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His hotel room is silent, save for the sound of wind blowing outside. It reminds Mack a little of early June in North Van, the warm summer air billowing around, as the Pacific Ocean waves hit the shore. Summer to Mack means training, means bulking and doing the Grouse Grind three times a week. It means chicken and whole grain rice dinners, and waking up at 4 a.m. to go running up and down the driveway.
It also means walking the coast beside the breakwater at Cates Park. Watching Charlie and RJ skip rocks, while Aiden lounges in a beach chair on the dock. Mack can picture it so clearly that for a second it feels like he's there. The smell of salt water hanging in the air. The distant cry of gulls overhead. Charlie winding up dramatically before launching a stone across the water, celebrating every bounce like she'd won a championship. RJ trying to outdo her, insisting his technique was better. Aiden barely looking up from his chair, offering lazy commentary that somehow managed to annoy both of them.
The memories make the hotel room feel even smaller.
He shifts on the edge of the bed and glances toward the dark window. The city outside is unfamiliar, all bright lights and distant traffic. Nothing like home. Back in North Van, summer evenings stretched on forever. After training, he'd meet up with the guys and they'd waste hours by the water, talking about hockey, school, girls, and whatever else happened to cross their minds. Nobody was in a hurry to leave.
Here, though, there's only the hum of the air conditioner and the wind rattling against the glass.
Mack rubs a hand over his face and exhales slowly. He misses training. He misses home. More than anything, he misses the people waiting for him there.
And he misses Will.
He misses his stupid face, his loud laugh, the way he gets burnt in the sun just by being out there for twenty minutes. The way his shaggy dark-blonde curls stick out from beneath a backwards cap, always a little too long and a little too messy. The way he starts playing 2000s teen pop at 6 in the morning, no matter how much Mack whines and bitches about it. The way he looks when he picks Mack up in his Bronco, forearms stretched out and resting against the open window, lightly tanned from long days in the sun. Lean muscle beneath his skin when he moves, strong without trying to be.
Mack’s spent an embarrassingly long amount of time staring at Will’s arms. If he ever spoke his thoughts out loud, Charlie or one of his brothers would chirp him for sure.
He shakes his head, staring up at the bellowed ceiling light of his hotel room. The blades curve around the light fixture like petals around a flower. It reminds Mack of the curve of his stick, how the tape feels when it's been scraped up a bit, how it hits the ice and the puck a little smoother.
He’s so busy dozing off, letting the melancholy sit in his bones, that he almost doesn’t notice when his phone begins to buzz on the nightstand beside him.
BIG WILL 💪🏻is texting, is the message on his lockscreen, and he bites down on his lip as he picks his phone up and opens the notification. It’s a picture of Will at Maye Days, in his stupid softball kit.
Mack groans immediately.
The navy jersey hangs loose on Will’s frame, sleeves brushing the middle of his biceps and somehow drawing even more attention to the muscles underneath. White script stretches across his chest, bright against the dark fabric, and the matching baseball cap sits low on his forehead. Blond hair curls out from beneath it in messy waves, catching the afternoon sunlight. The shorts are criminal, honestly—far too short for a guy with legs like that, and Mack hates that he notices. Will’s grinning at something off camera, trophy clutched in one hand like he hasn’t just casually sent Mack into cardiac arrest. His cheeks are pink from being out in the sun all day, eyes crinkled at the corners, looking so effortlessly happy that Mack’s chest aches.
Won Derby Champ, the caption reads. As if the giant trophy wasn't enough of a clue. Mack zooms in before he can stop himself. Then he immediately zooms back out, because that's pathetic. Then he zooms in again. Like Will didn't realize people stopped and looked at him. Like he didn't know what that smile did to people. What it did to Mack. Which is probably for the best.
Because Mack already spends far too much time noticing things he shouldn't.
How Will’s Adams Apple bobbed when he talked. How he would chew gum like he got paid to do it. How he would grin when he made a goal, no matter what game he was playing - hockey or not. A real multi-sport athlete, Mack’s traitorous brain said. He shifts in his bed, feeling himself chub up at the thought. He groans, flipping onto his stomach, doing his damn best to ignore the way his dick is filling out. Hot blood burns through his veins.
He stares at the photo, at Will’s stupid grin. The way his hair wings out under his cap. The way his shoulders look so much bigger. Mack lets his phone fall onto the mattress beside him and drags a hand over his face.
This is ridiculous.
Will is his best friend. His teammate. The guy who steals his fries without asking and somehow always ends up with the aux cord. The guy who leaves half-empty Gatorade bottles in Mack's car and sends him videos at two in the morning because "this made me think of you."
The guy Mack is very definitely not supposed to be lying awake thinking about and getting a fucking boner over. His phone lights up again.
BIG WILL 💪🏻
Mack glances at the screen despite himself.
you jealous of my trophy yet?
Attached is another picture. Somehow worse than the first. Will is holding the trophy over his head now, grin impossibly wide, looking so pleased with himself that Mack can practically hear his laugh through the screen. A laugh Mack knows by heart. Mack groans and flops face first into his pillow. "You're such an idiot," he mutters.
His phone buzzes again.
hello???
thought we'd established im your favorite athlete
A reluctant smile pulls at the corner of Mack's mouth. Maybe that's the problem. Because somewhere along the way, without permission and without warning, Will stopped being just his favorite athlete.
He became Mack's favorite everything. Mack stares at the last message longer than he should.
thought we'd established im your favorite athlete
The blinking cursor underneath feels accusatory, like Will is sitting somewhere in Boston right now, grinning at his phone, fully aware of what he’s doing to Mack’s peace of mind.
Mack types:
delusional
Deletes it. Types: you wish
Deletes that too.
He turns his phone over onto the mattress like it’s done something wrong. A second passes. Then it buzzes again.
BIG WILL 💪🏻
wow. harsh.
Mack huffs a quiet laugh into his pillow despite himself, the sound muffled and a little betrayed. He drags the phone back over and finally commits.
you sent me a picture of yourself holding a trophy like you’re some kind of sports god
Almost immediately the typing bubbles appear.
BIG WILL 💪🏻
i am a sports god actually
confirmed by science and also derby voters
Mack stares at the ceiling.
right. forgot about the peer reviewed research
BIG WILL 💪🏻
exactly
so. jealous?
Mack should say no. It would be easy. Clean. Normal. Instead he looks at the photo again, Will sunlit and grinning, looking like he belongs everywhere and somehow especially in Mack’s head and feels something irritatingly warm settle under his ribs.
It stings extra after the loss to Norway. He still feels the burn of not medaling. He can still hear the crowd when the final buzzer sounded, the disbelief in the arena, the weight of every missed chance.
And now Will has a trophy. It's stupid. Mack knows it's stupid. The trophy is from a charity softball game in fucking Worcester. It practically looks like it's held together with duct tape and questionable officiating. It means absolutely nothing compared to a World Championship medal.
So why does it bother him?
Maybe because Will looks so damn happy holding it. A little jealous, a little bitter, and mostly exhausted, Mack types back.
a little bit
The reply comes almost instantly.
BIG WILL 💪🏻
HA
I KNEW IT
wait actually what are you jealous of. be specific
Mack rolls onto his side, phone pressed into his palm. His thumb hovers. He could be normal about this. He really could. He knows himself however, and he isn't
the trophy
BIG WILL 💪🏻
liar
Mack freezes.
BIG WILL 💪🏻
you’re jealous of me
There’s a beat of silence where Mack just stares at the screen like it might spontaneously combust. Then, because Will doesn't know how to leave well enough alone.
BIG WILL 💪🏻
don’t deny it. i can feel it through the phone
you cannot feel anything through a phone
BIG WILL 💪🏻
wrong again
we’ve known each other for too long. it’s basically telepathy at this point
Mack presses the heel of his hand into his eye for a second.
you’re insane
BIG WILL 💪🏻
and yet
still your favorite athlete
Mack lets out a quiet breath through his nose, something between a laugh and surrender. The room still feels too small. The city still doesn’t feel like home. The wind still rattles the window like it’s trying to get in. But his phone is warm in his hand now, and Will is on the other end of it, filling up the silence like he always does.
Mack types slowly.
go celebrate your win or something
BIG WILL 💪🏻
i am celebrating
texting you counts
Mack pauses. That one lands a little differently than the others. Before he can think too hard about why, another message comes through.
BIG WILL 💪🏻
you gonna be up?
i can call
Mack looks at the ceiling again. Then the window. Then back at the screen. The hotel room is still empty. But his answer comes without much hesitation.
yeah. call me.
It barely takes half a second before Will’s voice is filling his ear.
“Sup superstar.” His voice sounds scratchy, probably from yelling and cheering. Mack can practically see him now. In his bedroom, with the warm yellow glow of those mismatched lamps he refuses to admit makes the place look “old married couple domestic.”
Mack imagines him sprawled across the middle of an unmade bed, sheets kicked loose like he got home and collapsed without thinking.
Navy gingham everywhere—pillows, comforter, some aggressively New England pattern Will would probably swear his mom picked out even though he secretly likes it. Rigney’s probably stretched out at the foot of the bed too, panting happily like he owns the place.
The room in Mack’s head feels warm in a way his hotel room doesn’t. Cream-colored walls with soft lighting. Framed photos, and the kind of family-house setup that says people stay. That someone decorated with permanence in mind. Mack’s never really had that before. He’s spent so much time billeting and staying in hotel rooms or at Shattuck’s, and his rooms there have always been clean, almost methodical. That standard boarding room vibe.
And, sure his bedroom back home is nice, dim in that permanent rainy-day way, like the sky outside never really commits to morning. A huge window taking up most of the wall, all grey clouds and dark evergreens stretching forever. He has his trophies on one wall, and various bits of hockey gear on the others. His childhood quilt is probably sitting on his bed, green and blue squares. His stuffed animal is tucked under his pillow - hidden from his siblings’ view, this scraggly lamb he got as a baby when they visited his dad’s family in Porat.
But it’s not his anymore. Not really. Not in the way his room in San Jose is, or the way Will’s bedroom belongs to him.
He can practically picture Will leaning back against the pillows, hair still messy from sweat, championship hoodie half-zipped, one knee up, phone balanced against his shoulder like this call had been the obvious next thing all along.
Mack hates how easy it is to imagine. “Hey,” Mack says. He feels small, smaller than he actually is.
“Why do you sound sad?” Will asks immediately, like he was already suspicious. Mack rolls his eyes, even though Will can’t see it. “I don’t sound sad.”
“You sound like somebody canceled Christmas.”
A laugh slips out before Mack can stop it. Quiet and tired.
“There it is,” Will says, sounding way too pleased with himself. “Knew you were still in there.”
Mack stares up at the ugly hotel ceiling, listening to the soft rustle on the other end of the line, like Will shifting around in that warm bedroom Mack’s somehow built perfectly in his head.
“Did you actually celebrate?” Mack asks. “Or did you ditch everyone to text me?”
Will hums. “Little bit of both.”
There’s a pause. Then, softer, quieter: “Didn’t really feel like ending the night without talking to you.” The words sit heavy on Mack’s chest. He feels the same. Mack swallows hard, thumb rubbing absent circles against the edge of his phone in his palm, like he’s trying to ground himself in something real. On the other end, there’s the sound of fabric shifting and a mattress creaking faintly, like Will is settling deeper into bed and trying to get comfortable without fully committing to sleep.
“Yeah,” Will repeats, easy like breathing, like it doesn’t cost him anything at all. “I dunno. The whole day was loud.” He pauses for a second that feels longer than it should, then adds, “Wanted something normal, I guess.”
Something warm and uncomfortable twists low in Mack’s chest at that, tight enough that he has to breathe through it slowly. Normal. Like this is normal. Like Will calling him at midnight from Massachusetts, six hours behind Zurich, where Mack technically should be syncing his life right now, after winning some ridiculous softball trophy is the most obvious, unremarkable thing in the world.
Mack turns onto his back and stares up at the ceiling fan, watching it turn lazily as if it has nowhere better to be. “You saying I’m your bedtime routine now?” he asks, trying for teasing, though it lands somewhere dangerously close to hopeful without him meaning it to. Will laughs, bright and tired through the speaker, the sound a little rough around the edges but still unmistakably him.
“You wish.”
“Wow,” Mack says flatly, letting the sarcasm do some of the work for him. “And after I supported your athletic career.”
“Supported?” Will scoffs immediately, offended in a way that feels practiced. “You called me delusional.”
“You are delusional.”
“Derby champion,” Will corrects, like that settles the entire argument once and for all.
Mack snorts before he can stop himself, the sound small in the hotel room but real enough to surprise him anyway. There’s a quiet beat between them after that, not empty but waiting.
Then Will says, softer now, like he’s stepping carefully, “You okay, though?”
The question lands differently this time, less joking and more deliberate, like he actually wants the answer and isn’t just filling space. Mack shifts, eyes still on the ceiling as if it might offer better responses than he can. “I’m fine.”
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?” Mack asks, even though he already knows.
“The thing where you say ‘I’m fine’ like you absolutely are not, and like I’m supposed to just accept it.”
Mack presses his lips together for a second, jaw tightening slightly as he tries to figure out what to say instead. Outside, wind rattles harder against the hotel window again, and somewhere far below, a siren cuts through the city noise before fading into nothing.
“I just…” He exhales slowly, letting the words come out uneven. “I dunno.”
Will waits on the other end without rushing him, like he has nowhere else to be and nothing more important to do. Mack appreciates that about him more than he knows how to say.
“It sucks,” Mack admits finally, voice quieter now. “Losing. Being here. Everything feels weird, like I’m out of place.”
“Yeah,” Will says quietly, and this time there’s no joke in it at all.
“I keep thinking about home, about North Van. Even San Jose.” Mack adds after a moment, the words slipping out before he can stop them. Another pause follows, heavier this time.
“Me too,” Will says. “And you’re not even there.”
Mack goes still at that, the words hitting him square in the chest before his brain can do anything useful with them. Will keeps talking after a second, voice lighter again like he doesn’t realize what he’s done.
“Rigney’s been losing his mind, by the way. Keeps sitting by the fucking door like you’re gonna walk in any second. I swear he’s judging me.”
Mack lets out a quiet breath that turns into a laugh before he can stop it, shaking his head slightly even though Will can’t see him. “Sounds about right,” he says softly.
“There he is,” Will says immediately, sounding quietly satisfied. “Missed that.”
Mack turns onto his side, staring at the faint glow of the city bleeding through the curtains, listening to the distance between here and home feel just a little smaller.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Will yawns then, unbothered and honest. “Everything’s kinda annoying without you around.”
The hotel room feels quieter after that, but in a different way than before. Smaller somehow, but less empty than it was a minute ago. Mack rubs a hand over his face, trying and failing not to smile into his pillow.
“You’re being weirdly nice tonight.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Will says immediately, like it’s instinct. “I still expect full emotional support for my athletic greatness.”
Mack huffs out a laugh, soft and tired.
“Sure, superstar.” The use of Will’s nickname for him feels wrong on his tongue, but he can’t resist the dig.
“Wow,” Will says, offended again for show. “Thought we’d established I’m your favorite athlete.”
Mack closes his eyes for a second, letting the silence stretch just long enough to feel it.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Maybe.”
Mack keeps his eyes closed for a moment longer than necessary after that last word, like if he stays still enough he can stop everything in his chest from shifting the way it is.
“Maybe,” Will repeats softly, like he’s testing it.
There’s a faint rustle on the other end of the line again, sheets moving, the low thump of Rigney likely jumping down off the bed, followed by a quiet sound of Will shushing him under his breath. Mack exhales through his nose.
“I didn’t mean it like—” he starts, then stops, because he doesn’t actually know what he meant.
It hangs there anyway. Will doesn’t push. He just lets the silence sit for a second, like he’s sitting in it with him instead of waiting on the other side of it. Then, gentler: “Hey.”
Mack swallows. “Yeah?”
“You sound like you’re about to disappear into that hotel room.”
That earns a quiet huff of a laugh from Mack, but it’s thin, more air than humour. “I’m not disappearing.”
“Mm,” Will hums, unconvinced. “Sounds like it.”
Mack opens his eyes again. The ceiling fan is still turning, still indifferent, still pretending like nothing in the world is heavier than air. “I’m just tired,” Mack says, but even he hears how unconvincing it is.
There’s a pause. Then Will shifts again, voice lowering just slightly, like he’s decided something without announcing it.
“Okay,” he says. “Then don’t do that alone.”
Mack blinks. “What?”
“Whatever this is,” Will says simply. “Don’t do it alone.”
The words settle in Mack’s chest in a way that doesn’t feel heavy exactly, but anchored. Like something finally got placed down instead of held up. Mack stares at the ceiling a little longer.
“You’re like,” he starts, then stops because his voice is doing something annoying, something tight. “You’re literally in Massachusetts.”
“I know,” Will says. No joke this time. Just a fact.
“And I’m in Switzerland,” Mack adds quietly, like he needs to remind both of them.
“Yeah,” Will agrees. A beat. Then, softer, almost like he’s smiling into the phone: “Still counts.”
Mack lets out a slow breath, longer this time, like his body is finally remembering how to unclench. Rigney barks faintly on the other end, and Will groans. “Stop,” he mutters. “I know you miss him too, you traitor.”
That actually pulls a real laugh out of Mack, fuller this time, less forced. “I do miss him,” Mack admits.
“I know,” Will says immediately. Then, after a pause that feels a little more careful, he adds, “I miss you too.”
It’s simple. Not dramatic. Not weighted the way Mack’s brain wants to make it. But it lands anyway. Mack turns onto his side again, pulling the hotel blanket closer even though it doesn’t do much for the emptiness of the room.
“Yeah?” he asks, quieter now.
“Yeah,” Will says. “It’s annoying.”
Mack huffs a breath, almost a smile again. “That’s your emotional vocabulary?”
“Hey,” Will says defensively. “I’m being vulnerable here.”
That earns another soft laugh from Mack, this one steadier.
There’s a pause where neither of them speaks, but it doesn’t feel like absence anymore. More like they’ve just run out of things that need to be said out loud. Mack’s grip on the phone loosens slightly. The city outside keeps moving. Somewhere far below, life is still loud and distant and not his.
But in his ear, Will is still there. Eventually, Will speaks again, quieter now. “You gonna sleep?”
Mack glances at the dark edge of the room, then back at the ceiling fan.
“Eventually,” he says.
“Good,” Will replies. “Stay on the phone then.”
It isn’t a question. Mack doesn’t answer right away, just closes his eyes again, letting the warmth of the voice on the other end fill the space the hotel room can’t.
“Okay,” he says finally. “Don’t hang up.”
Will’s reply comes immediately, steady and simple. “You know I wouldn’t.”