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Okay. Logically speaking, not that any of this is logical in the slightest, they never agreed on monogamy. They agreed to fuck sometimes, and Mack said he was clean and Will never said anything more, but it still feels like something's been broken. Trust. Or. Well, it can't be anything but trust, because they're not together. It's not like Will's cheated on him or anything, not like he even can. Maybe he didn't even fuck that girl. Or any other girls. Ever. Maybe he's a virgin with top tier stroke game and a mouth that feels like being welcomed through the gates of heaven.

Will was a nightmare. A publicly polite, manicured, country club loving, all American nightmare. He played strip poker because he thought it was funny, would sling a leg over Gabe's lap at a party to talk closer to his ear, warm breath fanning across his face like some sort of deeply fucked up wet-dream come real. Both of those things were frequent for him: the wet dreams, and the coming. Sometimes it would be to a picture of him pulled up on his cracked phone screen, sometimes to the thought alone. On one spectacular occasion, onto the stomach of some nameless blonde who Will had dragged him into a bedroom with. He pretended he wasn't staring, wasn't looking for every excuse to brush against his skin, hear that pretty voice in his ears. There were lap dances, and vacation houses, and pouting to get someone to buy him dinner, a drink, a new golf bag. He'd bat his lashes and all of a sudden ten to fifteen stupid teenage boys would be falling at his feet, begging for his attention, friendship, a modicum of his time.

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The last thing Mack sees before emptying the contents of his stomach into a tiny garbage bin is a ball of stick tape and Sidney Crosby. The tape is black, a few scratch marks running through its discarded skin, and Sid is looking down at him like he’s bleeding out. Mack feels a bit like he’s bleeding out, heart ripped and torn away from his body, flopping on the ground waiting for someone to attempt CPR. Distantly, memory faded by the time, he can remember the training he got, mandatory at one of his youth camps: hands centered on the chest, two inches deep, somewhere around 110 per minute. They had a timer then, a grating click to keep them on pace, but the instructor had said that any song in the right bpm range would do. He can still recall the sensation of desperately humming along to Stayin’ Alive, his hands clammy and knuckles pressed to the cold rubber of the dummy. He hated the sensation, felt like he was trying to revive a corpse, which, he supposes, is rather the point of CPR as a whole.

“Shit, kid,” is what he hears seconds after, though barely audible over the sound of his own retching. It’s watery, but still manages to taste like a garbage bin from hell. His throat burns with it, eyes watering in a pathetic display of further emotion. Mack hates throwing up, hates the headache he gets just before, hates the way he feels after, hates the whole fucking process. It makes him feel startlingly fragile, like he’s something that needs baby sitting or comfort.

“Easy, I’ve got you.”

The voice is low and soft, like someone reassuring a newborn. His hair which has been growing at a surprisingly rapid rate is brushed back from his face, his gloves gently taken off. Sid places a calloused hand on the back of his neck, reassuring him in a low voice.

It’s okay, I have you, you’re okay. You’re okay.

They’re tucked away in a back hallway, white walls and nothingness, lights still flickering. There’s absolutely fuck all else around, no people, not even a storage closet door. The space is cast in dead silence, but even with that knowledge he has the lingering feeling that someone’s gonna see. Sid’s bad enough, Sid’s like, the worst possible person ever to be seeing him like this, but he might have to fake his death if the whole team ever finds out. There’s already so much doubt clinging to him, his slow starts, his ability to captain, his age. Throwing up post game isn’t about to help his case at all.

It only takes about a minute to expel the rest from his body. He feels a bit like a kid again, pushing himself too hard on the ice and getting sick because of it. Except, this is the opposite of that. He’s an adult—sort of—and he was just…the same. Nonexistent at the start, missed passes, missed opportunities. He just can’t find the click, even after all this time. It shouldn’t be hard at all, at least not for him. They’re in the fucking semi-finals now, and all he’s done is fail. Sure, one could argue that they haven’t lost a game and that he’s got a few points to his name, but he’s Macklin Celebrini. He should have gotten Sidney fucking Crosby a goal sooner than this. Assists on his own isn’t where the God of men’s hockey should be. Anyone can score a goal on the power-play, it’s not exactly hard even if they’ve been shit half the tournament. He knows he has to be better. Man up, take charge and be exactly who Dada raised him as. Especially now since they’re in the fucking elimination rounds and Sid’s…

“You good kid?”

Here. Sid is here, watching him stare at what used to be inside his body in a tiny trash bin. Mack flinches back a bit but his body doesn’t let him get all that far. He collapses against the wall, still in full gear save for his helmet and gloves. His skates dig into his feet, ever so slightly too tight.

“Mack.”

He jerks his head at the demand, which ends up with him staring Sidney Crosby dead in the eye, shaking, pathetic, and definitely with a bit of vomit on his face. Oh, he’s so fucked. He needs to get out of here before he can somehow make any of this worse, holy shit this is so fucking bad—

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, voice weak and crackly. He’d book a flight straight to the middle of nowhere if the idea of ever abandoning his team didn’t threaten to make him start this whole process again. He refuses to be a coward. That’s not what this is. This is just…

“Sorry?”

Sid looks genuinely bewildered, as if the past few minutes never happened. He can barely stand to look at him. Can’t stand it actually. He drops his eyes down to the sad linoleum floors and focuses on a tiny speck of dirt.

“For…yeah,” he sniffs, wiping his cheek with the back of his sleeve. Sid blinks at him a few times and then lets out the most long suffering sign Mack’s ever heard in his entire life. He moves to slide down next to him, gently knocking their skates together.

“For…what, exactly?”

“Everything.”

It’s more of a pathetic wheeze than it is human speech, but it’s still true. He is fucking up everything, can barely give a locker room speech without wanting to breakdown and die, can’t lead the way everyone expects him to, can’t live up to what he’s supposed to be. And the whole captaincy was hard enough before Sid came, but now it’s just suffocating, like a fifty pound weight has been dropped onto his lungs and it wont budge no matter how hard he tries.

“I’m just…I can’t do this. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. It’s like I’m going crazy, and I know everyone’s already doubting me and they’re right. I shouldn’t be the one leading, and I’m playing like shit half the time, and you’re here, which is great but it’s just a constant reminder that I’m the replacement and never the real thing and if I fail at this too as a fucking captain I honestly think I might die.”

The admission hangs in the air, the stillness and silence akin to the brief moments before a hurricane. He always hates that about Carolina, the pregame siren. It leaves an unpleasant chill over his spine, like the sky really is going to open up and let in the floodgates of hell. It’s similar to how he feels right now, which might have something to do with the fact that he’s crying.

Hyperventilating, actually. Dr Aston told him once that it was “interesting” how he could often be objective with himself when in distress. That unless he truly reached his breaking point—which was described as akin to the height of Mount Everest—he tended to look at things like he was an outsider in his own head. Mack had laughed in his face, told him to go fuck himself and walked out the door. It was offensive in that it was true: Mack has only felt like a real person when in the presence of one singular human being. What does it say about someone if they need help to do their most basic function? If feeling alive is too much to ask of their own nervous system?

Life’s a lot is what he means, which is probably why he’s sobbing into Sidney Crosby’s still game-sweaty neck. Fucking kill him now. This is the worst thing to ever happen to him, even worse than the time he got stuck in the attic playing hide and seek with Aiden and no one could find him for three hours.

Vaguely, like this is a dream or rather his worst nightmare, he registers a few things: a gentle hand placed on the back of his head, slowly carding through his hair. Sid’s low voice next to his ear, mumbling reassurances and the occasional swear. The faint scent of methanol from Icy Hot that’s been buried under sweat and whatever weird sports drink they have on the bench.

Maybe this is a nightmare. At least then he can wake up and pretend everything is fine and not have to worry about being shipped off in a straitjacket to the nearest padded room.

“‘M sorry,” he gasps out after a few minutes, “I’m so, so sorry.”

Mack’s first instinct as Sid begins to pull away from him is to brace himself for the scolding. He’s really not sure if he can take hearing how repulsive he is from Sid of all people, but he deserves it

“Mack,” he starts, “There is nothing to apologize for. There’s a lot of pressure on you and I know it’s not easy. But…listen, you’re top three in the tournament, you’re leading the team in scoring, you’ve got points in all but what, one game? The whole team admires you, looks up to you. Even the older guys. The media has nothing but praise for you, no matter the country. I heard one of the French announcers call you a prince. Kid—Macklin. You’re doing amazing. You are amazing, alright? And you’re not my replacement, you’re your own person, and you’re a good fucking captain.”

Sid gives him a little shake like he’s checking to make sure he’s still alive. The answer is debatable. He’s breathing—rather haphazardly, but well. Recent circumstances haven’t been kind—and he can physically feel his heart pounding. So, it’s a check on that end. He just…well. He’s not so sure if he gets what’s happening.

He has to try three times to speak around how thick his throat still feels.

“But…what if you’re wrong?”

“And what if I’m not,” Sid counters, a slight smile at the edge of his mouth.

Mack would like to argue that, but it seems rude. He did just have a minor breakdown on the guy, and if anyone would know anything about hockey, it’s him. Before he even has the chance to apologize—which, he can objectively acknowledge, would make Sid tell him not to again, and then he’d say sorry for that, and they’d just be in an infinite loop of his own embarrassment—Sid stands with a groan and looks down at him with a reassuring smile.

“Why don’t you take a few minutes, okay? I’ll tell the guys not to worry.”

The problem with Mack, or, well, one of the problems is that he hates being alone. From the moment he was born he had Aiden, and then soon after there were his teammates, and then Charlie, and more teammates, and RJ, and then he was moving and when he moved there were even more people. The problem with the problem is that no matter how many people seemed to constantly surround him, Mack was always lonely growing up. His life had always been about hockey and never himself, and it wasn’t until he was making small talk backstage at his draft that he realized he was kind of, sort of, very much a loser.

So when he arrived in San Jose for dev camp, sun beating down above him as he stepped out of Jumbo’s car, he was dead-set on being cool. Or, at the very least, he was going to try his very best to act like it. He was going to be suave about stuff, and make jokes that didn’t land uncomfortably flat, and make people like him for his personality—if he even had one—and not just his hockey.

And then he met Will.

Mack’s never been the type to believe in fate, but as he sat down in the stall next to him it felt like the whole world finally made sense. Will was…life. He wasn’t loud about it, not like Mack could get, but he was sweltering in his intensity.

First, he fell in love with his skating. The way he could ever so gently coax a puck onto his blade, into the microscopic space of the net he wanted it to, the bright grin afterwards. The way that somehow on that first day he already seemed to know Mack better than he knew himself, could pick apart the next ten seconds of a play in his mind and send him a picture perfect pass. Mack had never felt so seen, never felt so…equaled. They stayed up too late that first night as roommates, talking, and talking, and talking. He never said it, but that was his final reason for picking the Sharks over Boston.

And then, he fell in love with Will.

The first time it hit him, they were in San Francisco on a day off and desperate to ignore the home-stand they were heading towards. Will had found them a rustic pizza house, had picked out their dinner with a quick surety: Will Smith knew what he wanted, and what he wanted was control. It worked out great for Mack since he could barely read the menu with how much he was staring. Will looked so good, a pale blue shirt that had half its buttons undone and shorts that were practically molded to his thighs. Half the restaurant was looking at him, and each time he got a stray glance in their direction it sent a little jolt down his spine. All those people might have wanted him, but Mack had won. Each beautiful inch belonged to him and only him—

“Mack?”

He jolts, looking up to find Sid still there with a worried frown. He’s such a mess. This is really bad for his reputation, and mental health, and…everything. It’s just bad.

“Okay,” he croaks out, hastily whipping away any lingering wetness from his face, be it tears or the reminders of stomach acid and a protein bar. “Thanks.”

He waits until he’s sure that Sid’s gone to close his eyes, the flickering lights of the hallway too much to stand.

The point of the problem with the problem with Mack is that he’s bad at being alone, and he wants Will to be here so badly it hurts. There are times in which he lets himself dream a little bit. That they met in Boston as two anonymous people doing what everyone else does at college. No hockey, no expectations, no nothing. Mack would get to hold his hand in public and take him out to dinners where neither of them were looking over their shoulders, press a kiss to his sun-warmed cheek on the Commonwealth Pier and not be afraid. They’d move in together in their junior year, a little apartment halfway between BU and BC. Will’s family would drive over to visit, and Mack’s would take a flight in for the holidays. They would be so happy, and so free, and not a day goes by where Mack’s heart doesn’t break because of it.

Regardless of what he wants, the reality is that he fell in love slowly and then all at once, treading water in the middle of the ocean just waiting to be dragged under. He didn’t even have the courage to do anything about it, had just taken the closeness and the friendship that was offered and hoped that one day it would change. It was Will who made the first move, because outside of control there’s one other thing he wants, and for some reason that thing is Mack.

He told him once, tipsy after one of their rare wins in their first season, that he lives his life by a simple motto: I will always get what I want. It took Mack four months to realize that he was serious, but then he couldn’t stop seeing it. He’s never seen drive like that, dedication and hard work and somehow, an insane amount of chance. Will says it’s because he was born on St Patrick’s day, that he entered the world lucky. Good things just happen to him. Mack thinks it’s something more than that. He’s not all that religious outside of hockey, but he’s pretty sure Will’s blessed. Touched by an angel.

He told him once, tipsy after one of their more frequent wins last season, that Mack was his angel.

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・ོ・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

Mack gives himself exactly ten minutes before slowly pushing himself up to stand, his legs surprisingly steady beneath him. His stomach has quieted, and he’s not shaking anymore which are both good signs. He’s not sure if he has it in him to feel any worse.

He walks back as quietly as possible, helmet swinging in his palm, gloves tucked neatly inside. There’s not much noise back here, just the low buzz of electricity and his own footsteps. Despite not actively feeling like he’s going to hurl in front of the entire team, he’s still overall shitty and incredibly anxious. It’s the usual state that he lives in, but it’s being amplified ten thousand times over right now. He’s a little scared of what’ll come out of his mouth if someone tries to speak to him.

Coming up to the locker room doors, he takes a deep breath, counts to six, and pushes them open. He’s braced for the noise, the questions, the possibility that Sid told someone, everyone, and he’s about to be burned at the stake or benched or…something. He’s not really sure. Just because Mack’s aware that he can be irrational doesn’t mean he can just fix it despite what Dada thinks. He can do this. It can’t be that bad.

What he finds is not noise, or questions, or even people. It’s entirely empty, not even any lingering staff. He can’t even hear the shower running. Slowly he inches towards his stall, stripping while glancing over his shoulder every few seconds like this is a very well planned prank and any moment now he’ll be surrounded. Alright, maybe he needs to look into anti psychotics or something.

It doesn’t happen. He checks his phone to be sure, and finds a single text from Sid to say they’re waiting for him on the bus and won’t leave until he comes. Mack gives it a thumbs up, and tries to keep from crying again. He didn’t seem violently disgusted before which was a nice surprise, but Mack’s sure he’ll never look at him the same way. Even Will changed how he handled him after the first time he walked in on him trembling on the bathroom floor.

Dr Aston told him just before his first NHL Christmas break that he could prescribe him medication. Mack had stared at him blankly for about twenty seconds before asking why. The response was given in the flattest, most obvious tone he’d ever heard from the man: Your anxiety disorder.

Mack usually ends their sessions in the same way: walking out when it gets hard. Nothing changed that day, except instead of doing the usual and getting back on the ice, he deviated. He went to Will. He’d told him point blank that he was done with thinking for the day, and instead of being annoyed or confused or disgusted with him, Will had meticulously planned an itinerary in ten minutes, shoved him into the passenger seat of his car, and drove. They had a picnic—something Mack hadn’t done in…ever—and then drove up to Santa Cruz to go cliff diving and swim, got dinner on the beach, and by the time it was dark outside he’d never felt better in his life.

Looking back at it, that’s probably when the crush phase of being detrimentally in love started. It wasn’t super platonic of him to, when Will’s cone had started dripping down his wrist, reach over to lick it off, the chocolate mixing with sweat and sunscreen. To this day, the combination is one of his favorite flavors. Will didn’t even tell him he was a weird and intolerable freak for that, just watched him do it with a flat blue gaze and called him a good dog.

That day is also probably when he realized he has a praise kink.

He steps out of the shower a few minutes later, skin scrubbed pink and any lingering taste in his mouth gone. It’s a miracle what hot water and some peace and quiet can do for the brain. He’ll have to thank Sid later, when he’s not crying or on the floor or about to be doing either of those things. For talking him down from his hypothetical ledge, and managing to clear out the room that fast. There’s no way it was a natural occurrence.

Getting dressed is a slightly rushed process since it’s late and he really, really wants to get back to the hotel. Hopefully no one asks why he’s late. He has no intention of explaining that he had a panic attack in front of his lifelong idol who then became his stand-in therapist and then very kindly and also aggressively told him a lot of truths that shouldn’t be this hard to deal with.

Sid did lie about one thing though. It probably wasn’t intentional, hell, Mack would be surprised if he even knew. But, the fact remains: the media does not have nothing but praise for him.

Forty minutes after his first game as team Canada captain, Mack got lost. Swiss Life is a big place alright, and he wasn’t really looking where he was going. One thing led to another and suddenly he was in the most deeply and incredibly unfamiliar space that he briefly thought he reached the backrooms. In reality, he was in the perfect spot to overhear a conversation.

“Sure he’s good, but he’s not great or anything.”

He’d paused just before turning the corner, hesitation and nerves seizing his body.

“Right? And keeping him as the captain? Crosby’s here now, it really should be him,” a second voice joins in.

“I barely even noticed him out there. Clearly the kid can’t play at this level.”

Mack had done three things in rapid succession: clamped a hand over his mouth to avoid projectile vomiting, sprinted back down the way he came, and started to cry.

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・ོ・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

Practice is…odd. Everything’s fine, objectively. The team is a combination of excited and terrified for tomorrow. Finland is good, like, scarily good. But so are they. At least that’s what he’s been telling himself over and over again. He’s got faith in everyone but himself, no matter how many times he gets told otherwise. Compliments only go so far if you don’t believe them. That’s what Dada said anyways. He’s been…well. Not avoiding his parents, but he certainly hasn’t made the effort to spend time with them. Mostly he’s making excuses: oh, the team needs me, we have a meeting, I just need to focus. He got breakfast with his Mom, but even that was a little stilted.

He just wants this to be over, and he wants to fucking win.

For once in his life he wants to walk out of an arena the victor and not just another disappointment. He’s heard enough about being a letdown to last him a lifetime. He can’t do it again now of all times, not with his entire country relying on him. For the hundredth time he wishes he hadn’t been named captain. It’s easier to fail when he’s just another number, when he can look up to someone for advice and leadership rather than having it fall to him.

Sid hasn’t even really stopped being a captain. Mack’s not sure if he can. It almost makes it worse, the unspoken knowledge that this isn’t his team and never will be. The letter doesn’t matter, the team does, and no matter what they say about him, he’ll always know the truth.

Since the moment he stepped foot onto the bus yesterday, he’s been waiting for it to happen. A trainer, one of the coaches, Dada. Sid had to tell someone about what happened. Mack knows he’s a liability, that no matter how good he plays he’ll always have a part of him hesitating over the hair-pin trigger of his sanity, or lack thereof. He’s trying, he really is, but it’s just not that simple. If it was, he’d be fixed by now.

Will likes to tell him that it’s not a thing that needs fixing. Mack’s pretty sure that’s just his way of being nice and supportive, even if Dr Aston and Toff and Cat and Aiden and Dickie and parents say otherwise. Dada calls it a roadblock: something one can work around. That would make sense if it didn’t just feel like the work around was him swerving directly off the highway and into no man’s land. Supposedly, it gets better. Mack thinks that’s a lie, but Mack also thinks a lot of weird things at times.

Despite his general suspicion, no one treats him differently. They run drills just the same, fight just as hard during scrimmages. It’s almost driving him crazier than it would if he was in the quiet room and talking to five different people about managing his emotions. He tries to talk to Sid about it but each time he works up the courage someone or something interrupts him. He’s taking it as a sign to do what he does best: ignore all his problems and hope for the best.

It’s easier said than done.

He’s not trying to be this distracted. Really, he’s not. All of his focus is on hockey and winning and doing enough better than he becomes the best. It’s just that once practice is over and they’re on the bus again, he slips. He’s alone in the back, no distractions and no one to talk to. Well. Like. He could talk to someone. Dickie and Frase are only two rows ahead, and it’s not like he can’t text Aiden if he wanted to, but he’s just so tired of the front he’s putting up that human interaction feels like a chore. Mack’s just…

Mack’s split down the middle: half of him wants to crawl into a very large hole and die, and the other half wants to book a flight to Boston, bury himself in Will’s arms, and sob.

Look. He’s glad Will isn’t playing here. It would mean one of them would be eliminating the other, and he doesn’t want to have to deal with that. But there’s still a lingering resentment that he can’t quite kick. Why wouldn’t he want to come and spend time with Mack? Sure they would be competing but they’d still be together.

Dr Aston says he needs to be more vocal about his feelings in their relationship. Will always listens, but it still makes him uncomfortable to say things like Hey, I know I’m being weird and clingy and totally out of line but i really hate when you talk to your friends that you’ve known for your whole life instead of me. If you want i can kill myself right now.

Okay. He’s not that dramatic, but it does make him feel like a discarded stress toy whenever Will hangs out with anyone but him. He’s working on it.

Honestly he feels like he’s been doing okay lately. Its just this fucking tournament that’s been screwing him up, alright?

Like. Sweden. Sweden was shit, he was awful and the team felt so disjointed and he did practically nothing the whole game. And the next day he started exactly the same, too caught up in all the bad things to focus until nearly the end of the period, after spending whole shifts of zone time that went absolutely nowhere. He barely got himself together during the first intermission, and only after Sid told him he was doing a good job which he wasn’t really, but it helped. So did the second goal, and the shutout, and being dragged bar hopping later. It’s easy to forget about one’s problems when you can’t actually think.

And. You know. The video Will sent him that night, slowly working himself open wearing Mack’s jersey, white C glaring on his chest as he moaned his name. Never in his life had he even been so glad to be in a single room. He lasted exactly three minutes, and when he came to he felt like he was genuinely flying. It was probably the tequila, but Will did tend to have that effect on him.

Despite the new motivator, he went right back to square one the next game, and the next, and the next. He saw an article after facing Slovenia praising his assists and had the urge to toss himself out a window. Good, maybe. Certainly not good enough. Will had to talk him down from renouncing his captaincy before they faced Slovakia, and then spent the rest of the night telling him about Boston, his friends—that Mack totally wasn’t jealous of, haha that’s crazy—his family. He had been all tension and guilt, and he knew Will could feel it through the phone. He had come so close to begging him to come to Switzerland, had the words right on the tip of his tongue, and then his phone died.

So, instead, he pretended he wasn’t crying himself to sleep and woke up to find a picture of Will, Rigney and some demented looking cat waiting for him. Missing him was a physical ache. In one of his lectures he remembers hearing about double humans, split in half by Zeus and forever searching for the missing part of their soul. That’s what it felt like with Will: children of the sun, finally reunited.

“Mack?”

He flinches, blinking out of his haze. Great look for him. Really just…fabulous.

“We’re here,” Dickie says, kicking at his shin.

“Oh.”

“Oh. C’mon, move that gorgeous ass of yours.”

Mack grimaces at him as he stands, getting a loud cackle in return. The bus has mostly cleared out, just a few lingering people collecting bags. He shuffles through the aisle as quickly as possible, hopping out into the sun. He’s a little warm in his hoodie and jacket, but he’d rather this than freezing. He misses California oddly enough. The heat is different there, making everything feel technicolor. This feels almost too perfect, like a vacation he doesn’t really have the time for. Too much comfort is a bad thing, as Dada likes to remind him.

He gets stopped a few times trying to get to his room: first Frase asking him if he wants to get lunch, then Sid asking him how he’s been doing, and finally Jet with a comment about how he should stop passing pucks so much. By the time he manages to get to the elevator, all his energy to deal with people has been depleted. He needs a nap, preferably one that lasts for a few months. Long summers might suck, but they’re good for rest. Naturally, he has yet to actually do any resting, but he can’t bother with that right now. There are more important things in the world than himself.

The hallway is empty as he steps out, the silence a welcome sound. It’s times like these when he misses Vancouver the most, the tiny closet in his room that he could escape into. He’d made it into a hideaway: blankets lining the floor, pillows along the walls. There were about fifty of those glow-in-the-dark stars covering the ceiling. He doesn’t often wish he could be young again, but he does wish he could go back to that house, to the body that fit into that space, to the mind that hadn’t yet gone into free-fall.

Fuck is he losing it.

He does what he always does when he needs to be steady: take three deep breaths, remind himself that if he fails everyone fails, and then shoves all his problems to the side. Mack’s cool. Mack is one hundred percent fine. He slips his key card into the door, pushes it open and shuts it just as quickly behind him. He gives himself a second to rest his head against the cool wood and close his eyes. Dr Aston says he needs to focus on individual senses when he gets overwhelmed. He thinks it’s bullshit, but he’s got nothing better to do. Well, he could find a punching bag but he’s pretty sure he’d be the one getting beaten to shit with that.

Sound: the soft whirring of the AC, cars driving by outside, a bird chirping. Smell: lingering air freshener, rink soap, some natural deodorant that Cat gave him. Touch: slight graining in the door, the fraying hem of his sleeves, and slightly itchy denim. Taste: peppermint toothpaste, white peach Redbull that he stole from some conference room’s mini-fridge, some mild acidity, like he’s about to be kneeling over a trashcan again. Whatever, he’ll get through it. Sight. Can’t really see much like this other than darkness and pinpricks of color, which is probably not the best thing to ground himself. Not that any of this works.

He slowly opens his eyes, blinking a few times to get the room into focus. Same bed with its overly plush comforter, same nightstands and lamps, couch, fake plant and boring framed prints. What’s not the same, is the person in front of him.

It’s the lack of sleep. Or drugs. Or something. Mack’s hallucinating. He’s been known to do that on occasion when shit hits the fan. Like, not the schizophrenic kind, but like, sometimes he just wants someone to be there so bad he can see it like they’re real. When he’s lonely and it’s the middle of the night and he’s in love and feels like he might drown in it.

Okay. Alright. He can just. Accept it. Finish the steps and then go to sleep and pretend he’s not actually this pathetic. Sight. Sight, sight, sight.

Sight: a tall figure wearing an oversized BC sweatshirt and gray cotton shorts that cut-off just above the knee. Tan lines from socks. Chain peeking out against the thickness of his neck. Golden hair curling over his face, perfectly framing clear blue eyes. They flick over Mack rapidly at first and then all slow, like he’s trying to take him in and never forget it. Hallucination Will looks bigger than Mack’s Will does. His thighs are bigger, shoulders filling out the fabric in a way that’s distinctly unfamiliar and also pretty nice.

“Hi,” Hallucination Will says, nervously shifting on his bare feet. There’s a bruise near his ankle that Mack’s pretty sure has never existed on his Will, so he’s not so sure why it’s here now. Maybe he’s going crazier than he thought.

“I uh…I was gonna text you, but I got in like an hour ago so I figured I’d just wait here,” he continues, walking a step forward. Oddly enough—as if any of this is typical—it does feel like he’s here, that steadying presence that only he has. It’s not like he is though. That would be…impossible. Preposterous. Will is in Boston, doing things without Mack because they’re separate people with separate lives and not co-dependent thank you very much. The internet and the team and their families and everyone who’s ever really met them can go fuck themselves.

“Mack?”

And. And he just can’t be here. Someone would have had to tell him where the team’s staying, and given him a room key and Will doesn’t even speak to his parents if he can help it so it wasn’t them. Asking anyone on the team would be crazy, and even if he did, Dickie can’t keep his mouth shut about things to save his life. And, if he is here, he would need a reason.

“Are you…are you real?” he finally rasps, clenching his hands against the sudden tremor running through his body. Maybe Not Hallucination Will blinks at him in confusion, before huffing out a low laugh.

“Of course I’m real, why wouldn’t I be?”

A very childish voice in the back of his head says something like that’s what a fake you would want me to believe. But, Mack is trying to be better about paranoia, so he ignores it and shoves it down with all his other problems.

Mack’s a do first, think later kind of guy. He could ask questions, sure, but instead he takes the typical route of moving before his mind can catch up to him, and flings himself at Maybe Not Hallucination Will.

The second he gets his arms around him, he knows it’s real. Well. Obviously, but you get the point. Will—his Will—smells like the citrusy hotel soap and a bit of the cologne he knows Mack loves. He’s warm and here and fucking massive. It’s been what, six weeks of off-season and he’s already this big? If Mack wasn’t so focused on not having a meltdown he would be begging to be fucked. Would it interfere with the game tomorrow? Totally. Does he care? Not one bit.

Will’s grip around him is a little bruising, some combination of the time spent apart and the ten pounds he’s apparently put on. He’s mumbling something low in Mack’s ear, but he can’t really hear it given that he’s crying. Again. He really needs to get his life together, or go on mood stabilizers. One of the two.

“You’re here? Really here?” he manages to choke out, voice shaking almost as much as his body.

“Yeah Mackie. ‘Course I am.”

The collar of Will’s shirt is soaked through by the time he even manages to get them over to sit on the bed, pulling away briefly to strip Mack of his own clothing. He probably looks like an absolute mess. Scratch that, definitely does.

“Sorry,” he hiccups through another wave of tears that get quickly wiped away. 

“It’s okay. If I knew you missed me this much I’d have come sooner,” Will teases, brushing his still damp hair from his face. He’s a little sweaty now too, from the body heat and the, well. Yeah. He’s pretty sure that’s actually some kind of condition that happens sometimes, but he’s had enough of a day to think about any other things that could be wrong with him. Fevers due to sobbing isn’t one he needs to add to the list.

All he manages in response is another pitiful sniff, watching as Will slides off the bed to kneel before him, taking his shoes off first, then reaching up to unbutton his jeans. It’s an unfortunately un-sexy action, even if it does involve Will’s hands in the near vicinity of his dick. Apparently crying only works during sex, and not because he’s an emotional wreck. He sits back up the moment his legs are free, and tucks himself as much as he can into Will once he joins him: head resting in the crook of his neck, both arms wrapped around his waist. If he wasn’t so busy losing his mind he would be focusing way more on how much more of him there is.

“Come here,” Will murmurs, moving to lay back against the pillows and motioning for him to follow. He crawls over and flops down on his chest, reveling in the feeling of thighs loosely pressed against him. Aiden likes to bully him about how obviously whipped he is, but he thinks it’s totally fair. Especially now that he’s all…

“Smitty,” he huffs into the thick fabric that unfortunately separates them, “You’re fucking massive.”

It gets him a snort of laughter, and a sharp yank at his hair. Only the exhaustion keeps him from moaning, but it’s a close thing. Instead he presses himself closer, wishing that his stupid fucking catholic shirt wasn’t on. Trust God to be cock-blocking him right now.

“Thank you…I think?”

“Ugh. Like it’s crazy, I don’t even understand.”

“I’ve been eating a lot,” he says simply like that even makes sense. Mack’s going to start salivating if he can get his clothes off. “Why, you jealous?”

“It’s hot,” is his immediate answer, though somewhat muffled. “Incredibly.”

Mack’s a simple guy, you know? He likes hockey and jet-ski’s and his boyfriend. He doesn’t like the headache that’s already started to settle into his temple, making itself at home in the crevices of his brain. He’s also not a fan of speaking, or moving, or doing anything but going to sleep, and then interrogating Will as to how he got here and why and if maybe he can never leave him alone again.

“I really hope you’re not trying to turn this into a sex thing right now,” Will accuses, as if Mack would ever try to get out of a hard situation by blowing him or something crazy like that.

He tries to sum up the strength to answer but all he gets out is a vague grunt. For all he likes to talk—mostly to Will, but honestly he’ll take what he can get, even if that ends up as Nurse who is unfathomably boring, especially in comparison to Sarah—he gets in these moods sometimes.

Aiden caught onto it first. It was a bit before he left for Minnesota, trying to tell Mack that distance wouldn’t mean they stopped talking. Twenty minutes into arguing he just…lost his ability to communicate. There was just so much in his head that he couldn’t even begin to try and get it out. He’d turned away, stared out the half covered window of his room and tried his best not to cry.

“Mack,” Aiden had begged, “Please look at me.”

He hadn’t. It had been too much: moving, speaking, existing. He just wanted everything to stop. After a few moments of blissful silence, Aiden had come to him, put himself right in front of the night sky and leaned down a few inches to look him in the eye.

“Come on kid, just talk to me.”

He’d shook his head at that, the first few tears flying out of his eyes with the movement. One splattered onto Aiden’s shirt, right over his heart. It was too much to see him like this, so Mack took the low road of staring at the floor instead. He wished for the thousandth time that mind reading was real.

“No?”

Another head shake.

“You don’t wanna talk?”

Another.

“Okay. Okay, we can uhm…we can just sit. Alright? I love you, and I don’t want to spend the time I’ve got left to see you fighting.”

The way he phrased it had rubbed him the wrong way, made it sound like he was never coming back. Mack couldn’t blame him if that was the case. He used to fantasize about them running away, never having to see him sad at the dinner table or hear him and Dada arguing again. It was a childish dream, but one he liked to cling onto nonetheless.

A week later he committed to the Shattucks.

“Mack?”

He tries again, getting out about half of a yeah before giving up.

“Quite time, huh?”

Will was the second. It happened after their first game, sitting on the edge of the water at Alviso Marina. Objectively, he should be happy. First game, first goal, first assist. He wasn’t. They lost, and even though it was the start it also felt like the start of a failure. And, to top it off, he hadn’t been able to get Will one. He wasn’t sure why it felt like such a big deal, but it did, and it was, and he was miserable about it. Will hadn’t tried to talk to him, or rather, had asked him if he was okay when they first arrived and waited in silence for three hours to get a response.

He doesn’t get one now, but it answers the question anyway. Mind reading, he’d thought back then. It still rings true now.

“Okay,” Will whispers, pressing a brief kiss to the top of his head. “Okay.”

Mack dreams of flying. He dreams of sinking his feet into sand, ocean rushing over his skin. He dreams of nothingness, and he dreams of waking up every morning for the rest of his life with someone else. He dreams of anonymity, fame, and peace.

Mack dreams of Will.

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・ོ・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

He wakes up to the sound of running water, and an empty bed.

His mind is still groggy but at least the headache has faded away. There’s still a lingering soreness in his muscles, but nothing too bad. The main issue is that he’s alone which is unfair because he’s fairly certain the last time he was conscious that was not the case. To be fair he could have actually been hallucinating, but he doubts it. Probably. The point being, he’s the only one here. It’s a cruel and unjust world, and he is going to cry again.

Not actually. Though, if it makes Will come back he might.

The slight hint of doubt that went through him at first has left due to a combination of three things: one, who else would be in his shower. Two, there’s a very distinct indent in the pillow next to him. Three, he can smell him. So. Unless his sanity has officially left him, it’s safe to say that Will is here, and that he’s also an evil abandoning asshole.

Rolling over with a groan, he fumbles around on the nightstand until his hand closes around the alarm. 2:25 shines back at him, insultingly bright. Before he has the chance to do anything else, the bathroom door opens behind him, a light flicking off. Turning back around so fast he almost hurts himself he finds a lot of skin. And. Like. Fuck. He’s got on a rather small pair of briefs that clearly don’t fit him all that well anymore due to…yeah. His thighs look like they’ve doubled in size, and there’s a whole V-line situation happening and ugh. Mack won life, other than the being generally super fucked up a lot of the time.

“Morning,” Will says, sitting down at the edge of the bed as Mack flings himself over to him, “Or, afternoon I guess. Feeling better?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, settling his head on Will’s lap. The urge to bite at his bare legs is very tempting. He can’t be blamed for that whatsoever. If he wasn’t playing two days in a row he’d be doing way more than just looking, but regrettably even he has physical limits.

Will hums softly, petting through his hair. Mack can’t wait to just relax all day and get room service because fuck knows he doesn’t want to leave bed, and get to hopefully suck the dick of his wonderful, perfect, amazing—

“You take your meds today?”

Never mind. Mack doesn’t like him.

“Or any of the days you’ve been here,” he continues, squinting down at Mack like he already knows the answer but wants to goad him into lying just to make a point. Jokes on him cause Mack isn’t going to fall for that shit. Nope. He’s a grown man, almost twenty, and he doesn’t need drugs to make him a person when Will does just fine.

“They make me sick,” he snaps back, irritation clawing at his chest. He can never have nice things. There’s always something about him that has to mess everything up.

“Mack.”

It’s the disappointment that always gets him in the end. Knowing that someone, that Will thought better of him only to be let down.

“I don’t see why it matters.”

The tired sigh that leaves him reminds Mack of when he first told Dada about it. He thought—rather childishly—that with his profession he’d understand. He still hasn’t looked at him the same.

“It matters because it helps you. And do not give me that shit about nausea, you and I both know that’s only if you take them before games,” Will retorts, and the knowing look in his eyes is too much to deal with any longer. Mack squeezes his own shut, wishing once again that he didn’t have to be perceived by anyone, ever. Perception sucks.

And look. He’s been trying, alright? But they really do make him more nauseous than normal and he can’t afford to be anything but one hundred percent right now.

“You know I love you, right?”

“Mhm.”

“And I only want you to be okay.”

“Mhm.”

Will nudges him until he opens his eyes again, and then tugs him upwards so he’s sitting against the headboard. There’s a familiarly hard set to his jaw, one he sees every time they step onto the ice together. It’s a bit uncomfortable to have it facing him now, since he hasn’t really had the pleasure of being his opponent full time since college.

“If it was me,” he begins in his most evil, manipulative, I’m winning this and you fucking know it voice, “What would you do? Would you let me do something that actively makes me unhappy? That fucks up my life? Would you think I’m a fuckup—”

“No,” he interrupts hurriedly, “Of course not.”

Will raises a critical brow. Damn. Walked right into that, didn’t he? Listen, he can’t just sit around and think of the hypothetical where Will has to deal with all this shit. He’s too good to hurt like this.

“Okay, so why is it any different with you?”

He splutters for an answer for a good twenty seconds even though he knows he’s been trapped. Damn Will and his stupid logic. Usually he takes the route of irrationality can only be conquered with more of itself. Such as one time when Mack was considering breaking his own wrist to see if it would make his shot better, and he suggested breaking every bone in his body.

Mack did not win that argument.

“Fuck you,” he settles on. It sounds weak even to his own ears. Will rolls his eyes and stands, giving Mack a great view of his back. Like. Wow. Holy shit. He needs to stake his claim on him somehow because that’s just crazy.

He comes back after about a minute of rummaging through various places, holding a water bottle, yogurt, and a small stack of clothing. From what he can tell it’s even color coordinated as opposed to what he usually does which is wearing whatever’s clean. He’s not sure how that’s even possible to do in such a short amount of time, but Will tends to work in magical ways that he doesn’t have the energy or the brainpower to figure out. Or, as Charlie likes to say, he’s just got no sense of fashion.

“Eat. And then we’re getting lunch.”

Mack eats. He takes the world’s fastest shower and after getting dressed, sits on the bathroom counter so that Will can style his hair with some very nice smelling mousse. He leaves it a bit damp to air dry and ignores every single time Mack tries to unbutton his belt in the process. He’s getting this one way or another, honestly. If anything it’s rude to deny him, seeing as he’s emotionally fragile and also, they haven’t seen each other in forever.

He tries other things than sex to distract him from his quest of leaving the room and actually going outside, like a crazy person. Whining, for instance, and then begging, and then a lot of pouting and then giving up to press him up against the door with a hand shoved down his pants. None of it works, and at precisely three o’clock he’s shoved out into a hotel hallway with the firm order to behave.

He grumbles the whole elevator ride down.

It’s nice. He’s loath to admit it, but the fresh air does help, along with the food. They get sandwiches and coffee to go from some tiny cafe with more plants than people, and eat it by the river. Will, because he’s himself, brings a picnic blanket, and urges him to lay down in the sun. Even if it was overcast, Mack would feel warmed to the bone. Getting hand fed by one’s very beautiful boyfriend in a very beautiful park will do that. Will insists that they stay there for at least an hour, talking about nothing and pointing out shapes in the clouds. If a fan was to stumble across them, it wouldn’t come off very platonic, but he feels a bit past the point of caring. Good company and sunlight really do work wonders.

“That one looks like you,” Will says, interrupting his thoughts.

“What?”

“That one,” he repeats, pointing to a very blob shaped cloud, “You feel?”

“It looks like a fucking cloud.”

“No, dude, the hair. You don’t see it?”

“I’m starting to feel a little insulted—”

“Oh my God you’re fucking blind,” Will mutters, but when Mack glances over he has a tiny, mischievous smirk on his face. If they were anyone else, anywhere else, he’d kiss it off him. Instead, he settles for kicking at his ankle. “I’m buying you glasses.”

Mack has nothing to say to that, other than outraged sputtering, and from the look Will’s giving him, that was his intention. He knows all the right ways to get under his skin, ignite him into annoyance or genuine rage or half delirious arousal. It’s a gift, blessing, curse. All of the above. Even though he knows he’s being baited, he falls for it anyways. Mack’s very good at falling for Will.

“Me? You’re literally near-sighted, shut the fuck up. Get your eyes checked. You can barely see things five feet in front of you, let alone a cloud,” he argues after a moment, rolling over and propping himself up on his arm to get the power of height on his side. It always pisses him off when Will’s pissing him off—lovingly, most of the time—that he’s got that single extra centimeter on him, the slight advantage that he loves to use to his favor all the time. And its nice sometimes sure, like when he’s about to get fucked after a good game but this is not one of those times.

“Mhm. Whatever you say babe.”

Mack would love to strangle him, but this is a public place and that’s not really good pr. So, he lays back down, and if he’s put himself an inch closer, well. That’s his business.

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・ོ・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

They do eventually have to leave, mid-day turning to evening quicker than he’d like. He’s been promised a massage and room service when they get back, so he can’t really complain, but at the same time the urge to whine is ever present. Will knows it too, because on the way back he buys him a little ice cream cone from a street stand to occupy his mouth while he couldn’t. His words, not Mack’s. There have been times—mostly when drunk and high off a win—that he’ll pull Mack into a hidden back alley and put him on his knees, giggling the whole time. The fact that someone hasn’t caught them yet is a miracle.

Now isn’t the time for that though. Now is the time for walking through a slowly quieting city and praying that no one recognizes them. Especially not anyone on the team. He may or may not have ditched about eleven different people to be here. Unintentionally, of course, until he checked his phone and then it became an intent. He can claim he just didn’t see the texts, which in all fairness up until about two hours ago, he hadn’t. It’s a white lie, or whatever. Who cares. He feels less like hes about to walk into oncoming traffic for the fuck of it and he has his boyfriend back, for reasons that are still un-answered.

They very nearly run into Sid and Cam on their way in, presumably headed for dinner. In a brief fit of insanity—as opposed to his usually much longer ones—he yanks Will into an opened closet that contains a lot of towels, a singular mop, and a rather confused bellboy. He apologizes in terrible Swiss as Will mutters something about being helped by God. From the looks of it, he’s not coming to save him.

“You’re ridiculous,” Will complains as they walk slowly up the stairs at Mack’s insistence, “I mean genuinely ridiculous.”

“What I am is cautious, thank you very much. Forgive me for trying not to out us to the entire team.”

“Why would my being here automatically count as us fucking?”

He stops him with a hand on his chest, peeking out onto the team floor’s hallway. There’s no one in active sight but he can hear noise coming from a few rooms.

“Oh, sorry, you’re right. It’s just super normal for my teammate who isn’t Canadian to fly out to another continent to watch me play, and then come back to my hotel room after spending a whole day with me. It’s the equivalent of sucking your dick center ice,” he hisses, creeping as quietly as he can towards said room. Will, because he sucks, ignores his efforts and instead swipes the room key from his hand. Like a very attractive version of his worst nightmares, he strides to the door in a few seconds, swiping it open and glaring at him from the entryway.

“Firstly,” Will says from behind him as he gets inside, “Go take your meds. Secondly, that is one of the most absurd things you’ve ever said to me, and I need you to know that.”

Mack would be more insulted if Will didn’t look very pretty in the low lighting spilling in from the windows. Also…maybe he does need those. He’ll talk to Dr Aston when he gets back to California about dosages and whatnot, but for now he sulks to the bathroom to find his pill case.

He takes a second in the silence to just breathe. In the other room he can hear Will ordering food with a practiced efficiency. There was no point in telling him what he wanted, at least not at this point in their relationship. Will knows him better than he knows himself. It would be scary if it didn’t feel so right.

The sink water is cool on his throat as he knocks back half his day’s dose. He learned his lesson about not taking two at once before, and has no desire to repeat it. He was at the Toffolis on a team game night and figured it would be fine. It was not. He almost fell down the stairs getting back to the living room and then after vomiting into a fake plant, passed out directly on a glass coffee table. He managed to avoid too many cuts, but it still wasn’t a super pleasant experience. Will had yelled at him the moment they got back to the Thornton’s, and then burst into tears. It was so out of character that it terrified Mack to the core, and after that he’d sworn on his life to be more careful, to take better care of himself.

Clearly, little has changed.

There’s a quick knock on the door before Will’s peeking his head through, quickly scanning over him like he’s scared that he’ll somehow be injured.

“Shower?”

Mack nods with a smile that he doesn’t entirely feel, and motions for him to come in. He’s honestly not even really trying to get him naked right now. Well, he is. Sort of. He just likes the feeling of Will’s rather soft hands washing his hair, getting to suck the water off his collarbones. It’s an experience that he reserves as his own, and he revels in it, in knowing he’s the only one to ever get to see him like that.

Will rids him of his clothes carefully, pressing soft kisses to each inch of skin revealed under his touch. He feels a bit like he’s floating out of his head, and isn’t quite so sure if it’s the drugs or the everything else. Will’s gently pulling him into the shower, turning them around to shield him from the first cold spray of the water.

One of the many things Mack loves about him is the ability he has to shut off his brain. It’s like the whole world is ear-shatteringly loud, and Will is his little pocket of silence. He tried explaining it once and ended up feeling silly, but he thinks Will must understand it somehow. He’s doing it now, deft fingers massaging at the base of his skull, slipping down ever so slightly to bring him in closer. With his eyes shut, it feels like he’s kissing him in a storm, rain pouring around them, hearts pounding in sync without a care.

Damn, these fucking pills are hitting hard.

They manage to make it out of the shower without falling over and dying which is sick, and Mack is so good about not trying to make it an elaborate ploy to blow him. He’s pulled from the bathroom after a whole lot of extra steps involving sprays and hair oil that he doesn’t feel is necessary at all. But it makes Will happy, and that’s good enough for him. After very hurriedly closing the curtains to avoid any scandals about why he’s naked in a hotel room with his teammate, he steps into a pair of cotton shorts that Will ever so gratuitously holds out for him. Dickie always says he gets unnecessary princess treatment. Mack’s got no clue what he’s on about. It’s entirely reasonable in his opinion.

Will lays him out on the bed, the dim ceiling light behind him casting a halo around his face. It’s fitting. He already looks like one of those little ones they put on valentines cards, but Mack thinks he’d still be this pretty if he had a thousand eyes and a hundred wings.

“Food should be here in about twenty minutes,” he says casually, digging his thumb into Mack’s inner thigh. Will likes being nonchalant about things that he knows works Mack up. It’s particularly evil now, hands just inches away from his cock after being away from him for an eternity.

“Cool,” he gasps as Will's pointer finger dips just under the hem of his shorts.

“Tell me if it hurts too much, yeah?”

Pain isn’t really a thing on Mack’s mind even if he can register the dull ache of his muscles. Nothing about Will could ever hurt him.

“Sure.”

“I was talking to Gabe yesterday, and he was saying you should be higher up on the power-play, you know? Closer to the net so you can grab a rebound, but not too close that you can’t do anything. Anyway, i figured id mention it since you were talking about formations the other day—”

“Smitty,” he finally snaps, “You cannot ask me thinking questions when your hand is basically on my dick. Or, like, anywhere near me.”

The stupid little giggle that comes out of his mouth says everything Mack needs to know about the situation. Why does he find it so endearing? He’s such a dick. And it’s not like he can even threaten him with anything, seeing as he’d rather die than leave him, or make him sad. Though, given his multitude of never ending problems, he likely makes him sad a lot.

It probably says something about himself that he’s more concerned with how he affects other people than himself. He can toss it on the list of things to talk to Dr Aston about.

Will does finally drop the act and shifts gears into properly trying to work out any tension leftover from practice rather than just making him annoyed and horny. He’s got a great career lined up as a physio after he retires…though that would mean he’d be touching other people. On second thought maybe Mack can just hire him as a personal masseuse. It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing they’ve ever done.

As opposed to last night when he ate his dinner through silent tears on the balcony, Will moves them to the small table in the corner after the food arrives. He produces two fluffy robes from the closet that Mack didn’t even notice existed, and slides one over him with deft fingers. Like this is some 90s romcom, he feeds Mack half his food, including a mousse thing that he probably shouldn’t be having but tastes like heaven. It’s even better when he kisses it from Will’s mouth afterwards. If he wasn’t in love before, he for sure would be now.

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・ོ・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

It’s getting close to ten when they finally get into bed, Will’s head resting on Mack’s chest as he flicks through channels on the TV. There’s not too many things in English other than shitty reality shows and for some reason Bluey. He’s honestly down for either of those things. Even if he missed this morning’s dose—and all of yesterday’s, but who’s counting—this one still made him pretty drowsy. Hopefully that combined with his own personal mattress/pillow/heated blanket/white noise machine will mean he can sleep through the night. The normal storm of overthinking disappeared sometime in the shower, his racing pulse dulled. He might even attempt taking half a pill in the morning, even if it is a game day.

Naturally, all good things that happen to him cut short. This one ends with Will speaking.

“Sid called. That’s why I came.”

It feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room, suffocating sliding into unlivable in just a few seconds. Will must sense the rising panic because he shifts just a bit out of Mack’s loose hold, swinging a leg over his hips to keep him pinned in place. In a better moment, he’d appreciate it more: the firmness of his thighs and newfound weight to his frame. Right now though, he might vomit.

“Stop freaking out. Yes i know its not something you control, no i do not care,” he orders, and there’s some inexplicable thing in the decisiveness of his voice that just makes him…stop. His breathing evens out as much as humanly possible. The growing bile in his throat simmers down to a manageable level. He’ll have to investigate that at some point.

“He called because he didn’t know how to get it through to you that you’re good. You play good, you lead good, I mean Mack. You have to know that. You have to,” Will insists, shaking him a little. “You’re doing so fucking amazing and it’s like you’re the only person in the entire world who can’t see it.”

Five senses. It’s a dumb thing to need, and a dumb reason to need it, but still. He can hear his own ragged breathing, and the low buzz of a TV next door. Will’s weird, fancy face cream and his lavender lotion that he refuses to go anywhere without. Will himself, soft fabric of the shirt he stole, softer skin. Remnants of the dessert that they split, raspberry, vanilla and a little cognac. Will. Always, inexplicably, Will.

“Sorry,” he sniffs, nuzzling his way into Will’s neck. It’s probably not the answer he wanted, but it’s what he has for now. Dr Aston is going to have a field day with this shit when they have their next session.

“It’s okay. If it makes you feel better, I was going to come out anyway for the finals,” Will offers, a sliver of his teeth peeking out in a grin.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he snorts, “Me and your parents sat side by side, pretending like we get along whatsoever. Every stoppage I’ll be texting Aiden for moral support.”

The idea alone is enough to get a very wet sounding laugh out of him. Will hates his parents, or rather hates his dad. They’ll act fine if it’s at a team event, but the one time he brought him home it almost ended with genuine murder. Acacia remains the good child-in-law even if they still don’t know that Will is his boyfriend, and at the rate it’s going, they might never.

Outside a siren wails, the sound carrying through one ear and out the other. A laugh comes from the hallway, another following closely after. He’s not mad, exactly. He’s not even particularly stressed about it. It’s nice actually, that Sid cared enough to do that for him. Someone else would have brushed it off, or told the coaches, or demanded captaincy be given up. A part of him wishes that was the case, wishes that he could be wrong enough. It would be easier if he was so out of his mind that he needed full time care or something like that, it would be proof that it’s not just in his head. But he’s on the border of it, normal enough to function but not to do it the way everyone else does. He’s just…

“I’m scared,” he admits in a whisper. Will, all knowing being that he is, doesn’t say anything to that, just lightly squeezes at his shoulders in encouragement.

He should look at engagement rings in the near future.

“I’m scared that I’ll never be enough, never be okay. I’m scared that all of this was a mistake and that I’ll be letting everyone down and that I’ll never win a single thing in my life. Will I’ve never fucking won. And I know it’s bad to think about but what if I’m actually cursed? I’m supposed to have my shit together by now but every day that passes i just feel like more of a mess and i just…I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing anymore.”

The moment he’s done speaking he deflates, slumping back further into the pillows like if he tries hard enough he can disappear. That was his superpower wish as a kid: invisibility. It would also make him great on the ice, though the floating stick might be a giveaway.

Will looks at him in the same way one might stare at a weird looking frog: a slight disbelieving squint and a furrowed brow. He shifts nervously under the scrutiny, feeling a lot like, well. A weird looking frog. Eventually, after Mack’s already begun to craft a plan of how to escape the room in twenty seconds, he answers.

“Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re arrogant or just stupid,” Will sighs, focused on twirling a lock of his hair between two fingers. Mack, like an adult, bites him in retaliation. He spilled his guts about his deepest fears—other than losing him, but that one is too much to even linger on for more than two seconds at a time let alone say out loud—and he calls him a dumbass. He’s not even that arrogant. Like, he’s cocky sometimes but that’s just hockey. Will’s an asshole. There better be a good follow up to this or he’s going to smother him with an overly fluffy pillow.

“There’s no you, singular,” he continues, ignoring the slowly forming teeth mark on his wrist because he’s polite and also a freak, “Hockey is a team sport. It’s a we.”

“Oh, so you’re Canadian now?”

That earns him a sharp jab at his ribs.

“You are not playing this game alone. You never are, you’re just to blind to see it. The wins are collective and so are the losses. It’s not on you to do everything, captain or not, generational talent be damned.”

His heart briefly clenches at that, the urge to cry sparking up again. He’d love to believe that, or rather he’d love to accept it. He’d love to finally figure out the thing that’s fucked him up this bad. Was it something that happened when he was little? Is it a condition beyond an anxiety disorder? Genetics? Just knowing would be enough to make him feel better about it. If he knows what it is, he can overcome it.

“What if…”

He thinks about Milan. About missed opportunities, missed passes, missed goals. He thinks about the silence after. He’d been trying not to cry the whole time. Only Sid had caught that, had pulled him aside later to hug him, tell him he was proud. Connor showed up later with a bottle of cheap vodka and weird Italian lemonade that they drunk on the balcony trying to forget about all their shit. Nate scolded them both for it in the morning, but it helped take the edge off. If anyone understood his shit, it was him.

He thinks about college, about being so close, too far. About world juniors and Chicago and Minnesota and all the times he tried and failed and got slapped with a pitying accolade. All Star teams mean jackshit if he’s not walking away the winner.

“What if I lose?”

“We.”

“Fuck off. Fine. What if we lose?”

“Then you win silver,” Will answers easily, like it’s that simple, like it wouldn’t ruin him.

He takes another breath, gripping at Will’s waist for stability. He’s like a human fidget toy, way better than something he can forget about or lose under his bed.

“And…and if we don’t make it that far? If tomorrow goes to complete shit?”

Will shrugs, leaning forward to press a light kiss to the tip of his nose.

“You win bronze.”

Win bronze. He says these things so bluntly. The lowest he’s ever come home with is second place, the bastard. It breaks Mack’s fragile heart sometimes, how fucking good he is at things. It drives him insane to this day that he didn’t go first, even if that would mean he didn’t get to have him. He’s as jealous as he is proud.

He has to try three times to get it out. Even though he feels like he might gag at the words, he has to say them, has to.

“And if I lose that too?”

Will tips his head to the side, perfect curls falling with the motion. He doesn’t look pitying, or disappointed. He looks…calculating. Like he’s in the middle of finding something out that he couldn’t before, or reworking a play. It drives him crazy in the best way possible when he does that mid-game, shifts just an inch to read him, to make something happen that no one else can.

“Hmm…I can be your prize,” he says, biting at his lip, “I mean, I’m a blond, and that’s basically gold. It’s what you said on our first date, isn’t it?”

It had almost killed him to ask. Literally. He nearly chopped his hand off on the blade sharpener, but he got the words out of his mouth and he got a yes. Will Smith Hockey had agreed to go on a date with him. Well, he agreed to dinner but it was at The GrandView so he figured that was obvious enough to be romantically inclined. Will drove, he directed. They got sat at the edge of the balcony overlooking the rolling hills above the city and ordered mock-tails that Mack could barely taste out of fear that he’d act like a complete idiot.

He lasted about twenty minutes before saying something fucking stupid about Rumpelstiltskin of all things. God must hate him.

“Ookay,” Will said, sounding about five seconds from busting out with laughter, “Why?”

“Well. Cause. You know. I mean not like the story—well yes like the story. The. The gold. Your hair looks like gold in the sun, and also always but mostly right now. It’s uhm…it's pretty. Like, it’s not not pretty other times, you’re pretty every day—I mean it is. Not that you aren’t, I just meant that—”

He’d been interrupted then—thank fuck—by their waiter. Will had simply stared at him with an odd expression until she left, twirling his Barracuda Smash lazily around in the glass. It was a nice place, too nice for Mack and absolutely perfect for Will. White Ralph Lauren shirt, brown loafers, navy dress pants. He’d watched him pick those out, sat like a leashed dog in a Zara dressing room. It had short circuited his brain watching him strip them from his body, a flash of creamy skin before the door shut behind him. His own polo had felt suffocating, especially in that moment.

“You think I’m pretty?”

He’d watched for Mack’s reaction over the rim of his drink, and Mack—newly nineteen and whipped, in his defense—had simply watched the way his throat flexed around a swallow. Wondered briefly if it would be the same in—

“Yeah,” he’d rasped, “It’s why I asked you out. Among other things.”

The silence across from him had lasted just enough time for him to consider tossing himself over the ledge and rolling down the mountain. Just as he was about to scream, Will answered.

“What other things?”

“Your skating,” had been the first thing to leave his mouth, quickly followed by, “And hands. And eyes. And insistence you don’t need glasses, and that you cry at bad romcoms, and…everything about you.”

What he hadn’t said back then, but did eventually confess after the first time Will had gotten on his knees for him, is that he loves the way he makes everything feel real.

“Mackie?”

He blinks, the combination of his name and a gentle tug at his hair pulling him back into his body.

“Hm?”

“You with me?”

What he wants to say is some poetic shit. Yes Will, I’m always with you, until the end of time and maybe a little longer after that. That does not leave his mouth. Nice things. Just once he’d like to have them.

“Why do you even like me?”

“Excuse me?”

Mack flinches a bit at his tone, but continues on.

“I mean, I’m a complete mess. Obviously. I need either you to do everything for me or chemicals. You could do so much better, seriously,” he explains, trying his best to seem detached to it. In a way, he is. He came to terms with the fact that Will’s out of his league a long time ago.

“For fucks sake Macklin. God, Acacia was right, the two of you are such fucking weirdo’s about relationships.”

It’s so far out of pocket, out of what Mack could possibly have imagined as a response that he short circuits a bit. Sits up straighter, frowns, tries to recollect his thoughts. For some reason he can’t find the feeling he just had again, like it’s been whipped out of existence.

“I don’t like you for hockey dude, I like you because of you. Even when you made the worst jokes at training camp and insist that the fucking Baby Mario Brothers are a valid character which they’re not and you need to accept it so help me Lord. Do I need to start doing affirmations with you? I will. Don’t test me on that,” Will rants, anger growing more obvious by the second.

“I—”

“Nope. No talking. You’re not allowed to speak. Look at me. Not next to me. Good. Jesus Christ it’s like pulling teeth to get you to accept that you have self worth outside of sports.”

He knows better than to interrupt again, but he really wants to. He also thinks he’s half decent at baking. Kind of. Mostly.

“Tomorrow you might lose. You might win. You might have a career ending injury and never walk again, or you might be given the keys to Vancouver. I don’t know what’s going to happen and neither do you. What I do know, is that you’re going to play to the best of your ability, and you’re going to do it with an entire team by your side. You’re Macklin Celebrini, and you don’t give up, so don’t pretend like you do now,” he declares.

He’s felt the weight of Wills medals in his palm before. The gold reflected off his eyes, turning them into a watercolor that had stared right back at him. It had scared him a little, how much he wanted to get one of his own. There was no limit he would push himself past to get there.

Your prize. It sounded…nice. Not even patronizing the way it might have sounded from someone else. He might not have anything else to his name, but he’d have Will.

“Okay?”

The first day of camp he’d seen a fire in Will that he’d never found in anyone else. It reflected at him like a mirror that he’d been looking for his whole life, the last piece of a long since started puzzle. It was why he liked him first, before he loved him.

“Okay.”

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・ོ・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

They fall asleep sometime later, tangled up in each other’s limbs. The last thing he sees before he drifts off is the bridge of Will’s nose, a single strand of gold hair resting on top of it. Medals, wins, loses. They’ll all be there waiting for him tomorrow, and next year, and the year after that. He’s got everything he needs right here. It’s not a perfect fix, and it’s certainly not permanent but it’s his.

And for once in his life, Mack is positive that he’ll be just fine with that

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・ོ・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

Will says it's cause he was born St Patrick's day, that he entered the world lucky. Good things just happen to him. Mack thinks it's something more than that. He's not all that religious outside of hockey, but he's pretty sure Will's blessed. Touched by an angel.

════════════════════════════════════

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

“Draw your knees into your chest,” the woman says in that obnoxiously nasally voice. Mack would be more annoyed if he wasn’t so relaxed.

He peeks a glance at Lane, finding him entirely in his own zone, eye-mask and all. A different one, because apparently he can’t use the same one he sleeps in for yoga. That would be preposterous. This one has three suns on it, and depending on the angle and his state of mind, makes it look like Lane has three eyes. He’ll never know peace. The whole entire world is against him.

Like, he doesn’t even care about this shit, not really. He thinks the crystal stuff is nonsense and hates most of the instructors because their music is too loud or their voice is too soft which Lane said is dumb to which Mack said he was dumb and then it ended in a pillow fight and some weird bruises. At least it had been easy to explain in practice when Ty asked. He’d gotten a few odd looks but getting into it with Lane was something they could at least confirm happened. All the other things Smith left on his body were…troublesome.

It seems a bit like a competition now: who can cause the most problems with the others teammates. Smith definitely started it, for sure. Mack distinctly recalls him between his legs with his mouth very insistently pressed against his collarbones. Though, come to think of it, maybe Mack had drawn first blood? Like. It’s. Hm. He wasn’t paying attention to the little details like the order of who bit the other first—

“Macklin.”

Lane’s voice makes him flinch, almost falling out of his rather compromising position. Like, he feels like any minute now Smith is going to walk into the room, tug off his three inch inseam shorts which weren’t always this fucking short, he just grew, and—

“Macklin,” he snaps again, jolting him for a second time out of his Smith induced haze.

“Yah?”

Lane grumbles something under his breath and without even taking off the eye-mask, reaches over to pause the video. Ah. He’s about to be yelled at, isn’t he?

“I can physically feel you thinking. We do not think in yoga. We reach down into our inner selves and find a new level of peace. Get it together.”

“The fuck are you, Patanjali?”

Lane very slowly twists to face him, and between the fucking ridiculous pose he's in and the evil ass suns he looks utterly ridiculous and also super duper terrifying. Mack feels like he’s pissed off a horror movie creature.

“How do you know who that is?”

His inner voice mumbles something about how he needs to stop and think before he says something deeply embarrassing more often.

Look. Listen. Okay. So.

He doesn’t give a fuck about yoga. It’s nice after a hard game or a long practice so that he’s not unreasonably sore in the morning, and his flexibility has definitely improved. But as a whole he couldn’t care less. He just. He just gets fixated on stuff okay? And Lane never shuts up about it and one night at like three in the morning after a particularly…fun dream about…something. Anything. Anyone. It doesn’t matter. Point being he needed the distraction, and so he did some research just to calm himself down. It was boring and mind numbing but a few details stuck in his mind because that’s just what things do to him. He still remembered the road signs on the way to his old house in Vancouver, and the first book he read in fifth grade.

“I uhm. I. It. You mentioned him?”

“No, I have not.”

“Yes you did.”

“No I—you know what, I’m not doing this thing with you,” he grumbles, still staring at him through the creepy ass mask. Mack really needs to burn that thing. “Macklin.”

“Lance.”

“That is not my name and you know it.”

“Lawrence?”

“I…okay, shut up. For once in your life, just…cease.”

Mack ceases. Well, he stays in the exact same position as when they started this conversation, even though he wishes he wasn’t.

“Did you do actual research about this?”

“No—what. Huh. Why would I do that? Stop being weird, like hello. Fucks wrong with you?”

“Oh my god.”

“Shut up.”

“Oh my god,” he repeats, tugging his mask ever so slightly up to stare at him with a single, wide eye.

“Literally fucking die.”

“Stop you’re so sweet—”

“Hutson if you don’t shut your fucking mouth right now i am going to pour smelling salts into your open throat while you sleep and i will find indescribable glee in it.”

Lane shuts his mouth. With a very creepy smile he pulls his mask back down and turns the video back on. Mack is going to buy a voodoo doll for him. He needs new friends. He needs friends that aren’t his teammates actually. He’s got Aubrey, kind of. He’s not sure if she really counts since he only sees her when he’s at, you know, her place of employment. That’s not friendship, that’s just like. The bond between a regular and a barista. He’d ask for her number if that didn’t feel so scary and also like a come on. He doesn’t want anything to be awkward, which given his track record aka his entire life, is a likely outcome.

He lets himself drift off into that half asleep phase he finds when he does this, letting the music fade to a buzz in his ears and his mild melt inside his skull. Not that Lane will ever know this information, but he does find it relaxing. It doesn’t quite compare to Smith, at least the version of him that doesn’t just exist to rile him up, but it’s still nice. He can’t exactly take trips over to BC all the time. He should probably learn to drive. Not that he’d be doing that just for Smith, but, because, like. Uhm. Because. It’s a life skill. Yes, exactly. Life skill. He could use a few more of those. Aiden says so at least, and he’s usually right about, well. Everything. Except for ice cream flavors.

Eventually the instructor and her annoying voice tells him that he can sit up, thank fuck. The whole weird sex thing—which is apparently called wind removing, because of course it is—was really starting to get to him. It doesn’t matter that no one can actually see him, it’s a fucking crazy thing to ask of him at barely nine pm.

In his state of delirium, a few weird rocks in his cupped hands, the meanings of which have fled his mind, he hasn’t found a new level of peace. He hasn’t even stopped thinking, not really. In all fairness, he doesn’t even quit that when he’s asleep. Mediation isn’t his strong suit. Instead, he takes the time to do something better: think about Smith.

Okay, to be clear, not like. Smith as a whole. Not even the whole sex thing or how much Mack enjoys just fucking being with the guy. He’ll get to that shit later. No, he’s thinking about himself in relation to Smith, specifically if he’s maybe the asshole here.

Sure. Smith-slash-Smatan has wronged him dearly many times. He’s a dick. He’s also got a great one—nope. Not doing that. Point being, yesterday he was…harsh. Smith did genuinely seem like he wanted to talk, like he was worried even. It was the same the time before, and they had actually, like, connected then. Afterwards too, when Smith texted before the game. It felt different, more casual and relaxed. He wasn’t trying to get under Mack’s skin or even bring up what happened beyond a check in. Mack was the one who made it weird, and then he was the one who…

They’re not friends, is the thing. They’ve only very recently moved into the territory of somewhat friendly. But, still. Smith actually flinched, showed some actual sign of emotion. He was hurt, and Mack was the one who did that to him. And he hadn’t even fucking meant to say it is the thing. It just came out, and he was too late to stop it or even attempt to backtrack. He’s just gotten so used to the arguing and the defensiveness that he fell into it without a second thought. Or a first one if he’s being honest.

His inner voice mumbles something about how he seems to do that a lot with Smith.

He wasn’t trying to be a complete piece of shit. Hand to the hockey gods. He’s been enjoying whatever it is has been changing between them way more than he’d admit to anyone else, even under the threat of death. But he’s liked it so fucking much its scary, likes knowing that Smith thinks of him outside of the bedroom, that he actually wants to talk or hang out or have a meaningful conversation. That he cares enough to reassure him, take care of him, let him sleep in his fucking house.

That during a party all for him, all for beating Mack…all Smith was doing was wanting him.

“Deep breath in.”

Mack can see it as clear as day, the split second before he realized all the implications of waking up next to each other: the softness of his face in the morning light, the delicate edge of his nose, clear blue eyes.

“Deep breath out.”

He’d been wearing Mack’s hoodie. Like, obviously. Mack watched him pick it up, watched the fabric shift over his frame the entire rest of the night. But he’d looked…

He’s damning himself with this, with all of this. He could pick fifteen thousand points in time in which he could have turned back. If, if, if.

If he’d never let himself get panting, desperate, and alone in a cold room with only the light of his screen and Smith’s game flushed face as company. If he’d never gotten caught up in watching his highlights, if he’d played better, if he’d gone out with the team, if he’d never gone to that party, never went to that room, never let himself get so out of his mind. If he’d never argued with him at the cafe, never gone to study at the library that morning, never followed him out of the room, never agreed to this whole entire thing, never answered his messages, never gone back to that house, never let him get that close, never opened up, never laughed at his shitty jokes, never, never, never.

He looked. Well.

Smith had looked like his.

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

“You know, I honestly didn’t think I’d be able to convince you,” Lane says happily as he drops their mats back into their allotted spot in the closet. They really need to move. This place is way too fucking small.

“Convince me?”

“That yoga is nice!”

“You’re making a massive assumption here bud.”

Lane spins on his heel and pins him with one of those surprisingly depthful stares. Like, yeah, Mack’s looking down at him, and he also still has his stupid mask pushed up into his short hair. Plus, you know. He’s wearing a weird 90s Nike romper thing. Bodysuit? Whatever, point is, the thing is hideous, and also makes him look legitimately demented. He refuses to wear anything else and even has tried to take shots at Mack’s yoga outfit which is just. Mind blowing. The sheer audacity to stand around looking like a leprechaun into satin and body building yet still manage to criticize someone else…fucking Americans. And, somehow, Mack's still nervous about whatever is about to come out of his mouth. 

Fucking Lane Hutson, honestly.

“You do it almost every day. I’d call that seeing the light,” he argues, crossing his arms as if Mack would ever be scared of him.

His inner voice mumbles something about him very often being scared of Lane Hutson.

Physically scared, then.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

He flops down onto his bed, watching as Lane turns again for the closet, and shuts the door with himself inside. Alright then. Mack’s free from being accused of liking yoga for the time being. Joy to the world or whatever.

Mack’s got a two track mind: hockey, and things he shouldn’t be doing. It’s too late to be going to the rink, and even if he could, he’s pretty tired and also a bit hungry. The trainers have him on a new diet, more food, more bulking. Apparently he was eating too little and too healthy which is an insane thing to say, especially to him. He tried to pull the whole Dada thing, and how he’d never lead him astray, but the new shit has been kinda working. He’s stronger, somewhat less grumpy all the time and no longer feels like complete shit before breakfast. So, you know. That’s nice. He’s even remembered the protein bar thing.

He could get a salad. Probably the wise choice. He’s been getting some shit for not being able to really cook, but they don’t even have a kitchen in their dorm, so, like, not his fault. He can wait until he’s less busy, which will probably be never but hey. Takeout is a thing. Worst case scenario, he’ll find a personal chef.

Before he can get too far into hypothetical dinner scenarios, Lane stumbles out of the closet, the evil jumper thing long gone and replaced with BU sweats and an old USNTDP shirt. The sight makes him both annoyed in the patriotic sense, and a little longing. Smith looks good in those colors. He knows they played each other back then, but he can’t really recall any of it. He should find the tapes. For purely educational reasons. Yeah. For sure.

“M gonna be at Quinn’s, so don’t bother waiting up for me,” Lane calls over his shoulder as he rummages around near the door. Mack grunts out a vague affirmation, mostly distracted trying to find his phone. He’s not sure if anything decent is even open at this hour, but he might as well check.

“Oh, also, Aiden saw Jo today, and she said there might be an open Brownstone soon. Two rooms on the first floor. It’s near the towers, so it’d be a longer walk, but I said we’d consider it.”

Aiden has always had this gift that Mack has been unendingly jealous of: he’s good at making friends. Everyone he meets seems to like him, find him funny, want to hang out or help him with something. He carries groceries up the stairs for old couples and brings lost children back to their parents. He could probably chat up a brick wall. He’s been doing a lot of heavy lifting for Mack with the team, trying to get them to ignore how…himself he can be. He’s overheard the conversations, and then promptly decided to go back out on the ice and train to forget about it.

Even though he wishes he could do the same, and often finds it annoying, it’s helpful on occasion. Like, for instance, getting them a decent place to live. Sleeper is chill, and it’s right next to the arena, but Mack would die for his own room. He’d be free from Lanes creepy fucking eye masks, that’s for sure. And, well. It would make some other things easier, like stalking people or jerking off to their highlight reels or texting them to find a mutual agreed upon date to fuck.

As one does.

“Kay,” he answers, just before the door shuts with a soft click. Finally, he’s alone.

His inner voice mumbles something about how he never gets tired of spending time with Smith.

Okay. Whatever. Smith’s an outlier. An unfortunate and confusing outlier. He’s not going to agonize about him now. That can wait until…well. Realistically, about ten minutes.

There are, in fact, a few places still delivering. He gets himself a salad with about ten dollars of extra proteins and a smoothie that he hopes isn’t complete shit. In a brief moment of weakness he adds in a separate order of a few cookies. He’s allowed to cheat occasionally. And if he feels that bad, he can just, like. Give it to Lane. The power of friendship, or something.

Mack could do a lot of things. He could change. He could find a game to watch, or a movie. He could like. Do his laundry. Call Aiden, or Charlie, or fucking anyone else. It hasn’t even been that long. He’s got fresh memories of Smith on his mind that he can overthink and or get hard about. There’s no reason to be doing this.

But. Well. He really wants to. Lane isn’t here. No one is around to judge him. He doesn’t have to explain himself for this. He exits his locked photo album that contains about four hundred pictures of Smith, and goes to his texts.

it was nice seeing u or whatever like, outside of yeah yk

He really shouldn’t be left to his own devices. Who texts someone six times in a row? What kind of moron is he? Before he can go too deep into fantasizing about never speaking to anyone ever again, a typing bubble pops up from Smith. He sits up, heart pounding as the seconds tick by. The grip. Where is his fucking grip at.

Smatan: It was

Two simple words and Mack’s already feeling like he’s floating.

ur not as evil as i thought

Wow, great conversation starter Mack. Not weird at all.

Smatan: You thought I was evil? yeah to be clear, i still do just at a much lower level Smatan: Wow Smatan: Thanks? anytime Smatan: You're ridiculous u like it

Smith hearts the message. Mack, because he’s apparently a teenage girl in a romcom now, giggles and kicks his feet. Okay. Good start. Great start. Now. He just needs to figure out how to like. Make conversation.

wyd?

Of course. All meaningful interactions start off like that. For fucks sake, why is he so bad at this?

Smatan: Halfway through a pint of bland ice cream Smatan: I mean, there's a flavor somewhere in there Smatan: Sort of maybe stop eating it? Smatan: Apparently I need more calories Smatan: I believe the exact wording was "concerningly underweight for this stage in life." thats kinda rude u look good u play good whats to complain abt? Smatan: Ask the team

If he could, Mack would march directly into their arena and demand an answer for it. Sure, yeah, Smith would look good if he bulked up a bit more, thighs thick and powerful, broad shoulders with some extra definition on them, his biceps bulging out of a shirt.

And his fucking forearms, oh, Mack could stare at them all day. The corded muscle, the way his veins travel down to his hands which are a whole other thing entirely. He fantasizes about them sometimes, wrapped around his neck or inside of him, the soft skin, the rough callouses. How they feel scratching through his hair, or pressing him down onto his stomach.

It’s the arms though, really. At first Mack figured he was just insecure, which like, he is a little bit, but he’s insecure about a lot of things so whatever. But no, it’s way more than that. He wants to bite at them every chance he gets, paint his skin wet with his tongue until he could map his body blind. It’s just so unreasonably hot, something he shouldn’t pay any mind to but for some reason he just can’t get out of his head. It’s the simplicity, he thinks. The way he wishes he could press his palm right where fabric meets skin, feel the warmth, the years of training, the fine hair. He’d trace the divots from his wrist flexors—and here he thought that anatomy quiz wouldn’t give him anything but pain—up to his shoulder blades, the base of his neck, down his spine to the slight dimples of his lower back and the curve of his—

Ahem.

He’s getting off track here.

trainers have me doing the same actually but like with protein Smatan: You're already fucking massive dude im alright Smatan: Don't be modest theres always room to improve Smatan: Of course you'd think that ? Smatan: Nothing Smatan: What are you doing?

Fantasizing about every single inch of your body, I mean what haha that’s so crazy, who said that? Also, what’s wrong with trying to get better? Dada always says he’s never going to be good enough if he thinks he is, and he’s got a whole PhD.

waiting for my food to arrive attempting to find the motivation to change out of my yoga clothes same old same old Smatan: You still do yoga?

Oh. Fuck. Why did he say that? He could have lied. Mack needs to lie to him more, he’s doing it to literally every other person in his life but no, the one person who he should actually be withholding the truth from, he spills his guts to. And his yoga secrets. Fucking ridiculous.

Smatan: Also, please elaborate on what said clothes look like Smatan: Preferably visually 1, i do not do yoga for fun, i do it because lane forces me you know this 2, y should i? Smatan: I asked and? Smatan: I can't want to see you in leggings?

Mack groans and shoves a pillow over his face. He’d love to see Smith in leggings, not the athletic shit he wears on game days, but like. Cotton one, with that little fold-over at his waist. They’d cling so perfectly to his frame, flaring out over his ankles and…and. Okay. Is he high? He feels high. Like the paranoid moron that he is, he checks his nose to make sure it isn’t bleeding. He wouldn’t be surprised if it is.

not leggings Smatan: Now this is just intriguing me more pervert Smatan: Very much so if it's you Smatan: Pretty please? Smatan: I'll send you some bland ice cream And a free bj ive never paid for a bj in my life and certainly not from you? Smatan: Okay fine then, in general

Like. Mack’s not gonna turn down a blowjob from him of all people. He should have known after the first time kissing him that his mouth would feel like fucking paradise.

But. Well. His yoga outfit is…okay it’s not as bad as Lane’s. Nothing is that bad. He really needs to burn that shit. But it’s still a bit, you know. Look. See. Okay. Lane said he needed something he could move in. Light and nonrestrictive, and then he went on a ramble about fabric blends and that shit which is when he tuned out and started thinking about power play formations.

Anyways, his point is, even though Smith has literally been inside of him, it’s still a little nerve wracking to send him a selfie wearing a crop top and micro shorts.

Listen, he didn’t even intend for this. At all. He just. Okay, the shorts he got when he was like thirteen for running and he only brought them here because he was stress packing and just fucking. Grabbed them. They had been sitting at the back of his drawers until Lane started getting very insistent that his workout clothing wouldn’t cut it, and went through every single item of clothing he had to pick something out. Thankfully Mack had moved the dildo to under his bed, or he’d be dead by now.

They’re small enough to honestly pass as weird looking underwear and curve up a bit to show the bottom of his hips, but they’re breathable and Lane Hutson approved, so who cares. The top is from his ex that he forgot to give back when they broke up and then accidentally threw into one of his suitcases when going through his collection of plain grey shirts. It barely reaches mid waist but it is also, unfortunately, really nice to wear. He’d be more embarrassed if Lane didn’t look fucking crazy, or could actually see him. Well, he can see him before and after, but he’s also mega straight and his Bro, so he’s way more concerned with his form than how slutty he looks.

Self conscious isn’t the world, but it’s decidedly very not Real Man-ish of him, or even Average Man, Trying To Be Man, or Vaguely Masculine. It doesn’t matter that Smith’s seen him naked or seen him crush someone into the boards. He’s 190 pounds of hard work sure, but he’s also 190 pounds of zero off-ice confidence, awkwardness and a general inability to take a decent picture.

His phone buzzes from where he’s dropped it next to him.

Smatan: Cmon Smatan: When else are you gonna get this kind of offer?

Shit. Fuck. Alright. Might as well dig himself a little further into his grave! He opens up his camera before he can start getting second thoughts, snaps a quite photo of himself that he doesn't even really look at, just clocks that it's a lot of skin, and sends it.

Smatan: Wow Smatan: Jesus fucking Christ Smatan: Are you doing this to torture me? Smatan: You have no idea how badly I want to fuck you right now

Mack has to take a second to scream into his mattress.

whats stopping u?

It would be such a bad idea to see him right now, but fuck if the idea isn’t a beautiful one.

Smatan: Grace stole my car steal it back Smatan: She's in Lexington uber Smatan: Everyone else is also downstairs watching the oceans movies for the hundredth time window? Smatan: Stop tempting me :( Smatan: It's too risky

Mack genuinely snorts at that.

and inviting me over wasnt? Smatan: Fuck off Smatan: If I could see you, I would fine Smatan: Don't give me that attitude

Mack’s about to say something incredibly attitudinal when Smith sends another message.

Smatan: How was your day?

He scowls at his screen, trying his best to physically send evil vibes towards Smith. Oh fuck he's turning into Lane. This is bad. He needs to talk to Aiden more. Whatever, he’s allowed to be a tiny bit annoyed, and also a slightly larger bit giddy that Smith wants to know things about him.

His inner voice mumbles something about him being a total loser.

fine got into another fight with coach in which i was right, btw but aiden bought me lunch so that was nice we shit talked the annoying parts of our family over seafood Smatan: Another? dw abt it

Mack isn’t a problem. Everyone else is. He might not be great at math or social interaction but he’s good at hockey and he’s not gonna sit back and let anyone do something stupid when he knows how to do it right. If that means he gets into it with his coaches and captain and teammates and pretty much everyone, ever, then…well. Who cares? Dada says he should stand up for himself more anyways.

Smatan: If you say so Smatan: Grace never wants to gossip about relatives with me Smatan: She says it's mean but she also threatened to dissolve someone in acid the other day, so I'm not rly sure wtf she's on about lmao just cause? Smatan: We think her friends boyfriend is cheating Smatan: I suggested to bug his room, but apparently that "isn't reasonable" as apposed to acid which is super normal Smatan: Well, if it's good enough for the cartel...

Just as he starts typing a response, he gets a notification saying his food is here. Fuck. Shit. Dammit. He can’t go down looking like this.

In the fashion of a wild animal who has rabies and also took some ketamine, he leaps off his bed and throws open the closet door. Pants. Pants, he needs pants. He grabs a pair of sweats laying on the floor and wiggles them on as he hops to the door, running into about four different pieces of furniture and the wall on his way. He barely manages to get on a pair of slides or remember his keys, and very nearly closes the door on his hand. But he’s chill. He’s also starved.

The driver is very nice and doesn’t even comment on the fact that he’s panting from sprinting all the way downstairs. He just tells him to have a goodnight and also try shooting on his backhand more, which, like. Alright. Sure. Whatever, Mack’s not about to get into a detailed conversation with a man named Bartholomew.

He gets a slightly odd look from the front desk guy when he walks back in, but other than that he’s left alone as he rides the slow elevator up. The second he steps back into his dorm he’s already texting Smith again. Moth to the flame or whatever.

sry, was getting food Smatan: Dw about it Smatan: Leno was bothering me about coming downstairs anyways

Mack frowns as he sets the bag on his desk. Why is it always fucking Leonard? The guy needs to leave him alone.

do u not want to?

Typing bubble. No typing bubble. Very, very long typing bubble, and then in the blink of an eye it fades away. He keeps a close eye on his phone as he takes his salad out, and carefully inspects the smoothie. It’s more of a juice than anything, but it tastes alright. He could deal with it being a little sharper, but he’s trying not to be so picky. Baby steps and all that.

He gets halfway through the bowl and a halfhearted attempt to reconnect with one of his Chicago teammates when Smith finally texts him back. He carefully sets his food aside on his nightstand before picking his phone up with slightly shaking hands. There’s really no reason for him to be this anxious about everything.

I like talking to you better

Mack chokes a little on his own spit. He’d rather be choking on something else—okay. Stop. Enough of that shit.

u would rather talk to me than ur real friends?

Bad. Bad, bad, very bad. What the fuck is wrong with him? He just did this shit, and now he’s right back to where he was earlier. It’s not like he can take it back, no matter how much he wishes he could. There’s no good way to say, Hey sorry I’m being such a cunt I just don’t really find myself worthy of your attention. Do you still think I’m hot?

Mack needs to find a life coach.

We could be real friends If you want

When Aiden first met his girlfriend, he called Mack at three in the morning. He’d been in Wisconsin, still buzzing after a late power play goal that gave them the win, and staring at the blank ceiling trying to restrain himself from waking Cam up to talk. The soft buzz of his phone had been a blessing, even though they’d already talked right after the game.

“Hey,” he’d said, slipping out into the hallway of their hotel. Aiden’s camera had been covered by half of a pillow, but the second he heard Mack’s voice he yanked it directly in front of his face.

“Oh my god, Mack.”

“Uhm. Yes?”

At that point, he found a small lounge to shut himself into, flicking on a table lamp, its warm light flooding softly into the room. He plopped down on the pillowy leather couch, and waited.

“I think I’m in love,” had been the next words out of his mouth, directly followed by him dropping Mack face first onto his bed and screaming into a pillow. At the time he considered that he might be asleep before Aiden’s face came back into view, a little flushed and grinning like he just won the cup.

“Huh?”

“Okay, okay, maybe not in love, but dude. Mack. Macky. Holy shit.”

“I…dude what—”

“I think I’m gonna marry her.”

Mack had shuffled back so he was laying his head against the thick armrest, and sighed.

“Are you gonna actually explain to me what happened or…”

“I don’t even know. We went out to this bar to celebrate and one second I was talking to Lane and the next she was just there. I thought i was fucking, like, dreaming or something. She’s so pretty, and funny, and cool, and she said it was her first hockey game and I played really well, and…Mack. Mack, she’s the best person. We talked for hours, it was like a movie. Holy fuck i think I’m going crazy,” he rambled, eyes focused on some point beyond what Mack could see like he was re-imagining the scene in his head. He’d been caught between wanting to make fun of him, being incredibly happy, and feeling a bit jealous. Things were off with his girlfriend, and even if they were doing better he’d never felt like that about her.

“Whats her name?” he settled on, tugging the strings of his hoodie tight to cover his face.

Aiden opened and closed his mouth a few times before giving a very aggressive and slightly embarrassed cough.

“I uh…I forgot to ask…”

Mack blinked down at him, fourteen hours and a time zone away, and still so blindingly familiar. He hoped that his judgment could radiate from the near hundred miles that separated them.

“Sorry, so. To be clear. You spent hours talking to the best person re-imagining ever met, and you don’t know her fucking name?”

“First of all young man, watch your language, and second of all…uhm. Yes?”

Mack had genuinely cackled at that, nearly falling off the couch. He could hear Aiden grumbling under his breath but when he looked back down at him he realized that there was a new set to his jaw, an unfamiliar glint in his eye. Holy shit, he’d thought, he’s really in this.

“What's that look for?”

Mack shrugged, and brushed away some of the hair that had fallen into his face.

“Nothing, I’ve just…I’ve never seen you with a crush.”

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

It settles in his stomach first. A soft buzz, like he’s swallowed a car engine. It dances the line of sickening and electrifying. The way he felt when Smith first walked into that bedroom, and every single time he’d seen him since. Like he was going to vomit and also jump for joy like a child at a fair.

Then, it moves. Slowly up his spine in little sparks, brushing against his brain stem, itching over his scalp, and finally reaching a hand into the chaos of his head to flick on a light. The glow explodes through his body, and then fizzles out just as quickly, leaving behind one simple truth:

He has a crush.

Oh fuck, Mack has a crush. He has a crush on Will fucking Smith. Blue eyed, blonde, bucktoothed, perfectly proportioned hockey god Will Smith. The guy who should be his sworn enemy, who he was doing really fucking good at hating right up until he just…stopped. Right up until he looked up at him, haloed by the soft glow of a light in an unfamiliar bed and thought that he was the most stunning thing on the face of the earth.

This is not good. This is so not good at all, what the fuck? Like, first of all, not very straight of him. Neither is the liking sucking dick thing, but this is just a whole other line that he shouldn’t be crossing. It’s a different matter entirely. Wanting to fuck a guy and wanting to like…have a life with one are two very different things. And it’s Smith of all the people in the world. He really cannot be feeling like this about him.

First of all. Oh fuck. Alright. Okay. First of all, they’re rivals. Point blank, end of story. It’s not something he can change. Second of all. Second of all Smith might be super annoyingly pretty but he’s still a man, and Mack should be not into men at all, that’s not in his detailed life plan whatsoever. And also, the league, and his family, and, and, and.

And it’s not possible. None of this is. Oh fuck why is this happening to him? What exactly did he do to deserve this? It’s the fucking voodoo doll, isn’t it?

His inner voice mumbles something about how he might be getting ahead of himself here.

Okay. So. Forget. Forget everything. Leave behind hockey, and Dada, and his reputation, and the entire world. That’s not important right now.

Mack has a crush on a guy, and that guy is William Charles Patrick Smith, and he wants to be his friend. And Mack…Mack like. Mack misses him, misses his scent and the warmth of his body and his stupid laugh and….fuck.

Fuck, he sounds insane. Maybe he is insane? He feels like he could run a marathon and also maybe drop dead the moment he stands. He misses Maple actually. Maple would know what to do here. He really should have brought her, but he’s a Real Man and that wouldn’t be up to code. He’s not even that sure what the code is, just that he has to follow it or the apocalypse will start or he’ll never score a single goal ever again.

If Mack knows one thing, it’s that avoiding things doesn’t make them stop existing. He can be a functional human being for long enough to answer a simple text.

His inner voice mumbles something about doubting that.

sry, phone fell behind my bed sure

He takes a brief moment to bite down on his fist, squeezing his eyes shut at the sharp pain. He needs to take up boxing or something. The yoga isn’t doing enough for his nervous system. Why is he agreeing to this? Even if he didn’t have a fucking…crush, on the guy, this is a bad idea. Astronomically bad even. He needs to make better choices.

Smith responds within the second.

Smatan: Yeah? yeah Smatan: Hold on, I gotta feed mackerel

Mack rereads the sentence about five times before giving up on trying to understand it. He’s too tired for this shit. They’ve been friends for all of five seconds and already he’s confused. He needs his cookies for this.

? Smatan: My fish ur what

In lieu of a helpful response, Smith sends a picture. It’s of a large tank, softly lit and heavily decorated. There’s even a little pirate ship. And, a fish. It’s white and red, speckled lightly with some black dots. Since when does he…what. Huh. What the fuck is happening to Mack right now?

Smatan: Mackerel wtf when did u get a fucking fish and why is it called that Smatan: Uhh, like a month ago? Maybe longer, idk. And Leno picked the name bro what Smatan: Lol Smatan: He's nice hes a fish Smatan: Yeah, and he's nice

Mack gives up on trying to figure this one out. He groans as he sits up, swiping the remainder of his salad off his nightstand and putting it in the fridge, swapping it with his bag of bad dietary choices. On his way back he flicks the lights off, plunging the room into darkness. Sliding under his comforter he reaches over to turn his lamp on, squinting a bit at the sudden glare. Smith is a mystery, a ten thousand piece puzzle. It’s entirely on Mack that he wants to solve him so badly.

sure Smatan: Don't slander my fish its a fine fish Smatan: You're just jealous you don't have a fish theres something wrong with ur brain

There’s a brief, sickening pause in response time in which Mack debates how long it would take for him to fall to the ground from his window. He’s saved by another picture coming through, this time of Smith with a spoon in his mouth flipping him off. Mack wishes it was something else between his pink lips—

Moving on.

He rummages through his bag and breaks off half of what he hopes is the chocolate chip one, shoveling it into his mouth.

shouldnt u be like asleep rn Smatan: Shouldn't you? no well yeah but i meant cause u have a game tmrw and then ur roadie

What a great way to reveal that he has the fucking BC calendar pdf saved, and looks at it daily! Super normal. Everyone does that. He’s going to die. Is this what having a crush entails? Shitty choices and not being able to shut up? It doesn’t feel like his last one at all. He’s very out of his depth here.

Smatan: Are you stalking me? i go to bu Smatan: No way, really? mf all of the team knows your schedule we have bets on how badly ur gonna lose Smatan: Asshole Smatan: But yeah, I probably should. Got distracted by my very stupid friend who was being mean to my fish

Mack screams. Okay, it’s more of a cut off screech than anything, but like, same thing. Friend. Smith might as well have proposed to him. Oh, he's so fucking ridiculous. Someone needs to electrocute him back into normality.

His inner voice mumbles something about how one can’t return to a place they’ve never been.

sounds like a dick Smatan: He's alright Smatan: Cute too cute????? Smatan: Adorable even i want you to die Smatan: I thought you said you wanted me to go to sleep?

Mack is going to hurt him. And then maybe put his tongue in his mouth for an extended period of time.

i said u should i dont care Smatan: Mhm Smatan: I'll miss you

Mack very nearly does drop his phone behind his bed at that, flinging it into the air before scrambling to catch it before it falls. He needs help. Where’s Lane? He probably has some weird cure for whatever’s happening inside of his heart.

in ur sleep? Smatan: I was thinking more on said roadie oh Smatan: But I do dream of you sometimes Smatan: Mostly about how good you look when I'm fucking you fuck offf Smatan: Take the compliment ... fine

He’s not quite so sure to say its not the compliment—if one can even call it that—that he’s losing his shit over, but the fact that Smith fucking dreams about him. It's probably not something he even should say.

Or. No, actually. They’re friends now, and also Mack wants to send him a fucking valentines card, so. He’s pretty sure Smith doesn’t cut it anymore.

Will dreams about him. About fucking him. He has, by some miracle of a chance, made it into his subconscious mind. This conversation is doing terrible things to his mental health. He needs to end it. It’s…well, it’s kind of early all things considered, but he should go to bed. It’s good for his health. Plus, he’d rather die than have Lane walk in on this.

go to sleep Smatan: Bossy pretty sure you meant correct Smatan: Come to think of it, I meant bratty dick

This dick. Why does Mack have to like him this fucking much again?

Maybe there is another version of himself somewhere out there in the universe that never got into all of this. Who was smarter, braver, better. Maybe he’s happier like that, with no distractions, nothing to hide, nothing to be afraid of. And fuck, Mack is so, so scared. It’s terrifying, all of this, each and every message he sends and every time he goes to see him is just another nail in the coffin. It’s just another moment in which he’s waiting with baited breath for the hatchet to come down and ruin his life.

Unfortunately for that other Mack and his own well being, he’s not exactly one to make good choices in the face of beautiful boys.

gn will Smatan: Good night Macklin

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭