stand,” he mumbles into your collarbone.
“Someone?” you repeat skeptically.
“I was peer pressured,” he insists weakly. “It was aggressive.”
You huff a laugh, adjusting your stance so he doesn’t drag you down with him while your fingers absentmindedly comb through his hair again, brushing it back as he stays tucked into you, eyes closed now like he might fall asleep right there.
“Why are you handling this better?” he mutters after a second, voice muffled. “It’s not fair.”
You grin, tilting your head slightly so your cheek rests against his hair. “I’m in my third year of college while you’re off ripping up the NHL,” you say. “Of course I’m better at drinking than you.”
He makes a soft, offended noise but doesn’t argue, just burrows closer.
Your phone buzzes again in your hand.
You shift slightly, pulling it out while still holding him up with your other arm.
A message from Will pops up.
Will: Why’s Mack doing keg stands and why’s he terrible at it????
You barely have time to process that before another message comes through, a link.
You tap it.
The video loads, and within two seconds you’re laughing so hard you almost lose your balance.
It’s Mack.
Upside down or more like horizontal.
Completely unstable, legs flailing while two guys try to hold him up.
You clap a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking as you try not to laugh directly into his ear.
“What?” he mumbles, not lifting his head.
“Nothing,” you say, failing to sound convincing as you glance down at him, still half-asleep against you.
You tilt the phone slightly, showing him the paused frame of him upside down, hoodie riding up, expression completely gone.
He squints at it.
“…that’s not me.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Mack.”
He stares at it another second, then groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Okay, that might be me.”
You laugh, shoulders shaking, thumb hovering over the screen as you replay the clip for half a second before stopping it again.
“You know you’re supposed to be in a handstand while doing this?” you tease, turning the phone slightly toward him.
He blinks at it, then at you, expression offended in a way only drunk people can manage. “Not my fault they can’t hold me,” he slurs, like that’s a completely reasonable defense.
“Yeah,” you grin, locking your phone and slipping it back into your pocket, “I’m sure it’s entirely their fault.”
He huffs softly but doesn’t argue, immediately going back to hiding in your shoulder like if he just refuses to acknowledge it, the whole thing didn’t happen at all.
“I missed you,” he mumbles quietly after a beat, voice softer now, less sloppy.
Your expression softens a little, your hand settling at the back of his neck. “Yeah?”
He nods against you. “A lot.”
For a second, the chaos around you fades a bit. The music, the shouting, the mess of bodies packed into the house.
You press a quick kiss to his temple, smiling to yourself.
“Next time,” you murmur, “maybe skip the keg stand.”
He hums, already half gone again. “No promises.”
For a second you think he might actually drift off right there, his weight heavy against you, his breathing evening out just slightly but then his fingers tighten in the fabric of your hoodie, grounding himself again before he can fully disappear.
“Stay with me,” he mutters, voice quieter now, a little more real than the slurred teasing from a second ago, like that one thought managed to cut through everything else.
Your expression softens just a touch at that, your hand steady at his side.
“I am,” you murmur back, adjusting your grip on him so he doesn’t tip over. “Can’t let you get dragged into more frat activities.”
You laugh under your breath, shifting your grip so you can pull him upright again, one hand firm on his arm when he sways a little too far to the side. “You okay though?”
He squints like he’s trying to focus on something very far away, then gives a loose shrug. “Whole world is spinning,” he admits, words running together just slightly. “And I lost track of what and how much I drank, which is like… the exact thing you shouldn’t.”
“Yeah,” you snort, “that’s kind of rule number one.”
He nods seriously, like he’s just been given groundbreaking information.
“Okay, come on,” you say, tugging gently on his hand. “Let’s get you some water.”
He lets you lead him without protest, trailing behind you through the crowded hallway and back into the kitchen, where your friends are still posted up, leaning against counters and yelling over each other.
The second they see you and more specifically him, their faces light up.
“Oh my god,” one of them laughs. “What happened to him?”
“You look rough,” another adds, grinning.
Mack lifts his head just enough to squint at them, like he’s trying to figure out if they’re real.
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, guiding him over to the counter and grabbing a bottle of water. “Hey,” you say, nudging his shoulder lightly, “be nice.”
You crack the cap and hand it to him, keeping your hand under it for a second to make sure he actually has it before letting go.
“God forbid the superstar wants to be a frat boy for a day,” you add, shooting your friends a look.
That just makes them laugh harder.
“Superstar can’t even stand,” your best friend shoots back.
“I’m standing,” Mack mumbles defensively, even though he’s very clearly leaning most of his weight into the counter now.
“Barely,” you mutter under your breath, but there’s no bite to it.
He takes a slow sip of water, like he’s concentrating way too hard on the act of drinking, then exhales like it took effort.
Right as you reach to take the bottle back and make sure he keeps going, a familiar voice cuts in.
“Well,” Aiden says, amused, “this is a sight.”
You turn your head, immediately spotting him pushing into the kitchen, one look at his brother and he’s already grinning.
“You good there, little bro?” he laughs, taking in the flushed face, the messy hair, the general disaster that is Mack right now.
Mack just squints at him. “I was doing fine,” he insists, which, objectively, is not true.
You point at Aiden accusingly, eyebrows lifting. “Why’d you leave him alone?”
Aiden raises both hands in mock defense. “I didn’t leave him, he wandered off,” he says. “Next thing I know he’s upside down and people are chanting his name.”
You take the bottle from Mack for a second, so he doesn’t take too much at once, before pressing it into his hand again. “Drink more.”
He obeys this time without argument, slower but steady, his shoulder bumping into yours as he leans closer again.
Aiden watches the two of you for a second, grin turning a little softer. “You got him?” he asks.
You glance at Mack, who’s now half-focused on not spilling water on himself.
“Yeah,” you say simply. “I’ve got him.”
Mack hums like he heard that, his head tipping back toward your shoulder again, a little less unsteady this time.
“Don’t let them flip me again,” he mutters.
You laugh quietly, steadying him with a hand at his side. “I won’t.”
From across the kitchen, one of your friends calls out, “Round two later?”
You don’t even hesitate. “Absolutely not.”
Mack lifts his head just enough to nod in agreement. “Retired,” he mumbles.
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, keeping a steady grip on him as the noise swells around you again but this time, he doesn’t drift away.
Beside you, Aiden pulls his phone out absentmindedly, glancing down at the screen and then immediately freezes.
“…oh no,” he breathes, before a grin starts creeping in.
“What?” you ask, glancing over.
He turns the phone slightly so you can see.
Five missed calls.
Dad.
And a string of messages underneath:
Dad: Why‘s Mack at a BU party??
Dad: Why’s he on top of a keg??
Dad: Where are you? Where’s yn??
Aiden snorts, dragging a hand down his face, half amused, half already bracing for it.
“Shiiiit,” he laughs.
Mack, still leaning into you, barely lifts his head. “Don’t answer,” he mumbles.
Aiden looks at him, then back at his phone.
“…yeah,” he says, slipping it back into his pocket. “I’m gonna give that like… an hour.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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