It starts, in Willâs mind, long before anything is official.
Before the house keys. Before September. Before the letter.
But when it finally happens, it happens all at once.
They move into the new place just as the air starts to shift toward fall, boxes half-unpacked and sunlight spilling across hardwood floors that still donât quite feel like theirs yet. Mack laughs it off, but Will can already feel it building. The season, the expectations, the weight of something just out of reach but inevitable.
And then the C is stitched onto Mackâs chest.
Itâs quiet when it happens. No grand announcement between them, no big reaction. Just Will standing there, tracing the letter with his fingertips, and knowing that everything is about to change.
The requests start trickling in before the season even properly begins. Team dinners. Appearances. Charity events. Community outreach. Media days that stretch too long and leave Mack blinking under bright lights, answering the same questions in slightly different ways. Playoff talk starts early this year, hovering over everything like a promise or a threat.
Mack takes it all in with quiet determination, like he always does. Back straight, jaw set, like heâs bracing for the eve of battle. In front of the team, he smiles, nods, and shows up.
But Will sees what lingers. The way his shoulders hold tension longer than they used to. The way his laugh comes a second too late some days.
So Will steps in.
Itâs not a conversation. Not really. Just something he does.
One night, Mack falls asleep on the couch with the game tape still playing softly in the background, and Will opens his laptop at the kitchen island. He builds a spreadsheet. Then another. Then another. By the end of the week there are twenty tabs, everything color-coded, cross-referenced, dated down to the hour. Events, requests, follow-ups, logistics. It becomes a system. Something controlled. Something manageable.
He texts Cat and Felicia, again and again, until they finally give in and add him to the WAG group chat. He scrolls through months of messages, learning the rhythms, the expectations, the unspoken rules. He inserts himself where needed. Volunteers without making it obvious.
He takes the late-night calls so Mack doesnât have to. Answers emails over morning coffee. Coordinates dinners, confirms guest lists, tracks RSVPs. Spends an entire afternoon hunched over fabric samples, redesigning the team jacket until it feels right.
By December, their house isnât just theirs anymore. Itâs full. Laughter, music, games, people moving in and out of rooms, voices overlapping. Will is in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, carefully frosting a giant teal Sharks cake while someone shouts his name from the living room.
Everything runs smoothly.
Everyone is happy.
And somehow, in the middle of it all, something small begins to slip.
Itâs not noticeable at first. Just a missed afternoon here, a delayed plan there. The easy, aimless hours they used to fall into without thinking start disappearing, replaced by schedules and obligations and exhaustion that settles deep into their bones.
They used to spend entire evenings outside, shirtless by the pool, half-drunk on High Noons, making up ridiculous games just to have an excuse to touch. Sting pong bruises blooming across their skin like proof of it all, cold hands pressed to warm bodies, laughter spilling out of them. The world reduced to something small, contained, and entirely their own.
Now, when they finally get a moment alone, it feels borrowed.
They collapse into bed more than they climb into it. Barely speak some nights. Just press their foreheads together, eyes closed, breathing in sync like itâs the only way to steady everything else.
One night, Mackâs voice breaks the quiet.
âI hate what me being captain has done to you.â
Will lets out a tired breath, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. âDonât be stupid. You love everything I do for your sake.â
But Mack doesnât rise to it. He just shifts closer, buries his face into Willâs neck, voice softer now.
âNot when what you do for me takes you away from me.â
The words land heavier than anything else has.
Willâs hand moves automatically, threading into Mackâs hair, holding him there. He doesnât answer. Because there isnât anything he could say that would make it simpler.
He doesnât say that heâd do all of this again. That he already has, in his head, a hundred times over. That every spreadsheet, every call, every late night is worth it if it means Mack carries even a little less.
If it means seeing that easy, unguarded smile a few more times. The one thatâs been showing up less and less lately.
Mackâs breathing slows, steadying into sleep.
Will stares at the ceiling a little longer.
Yeah, he thinks, Iâd run myself into the ground just to keep pace with how fast your world is spinning.
And somewhere in that half-space between waking and sleep, Mack shifts closer, like instinct, like gravity, a quiet pull neither of them ever fights.
Mack thinks, hazy and half-dreaming, Iâd give up everything Iâve built if it meant slowing down time âjust to stay here with you.
