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These days, Macklin doesn’t consider himself to be a very religious person.
Prayer feels like a labor to him. One that will not grant him any certain benefits. In the end, if there really is no God—would it really make a difference?
He would still be the first overall draft pick. He would still be struggling to carry the burden of his father’s expectations. He would still be in San Jose and in love with Will Smith. These are all virtues of life and fate.
But not God’s divine plan.
Never God’s divine plan.
Macklin would rather die before allowing some unknown being to decide the events of his life.
So, Macklin isn’t religious. Not quite.
Maybe he believes in God and rejects organized religion. But sometimes, very rarely, he will find himself kneeling beside his bed, with his hands clasped together, as he mutters prayers to a God he is not certain exists at all.
There are only three things that he prays for.
The first thing Macklin prays for is hockey. Every night, before a big game, he prays that the Sharks will win. With every point and goal he scores, he prays that he’ll drive the team to victory. If he cannot be loved by all, then he will be needed. And these days, scoring points seems to be the only thing people need Macklin for.
The second thing he prays for is his father’s approval. Memories of his childhood wherein he was forced to do resistance training at the age of six, and his father bringing the rage that manifested at his work into the supposed safety of their home haunts him. Rick Celebrini has a bad habit of treating his children the same way he treats other players and athletes. He forgets that he is a father first before a director of sports medicine and a coach. Sometimes, Macklin wonders if Rick ever saw any of his flesh and blood as children at all. Or, if all Rick ever saw were investments and ways to bring home trophies, medals, and honor.
And, the third thing Macklin prays for is Will Smith.
Unfortunately, the consequence of praying to a God you’re unsure of is being faced with disappointment.
Every night, Macklin prays for Will to be safe, healthy, happy, loved, and content in his life.
Macklin prays that Will will never face the haunting uncertainty of whether an injury could threaten his career, or whether he would still be able to continue playing the sport he loves.
If there is one thing that Macklin and Will have in common; it’s their love for the game.
He knows—god, he knows—how they both get. They push, shove, bite, and fight other people because of how badly they want to win.
They want to win so bad they forget to breathe.
He prays for it every night. Victory.
And Macklin wants them to win and come out unscathed.
But they don’t.
With 16:30 left in the third period against the Penguins, Macklin had no choice but to watch Will get hit into the boards.
It’s hockey. Pain is unavoidable. Every single player in the NHL has already been hurt. And if they haven’t yet, then they will be.
For Will, it was just a matter of time before he’d experience the bone-rattling check into the boards and the hard fall to the ice.
Macklin is fine with it, really.
He’s concerned—not naive, nor ignorant of the reality that hockey will leave you hurting sooner or later.
So he watches as Will is checked hard by the Penguins’ defenseman, Wotherspoon. He watches Will crash to the ice, fully expecting him to bounce back up, skate like his life depends on it, maybe even dangle a little, and put a point on the board.
But a second passes, and Will is slow to get back up the ice.
The puck reaches the end of Macklin’s blade and he hesitates.
Because then he sees the look on Will’s face. An expression so raw and unguarded, stripped down to pain. Will looks fucking terrified. Terror pulls his features tight, eyebrows drawn together, eyes clenched shut as if the world itself has become too much to bear.
Will does not look for his teammates. Does not look to the referees. He looks at no one.
No, he turns away from the ice, away from the game.
A glove slips from his hand and skids uselessly across the surface.
He cradles his right arm against his chest as he skates toward the bench, and then he is gone—vanishing down the tunnel.
And Macklin knows that Will is a fighter.
And for him to so easily skate away from the ice.
That means something.
That means that Macklin is going to fucking hurt someone for touching what’s his.
Before Macklin can even move, Eklund is there first.
Something inside Macklin eases.
So I’m not the only one that feels near to fucking murderous. Good to know.
Eky shoves Wotherspoon with zero hesitation, with two hands to the chest, pure anger and frustration. And when Wotherspoon tries to shove back, Macklin can already see himself paying time inside the penalty box for what he’s about to do.
Macklin is moving on pure instinct, emotion, and protectiveness.
Macklin shoves Wotherspoon by the tarp, growling at the very fact that Wotherspoon even dares to try to get away. He grabs Wotherspoon by the tarp, pulls him in close, and he throws the first punch.
And he throws the second punch.
And the third.
He lands a couple hits, and Wotherspoon lands absolutely nothing on him.
Eky hooks both of his arms over Wotherspoon’s shoulder, hauling him down as Macklin rains blow after blow, knuckles connecting until blood blooms at the corners of Wotherspoon’s mouth.
They drive Wotherspoon backward together—forming a Sharks sandwich of shared anger and protectivess—bodies colliding.
Macklin lands on top, knee pinning Wotherspoon’s body down against the ice.
Eklund is there beside him, shoulder jammed in, adding weight, adding rage, adding violence.
The whistles come late but shrill, screaming into Macklin’s ears as the referees swarm. Hands claw at his shoulders, voices shouting for him to stop, to get the fuck off—but he doesn’t hear them.
So when grabbing his shoulders doesn't work, the refs grab his tarp instead. They grab at his tarp, fistfuls of fabric yanking him upright.
He fights it for half a second on pure instinct, muscles locked, breath ragged, eyes still searching over the heap of bodies for Will.
And he doesn’t see him.
“Go inside the box, Celebrini,” one of the referees raises his voice at Macklin.
He barely registers the words. But he skates to the penalty box anyway, eyes still searching for Will.
Instead, he lands his eyes on Warsofsky.
He’s pointing to the side. Toward the tunnel.
And something in Macklin’s chest finally loosens, just enough to let air back in.
Just enough for him to finally fucking breathe and sign in relief.
If Will could skate off under his own power, if he could make it down that tunnel, then maybe—maybe—the damage wasn’t catastrophic and career-ending.
Even so, the penalty box is far too small for the speed and abundance of Macklin’s thoughts.
He sits hunched forward, elbows braced on his knees, gloves still on, bucket tipped low enough to cast his eyes in shadow. The door closes behind him with a hollow click, and suddenly there’s glass.
He adjusts his bucket, swallowing hard, doing everything in his power not to break down on live television. Not in front of the cameras. The team. The Penguins. Crosby.
Not in front of the people who might be watching, measuring, scrutinizing his every move, and deciding whether or not he’s worthy of the C stitched to his chest.
Whether he deserves a place on Team Canada’s Olympic roster.
Four minutes in the box.
Too long. Far too fucking long.
Time stretches, warps. The seconds drag like years. And those years drag like decades.
He drags a hand down his face and exhales, slow and deliberate, forcing himself to look back out at the ice.
The Penguins are setting up—calm, composed, certain, and so goddam sure of themselves. They play like the future is set in stone.
Macklin’s stomach knots.
No. No fucking way.
There is no universe where they get to win after hurting Will.
It doesn’t matter that the scoreboard reads 5–1.
The Sharks will come back.
They have to.
And they will.
Macklin always plays like winning is inevitable.
Every stride onto the ice carries the promise of a trophy, the unspoken belief that the night will end with something heavy and shining in his hands.
He plays with intention.
With hunger.
With a fury sharpened by the need to conquer.
But before he humiliates the Penguins on their own ice, there is only one thing that matters.
Will.
The four minutes expire, and the penalty-box door swings open.
Macklin is gone the instant his blades touch the ice.
He doesn’t sit on the bench. Doesn’t spare it a glance. Doesn’t meet his coach’s eyes or ask permission to leave. Doesn’t offer reassurance to his teammates, doesn’t say a word at all.
He moves like a man possessed.
Macklin marches down the tunnel with something to prove, shoulders squared, ignoring the startled looks and muttered protests as he collides with staff, equipment clattering uselessly to the floor. The roar of the crowd fades behind him, the game continuing without his consent.
On any other night, in any sane world, this would eat him alive—being off the ice while his team battles without him. Macklin lives for the chaos, the speed, the fight.
But now the cheers and screams mean nothing.
Not when he doesn’t know how Will is holding up.
The locker room hits him all at once—tape and sweat, salt and antiseptic.
It smells awful.
But he also smells Will.
Will is seated on a bench, a trainer crouched close, hands careful but firm as they examine his shoulder. His jersey hangs half-off, fabric bunched at his waist, exposing skin already blooming red and purple where fingers have pressed and where Wotherspoon left his mark.
The trainer murmurs softly, asks Will to test his range of motion, nodding as observations are quietly cataloged.
Macklin draws a breath at the doorway—too sharp, too loud. He’s still in his helmet, still breathing hard.
Both the trainer and Will look up.
And suddenly, the room goes still.
“Mack,” Will says, a little breathless.
Macklin catches his breath, holding eye contact with Will, but ultimately says nothing in return.
The trainer looks at Macklin, then at Will. “I’ll give you two five minutes. And I’ll be back with some painkillers.” The trainer offers Will and Macklin a kind smile as he leaves the locker room.
The door clicks shut, and all Macklin can do is stare at Will’s exposed shoulder, and blame himself for not being able to protect Will.
“Macklin.”
Macklin’s eyes shoot straight up to Will’s.
“Mack, I’m okay. Come here,” Will murmurs—his voice so unbearably gentle it nearly takes Macklin’s legs out from under him.
Macklin crosses the space between them and stops just short, hovering. His brows knit together as his gaze lingers on the dark bruise blooming across Will’s right shoulder.
“Baby,” Will says quietly, “look at me?”
When Macklin finally lifts his eyes, he’s startled by the blur gathering there.
By the way his vision swims.
Macklin sniffs, startling himself again.
He didn’t realize he was crying.
“Will,” Macklin rasps, reaching out for Will, only to hesitate halfway, hands suspended mid-air in fear of causing more pain.
“It’s okay, honey,” Will reassures him, smiling softly. “You can touch me. My shoulder’s not that bad.” He catches Macklin’s wrist and gently draws him closer.
“My skates, you could get hurt—”
“No, it’s alright, Mack. Come on. Sit down—that’s it, baby. Good boy.”
Macklin whines as Will smiles softly.
Will releases his wrist only to slide a hand around Macklin’s waist, tugging him down onto his lap.
Macklin settles there, legs bracketing Will’s, and then he folds—curling inward, pressing his weight into Will’s chest as the dam finally breaks.
The sobs tear out of him, raw and wrecking, spilling fear and anger and relief all at once.
“I’m sorry,” Macklin chokes out. “I’m sorry you got hurt and that I didn’t see it coming sooner. I’m sorry. I promise, Will, that I pray for us every night. That we’ll both be safe and that you won’t get hurt.” His mouth presses against Will’s neck, kisses clumsy and wet as his tears soak into Will’s skin.
“Baby, no, please don’t say sorry to me,” Will murmurs, voice steady against Macklin’s hair. “You didn’t do anything wrong. This is just part of the job, right? Getting hurt. It happens, Mack. I’m still safe. We’re still safe. It’s just my shoulder and I’ll be good as new. I promise.”
“You don’t know that. Besides, you’re still hurt. You’re in pain. There’s a fucking bruise on your shoulder. You don’t get to tell me about being ‘good as new,’ Will. You aren’t a fucking doctor!”
Will goes quiet for a few seconds, then looks at Mack with those fond eyes, blinking slowly. A soft smile forms on his face. “Don’t be a brat, Mack. Save that energy for the game. We can still win—”
“They won’t win against us, Will,” Macklin cuts in. “Not after what they did to you and Kurshy. They fucking deserve what they’re going to get.”
Will huffs. “Yeah, baby. You’re right. Speaking of, I heard you threw punches for me over there, superstar?”
Macklin groans, rubbing his face, though a reluctant smile sneaks through. “Shut up. I’d have done that for anyone.”
“I know,” Will teases gently. “Just saying—you’d never fought before, right? Admit it. Your first NHL fight was for me.”
“I’m not talking to you,” Macklin mutters, burying his face back into Will’s neck.
They sit in silence for a few seconds—
Then the goal horn blares.
Shark’s goal.
Macklin inhales deeply. “We’re winning this, Will. I swear to you,” Macklin pulls himself away from Will’s neck, looking him in the eye. There’s a sort of fire and determination in Macklin’s eyes that weren’t there for. “We’ll win it for you.”
“Then go score us some fucking points, Celebrini.”
Will smacks a quick kiss to Macklin’s cheek and gives his ass a playful pat.
(And maybe a squeeze, too. For good measure. For good luck.)
Macklin stands, heading for the door—but not before looking back one last time, flashing Will a smile full of promise and resolve.