Chapter Text
Everything was irritating after a loss.
Lights hummed overhead, skates thudded against the floor, tape tore in sharp bursts, and no one talked.
Macklin sat in his stall, jersey half off, staring at the floor like the pattern of rubber and more rubber was something much more interesting.
Across the room, Will watched.
They've had the same routine for a while now.
Same line every night. Will feeding Macklin the
puck like it was the most natural thing in
the world, Macklin Scoring.
People called Macklin the star of the
San Jose Sharks.
Will didn't mind.
He had never needed the spotlight like
Macklin did. There was something so satisfying about setting him up—the moment the puck left his stick, Macklin already knew where it would be. They built that understanding. They knew each other.
Or at least Will thought he did.
But tonight Macklin won't even look at him. It had been like this for three days.
Will leaned back against his stall, brows slightly furrowed.
It didn't make sense; they were always together. To the point of "Where's Macklin?" "Ask Will," or the reverse, was said often.
The article dropped right before a Tuesday morning practice. Will didn't find it himself; Toff walked in holding his phone like it could explode any second. "Mack...”
Will looked up like his name was also being called.
Silence fell over the room as Macklin read.
Will watched confusion slide over his face. Then anger. Then something softer, something fragile. Macklin stood up sharply, pushing Toff's hand and accidentally knocking whatever hurt him to the floor. "I'll come back for my stuff later."
His shoulder hits the coach on his way out, but neither of them say anything; it seems everyone knew but Will.
Will walked over to Toffoli, who was now picking up his phone; he slightly nudged at him with his foot. "What was that?"
"You probably already knew, huh?" Toff hands up the plane to Will; it's an article.
‘Macklin Celebrini Gay? Leaked photos reveal…’
"The fuck is this? They think Mack's gay?" It seems Will exclaimed this too loudly, as the room reacted, falling quiet.
Eklund broke the silence, "It's not 'think,'" and then someone else said, "Yeah, the photos were clearly of his boyfriend.”
Now Will is even more sure this is a hoax. “Mack doesn’t have a boyfriend; I’m with him 24/7. ” It’s barely an exaggeration.
“An ex then. Either way, he’s gay, dude.”
Will throws the phone back at Toffoli, who misses the catch and drops it. Will and Macklin were similar in so many ways, even if it was just abusing Toff’s phone.
Will doesn’t laugh. Normally this is the part where he’d say something dumb, shove Toffoli in the shoulder, and be an idiot.
Instead, something in his stomach twists. Because the room isn’t joking, and they’re all watching him.
Eklund leans back against his own stall, arms crossed. “You seriously didn’t know?”
Will shakes his head before he even realizes he’s doing it.
The word feels strange in his head. He knows many things about Macklin. The guy who steals fries off his plate. The guy who bangs his stick on the ice when Will holds the puck a second too long. The guy who texts him at two in the morning about some stupid play they could try next game. And apparently (new information), the guy who kisses other guys in secret.
Will blinks down at the screen again like the words might rearrange themselves if he waits long enough. They don’t.
“So,” someone says, “you’re all just cool with this?”
A choir of answers shouts out. Some 'no's and some ‘yes’s. Some calm, some angry. Will tunes it out.
Honestly, he himself isn’t cool with it.
He isn’t ’cool’ with the fact that Macklin didn’t know Macklin was gay.
They tell each other everything. At least, Will thought they did.
He thinks about the endless hours they’ve spent together—on flights, buses, and sitting in hotel hallways because they both lost the room key. Macklin leaning over his shoulder during film sessions, their knees knocking together under the table. The stupid handshake they made up halfway through the season.
All that time together, and not once did Macklin say, ‘Will, I have something to tell you…’ or even something like, ‘I used to have a crush on [insert male celebrity/character].'
Not once. Not one offhand comment. Not one drunken confession on a road trip. Not even a joke.
Which doesn’t make sense. Because Macklin talks. Constantly. About hockey, about food, about dumb internet videos he insists Will has to watch. But apparently there were whole parts of Macklin’s life that never came up.
Will feels something sour settle in his chest.
Toffoli finally retrieves his phone from the floor, turning it face down like the screen might start another argument if anyone looks at it too long.
“He probably just didn’t want people to know,” Toff says.
Will snorts softly. “I’m people?”
Toffoli hesitated.
That hesitation did something worse than an answer would. It fell somewhere between his ribs.
The locker room noise slowly started to creep back in—zippers, Velcro, and some still debating queerness.
Will grabbed his gear bag harder than he needed to. “I’m leaving too.”
Will shoved through the locker room door and into the hallway, the arena quieter out here. His bag thumped against his leg with every step.
He pulled his phone out.
Nothing from Macklin.
Nothing from Macklin for three days. It was now Friday, and they had lost their game. Of course they did; Macklin refused to pass to Will or even get passed to by him. Every time Will had the puck tonight, he’d done the same thing—looked up, saw Macklin open for half a second, and then watched him turn away.
Will watched Macklin from across the locker room.
Macklin still hadn’t moved.
His jersey was halfway off, one arm free and the other stuck like he’d forgotten what he was doing. His hair was damp and flattened from his helmet, and the red mark from the chinstrap still cut across his jaw.
He looked small.
Not physically. Macklin was still Macklin-shaped—broad shoulders, wide chest, the guy who could blow past defenders like they were standing still.
But the way he was sitting, hunched over with his eyes on the floor, made it look like the whole room was pressing down on him.
Will hated it.
He hated that Macklin wouldn’t look at him even more.
If Macklin wasn’t going to look at him, Will would make him.
He crossed the locker room in a few long strides. The noise in the room dipped slightly when people noticed where he was going. Not silent, but quieter. Curious.
Will stopped right in front of Macklin’s stall. “Are you going to keep pretending I’m not here,” he said quietly, “or are we actually going to talk?”
For a second Macklin didn’t react. Then his eyes lifted. “That’s not what I’m doing.” Macklin pulled the rest of his jersey off and shoved it into his bag harder than necessary.
Will took a slow breath, letting the words settle in the small space between them. “You’re really getting on my nerves, Mack,” he said, keeping his voice low. Quiet enough that no one else would overhear, but sharp enough to cut through the tension that had been building for days.
Macklin’s jaw tightened. He dug his fingers into the straps of his bag like they could anchor him to the floor. “Will, I just…” His voice faltered, and for a second, the confident, untouchable star that everyone saw in the rink vanished.
Will leaned a little closer, careful not to crowd him. “You just what?”
Macklin’s eyes flicked up briefly, catching Will’s gaze but quickly darting away. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Then don’t explain it. You’re allowed to have secrets, or whatever the fuck, just stop avoiding me.”
Macklin let out a bitter laugh, sharp and quiet. “You think it’s that simple?”
Will frowned. “It is simple. You’ve been shutting me out for three days, Mack. I don’t—” He stopped, realizing he didn’t know how to finish that sentence without sounding worse than he felt. “…I don’t like it. That’s all.”
Macklin finally looked up, his eyes messy in a way. Will had never seen it from him. “You don’t get it,” he muttered.
“Stop saying shit like that." Will’s voice cracked a little despite himself. “I’m not stupid, Mack.”
Macklin swallowed hard, shoulders stiff, like he was trying to hold something in that wanted to crawl out.
“You don’t get it because you’re not supposed to,” he said finally, his voice low, almost broken. “You’re not like me.”
Will’s stomach twisted again, sharper this time. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Will always thought he and Mack were exactly the same. After all, that’s why they got along so well.
Macklin’s eyes flicked to Will again, faster this time, like he wanted to say more but wasn’t sure he could. His hands clenched the straps of whatever pad he was removing next, knuckles white.
“I can’t talk about this here. You’re horrible for cornering me.”
“I’m horrible? Oh, fuck you, Macklin.”
Macklin flinched at the volume, and despite it coming out of his mouth, Will did too.
Will ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake the heat and frustration that had built up over these three days, and he stormed back to his cubby.
Will picked up his bag, the anger giving him extra strength to do so effortlessly, and left.
Are all gay people like this?
Will didn’t sleep that night. He kept turning the same images over in his head like a cheap highlight reel—Macklin’s laugh, his leg brushing his, the way his hand would linger at the small of Will’s back when they crowded into an elevator.
If Macklin was gay, what was all that?
Things between Macklin and Will just worked. That’s how their relationship went. But what if it was one-sided? What if things didn’t work for Macklin? What if he wanted more?
Will dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “This is so stupid,” he muttered to the empty room, like saying it out loud might make it true.
Because it was stupid, right?
Macklin being gay didn’t change anything.
Except it did.
Because now every memory had a question mark that hadn’t been there before. And Will hated it. Hated that his brain kept circling back, replaying moments that used to feel simple.
Practice the next morning was worse.
Macklin was already on the ice when Will stepped out, skating tight circles like he was trying to wear a groove into the surface. No music yet. Just the scrape of blades and the occasional crack of a puck hitting the boards.
Will tapped his stick against the ice once, out of habit.
Macklin didn’t look up.
Something in Will’s chest snapped a little.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, pushing off and skating straight toward him.
“Mack.”
No response.
Will cut him off near the boards, forcing him to slow down. Macklin’s skates sprayed ice as he stopped, clearly irritated now, finally looking at him.
“What?” Macklin said, breath visible in the cold air.
Will’s grip tightened on his stick. “You’re still doing it.”
“Doing what?”
Will gestured between them, frustration bleeding through. “Acting like I don’t exist.”
Macklin’s jaw set. “We’re at practice.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Will shot back. “You won’t even pass to me anymore. You think nobody notices that?”
Macklin looked away first, eyes flicking toward center ice, where a couple of teammates were pretending not to watch.
“Drop it, Will.”
“No.” The word came out sharper than he expected. “I’m not dropping it. You don’t get to just decide I’m not part of your life anymore because of some stupid fucking rumors."
Macklin’s expression flickered—anger.
Then he pushed Will, hard.
Will stumbled back a half step, skates sliding on the ice, almost knocking him down.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Will snapped, shoving back—not as hard, but not gentle either. The contact felt wrong the second it happened. Foreign.
They’d jokingly pushed each other a thousand times before, but this was different.
Macklin went still after the shove, chest rising and falling too fast.
“Don’t,” Macklin said, voice low and tight. “Don’t call it that.”
Will blinked. “Call it what?”
"Rumors. It’s not a rumor," Macklin cut in. His jaw clenched. “I like guys, for real.”
The anger drained out of Will almost instantly, replaced by something heavier. Maybe just the realization that he’d suddenly stepped in something deeper than he’d meant to.
“Okay,” Will said, “Yeah. Fine. I don’t care, Mack. You’re still my best friend.”
Macklin let out a short breath, shaking his head for a reason beyond Will.
“Stop doing that and actually tell me what’s wrong,” he said. “Because I’m trying, Mack. I’m right here, trying, and you keep—” he gestured vaguely, frustrated, “—shutting me out like I’m the problem.”
“You are the problem,” Macklin said quietly.
Will felt that one land.
His brows pulled together. And this time, Will was the one to start the physicality.
Macklin hit the ice with a sharp thwack, the cold ice biting through his hockey pants. Will froze for a second, chest tight, heart hammering. He hadn’t meant to make him fall like that—not really—but the force of frustration had just slipped out.
Macklin looked up at him, eyes wide, chest rising fast. Will couldn’t help but think he looked pretty.
“Will Smith!” A shout came from across the ice—it was the coach.
Will’s stomach dropped. He looked at Macklin lying on the ice, blinking up at him, chest heaving. The arena suddenly felt impossibly quiet—everyone looking at their incriminating positions.
Coach’s glare cut right through him. “Both of you have been on some bullshit lately; we’re going to practice different lines today.”
Will felt the words like a punch. “Different lines?” he muttered, more to himself than anyone. His skates scraped the ice as he backed away, avoiding Macklin’s gaze. Macklin was still on the ice, definitely milking it at this point.
For some reason, no longer playing with Mack made Will feel like it was officially over. Hockey was their whole lives, and if they were no longer playing hockey together in sync, then what? Were they done for good?
A week later, the team was off for a road trip—Las Vegas, bright lights, and a hotel that smelled like cheap carpet and desperation. Will sat on the edge of the bed in their shared room.
Will assumed this was the coach's sick attempt at mending their relationship—sticking them in a room together. At least there were two beds.
Will stared at the second bed, perfectly made. Macklin refused to enter the room after he found out they were sharing.
The hum of the Vegas Strip outside the window was so loud. Every neon sign flickering into the room irritated him.
A soft knock came at the door. Hesitantly, Macklin stepped inside. He didn’t smile. He didn’t even look at Will directly—just leaned against the open doorframe, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets.
“Can we not do this tonight?” Macklin’s voice was low and guarded.
Will sat up straighter, heart hammering. “Not do what?”
“fight—or talk at all.” Macklin’s jaw tightened. “I can’t. I really just can’t do this anymore.”
Will ran a hand through his hair, leaning back to lie down. “Fine,” he said, voice quieter than he intended. “We don’t have to talk. We can just be strangers, I guess.”
"See, now that's what I'm talking about."
Macklin explained, "You're trying to piss
me off.”
"What? I was literally agreeing with
your fucking idea.”
“Yeah, and then you added the second
half.”
Will huffed, "Am I not allowed to have
emotions? Seriously, are you not thinking?
about my feelings?” Rhetorical.
"Are you not mine?" Macklin's phrasing
was a tad strange, but Will understood what
he meant. Will always—no, usually understood
Macklin.
“Mack, please. I am trying so hard. I really am. Please help me out here.”
“What do you think of it?"
"Huh?" This was one of the times Will didn't.
understand him.
“Me liking guys.“
"I don't know; I don't care about that stuff."
"No, honestly. What did you think?”
"I thought it was weird—"
"See?"
"No. I thought it was weird that I didn't know." Will paused to see if Macklin would still interrupt. He didn't. "I know the sound of your laugh, how your body feels on mine. I know your family and every pet you've ever had. I thought... I don't know, I guess I thought I knew everything. That you told me everything."
Macklin didn’t respond right away.
He just stood there, still half in the doorway like he hadn’t fully decided to come in, his hand gripping the edge of it a little too tight. The hallway light cut across his face, leaving the rest of him in shadow.
“You don’t know everything,” Macklin said finally. Quiet and tired.
Will swallowed, sitting up a little more. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I figured that out.”
That almost got a smile out of Macklin. Almost.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Macklin didn’t move further into the room right away, just leaned back against the door now, eyes on the carpet instead of Will. “It wasn’t about not trusting you,” he said. “Before you say that.”
Will opened his mouth, then closed it again, opting to not say anything.
Macklin exhaled slowly, like he was trying to steady himself. “I didn’t tell anyone,” he continued. “Not you. Not the team. Not even my family. So it’s not like you were singled out or something.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better,” Will said before he could stop himself.
Macklin’s head lifted, eyes finally landing on him. “I know,” he said. “It’s just the truth.”
Silence stretched between them.
Will started fidgeting with his hands. “Why?” he asked, softer now. “Like, why not tell me?”
Macklin laughed under his breath, but it wasn’t amused. “Because of this.”
Will frowned. “This what?”
“Will, promise me you’ll be honest.“
“Mhm, promise.”
“What else did you think when you learned I like guys?”
Will didn’t answer right away. His fingers kept moving—picking at the loose thread on the edge of the blanket, pulling, letting it snap back, over and over. His eyes stayed on his hands, like the answer might be written there if he looked hard enough.
“I thought it didn’t matter.” Will started, then stopped. His jaw shifted, like he was chewing on the words before letting them out. “But it did.”
Macklin’s gaze dropped to the floor again. “Yeah.”
Will shook his head quickly. “No, not like in a bad way.” He sat up straighter, frustration creeping in—not at Macklin, but at himself. “I just mean it changed how I was thinking about stuff.”
That got Macklin to look at him again.
Will met his eyes this time, even though it felt harder than it should’ve. “Like—” he gestured vaguely between them, “—this. Us.”
Macklin went very still.
Will kept going before he could lose his nerve. “I kept replaying things. Trying to figure out if I missed something. If you were—” he hesitated, then forced it out, “—feeling something I wasn’t.”
Macklin’s throat moved as he swallowed. “And?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “And I hate that I don’t know.”
Macklin’s brows pulled together slightly, confusion slipping through. “That’s the part that bothered you?”
“Yes,” Will said immediately, then paused. "And no.”
Macklin waited.
He stopped, jaw clenching. “I thought maybe that’s why you were like that with me.”
Macklin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Like what?”
Will looked at him, something almost defensive flickering across his face now. “Don’t do that. You know.”
“I want to hear you say it,” Macklin said.
Will inhaled slowly, then let it out through his nose. “The way you touch me,” he said finally. “The way you’re always close. The way you look at me sometimes and then pretend you weren’t.”
Macklin’s breath caught, barely audible, but Will noticed it.
“And I didn’t think anything of it before,” Will continued, voice quieter now. “Because it was just you. That’s just how you are. With me.”
Silence.
“But then I find out you like guys,” Will was rambling now, “and suddenly I’m thinking—was that just me? Or do you do that with other guys?”
Macklin shook his head immediately. “No.”
Will’s stomach flipped.
“Okay,” he said, a little breathless. “So then what am I supposed to think?”
Macklin didn’t answer.
He was just standing there; he stared at Will like he was caught between saying everything and nothing at all.
Will pushed, softer this time. “Mack.”
Macklin paced once before stopping a few steps closer than before. Not close enough to touch—but close enough that it felt different. “Of course it was just with you. You’re Will, you’re special to me.”
“The same way you’re special to me? Or different?”
Will could see it land. He could see the way Macklin’s shoulders stiffened, the way his eyes flicked away like he suddenly couldn’t look at him anymore.
“…different,” Macklin said finally.
Will’s chest tightened.
“Okay,” he said, but it came out rougher than he meant. “Then just say it. Stop dancing around it and just say it.”
Macklin huffed out a breath, something shaky underneath it. “You think I haven’t been trying not to say it?”
“I think you’ve been avoiding everything,” Will shot back. Not angry, just desperate. “It’s been over a week, Mack.”
Macklin’s jaw clenched. He looked up again, and this time he didn’t look away.
“I like you,” he said.
Will swallowed. "Okay," he said.
It wasn’t the reaction Macklin expected. You could see it. “Okay?” Macklin repeated.
Will nodded once, slowly. “Yeah.”
Macklin let out a small, disbelieving breath. “That’s it?”
“I don’t know what else you want me to say,” Will admitted.
“I don’t know. An ‘I like you too’ would be nice."
Will winced. “That’s not fair.”
“Yeah,” Macklin said quietly. “Okay, sorry.” He shook his head once, like he was resetting himself. “That was stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” Will said immediately.
Macklin huffed out a breath. “You’re straight, it kind of is.”
“No, it’s not,” Will repeated, more firmly this time. He pushed himself fully off the bed, standing now, like that might help him explain it better. “It’s just not that simple.”
Macklin didn’t look convinced. “It’s pretty simple on my end.”
“I know,” Will said. “That’s the problem.”
Macklin’s eyes flicked back to him at that.
Will ran a hand through his hair, pacing once across the room before stopping again. “You’ve had time,” he said. “To think about it. To figure it out. You already know what you feel.”
Macklin didn’t interrupt.
Will swallowed. “I found out, like, a week ago that this was even a possibility.”
Macklin glanced at him. “So you’re not saying no?”
“I’m not saying yes either, Mack. I'm just saying I don’t know,” Will continued. “And I don’t want to lie to you and say something just because it’s easier right now.”
Macklin held his gaze, searching. “So what,” he said after a second, “you’re just going to think about it?”
Will almost smiled, a little helpless. “Yeah. Kind of.”
“That’s insane,” Macklin said under his breath.
“You’re insane,” Will shot back automatically.
It almost felt like them again. It lingered in the air for a second before fading.
Macklin shifted his weight, still standing a few feet away. “You get how that’s hard, right?” he said. “For me.”
“I do,” Will said quietly.
Macklin’s jaw tightened. “Because I can’t just turn it off while you figure it out.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Will said.
Macklin let out a short, frustrated breath. “Then what are you asking?”
“I’m asking you to not shut me out,” he said. “That’s it.”
Macklin’s eyes flicked up to his.
“I can deal with whatever this is,” Will went on, gesturing between them. “I can’t deal with you pretending I don’t exist.”
Macklin looked at him for a long second. "You're really okay with it?” he asked. “Me liking you?”
Will didn’t hesitate this time. “Yeah.”
“You’re not—” Macklin started, then stopped. “Weirded out?”
Will huffed softly. “I mean, yeah. A little.” He shrugged. “But not because it’s you liking a guy. Just because it’s you liking me.”
Macklin blinked at him.
“That’s new information,” Will added, like that explained everything. “Give me a minute.”
The next morning, the hotel gym smelled faintly of sweat and disinfectant. Sunlight seeped through the blinds, casting stripes across the rubber floor. Will was already there, the sharp bang echoing off the walls when he dropped the weights. Vegas felt distant in here, like the chaos outside the window didn’t exist.
A door creaked behind him. Will didn’t turn immediately.
“Can I come in?” Macklin’s voice was quiet, cautious.
Will finally glanced over. Macklin leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, hoodie zipped halfway up, eyes avoiding direct contact.
“Yeah,” Will said, lowering the handle of whatever machine he was using. “if you want to.”
Macklin stepped in slowly, still holding back, like each movement needed permission. He lingered by the doorway, shoulders tense, gaze flicking between Will and the floor.
Will set the weights down completely, giving him space without turning his back. “You don’t have to do anything,” he said softly. “I like it when you’re just here.”
Macklin’s lips twitched like he wanted to laugh, maybe out of nerves, maybe relief. “You said that too easily,” he muttered.
Will smirked faintly. “I’ve been practicing,” he said, and it was half-joke, half-serious. He could feel Macklin’s posture loosen just a fraction, a tiny concession. “You make everything look easy. It used to piss me off—before we were friends, of course.”
Macklin’s eyes flicked up for a brief second, caught between amusement and disbelief. “Yeah? And now?”
“Now,” Will paused, letting the words settle. “I think I like everything about you." He shrugged, awkward but honest.
Macklin blinked, caught off guard, his shoulders stiffening just slightly. “Everything?” he asked, voice low and incredulous, like he wasn’t sure he heard right.
Will shrugged again, more out of habit than uncertainty. “Yeah, the way you talk, the way you move on the ice, the way you never let me win an argument even when I know I’m right…” His voice cracked a little on the last part, but he didn’t back down. "Even the stupid stuff. I like it all.”
Macklin raised a hand to his face, trying to hide the pink in his cheeks.
“Even when you were avoiding me, I was thinking, ‘I like Macklin so much; I wish he would talk to me again.'" Will was teasing him at this point, but he still meant what he said.
His eyes met Will’s for just a second before darting away. “You’re insane,” he muttered, shaking his head like he was trying to convince himself of it.
Will took a step closer. "A good insane?”
“Will, you smell like sweat. Get away from me.” Macklin took a step away.
Will forwards, Macklin backwards. It continued like this until they were full-on chasing each other around the hotel halls, laughing.
Macklin’s laugh came out sharp and breathless as he cut around the corner, nearly slipping on the carpet.
“Will—stop—” he got out between breaths, grabbing the wall to steady himself.
Will caught up anyway, grabbing a fistful of the back of Macklin’s hoodie and yanking him back just enough to spin him around.
“Got you,” Will said, grinning, a little out of breath.
Macklin stumbled into him from the momentum, hands instinctively catching on Will’s shoulders to steady himself.
Their laughter died out, like someone had cut the sound.
Macklin’s fingers tightened slightly against Will’s shoulders before he seemed to realize it and loosened them, but he didn’t pull away completely. Will didn’t either.
Will’s eyes flicked down, just for a second. Macklin noticed.
His breath hitched—quiet, but there.
“Will.”
Will looked back up at him. “Yeah?”
Macklin hesitated. You could see the fight happening in real time—say something, don’t say anything, step back, stay.
“Stop doing this,” he said finally.
Will frowned slightly. “Doing what?”
“Playing with me,” Macklin said, voice low. “It isn’t fair.”
Will’s grip on his hoodie loosened a little, but he still didn’t let go completely. “I’m not,” he said.
Macklin searched his face. “Then what is it?”
He didn’t have a clean answer. Not one that fit into a sentence the way Macklin wanted.
Will finally let go of his hoodie, his hand falling back to his side. “You’re right,” Will said, quieter now. “I’ll stop.”
Apologizing seemed better than explaining his feelings. For Mack and himself.
For the rest of the day they were in a different kind of quiet. Instead of an avoidance quiet, it was an awkward quiet. The plane ride to the next city—Los Angeles—was terribly uncomfortable, at least between them.
Every time Will lined words up in his head, they sounded wrong.
He turned his head slightly.
“Mack.”
Macklin didn’t look at him right away. But he didn’t ignore him either.
"Yeah?"
Will hesitated. Then, before he could overthink it, "Do you want to go out with me?”
That got his attention.
Macklin turned, fast enough that his shoulder brushed Will’s.
“What?”
Will winced slightly. “Okay, see—this is why I was trying to plan it out first.”
Macklin just stared at him. “No, you don’t get to walk that back. What did you just say?”
Will dragged a hand down his face. “I said,” he stopped, exhaled, then tried again, more steady this time. “Do you want to go on a date with me?"
“…like a real date?”
“I don’t know,” Will said quickly. “I just—” He shifted in his seat, turning more toward him now. “I don’t have an answer yet. You know that. But I also don’t want to just sit here and think about it forever.”
Macklin didn’t interrupt his rambling.
“So,” Will continued, “we should try it. One trial date. If it’s weird, we’re friends. If it’s not—” he shrugged, “we figure it out from there.”
Macklin’s eyes searched his face like he was trying to find the catch. “And you’re okay with that?” he asked quietly. “…you’re not just doing this because you feel bad?”
Will frowned. “Mack, you know I wouldn’t do that.”
That got the smallest hint of a smile out of Macklin. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
Silence settled again, lighter this time.
That night, the team checked into a hotel in downtown Los Angeles. Bigger than the one in Vegas. Less neon, more glass, and quiet.
Will stood in front of the mirror in their room, staring at himself. “This is stupid,” he muttered.
Behind him, Macklin—who had been sitting on the edge of his bed—snorted softly. “You asked me out.”
“I know,” Will said. “I regret it.”
“No, you don’t.”
Will met his eyes in the mirror. “No, I don't."
Macklin smiled, "Good." Macklin stood up, grabbing his jacket. “We’re not going somewhere fancy, and if you make this weird, I’m leaving.”
Will scoffed. “I’ve never made anything weird.”
“You‘ve made many things weird.”
Will grabbed his jacket off the chair, muttering something under his breath.
They didn’t go far. Just a small place down the street. Nothing fancy, exactly like Macklin said. Dim lighting, a couple booths, and the low hum of people talking over each other. Normal. Which felt important, because nothing about this was normal.
They sat across from each other. Will leaned back and said, “This feels like an interview.”
Macklin huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s what first dates are.”
Will cleared his throat. “What do people even do on dates?”
Macklin tilted his head slightly. “Talk?”
“Is that what you did with your ex-boyfriend?” It came out before Will even processed what he was saying, but it came out with spite.
Macklin’s expression changed immediately.
Will exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “It slipped out.”
Macklin looked down at the table, thumb tracing the edge of the menu even though they’d already ordered. “Yeah,” he said. “That seems to happen a lot with you lately.”
That stung more than it should have.
Will leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Mack,” he said, quieter now. “Please don’t do this. Don’t shut me out again.”
Macklin’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t pull away completely this time. That was something. “I’m not shutting you out,” he muttered.
“You are,” Will said gently. “I can see it.”
Silence stretched between them for a second. The noise of the restaurant filled the space—cutlery clinking, someone laughing too loud from across the room, and a server calling out an order.
Macklin finally sighed, dropping his hand from the menu. “Yeah,” he admitted. “A little.”
Their food arrived then, breaking the tension just enough to let them both breathe. Neither of them touched it right away.
Will hesitated, then said, “You don’t have to tell me about him.”
Macklin blinked. “What?”
“Your ex,” Will said, shrugging a little. “I don’t need details or whatever. That’s not why I asked.”
“Then why did you?” Macklin asked.
Will huffed softly, a little embarrassed. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I heard it out loud before I thought it, and yeah, that was my bad.”
Macklin let out a quiet breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “At least you’re self-aware.”
They both finally started picking at their food, more out of needing something to do than actual hunger.
A few minutes passed before Macklin spoke again. “We just went out,” he said, like he’d made a decision. “We went to school together. I liked him; he liked me.”
Will glanced up at him. “Yeah?”
Macklin shrugged. “Yeah.”
“It wasn’t like this.”
Will’s fork stilled. “Like what?”
Macklin met his eyes. “Complicated.”
Will let out a soft breath. “Yeah,” he said. “That tracks.” Will leaned back slightly, studying him. “Are you having a terrible time?” he asked.
Macklin blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“On a scale of one to ‘I’m leaving through the bathroom window,’ where are you at?” Will clarified.
Macklin huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re so dumb.”
“Answer the question.”
"Like a three,” Macklin said after a second.
Will raised his brows. “A three is not good.”
“It’s leaning good,” Macklin countered.
“I was hoping for a ten.”
Macklin tilted his head, pretending to consider. “Maybe a five now.”
“You can’t add points for a joke.”
“I can do whatever I want.” Macklin smiled, and something about that made Will feel like maybe this wasn’t a complete disaster.
They fell into easier conversation after that. Not perfect. Still a little awkward around the edges, like they were both hyper-aware of everything they said. But it started to feel more like them again.
They left the small restaurant, the cold night air hitting them like a soft reminder that the world hadn’t ended. Neon signs flickered above, but quieter than Vegas, calmer than the Strip.
Macklin walked beside Will, hands buried in his jacket pockets. Will’s eyes kept flicking to them, wondering if he could do it—if he could just reach out.
He did. Slowly, carefully, Will extended his hand, letting it brush against Macklin’s wrist. Macklin froze, shoulders stiffening for a second.
“You don’t have to,” Will said softly.
“I know,” Macklin murmured, voice low. He hesitated, then slowly let his fingers curl around Will’s.
Will felt his chest unclench a little. He squeezed gently. Macklin’s hand tightened back, and for the first time in days, Will felt something close to right.
At their hotel room entrance, Macklin paused, glancing up at Will. “I won't mess this up, right?” Macklin looked at him, eyes wide, almost searching for permission.
Will just shrugged and leaned closer. The space between them shrank until it felt like there was nothing else in the world but the quiet hum of the hotel hallway and the heat of each other’s presence.
Macklin’s hand still gripped Will’s, and slowly, carefully, their faces drew closer. Their breaths mingled. Then, in one soft, decisive motion, Macklin pressed his lips to Will’s.
It was tentative at first, testing, but the second Will returned it, everything else fell away. The tension of the last week, the rumors, the confusion—they melted into that kiss. Macklin’s other hand rose to Will’s shoulder, holding on, grounding himself. Will wrapped an arm around Macklin’s waist, pulling him just a little closer.
When they finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, Macklin’s forehead rested against Will’s. “Okay?” he whispered, voice shaky but hopeful.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Will grinned, brushing a thumb across Macklin’s knuckles. “But no more; I don’t sell my body on a first date.”