Chapter Text
CHAPTER ONE
JULY 2024 — SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA
This wasn't Macklin Celebrini's first rodeo. For most of his adolescence, he'd bounced around North America—from the North Shore Winter Club in Vancouver, to Shattuck-Saint Mary's in Minnesota, to the USHL's Chicago Steel. Then to Boston University, of course, and, now, to San Jose, as the Sharks' first overall pick of the 2024 entry draft.
His life had always revolved around one thing, and one thing only: hockey.
Macklin lived hockey. It came to him as naturally as breathing—ran through his veins as hot as his blood. It made his heart beat, his pulse thrum.
But, today...today, he was nervous. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt nervous to play hockey. He was used to being the best in the room. He'd never say it out loud—he was raised better than that—but it was a fact he relied on to carry him in moments of doubt.
Contrary to popular belief, his skill wasn't just God-given. He'd worked hard his entire life to be the best. From the early mornings of his youth, when he'd dragged his mom out of bed at 4:30AM, just so he could get to the rink. To feel the solid chill of the ice beneath his skates, the brisk air against his face. The very things that kept him grounded, kept him going, even when it felt like his legs—or his lungs—might give out.
He wasn't sure if he'd be the best here, though. Especially because, by some cruel twist of fate, his college rival had been drafted by the very same team.
Will Smith. His name alone sent a shiver up Macklin's spine. Reminded him of all the times he'd wondered whether he really was the best.
Smith, Boston College's center, the very same guy who'd handed Macklin's ass to him multiple times the previous year.
In short, Macklin hated him.
As he should, right? Hockey players were supposed to hate the guys who lit them up. It was embarrassing. Sure, Smith had been drafted fourth the previous year, and Macklin had beat him out for the Hobey Baker Award when it came down to it, but, what if Smith showed him up in front of their new coaches? Their future teammates?
Macklin wasn't sure how he'd handle that. In fact, the thought made him itchy, as he approached the hotel where all the Sharks' prospects would be staying over the next few days.
As soon as Macklin had found out he was being drafted by the Sharks, he'd made it clear to his parents that he wouldn't need their hand-holding. Even though they lived only thirty miles away from him now, in Livermore, he wouldn't be living with them. And they certainly weren't dropping him off this morning. He wasn't a baby. He'd done just fine on his own over the past several years.
But...maybe it would've been nice if his mom could've given him some encouraging words in the car?
No. Macklin physically shook his head as he walked up to the hotel's check-in desk. Enough of that.
The receptionist smiled brightly at him as he made eye contact. She was cute—maybe a couple years older than him. Blonde, with sparkling blue eyes. Macklin's heart started racing, and he didn't know why.
Fuck.
"Here for the Sharks Development Camp?" she asked, giving him a quick once-over. Macklin could feel his cheeks reddening.
"Uh, yeah," he confirmed, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, as he spoke.
"Name?" she prompted next, her neatly manicured fingers poised over the keyboard in front of her.
"Celebrini. Uh, Mack. Er, Macklin. Celebrini," Macklin replied, before mentally kicking himself. Why was he making himself sound like such a dumbshit? The girl grinned at him knowingly, as Macklin grimaced internally. Maybe externally too; he wasn't totally sure what his face was doing at the moment, to be perfectly honest.
"Oh, I think your roommate's checked in already!" she chirped, as she grabbed a room key from below her desk. "You've been assigned to a room with a 'Will Smith,' it looks like. Room 119."
She slid the key card towards Macklin, and his heart sank. What the fuck? That was not what he'd been expecting. He'd have to share a room with the guy already? Fucking brutal.
Macklin gave the girl a tight, close-lipped smile and nodded his head. "Thanks," he said stiffly, as he took the key card into his clammy right hand. Her eyes briefly narrowed at his reaction, but otherwise her facial expression betrayed nothing.
"Let us know if you need anything over the next couple days," she offered, and if Macklin had been paying better attention, he may have heard the innuendo laced in her tone. But he hadn't been, so he didn't. "Otherwise, I hope you enjoy your stay!"
"Thanks," Macklin repeated listlessly, his face darkening as he turned, hoisting his new Sharks duffel bag higher on his shoulder. He could do this, he told himself.
As his dad had often reminded him, he had a built-in advantage, in situations like these. Amongst his other innate gifts, Macklin Celebrini had been born an Alpha. In today's day and age, it didn't mean a whole lot. Secondary designations had become muted and muddled over the centuries, as humans bent the Earth to their will and didn't have to work so hard to survive. Still, they were tested for them at birth, and—supposedly—they had some influence on characteristics, regardless.
In all honesty, Macklin hadn't found any benefits in being an Alpha. Sure, he had some natural leadership tendencies, but plenty of his hockey idols—like Connor McDavid and Quinn Hughes, for example—were Betas, and they did just fine. If anything, he felt like it just gave him an unruly temper, made some of his emotions more difficult to control.
Sometimes it helped him with the ladies, but more often than not, he saw no advantage in it at all.
But Smith was a Beta. Macklin knew that. Maybe he was feeling just as intimidated by Macklin, as Macklin was by him? Maybe more, due to his designation? Macklin could only hope, as his steps took him closer and closer to Room 119.
He couldn't help but gulp, while he slowly pushed open the door.
Immediately, Macklin's hopes were dashed. Smith had already claimed a bed—the one closer to the bathroom, further from the noisy hallway. And he was reclining on it, looking as cool as a fucking cucumber. Instinctively, Macklin scrunched his face, as he thunked his duffel onto the empty bed closest to him.
Smith, conversely, beamed at him. "Hey, man!" he exclaimed, instantly bouncing off the bed and to his feet, holding out his hand for a friendly shake. "Nice to see you!"
Macklin stayed quiet, gripping Smith's hand maybe a little harder than necessary. Smith's eyebrows quirked up, as they released. He smiled again. "Feeling nervous?" he asked.
Macklin face blanched in horror. How could Smith see through him so easily? Was he that transparent? "No," Macklin grumbled, frowning.
"Really?" Smith questioned, still grinning good-naturedly. "I am." He sat back down on the edge of his bed, facing Macklin.
Macklin cocked his head to the side. He hadn't expected Smith to be so...so open. Macklin sat down on his own bed, letting out a puff of air as he did so. "Well...yeah, maybe a little nervous," Macklin admitted, giving Smith a small, rueful smile.
"This must be especially crazy for you," Smith remarked, gesturing towards Macklin. "Quick turnaround from the draft in Vegas, and all. Congrats, by the way."
Macklin could feel his face heating up, just like it had at the check-in desk. It was probably because everything still hadn't fully sunk in for him. At least, that's what he told himself. "Oh, yeah," Macklin agreed, scratching the back of his neck again and shrugging as he deflected. "Thanks, but it's all good. I flew back early and got in some ice time yesterday, so I'd be ready for today."
"Smart," Smith nodded.
"Uh, congrats to you, too," Macklin quickly added.
Smith rolled his eyes. "Psshh," he dismissed. "I'm old news. All eyes will be on you these next couple days."
Macklin glared at him. "Thanks," he deadpanned, and Smith burst out laughing. The sound made Macklin's stomach flip. He wasn't sure why.