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For as long as he can remember, Macklin hasn’t had a say in what he eats at a restaurant. It’s not really a big deal—he doesn’t feel upset by it or anything, in fact he barely notices it at this point—but it’s true. By now, he knows the routine. When his family gets to the restaurant, an Italian one this time, and sits down, he barely looks at the menu.
He gives it a quick once-over before he turns to his dad and asks, in a sweet voice that almost gives away how much he wants his dad’s approval, “Dada, what should I order?”
His dad looks at the menu a little longer, meticulous to a fault, before putting it down carefully and turning back to Macklin.
“The chicken parmigiana should be okay,” he says, and Macklin hides a smile because he actually likes chicken parm, which means he won’t have to spend the entire meal forcing down grams of protein and carbs he doesn’t even enjoy. “Ask them to substitute the breaded chicken for grilled.”
The relief fades, but only a little. He can live with grilled.
Across the table, Aiden rolls his eyes. “That, like, defeats the whole purpose of chicken parm.”
He’s been in a mood for weeks now, mostly toward Macklin and their dad. Will says he’s still bitter about Mack leaving BU early and not calling enough, and Macklin believes him, but he also thinks it’s kind of stupid. What was he supposed to do—stay? He already won the Hobey Baker. What more was college hockey going to give him?
“Breaded chicken can cause inflammation and slow recovery,” Macklin recites. Aiden groans. He’s heard it a million times too, but unlike Macklin, he never seems to internalize it. He’s still attached to chicken nuggets and cookies and all the things Macklin doesn’t eat anymore, at least not that his family knows.
“That’s exactly right,” their dad says, pride creeping into his voice.
He’s about to continue—probably something about discipline or longevity or how small choices separate the great from the average—when Macklin’s mom shoots him a look sharp enough to cut through the tablecloth. He stops mid-breath and picks the menu back up, pretending to reconsider the wine list.
“So, Macklin,” his mom turns to him with a sweet voice. “How’s Will doing?”
A smile forms on his face before he can stop it. It always does when Will’s name is mentioned.
“He’s good,” Macklin says, and a warmth in his voice bleeds through. “He went up to Boston for a bit—just to see his family and stuff, y’know? But he’s coming back in a few days, so I’ll, uh… I’ll meet him back there.”
He tries to sound casual about it, like it’s not the thing he’s been counting down toward. Like he hasn’t been checking flights and schedules and replaying their last conversation in his head at night.
His dad hums softly, not quite approving, not quite disapproving either. Just calculating.
“Back in San Jose,” he repeats.
Macklin nods quickly. “Yeah. For training. He wants to work on, like, his stickhandling.”
That earns a different hum. A better one. Approval, this time.
Rick Celebrini has a soft spot for Will Smith, even if he’d never admit it out loud. Will is disciplined when it counts, not to mention coachable. Most importantly, he’s ambitious—just as ambitious as Macklin is. In the Celebrini family, that matters more than anything.
The thing is, Will is also a charmer.
The first time they met, Will had shaken Mack’s dad’s hand with steady eye contact—firm grip, confident but not cocky—and by the time they were back in the car, the engine barely started, his dad had glanced at him in the front seat.
“He’s good for you, Macklin,” he’d said, voice thoughtful in that rare, measured way that meant he’d already decided. “Very good.”
Macklin had turned toward the window before his dad could see his face. He watched the blur of streetlights instead, swallowing around the way that sentence settled into him, warm and dangerous all at once.
Because honestly, Will was probably too good for him.
Will let him be himself in a way no one else ever really had. Macklin had always been told he was too intense. That he burned too hot. That he cared too much, felt too much, wanted too much. Even praise came edged with warning: control it, channel it.
None of that fazed Will.
Will just absorbed it. Let it wash over him without flinching. When Mack spiraled into overthinking, when he got quiet and sharp and restless, when the pressure wound him so tight he could barely breathe, Will never tried to shrink him, never even told him to tone it down.
He just stayed right next to Mack, helping him through it. Somehow, with Will, being himself didn’t come with consequences.
“Tell Will to do some board practice, too. Both of you could benefit from it, actually,” Macklin’s dad says.
“Okay, Dada. I’ll tell him,” Macklin replies quietly, already filing it away so he won’t forget. He ignores the pitying looks from his mom and Aiden. They don’t say anything, but they don’t have to. RJ and Charlie are in their own worlds: Charlie snapping someone back on her phone, RJ scrolling through stats for the next team he’s playing like he hasn’t memorized them already.
“That’s enough hockey talk,” his mom cuts in gently. “Charlie, why don’t you tell us how tennis is going?”
From there, Macklin kind of zones out.
No offense to Charlie, but he doesn’t really understand tennis. The scoring makes no sense to him—love and ads and breaks and holds. He tries to listen as she talks about her last match, how she saved a match point and came back to win in a third-set tiebreak. She’s animated in a way she isn’t at home, describing it with wide hands and bright eyes.
She mentions her next tournament, a J100 in Montreal, excited because all her friends will be there. Then she starts explaining the difference between the L1 she played last year and the J300 she’s hoping to enter soon. Macklin nods at what feels like appropriate intervals, but the numbers blur together. In hockey, everything is simpler: goals, assists, wins, losses.
He only really locks back in when the waiter returns to take their orders.
RJ goes first. “Fettuccine alfredo.”
Macklin instinctively glances at his dad.
There’s only a slight frown. Barely there. It surprises him, that it isn’t more. But then he figures RJ is a little young to have to give up so many things he enjoyed. Mack was never too young for that, but RJ liked a little more balance.
Charlie orders spaghetti pomodoro. A safe choice. Macklin doesn’t even need to look to know that one lands well.
His mom gets shrimp risotto and says she’ll share with her husband, who orders the potato gnocchi. They’re seamless about it, like they planned it ahead of time, like always.
Macklin’s stomach tightens when Aiden goes next.
“Chicken parm,” Aiden says. No hesitation. “Regular.”
Their dad’s frown deepens for a second, but he doesn’t comment. Just presses his lips together.
And then it’s Macklin’s turn.
He can feel everyone waiting, even if they’re pretending not to.
“Can I get, um, the chicken parmigiana?” he says carefully. His voice is polite, practiced. “But, uh, can I get grilled chicken instead of the breaded?”
He doesn’t look at the waiter when he says it. He looks at his dad. His dad gives the smallest nod. Approval granted.
The knot in Macklin’s chest loosens instantly, so fast it almost makes him dizzy.
“Of course,” the waiter says, scribbling it down without a second thought, like it’s just chicken.
“Good choice,” his dad adds, leaning back slightly in the booth.
Macklin feels the praise settle over him like a blanket he’s been waiting for all night. He nods once, like it’s no big deal. Aiden snorts softly under his breath, not quite loud enough to be called out. Macklin doesn’t react. He’s learned not to. Reacting makes it worse. Reacting turns it into a thing.
Instead, he reaches for his water and takes a slow sip, keeping his expression neutral.
The conversation shifts again—Charlie asking RJ something about a game, his mom chiming in about travel schedules—but Macklin’s mind drifts.
He wonders if Will would’ve ordered it breaded. He would’ve, probably. He would’ve ordered a fettuccine alfredo for himself and a regular chicken parm for Mack. He pictures sitting across from Will instead of here.
The food comes quicker than Macklin expects. Plates set down one by one, steam rising, the smell of garlic and tomato sauce filling the air. His looks almost identical to Aiden’s—except the chicken is pale and grill-marked instead of golden and crisp, the cheese melted over it like an afterthought instead of a celebration.
He tells himself it tastes the same, but it doesn’t. Still, he eats methodically. Cuts even pieces. Chews slowly. Doesn’t complain.
Across from him, Aiden’s fork crunches through breading. The sound is sharp. Satisfying.
Macklin keeps his eyes on his own plate.
Halfway through the meal, his dad nods once at him. “Good discipline.”
“Thanks,” Macklin says quietly.
His mom watches the exchange, something unreadable flickering across her face before she looks down at her risotto.
If Will were here, things would be different. Mack still wouldn’t have looked at the menu, but Will would’ve known what he wanted. Mack wouldn’t have had to talk to the waiter, instead leaving it all up to Will, who always knew exactly what was best for Mack.
If Will were here, Macklin would be eating a regular chicken parm right now, while stealing some bites from Will’s plate. They would order lava cakes afterwards, getting two spoons and one plate and a side of vanilla ice cream on the side.
Mack would be laughing the whole time, actually talking and engaging. Talking with his hands. Forgetting to sit up straight. Forgetting to monitor every bite. He wouldn’t be waiting for approval.
But Will isn’t here.
So instead, Macklin pokes at his grilled chicken, the knife dragging through it with no resistance, no crunch. The cheese slides off in a quiet, unimpressive sheet. He takes another bite and chews carefully, like it’s something he has to get through rather than something he gets to enjoy.
Around him, conversation hums. Forks clink against plates. Someone laughs—Charlie, maybe. It all sounds far away.
He curls inward without meaning to. Shoulders rounding. Elbows tucking close. If things were different—if Will were here—it would be better.
It would be easier.
And Macklin wouldn’t feel quite so alone at a table full of people.
The grind never really stops.
A few days before break ends, Mack and Will are back at the rink. They do board work like Mack’s dad suggested—shoulder checks, puck battles, working along the walls until their legs are shot. Will complains the whole time, dramatic about it.
“Your dad’s obsessed with this stuff,” he mutters after Mack pins him against the boards.
“You’re welcome,” Mack says, shoving him again.
They stay out longer than they planned. They always do.
Then games start back up, and everything kind of blurs together. Flights, practices, games. They win some. They lose some. Honestly, they lose more than they want to. Mack pretends it doesn’t bother him as much as it does.
He watches extra film. Stays out for extra reps. Pushes a little harder. Will mostly just sticks close, going through all of it with him.
In between all of it, they hang out like normal. Go out for lunch after practice, still in sweats. Get dinner somewhere random because neither of them feels like cooking. Drive around San Jose with no real plan, just music playing and the windows down a little.
Sometimes they don’t even talk that much. Just sit there. Will still orders for Mack, never failing to find a perfect meal for him.
“Do you have plans for, like, right after our last game?” he asks, a little too casually. “Are you heading straight home?”
Will hums, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t think so. I gotta be back in Boston in, like, May. But I can hang out for a while, if you’re free.” He squints at him. “Why? Whatcha thinking?”
Mack shrugs, but he can feel himself starting to smile.
“Would you wanna come to, like, a family dinner with me? They’re so boring,” Mack says, drawing out the vowels at the end. It’s juvenile, in a way he would never let anyone else see. Around Will it’s okay though. It just slips out.
Will grins immediately. “Oh my god. Are you asking me to meet the parents again?”
“They’ve met you,” Mack mutters.
“Yeah, but this feels different. This feels, like, official.”
Mack kicks him lightly under the table. “Shut up.”
Will laughs, reaching for another dumpling. “What’s in it for me?”
“I won’t make you do board practice for a week.”
“That’s tempting.”
“And,” Mack adds, softer now, “I just. I don’t really wanna go alone.”
Will’s teasing expression fades into something steadier. He doesn’t make a joke out of that part.
“Yeah,” he says simply. “I’ll go.”
It’s a Mexican restaurant this time. Same kind of booth, same careful lighting, same low hum of conversation around them.
Macklin’s mom and dad had both seemed genuinely pleased when he mentioned Will would be coming. His mom smiled. His dad nodded once and said, “Good.” They even let Will “pick” the cuisine.
He didn’t really pick. Mack and Will get Mexican food all the time. It was the safest choice.
Now they’re squeezed into the booth—Charlie and RJ across from them, Aiden slouched at the end—and Mack doesn’t even reach for the menu.
“What should I get?” he asks, leaning into Will’s side to look at his.
It’s automatic. He forgets that he’s supposed to ask his dad at all. Across the table, he vaguely registers him opening his mouth to say something—probably already forming a suggestion—but Will starts talking first, finger tracing down the page.
“I think I’ll get this,” Will says, tapping the carne asada. “And this for you.” His finger shifts. “Fajitas.”
Mack blinks at him.
“I can’t order that here,” he hisses under his breath. “That’ll draw, like, so much attention.”
Fajitas come out sizzling. Everyone looks when they pass.
Will raises an eyebrow. “You love fajitas, c’mon, man.” He scans again. “You could also get this, you liked it when I got it at that other place.” He points at camarones al tomatillo, which looks suspiciously green and way less appealing.
Mack wrinkles his nose. “Nah, the fajitas look better. Can you ask for—”
“Yeah. Corn tortillas. I got you.” There’s a confidence in his voice. Mack nods before he can stop himself.
Across the table, his dad clears his throat.
Mack stiffens slightly, finally glancing up. His dad’s expression isn’t angry. It looks like he’s assessing the situation.
“Fajitas are usually cooked in a fair amount of oil,” he says evenly.
Mack feels heat creep up his neck.
Will doesn’t look over. “We can ask for light oil,” he says, still scanning the menu like this is all logistical, nothing more. “And he’ll split some with me.”
There’s a beat of silence. Mack’s heart is pounding way harder than it should be over something this stupid.
His dad studies him. “Is that what you want?”
The question lands heavier than it should.
Mack looks at Will. Will’s already nodding slightly, like it’s obvious. Mack swallows.
“Yeah,” he says. Quieter than he means to. “Yeah, that’s what I want.”
Another pause. Then his dad nods once. “Alright.”
The waiter comes around. Will orders first, smooth and easy. Carne asada. Then, without hesitation: “And the chicken fajitas for him—corn tortillas, light oil if possible.”
Mack doesn’t speak.
He doesn’t look at his dad, either, who will probably have some sort of opinion about Will ordering for Mack instead of Mack ordering for himself.
He stares at the table and feels something strange in his chest—not quite guilt, not quite relief. Something in between.
Under the table, Will’s knee bumps his. Mack exhales slowly.
The fajitas come out exactly the way he knew they would. They’re overly loud and dramatic. Charlie grins. RJ whistles under his breath. Aiden looks surprised, like he didn’t think Mack was actually ordering fajitas until they appeared in front of him.
Mack feels exposed for half a second. And then Will immediately reaches over, stealing a strip of chicken off the platter.
“Told you,” he says, like it’s a victory.
Mack can’t help it. He laughs. It’s small, but it’s real.
Across the table, his dad watches the two of them carefully. Noticing the difference in Mack’s demeanor, from dinner three months ago to now.
Mack doesn’t check his reaction before taking a bite.
When they step out of the restaurant, the night air is cool against Mack’s flushed face. The parking lot is loud—cars starting, doors slamming, Charlie laughing at something Aiden says.
“Walk ahead,” his dad tells the others, resting a hand briefly on Mack’s shoulder. “We’ll catch up.”
Mack’s stomach drops a little.
He watches Will fall into step with RJ immediately, already mid-story, hands moving as he talks. RJ looks up at him like he’s the most interesting person in the world. Will glances back once, just quick, like he’s checking Mack is okay. Mack gives him a small nod.
Then it’s just him and his dad.
They stand near the edge of the lot, under one of those buzzing streetlights.
“Will is good for you, Macklin,” his dad starts.
Mack braces himself anyway.
“You’re different around him.”
Mack stares at a crack in the pavement. “Different how?”
His dad considers the question longer than Mack expects. “You seem relaxed,” he says finally. “Less… wound up.”
Mack doesn’t know if that’s a compliment.
“You don’t overthink everything," his dad continues. “Or look to me before you answer.”
The words land softly, but they hit hard.
Mack swallows. “Is that bad?”
His dad exhales slowly. “No. No. It’s not bad.”
There’s a pause. Cars roll past. Somewhere in the distance, Will laughs again, bright and easy.
“You need people who let you breathe,” his dad says. “Hockey is intense. You are intense. That’s not something I’d ever want to take away from you.” He glances at Mack. “But you can’t live at that level every second.”
Mack doesn’t know what to say to that.
He thinks about the fajitas, how much he enjoyed them. He wonders what his dad would’ve made him order.
“I still listen,” Mack says quietly. He doesn’t know why he feels the need to clarify it. “To you.”
His dad’s expression shifts—something almost like regret flickering there before it smooths out again.
“I know you do,” he says. “And I’m proud of that.”
The word settles heavy in Mack’s chest.
“But,” his dad adds, more gently than usual, “it’s okay if you don’t always need me to decide things for you.”
Mack’s breath catches slightly. He doesn’t know what to do with that. For so long, needing his dad’s direction has felt like the safest option. The right one.
Across the lot, Will looks over again, this time more obviously, eyebrows raised in a silent you good?
Mack nods.
His dad follows his gaze and gives a small, knowing huff.
“He’s a good kid,” he says. “That’s rare.”
Then he claps Mack once on the back. “Let’s go.”
As they start walking, Mack feels off-balance in a way he can’t quite name. Will falls into step beside him immediately, bumping his shoulder.
“You alive?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” Mack says.
And for once, he chooses for himself.