Chapter Text
The music was too loud.
That was Macklin’s first thought. His second was that Gabe shouldn’t be allowed to stand that close to Will.
They’re in some rented house in San Jose, half the San Jose Sharks roster crammed into a living room that smells like citrus seltzer and sunscreen. Everyone’s mingling and pretending like they’re not exhausted. Someone’s yelling over the speakers. Someone else is trying to start a beer pong game on a coffee table that definitely wasn’t made for it.
Macklin is leaning against the kitchen counter, pretending to listen to whatever story Ekky is telling him and Tyler. He hasn’t heard a word.
Because across the room, Will was laughing.
Not his polite media laugh. Not the quick little exhale he does when a reporter says something stupid during an interview. The real one.
His head was tipped back, his eyes squeezed shut, and his hand landing on Gabe’s shoulder like it’s muscle memory.
Macklin’s jaw tightens before he can stop it. He tells himself it’s nothing.
They were teammates in BC, they won together, of course they were still friends and of course they were close.
Of course Gabe leans in slightly when he talks. Of course he knows how to make Will’s grin turn loose and bright and unguarded. Of course he’d know what his dimple looked like up close, the one Macklin knew all too well.
Macklin exhales slowly through his nose.
“You good?”
He startles. Ekky is looking at him weirdly.
“Yeah,” Macklin says automatically. “Why?”
“You look like you’re about to break your own teeth.”
Macklin forced his jaw to unclench. “Just tired.”
Across the room, Gabe says something low enough that apparently he had to lean even closer, and Will shoves him lightly, mock annoyed. He throws his arm around Will, and neither of them pulls away.
At that, something ugly and sharp coils in Macklin’s stomach. It’s ridiculous. Will isn’t his, Will isn’t anything.
Him and Will were just-
Just teammates who lingered too long in doorways. Teammates who sit pressed shoulder to shoulder on flights even when there are empty seats. Teammates who text at 2 a.m. about nothing and everything and loitered in each other's rooms way later than Macklin’s bedtime just to talk. Teammates who share protein bars and inside jokes and playlists and the quiet kind of understanding that feels like it could tip into something else if either of them moved an inch.
Macklin has never moved the inch. He knew better, and he didn’t plan to start now.
Except Gabe leans in again. And Will doesn't step back.
Macklin pushes off the counter before he’s fully aware he’s doing it. Tyler says something to him, and presumably gives up when Macklin doesn't even register it. He crosses the room in long strides, his heartbeat is loud in his ears.
Will spots him first. His face lights up automatically.
There it is, that softening. That look that drive's Macklin crazy and fills his head with delusions. His heart does a stupid little flip that he ignores.
“Mack!” Will says, like he hasn’t seen him in hours rather than minutes. “You remember Gabe, right? From BC?”
Macklin remembers, of course. How could he not when all the cursed old interviews cross his Instagram feed, when they used to be-
Well, whatever they were. Macklin remembered.
“Yeah,” Macklin says evenly, extending a hand. He doesn't remember if he properly pasted a smile on his face or not, he was too busy trying not to drag Will away from where he stood.
Gabe takes his hand with a firm grip and assessing eyes. There’s something there in his gaze, something knowing. It makes Macklin’s spine go stiff.
“We were just talking about juniors,” Gabe says casually. “Will was telling me about that game in Kelowna where he nearly fought the ref.”
Will groans. “It wasn’t like that.”
“You were red,” Gabe laughs. “I thought you were actually gonna-”
“You’re exaggerating.” Will rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, warm and easy.
Macklin hates feeling like an outsider here. He feels like he’s watching a version of Will that existed before him. A chapter he wasn’t part of, something he can’t touch.
He hates that it bothers him. He hates that he wants to insert himself into the space between them. He hates that he wants-
Gabe nudged Will’s shoulder. “We should catch up properly. I miss you, man.”
And Will says it back. “Miss you too.”
Something cracks, small and internal and quiet. But it’s there.
Macklin’s voice comes out steadier than he feels. “Coach wants us early tomorrow. Film.”
Will blinks. “Tomorrow’s optional.”
Macklin shrugs, gaze flicking to Gabe for half a second. “Rookies still have meetings.”
Will frowns slightly, confused. Gabe watches the exchange like he’s trying to solve something.
“Right,” Will says slowly. “Yeah. We should probably head out soon then.”
Gabe’s eyes linger on Will as he steps away, offering a small wave to them as they leave.
And when Will drifts toward him a minute later, easy and unthinking, Macklin doesn’t step back.
“Hey,” Will says quietly. “You good? Felt like you… disappeared for a bit.”
“I was right there.”
“You were glaring at someone.” Will says, unknowing.
“I don’t glare.”
Will huffed a laugh. “You absolutely do.”
There’s a beat. The music is pounding and voices are overlapping. Gabe's across the room watching them like he’s not subtle.
Macklin swallowed.
He meets Wills eyes with his own, his wide and happy eyes currently wrinkled in a way that told Macklin he wasn't completely sober. Will looked at him in a way that made him want to confess all his secrets right there.
“Do you-” but he stops.
He can’t ask. He can’t say why his chest feels tight or why Gabe’s hand on Will feels like a threat. Because to do that, he’d have to admit there’s something to threaten. Macklin doesn't want to admit anything.
Will tilts his head. “Do I what?”
Macklin looks at him, really looks at him.
He looks at the way Will’s hair falls into his eyes, and the way those eyes focused on Macklin like he was the only other one in the room. The way he leans in without thinking. The way he always, always gravitates back to him in a crowded room. He looks at that face that makes Macklin feel things he can't name, or won't.
“So you’re heading out?” Macklin asks instead.
Will studies him for half a second too long.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “Walk me?”
Macklin nods. Of course he does.
And as they step out into the cooler night air, Gabe’s laughter fades behind them. The stuffy house that Macklin couldn't stand anymore, his teammates that definitely shouldn't be drinking and stories he'd actually care about on a better day.
That stupid pang of jealousy, though, doesn't fade away. It sits heavy in Macklin’s chest. Because he doesn’t get to feel this way, not unless he’s ready to admit why.
And he’s not.
Not yet.
The TV is on, but neither of them are watching it.
Some playoff rerun is flickering across the screen, volume low enough to be background noise. Their apartment is dim except for the blue wash from the television and the lamp in the corner that Will insists “gives the place some life”. Their apartment was humble enough, but it was nice. It was where they lived during the season, practical and big enough that they can avoid each other if they ever needed the space. Macklin hardly ever needed space from Will, though.
They’re on opposite ends of the couch.
Macklin is half sprawled, feet propped up on the coffee table as he sinks into the corner of the couch. He's chewing on his hoodie string and has his phone probably too close to his face. Will’s sitting cross-legged, back against the cushions, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands.
They’ve been like this for almost an hour, quiet and comfortable. A perfect silence that happens when you know someone well enough. The day had been uneventful, an off day that they both decided to spend at the rink anyways, practicing shots on each other that consisted of mostly unproductive fits of laugher and Macklin trying his hardest not to care when Will shoved into him. Like the touch alone didn't just about send him reeling.
Macklin scrolls absently through his phone, not reading anything.
He’s hyper-aware of Will beside him. The way he shifts. The way he exhales through his nose when he’s focused. He sneaks glances when he knows Will won’t notice.
But then Will laughs. It’s small and private, under his breath.
Macklin glances over before he can stop himself.
“What?” he asks.
Will doesn’t look up. His mouth is still curved around the ghost of a smile. “Nothing.”
“You laughed.”
“So?”
“So what’s funny?”
Will’s thumbs keep moving over his screen. “It’s just Gabe.”
The name lands wrong and Macklin’s shoulders go tight automatically.
“Oh,” he says.
He tries to make it neutral, and it isn’t.
Will finally glances up, a faint crinkle of a smile still playing at his lips. “He sent me a video from juniors. I’d just forgotten about it.”
Macklin nods once. Looks back at his own phone.
Scroll. Scroll. Scroll. His jaw locks.
“What was it?” he hears himself ask.
Will shifts slightly like he might move to show him, but he doesn’t. “Just us messing around in the locker room after a win. It’s stupid.”
Us. Macklin swallows. The TV crowd roars at something that doesn’t matter.
“Oh,” he says again. Silence stretches.
Will’s smile fades slowly as he watches him. “…What?” Will asks.
Macklin doesn’t look up. “What?”
“You’re doing that thing.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You are.” Will lowers his phone. “You get all-” He gestures vaguely. “Quiet.”
“I’m literally always quiet.”
“Not like this.”
Macklin exhales through his nose. “You’re reading into it.”
Will studies him for another second. Then something shifts in his expression, like he’s figured something out.
“Oh,” Will says slowly.
Macklin’s stomach drops. “Oh what.”
“Well you’re clearly annoyed.”
“I’m not-”
“You are.” Will sits up straighter. “You think I’m like, ditching you or something.”
Macklin blinks. “What?”
“Mack,” Will frowns. “You’ve been weird every time Gabe’s come up since the party.”
“I have not.”
“You have.” There’s no accusation in it, but there is confusion. “You don’t have to be weird about it,” Will continues. “You know you’re my best friend, right?”
The word best friend hits like a body check and Macklin forces a shrug. “Didn’t say I wasn’t.”
“You’re acting like I replaced you or something.”
Replaced? The irony almost makes him laugh.
“That’s not-” Macklin stops himself. Because if it’s not that, then what is it?
Will misreads the hesitation. “Mack, come on.” His voice softens. “You don’t have to get all... territorial.”
Macklin finally looks at him.
“Territorial?” He repeats carefully.
“Yeah,” Will says, like it’s obvious. “Like I can’t have friends outside the team.”
“I never said that.” Mack shakes his head like he’s being accused.
“You don’t have to.” Will gives a small, almost teasing smile, but it's laced with discontent. “You’re kind of obvious.”
Something sparks in Macklin’s chest at that. Obvious.
“If I was obvious,” Macklin says slowly, trying to focus on his phone like it had all the answers, “you’d know why.” The words hang heavier than he intended. Will’s smile falters.
“Why what?”
Macklin realizes, far too late, that he’s standing on the edge of something. One wrong step and he’s admitting everything.
That it’s not about Gabe. It’s not about BC. It’s not about being replaced. It’s about the way Macklin felt watching someone else know Will before he did. About the way Gabe says I miss you and gets to hear it back. Will is looking at him, expectedly.
He looks away first. “Forget it,” he mutters.
Will doesn’t, of course.
He shifts closer, not all the way, but the space between them shrinks.
“You’re my roommate,” Will says quietly. “You’re my teammate. You’re-” He hesitates. “You’re you.”
That’s supposed to be reassuring, it isn’t. Macklin laughs once, sharp and humorless. “Yeah.”
Will’s brow furrows. “Why are you mad?”
“I’m not mad.”
“You are.”
“I’m not,” Macklin insists, but it comes out strained.
Will’s voice softens even more. “You know Gabe’s like, old news, right?”
Macklin’s head snaps back toward him.
“Old news?” he repeats.
Macklin’s pulse is loud in his ears.
Macklin knows about this. About the rumors. They’d never talked about them because he didn’t think Will would ever want to and mostly because it terrified Macklin. About what that conversation might mean, and what it might reveal.
“Like, whatever people think happened? It didn’t.” Will shrugs lightly. “We were kids.”
“Did you want it to?” he asks before he can stop himself.
The question slips out raw. Will blinks. “What?”
“Did you want it to happen?” Macklin presses, quieter now.
The air shifts. Will’s teasing confusion fades, replaced by something more cautious.
“Why do you care?” he asks. He almost sounds hurt.
There it is. The question Macklin can’t answer without detonating everything. He stands abruptly, running a hand through his hair.
“I don’t,” he says too quickly. “I don’t care. It’s whatever.”
“Mack,”
“I just don’t like-“ He stops himself again. Don’t like what?
Don’t like imagining you with someone else. Don’t like that I don’t get to be the one you text and laugh with at midnight about juniors.
Don’t like that I don’t know what we are.
Instead, he shrugs. “Forget it.”
Will watches him carefully now. Not confused anymore. Just… thinking.
“You’re not territorial,” Will says slowly. “You’re angry.”
Macklin freezes. He doesn’t turn around. “At what?” he asks, voice tight.
There’s a long pause. And when Will answers, it’s softer than before. “I don’t know,” he admits.
Neither does Macklin. Or maybe he does.