coachella weekend 2
The desert air hits different when you're running from something.
Macklin Celebrini presses his forehead against the passenger window of Will Smith's Jeep, watching palm trees blur past as they merge onto I-10 East. His phone keeps lighting up with texts from his dad, probably, or maybe his agent, or maybe Misa.
He doesn't check. Just watches the city give way to nothing.
"You gonna be like this all weekend?" Will asks, turning down the music. Some Coldplay song Macklin wasn't really listening to anyway.
"Like what?"
"Like someone shot your dog."
Macklin closes his eyes. The math keeps running in his head, has been running since Tuesday night. Eighty-two games, one hundred and fifteen points, the most points from any Sharks player in a season, and it still wasn't enough. Not even close. The Ducks were going to the playoffs. The Ducks.
"We were right there," he says, and hates how his voice sounds. Young. Whiny.
Will merges left, smooth and easy like everything is with him. "Yeah, man. We were."
"If we'd gotten literally any goaltending after the trade deadline..."
"Mack." Will reaches over and shoves his shoulder. "Stop. Seriously. We're not doing this right now."
Macklin opens his eyes. The highway stretches out forever, heat shimmering off the asphalt in waves. "Doing what?"
"The whole tragic hockey boy thing. It's Coachella. You're allowed to have fun for like, forty-eight hours."
"I'm not... I can have fun."
"Yeah? Prove it."
Macklin flips him off, but he's almost smiling. Almost.
His phone buzzes again. This time he does check, it's his sister, Charlie, sending him Juliette Weekes's Instagram story. A behind-the-scenes video of sound check, all pink lights and that laugh that shone brighter than the sun.
He locks his phone and tosses it in the cupholder. Will's already laughing at him.
"What?"
"Nothing. Just trying to figure out how you're gonna play it cool when you see her."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Right. You definitely didn't listen to Pink Corvette like six hundred times during preseason."
"That was you."
"That was both of us, and you know it." Will turns the music back up and Macklin tries not to think about the fact that he does, actually, know most of the words.
The thing about growing up in the Bay Area as Rick Celebrini's kid is that you learn pretty early how to be invisible. Not in a bad way. His dad's not famous-famous, not like Steph or Klay, but enough that Macklin spent his whole childhood watching his father work miracles on broken bodies, watching how he carried himself in rooms full of egos and injuries and multi-million dollar investments. Quiet confidence. Never the loudest voice.
Macklin tried to be like that. Worked, mostly. He was good at hockey, then really good, then good enough that people started using words like generational and franchise-altering, and he just kept his head down and did the work. BU for a year because that's what made sense. Draft day in Vegas with his whole family there, his mom crying, his dad's hand on his shoulder steady as ever. First overall. San Jose.
"You know what your problem is?" Will says as they pass the outlet malls, getting close now.
"I have a feeling you're gonna tell me."
"You think everything matters all the time."
Macklin looks at him. "We just missed the playoffs by four points."
"Yeah. And that sucks. But like..." Will gestures vaguely at the windshield, at the desert, at everything. "We're still gonna be in the NHL next year. We're still gonna be the guys. This weekend? This is just... this is just being two dudes at Coachella."
“Let yourself have this."
Macklin wants to argue. Wants to pull up the stats on his phone, show Will the advanced metrics, the shot attempt differentials, all the numbers that prove they were right there. Wants to text his dad back, probably, and have the kind of conversation they're good at.
But the sun is setting over the San Jacinto Mountains, painting everything gold and pink, and his phone buzzes again. Probably Charlie, probably something about Juliette Weekes's setlist or her outfit or whatever. And Will's right, kind of. About the being young thing. About the having money thing.
He can have two days.
"Okay," Macklin says.
"Okay what?"
"Okay, I'll try. The fun thing."
Will whoops and turns the music up loud enough that Macklin's pretty sure it's illegal, and they drive into the valley with the windows down and the sky turning purple, and for the first time in three days, Macklin feels something other than the weight of not being enough.
They check into the hotel around eight. Some boutique place in Palm Springs that Will found, with midcentury modern furniture and infinity pools and beautiful people who definitely don't know what icing is. Their room has two beds and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at the mountains, and Macklin immediately faceplants onto the nearest mattress.
"Shower's mine," Will calls, already halfway to the bathroom.
Macklin groans into the Egyptian cotton pillowcase. His legs ache. They always ache now and his body isn't quite used to it yet, might never be used to it. He should stretch. Should probably eat something that isn't gas station Red Bull and the protein bar he had six hours ago.
Should stop thinking about hockey.
He rolls over and unlocks his phone. Charlie's sent him six more messages, all fangirling over Juliette. Juliette Weekes at sound check. Juliette Weekes's outfit reveal on TikTok. Juliette Weekes talking to Billboard about her new EP. In every photo she's pink. Pink miniskirt, pink bikini top under a mesh shirt, pink streaks in her dark hair. She's holding a guitar in one of them, this white Fender that probably costs more than Macklin's first car, and she's laughing at something off-camera, and yeah.
Yeah, okay. He gets it.
Will comes out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, towel around his waist, already scrolling through his phone. "Okay, so. Party at some house in La Quinta first, then we'll head to the grounds around eleven. Juliette goes on at midnight."
"You memorized her set time?"
"I memorized all the set times, thank you. I'm a professional."
Macklin sits up, rubbing his eyes. Through the window he can see the pool, lit up blue and full of people who look like they stepped out of an Instagram ad. "Who do you know at this party?"
"No one. It's gonna be sick." Will's already pulling clothes out of his suitcase. Stuff that definitely didn't come from the team-mandated suit supplier. "You bring anything that's not a hoodie?"
"I brought a button-down."
"Jesus Christ. Okay. You're wearing my Stüssy shirt."
"I'm not..."
"You are. Trust me. You show up looking like you're about to do a post-game interview and you're gonna hate yourself."
Macklin looks down at his suitcase: athletic shorts, Sharks quarter-zips, one pair of jeans, the button-down he wore maybe twice at BU. Will's not wrong.
"Fine," he says. "But if it doesn't fit..."
"It'll fit. We're basically the same size."
Macklin's too tired to argue. He takes the shirt and heads for the shower.
The water pressure is insane and he stands under it longer than he should, letting the heat work into his shoulders. He can hear Will singing along to something in the other room, off-key and enthusiastic, and despite everything (the season, the elimination, the weird anxious feeling in his chest) Macklin catches himself smiling.
Maybe this will be okay.
Maybe he can do the fun thing.
He turns off the water and reaches for a towel, and through the bathroom door he hears Will yell."Mac! We gotta leave in twenty!"
"I know!"
"I'm serious! La Quinta's like forty minutes!"
Macklin dries off and looks at himself in the mirror. Too-long hair he keeps meaning to cut, the shadow of a bruise on his collarbone from someone's stick last week, dark circles he's pretty sure are permanent now. Nineteen years old and he feels about thirty-seven.
He puts on Will's shirt. It fits fine, actually.
When he comes out, Will's leaning against the window, already dressed, already looking like he belongs here. "Ready?"
Macklin grabs his wallet, his phone, the VIP wristband that came in the mail three weeks ago when this weekend still felt impossible.
"Yeah," he says. "Let's go."
The Sahara tent is a living thing.
That's what Macklin thinks as they push through the crowd, Will's hand on his shoulder steering them toward the VIP section. A living, breathing organism made of bodies and heat and anticipation, everyone pressed together in the dark waiting for the lights to come up. The bass from the previous set still rattles in his chest. His shirt is already sticking to his back.
"This is insane," he shouts over the noise.
Will just grins, flashing their wristbands at security. The VIP platform is elevated, less packed, and suddenly Macklin can actually see the stage, what, with its massive LED screens, scaffolding wrapped in pink lights, a drum kit that looks like it's covered in Swarovski crystals.
"Told you," Will says, and hands him something. A vodka soda that materialized from somewhere, condensation already dripping down the plastic cup.
Macklin takes it. Doesn't drink, just holds it, watching the crew do final checks on the guitars. There are three of them lined up on stands: the white Fender he saw in the photos, a pink Stratocaster, and something else he can't make out from here. His mom tried to teach him guitar when he was twelve. He lasted three weeks before hockey took over completely, but he remembers enough to know that someone who actually travels with multiple instruments probably knows what they're doing.
The house lights drop.
The crowd roars.
And then, pink everywhere. The screens flash alive with these hyper-saturated pink graphics. The bass drops, something synthetic and glittery, and the band walks out first, drummer, bassist, two backup singers in matching pink velour tracksuits.
Macklin's heart is doing something stupid. He takes a drink. The vodka burns.
"Here we go," Will says, and he sounds as hyped as the crowd, and Macklin wants to make fun of him but he can't because...
She walks out and the entire tent loses its mind.
Juliette Weekes is somehow smaller than he expected and also larger than life entirely, this tiny human in a pink metallic miniskirt and a white bustier top that's basically just a bra, fishnets, platform boots that add four inches she definitely doesn't need for stage presence. Her hair is half-up with butterfly clips, pink extensions braided through it, and she's carrying the white Fender like it's an extension of her body.
She doesn't say anything. Just plugs in, counts off by nodding at the drummer, and slams into the opening riff of "Bubblegum." The guitar tone is crunchy and bright at the same time, and she's shredding, actually shredding, her fingers flying over the fretboard while she grins at the crowd like she knows exactly what she's doing to them. Her voice is sharper live than on the recordings, more raw, and somehow that makes it better. She moves across the stage like she owns it, like she was born on it, spinning and dropping to her knees for a slide without missing a single note.
"Holy…" Macklin breathes, and Will elbows him.
"Right?"
The song builds with layered vocals from the backup singers, a synth line that comes out of nowhere, and then breaks down to just Juliette and her guitar, this stripped moment where she leans into the mic and sings. Then everything drops back in, huge and overwhelming, and she's jumping and the crowd is jumping and Macklin feels it in his chest, that same rush he gets when he scores, when everything aligns perfectly and his body knows what to do before his brain catches up.
She finishes with a sustained note, bends it sharp and then flat and then holds it vibrato while the guitarist in her band (one of the backup players) matches her note for note. The crowd is screaming. So is Will, actually screaming like he's at a game, and Macklin's just standing there with his drink halfway to his mouth, watching.
Juliette unplugs, switches guitars (the pink Strat this time) and finally speaks.
"Coachella, baby!" Her voice is different talking, less polished, with this slight Valley girl lilt. "God, you guys look so good. Is everyone having the best time?"
The roar is deafening.
"Yeah? Good. Because I'm about to ruin your lives a little bit." She adjusts her in-ear monitor, counting off again. "This is called 'American Doll.'"
The intro is slower, sultrier, built on this descending bassline that makes everyone sway instead of jump. Juliette's guitar work is more melodic here, these clean arpeggiated chords that shimmer through the speakers. When she starts singing, her voice drops lower, more intimate.
Macklin watches her work the stage. She knows exactly where the cameras are, hits her marks without thinking, plays to different sections of the crowd like she's having a dozen individual conversations. During the second verse she kneels at the edge of the stage and a girl in the front row is crying, actually crying, and Juliette reaches down to touch her hand without missing a word.
The guitar solo is nasty. There's no other word for it. She bends strings until they scream, slides up the neck with this gritty, garage-rock tone that contrasts perfectly with the polished production of everything else.
Then she looks up, mid-solo, and smiles.
"Jesus," Macklin mutters.
Will leans over. "You good?"
"Yeah. Fine. She's just..." He gestures vaguely at the stage, at all of it.
"Yeah," Will says, grinning. "She is."
The set continues. Song after song, each one somehow bigger than the last. She does "Cherry Cola," which gets the whole crowd singing along. She does "Velvet Rope," which is basically just three minutes of innuendo set to a disco beat. Somewhere during "Baby Doll" (darker, more punk, about fame and parasocial relationships and the commodification of femininity), Macklin finishes his drink and Will gets him another one. The alcohol is doing something to the edges of his brain, softening them, making everything feel less like watching and more like experiencing.
He's not thinking about hockey. Hasn't thought about hockey in an hour.
"I'm gonna get closer," Will shouts in his ear. "You coming?"
Macklin looks at the stage, at the mass of people between here and there. "I'm good."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. Go."
Will disappears into the crowd, and Macklin leans against the railing, alone in the best way. Around him people are making out, filming on their phones, singing along to every word. He recognizes a few faces. But mostly it's just strangers united by this one thing, this one girl in pink making them all feel something.
Juliette's on the third guitar now, the one he couldn't identify earlier. It's acoustic, which seems insane for a set this big, but she's sitting on the edge of the stage with her legs dangling over, and the whole tent has gone quiet.
"This is new," she says into the mic, and her voice is softer now, almost vulnerable. "Like, really new. I wrote it two weeks ago in a hotel room in Tokyo, and I haven't even recorded it yet. But I wanted to play it for you guys because... I don't know. Coachella feels like the place where you're supposed to take risks, right?"
Someone screams "WE LOVE YOU JULIETTE" and she laughs.
"I love you too. This is called 'On the Highway.'"
She starts finger-picking, this delicate pattern that cuts through the silence. No drums, no bass, just her and the guitar and her voice.
Macklin's chest tightens. It's the melody, maybe, or the lyrics, or the way she's singing like she's alone in that hotel room, like she forgot there are sixty thousand people watching. The song is about leaving, about growing up too fast, about the distance between who you were and who you became.
When the song ends, no one makes a sound for three full seconds. Juliette wipes her eyes quickly, and Macklin realizes she's crying. Just a little. She stands up, switches back to the white Fender, and the smile is back, bright and sharp and in control.
"Okay," she says, laughing. "Okay, we're gonna have fun now, I promise. No more sad girl."
The last three songs are pure chaos. A cover of "Celebrity Skin," "Supersonic Sweetheart," and finally "Pink Corvette," the song that made her famous. The crowd knows every word, every ad-lib, every moment to scream. Confetti cannons go off, pink and silver filling the air. The LED screens show close-ups of her face, her hands on the guitar, the crowd losing their minds.
Macklin's not singing along. He doesn't know the words that well, no matter what Will says. But he's moving, swaying, caught up in it. His phone is in his pocket. He's not filming. He's just here, present, letting it happen to him.
During the final chorus, Juliette crowd-surfs. Just launches herself off the stage into the pit, guitar held high, and the security guards look like they're having heart attacks but the crowd catches her, passes her along, hands everywhere but somehow respectful, everyone just wanting to be part of the moment.
She makes it back to the stage covered in sweat and glitter, her hair half-fallen out of the clips, and she's laughing so hard she can barely get through the last verse.
The song ends with a crash, every instrument hitting at once, and then silence.
Juliette stands center stage, breathing hard, backlit by pink lights.
"Thank you," she says, and her voice cracks just slightly. "Thank you so much. I love you. Goodnight, Coachella."
She blows a kiss, and then she's gone, her band following, the lights dropping to black.
The house music comes back up. People start moving, talking, checking their phones. Macklin stays where he is, hands gripped on the railing, staring at the empty stage.
"DUDE. That was INSANE."
"Yeah," Macklin says, and his voice sounds far away. "Yeah, it was."
"I got her setlist!" Will waves a piece of paper. "Security guy gave it to me. We should get it signed."
"She's not gonna..."
"After-party," Will interrupts. "There's an after-party. I got us on the list."
Macklin finally looks at him. "How?"
"I know people. Also I'm very charming. Come on." Will's already pulling him toward the exit, and Macklin lets himself be pulled, still half-dazed, his ears ringing.
They spill out into the festival grounds. The air is cooler now, desert night settling in. Around them, thousands of people stream toward other stages, other sets, but Macklin can still hear it in his head: that acoustic song, her voice cracking.
His phone has seventeen texts. He ignores all of them.
"You alive?" Will asks, and he sounds genuinely concerned now.
Macklin realizes he's just been standing there, staring at nothing. "Yeah. Sorry. That was just..."
"I know."
"She's incredible."
"I know." Will grins. "And we're gonna meet her in like an hour. So maybe drink some water and act normal."
"I'm always normal."
"You're literally never normal. Come on."
They walk through the festival, past the Ferris wheel and the art installations and the people in outfits that probably cost more than Macklin's hockey equipment. Someone recognizes Will, stops him for a photo. Macklin hangs back, watching, still hearing that guitar in his head.
Macklin locks his phone. He doesn't know how to explain it. That watching her play felt like watching someone do the thing they were built for, the thing that makes sense of everything else. The way hockey used to feel, maybe. The way it should feel.
The way it hasn't felt since the season ended.
"Water," Will says, shoving a bottle at him. "Drink."
Macklin drinks. The festival spins around them, all lights and music and beautiful chaos, and somewhere in the VIP section of some club he's never heard of, Juliette Weekes is probably taking off those platform boots and counting down the minutes until she has to be "on" again.
He wonders if she gets tired. If the performance ever feels like work.
If she ever misses the version of herself she left on that highway.
"You ready?" Will asks.
Macklin looks at him. His best friend, his center, the person who dragged him to the desert when all he wanted to do was disappear into game film and self-recrimination.
"Yeah," he says. "Let's go."
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