Chapter Text
"And last but certainly not least, give it up for your new Captain... Number 71, Macklin Celebrini!"
Dickie lightly elbows Will to get his attention. “Rook looks like he’s seconds away from chucking everywhere.”
Pfft, if he legitimately thinks Will would choose gawking at the greenest guy on the roster - pun intended - over watching his enigmatic best friend skate out of the Shark head for his first regular season game as captain, he needs to get his head checked. A smile tugs reflexively at Will’s lips as Mack works his way down the row of players, exchanging encouraging words and glove taps with the guys. Very captainy of him. Totally a coincidence that once he’s done, he slots into line beside Number 2, instead of his expected spot down on the opposite end.
“Took you long enough,” Will tsks in faux-admonishment. “That shiny new C on your chest getting to your head already, bub, or did you just get lost?”
“Ha, ha, so funny, bro,” Mack deadpans, though he’s definitely biting back a mega-watt smile. Can't blame him, since Will is hilarious. “You been working on that lame-o chirp ever since your name was called?”
Mack has to repeat his question, because despite his lips being two inches from Will’s ear, it’s nearly impossible to hear him - or anything really - over the roaring crowd. Tonight is both the Sharks’ home opener and their first game of the new regular season. The atmosphere is electric. Every one of the seventeen-thousand plus fans packed into the Shark Tank are up on their feet, screaming themselves hoarse before the puck has even dropped.
It’s not just the fans that feel it in their bones.
The guys on the ice do, too.
No more waiting. This is it, the Sharks’ year.
Their squad is still considered ‘young and developing’ overall, but the rebuild is officially over. From the front office, to inside the locker room, to out on the ice, the mentality has shifted. The future? Now. Their primary objective is no longer ‘player development’. This season, they’re going to be a dangerous, high-octane playoff contender. And the guy leading that charge - who is no longer a teenager, much to the disappointment of sports commentators everywhere - is their franchise star and newly appointed captain, Macklin Celebrini.
Following a slew of off-season changes, Mack won’t be carrying that burden alone. Veteran defensemen Jacob Trouba, Michael Kesselring, and Darnell Nurse were signed to bring the oomph to the defense. Their offense is bolstered by the addition of Mason Marchment, Will and Mack’s third linemate, and Ivar Stenberg, their green-gilled star rookie (gosh he's on a roll tonight, feels like a good omen).
On the flip-side, a lot of familiar faces are gone. Which really sucks, honestly. But there’s one absence in particular that stands out from the rest.
William Eklund.
What an unexpected, jaw-dropping, mindfuck of a trade. On a personal level for Will and Mack, losing Eky was an absolute gut-punch. Cliche though it might be, the older forward swept the two rookies under his wing from day 1, treating them like his long-lost little brothers. As a teammate, Eky was the ultimate hype man, and a loyal, fierce protector; towards opponents, however, he’s notorious for being an obnoxious rage-baiter and a pest. So it’s no surprise then that Macklin, a giant brat to his core, not-so-secretly idolized the older Swede. For a guy with ‘golden retriever’ energy, Eky is goddamn sassy.
While the PA announcer is asking the crowd to rise for the national anthem, Dickie (rudely) leans across Will to say, “Hey, Cap, fancy seeing you here.”
Speaking of sass…
“Where else would I be?” Mack snaps back, scowling fiercely at his fellow-Canadian.
Will sighs under his breath. A low-level chirp like that shouldn’t result in Bratlin rearing his adorable head. Clearly, the stress of the day is getting to Mack. Unsurprising, but Will hates that he can’t simply fix everything for his best friend with a snap of his fingers. Only thing he can do is bust his ass to get the puck into the net, so the Sharks can start the new season with a win. Third time’s the charm, right?
Before Dickie can unintentionally (or on purpose) provoke Mack further, Will interjects, “My dearest Captain, can you kindly lend us your expertise and settle our debate?” Without turning away from his staredown with Dickie, Mack grunts in acknowledgement. Good enough. “What are the odds that our precious rookie upchucks at some point tonight?”
“Slim to none,” comes Mack’s succinct, un-bratty response.
Will’s eyes narrow. Attributing Mack’s ashen pallor to the arena’s weird pre-game lighting was wishful thinking, wasn’t it? “In the Leadership training manual, is puking side-by-side with your rookie listed under ‘team bonding’ or ‘standard pre-game prep’?”
“Apologies, soldier, but you do not possess the necessary clearance for that confidential information,” Mack says, his tone perfectly formal despite the amusement dancing in his eyes. “Get that promotion to Alternate first, then we’ll talk.”
“Wow, you sure know how to inspire a guy to be the best sharkie he can be, huh?”
Mack’s chest puffs out. “I do my best, Smit. Thank you for noticing.”
It’s not sarcasm. He genuinely thought Will was being sincere.
Crapsicle.
Eh, ya know what? It's fine. Mack does inspire Will to be the best sharkie he can be. His subconscious knew what was up.
So wrapped up in their own world, they don’t realize the national anthem has finished. Meaning, they’re wholly unprepared for the arena to suddenly be bathed in blinding white light.
Mack and Will both flinch and hiss like startled cats, drawing a delighted cackle from Dickie. “Time to lock in, boys! We’re having fried Panther tonight.”
Together, the trio heads back to the bench, but Mack soon falls behind. Quick to notice, Will backtracks. “Hey, we’ve got this shit, okay?” He gently taps the other boy’s shins with his stick. “I promise, Macky. This season is gonna be the start of something new. And it all starts with our win tonight.”
“Hell yeah, we do.” Mack bumps their shoulders together. “Troy Bolton Hockey.”
When the regular season schedule was announced mid-July, the Sharks knew their opening game was going to be a doozy. Even at their lowest, the Florida Panthers always come down hard on their opponents. They’re overly physical, violent, obnoxious, rude savages. And with the changes they made to their own roster during the off-season - one Tkachuk brother was bad enough, but as Wenny and Mack knew from their Olympic experience, two was the absolute worst - the game is guaranteed to be aggressive from start to finish.
Moments away from puck drop, Captain Mack reiterates tonight’s game plan to the team - the Panthers are going to chirp them to hell and back, but they mustn’t lose their cool. Trash-talking is a mind game, meant to get under their skin and draw a penalty. A penalty the Sharks can’t afford to give. Dirty hits can be retaliated at their discretion, though they’re not to ‘foolishly’ drop the gloves.
Blah blah blah, proper name, place name, backstory stuff.
Only half-listening, Will instead watches Mack deliver his speech, utterly captivated. His best friend is magnetic. Confident and poised. A natural leader on the ice (which makes it infinitely more endearing that he’s such a socially awkward mess off it). While Mack talks, he looks every guy dead in the eye, lingering on those who are notorious for getting riled during games. He finishes on a high note, saving the best for last, Will Smith hock-… oh. Mack’s gaze skips over Will entirely.
Right. Understandable. Not personal or disappointing at all. Cuz like… why would Mack waste his time? Will Smith hockey is a chill, passive guy. Not a physical player. Never loses his cool, never fights. A non-factor in scrums. Hell, he’s actually been a liability once or twice!
(What very few people know is that Will Smith hockey HAS dropped the gloves before. Once. During a summer tournament, an older opponent tricked him into trading away his pristine, ultra-rare Base Set Charizard card. A brutal life lesson about the cruelness and unfairness of the world followed; because while eight-year-old Will had the moral high ground AND fiery righteous nerd rage on his side, he’d still have received the absolute ass whooping of his life if not for one Ryan Leonard.)
Will is jolted from his musings when a certain someone flicks his visor up. Mack’s striking green-eyed gaze is expectant. Will blinks, surprised, then hurriedly turns to catch the attention of the nearest trainer. Silly him, of course the Sharks’ newly minted team captain isn’t going to let his new promotion prevent him from being doted on by his best friend! Mack is, and always will be, Will’s little brat at heart.
The trainer places a small foil capsule into Will's waiting palm. Snapping it, he takes a quick hit, shuddering violently at the pungent scent. It tears through his sinuses, clearing his head like it’s supposed to, but yuck.
A fond laugh cuts through the grim tension of Mack’s face. "I think Reavo was lying when he said we’d get used to this," he whispers, the corners of his mouth ticking up. “It actually gets worse every year.”
It does beg the question - are modern scientists really unable to devise a formula that doesn’t smell like a mixture of industrial window cleaner, old gym socks, and pure stinging regret?
Le gasp!
Will mentally jots down that brilliant idea to share with Mack later. In private, so no conniving snake can steal his newest billion-dollar venture. He'll make a killing if he can improve these low-key torture salts.
“Knowing that jerk, he definitely was,” Will pouts, like he’s legitimately put-out by the deception. He’s not. How can he be, when it’s led to so many tender moments like this with his best friend?
He holds the crushed capsule out for Mack to take his turn. They’ve done it like this ever since Will walked in on the poor dear mid-meltdown after a brutal loss, scrubbing his hands until they bled to get the vile, clinging aroma off his skin. Once again, Mack leans in so close, it looks like he’s deliberately smelling his best friend’s fingers. Will is about to tease him for it when Mack's knuckles casually brush against the inside of his wrist, skin against skin. His thumb lingers for several moments, tracing slow, grounding circles on Will's arm.
A warmth explodes in Will’s chest that has nothing to do with smelling salts. He hastily averts his gaze before some stray camera catches him looking even more pathetically besotted than usual. Unsurprisingly, their pregame ritual draws a few side-eyes and raised eyebrows from the newest Sharks. Whatevs. They’ll get used to it, just like their other teammates did. Will is about to turn back to Mack when he happens to catch Ivar’s expression. Panic rises within him, and he's left with the deeply uncomfortable sense that the rookie has seen right through him.
His best friend, however, interprets the teenager’s wide-eyed, shell-shocked stare differently. Mistaking the look for curiosity, Mack asks Ivar if he wants to try the smelling salts, deeming it “less potent now, so it’ll get ya going without making, uhh… things worse.” When the rookie nods tentatively, Will holds the capsule out as if nothing is amiss. Because it's not. Everything is fine, Will is fine, Mack is... oof, Ivar might not be fine. Poor kid takes a small whiff, then recoils so hard, he collides with Wenny on his other side.
Expecting to share a commiserating chuckle, Will glances at Mack, only to discover that he’s the recipient of a heated, scolding glare. “Stop babying him, Smitty! He's a grown boy, he can hold it himself.”
Valuing his life, Will doesn’t point out the hypocrisy. For now.
From the very first face-off, the game is exactly what the Sharks predicted it would be. Physical. Contentious. Questionably ethical. To establish the Sharks’ new identity, Trouba lays a devastating, borderline-late open-ice hit on Matthew Tkachuk that has both benches and the Shark Tank on their feet. No one drops the gloves - guess even the Panthers were told not to incur penalties this early on - but a testy scrum springs up. The play ignites a fire within both teams, while also putting a bullseye on the Sharks' young stars (which was always gonna be there regardless, so at least now it’s ‘justified’).
Case in point…
On the next shift, Anton Lundell ‘accidentally’ falls on top of the Sharks’ Captain during a scramble for a loose puck. While they’re untangling, he roughly digs his weight into every part of Mack’s prone body that he can reach. Noticing the shady, dirty tactic, Marchment kindly helps the process along by roughly shoving Lundell off their captain. Surprise, surprise, not, another testy skirmish ensues.
Once Will is within earshot, Elder Tkachuk sheers, "And here’s Celebrini’s bitch sidekick, riding his coattails as always. Gonna hold your buddy's hand and kiss his booboos better, Smith?”
“Bet he's gonna do a whole lot more than that after the game," Hathaway says with a cruel laugh, spitting a glob of saliva onto the ice that comes awfully close to Will’s skate. “Why else would Celebrini willingly drag all that dead weight around with him on first line? It's because he knows where Smith’s real talents lie.”
Face flushing crimson, Mack unleashes a vein-popping, high-decibel torrent of vitriol so savage - and severely out-of-character - it renders even the hotheaded Marchment speechless. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that this is going to end badly if Will doesn’t do something, and quick.
Ironically, Younger Tkachuk gives him the perfect opening. “Yo, Pretty Boy, tell your little girlfriend that unless she wants to get her teeth knocked out, she better shut her bitch ass mouth up.”
Whipping out his best valley girl impression, Will gushes, “Oh my god, you think I’m pretty? Aww, I’d compliment you back, but I gave up lying for Lent.”
“You shut the fuck up, too!”
Actually, I don’t think I will.
“Don't you agree that it's like, so shitty we can’t put trigger warnings on people?" Will continues, ditzily twirling a lock of hair around his finger. “I mean, no offense, but you and your rat brother are total jumpscares.”
Obviously, Will is a super funny guy, so almost everyone who hears him either snickers or smiles. Including two of Tkachuk’s own teammates, ha. Yet it’s Macklin’s derisive laugh that has him preening on the inside. His best friend once drunkenly confessed, ‘Smitty, you letting your inner-mean-girl out on the ice is my fucking favorite thing ever... now that we're teammates, that is.’ So while it's not wholly unexpected, it still feels good (probably because Will is a slut for compliments/praise, his bestie's above all).
Along with Will’s sharp wit and business acumen, trend-setting is yet another of his many natural talents. Inspired by his example, Dickie executes a little tactical shit-starting of his own; intentionally using a linesman’s body as a barrier, he throws a parting glove-swipe at Younger Tkachuk, whose furious overreaction gains him a stern chewing out and a verbal warning from the officials.
For the rest of the period, the hard hits keep coming. On both sides, though Will suspects the total count is in favor of the savages. So when the first intermission rolls around, it's a fucking relief. Feels like they’ve played 60 minutes instead of 20, which makes the 0-0 score all the more irritating.
In the locker room, everyone is already battered and bruised. But it’s not the game's physicality that has the guys up in arms.
Throwing his equipment onto the floor, Sherwood spits, “We cannot let such egregious insults go unpunished!”
Dickie drops down next to a silently-fuming Misa. “I can hear the Tkachuks going for the jugular on their stupid podcast. By this time next week, every team in the league is gonna think they can say whatever the fuck they want to us.”
Kesselring, who Will has been friends with for several years and low-key recruited to the team, sighs heavily. “I’m not the biggest fan of fighting,” the defenseman begins, "but if the Panthers start the next period with the same shit, I think it’d be to our benefit to whoop someone’s ass.”
Their linemate’s hand flies into the air. “I happily volunteer as tribute!” Marchment exclaims. “I beat the stuffing out of Chucklefuck a few years back. Now it’s little bro’s turn.”
The locker room erupts in a chaotic crossfire of voices. Too busy retaping his stick to contribute, Will wheezes in pain when an elbow connects brutally with his ribcage. Mack's, of course. Their stalls are right next to each other’s this year (Will maturely opts to NOT take it personally how Goody looks a lot happier now that he's not stuck between them... at least he never had to deal with pointy elbows of mass destruction).
Will knows what’s being requested of him by the way Mack covers his ears. Sticking two fingers in his mouth, he lets out a piercing whistle that instantly silences the ruckus. Warso, oblivious to where everyone’s attention has gone, offers him a grateful nod.
Before their coach can embarrass himself, pity Captain Mack says, “They can keep running their mouths all they want. While it’s extremely irritating, it’s just words. Smitty and I’ve heard worse, as I’m sure most of you have. For the next two periods, we’ll continue NOT giving them the reaction they so desperately crave. Eventually, frustration will make them sloppy, and then we’ll take advantage.”
“Respectfully, have you heard worse?” Nurse asks with understandable skepticism. “For two guys who allegedly can’t read, they’re pretty creative with the insults.”
Supportive of his best friend, Will goes back to taping his stick and minding his own business… which is really hard to do with someone’s gaze burning a hole into the side of his head!
“They don’t understand most of the shit being said to them,” Toff says slowly, like he’s processing the epiphany in real-time. “That’s why they’re so indifferent.”
Mack’s scoff is loud, incredulous, and utterly fake. “We totally understand what they’re saying! Right, Smitty?”
“Yeppers.” Will winces at Mack’s silent but pointed, ‘Fucking do better!’ “Homophobic stuff. That's what they're saying.”
“Grrr, I hate those assholes so much!” Dickie mimes choking someone. “Captain Gorgeous, please let one of these nice uncs do some ass kicking, please.”
In the middle of aggressively drying the sweat off his face, Mack lowers the towel to glare at the defenseman. “Flattery doesn’t work on me, remember?”
“Right, right.” Dickie’s gaze shifts to Will. “Please, Captain Gorgeous’s Even Better Looking Better Half -”
“Look, I want to kick some ass, too,” Trouba interjects before Will can make a fool of himself - flattery does work on him, but that's not a crime, okay? He's, uhh... sensitive.
Smacking his palms against his thighs, Dickie moves to stand up. "Glad we got that settled -"
"However," the veteran drawls, causing Dickie to slump dejectedly. "The Panthers want this game to become a sideshow circus act. If we give in, all it does is validate the abuse."
"Not disagreeing," Toff says. "But how do you figure?"
"If we take bait penalties or whatever, and lose? The Tkachuks and their goons win twice. I doubt they’ll publicly share their chirps, but we all know how word spreads between players.”
Sherwood, slightly calmer now that he’s consumed his Intermission Snack, groans, “I fucking hate it, but that's a valid argument.” He eyes the best friends perplexedly. “Feels like we’re more pissed off about this than you two are. It truly doesn’t bother you that out of every potential trash-talking topic, this is what they're tripling-down on?”
Yes and no. The implication that being gay is an insult? Offensive on principle. But also, it's not like they're calling Will something he isn't. He is gay. For him, the vicious checks and chirps are nothing compared to the pain of watching his shot on goal go post-to-post and then out. That was ouchies. Big ouchies.
Eyes glued to the locker room floor, Mack grips the edge of the bench so tightly, his veins protrude. Sweet baby Jesus have mercy. Coincidentally, Will takes a long gulp of water.
“There are not enough words in the English language to explain how much it bothers me,” Mack admits, voice low and gruff. Heavy, in a way that Will has never heard from him before. “But it also makes me want to win that much more… especially since it’s my fucking fault they’re harping on this in the first place.”
Several guys adamantly disagree, including Will.
Mack conveniently doesn't hear them. “If I hadn’t reacted to them calling Smitty my sidekick, and the atrocious insinuation that he prostitutes himself out to retain his position on first line -”
In the middle of drawing a complex diagram on the whiteboard, Warso’s head snaps around. “Excuse me, what?!”
“Directly to Mack himself,” Will clarifies for everyone's sake.
They know who has the real power in this locker room, he thinks only a tad spitefully.
Eyes gleaming, Delly opens his mouth, but before he can get a word out, Toff chucks an empty water bottle at the mischief-maker’s head.
“It’s the most fucking ridiculous thing I've ever heard!" Mack exclaims, still going strong. His laugh is borderline hysterical. "Honestly, anyone who genuinely believes Smitty didn’t earn his place with his own merit is a fucking disgrace to hockey and unfit to remain among the liv...-”
During their rookie season, Mack’s older brother, Aiden, gave Will a piece of advice that he’s never forgotten: Gotta cut Macky off early. If he builds up a head of steam, he’ll go on for hours, and not even our dad will be able to get a word in edgewise.
Placing a hand on Mack’s forearm under the guise of comfort, Will ruthlessly digs his fingers into that unprotected strip of skin right above the wrist bone. Their Captain’s rant cuts off with an undignified squeak.
Graf, now sporting a three-stitch closure on his torn eyebrow after an ‘accidental’ high stick, clears his throat. “Fearless Leader, if I may say a few words?”
Since Mack is boring and won’t use the appropriately solemn voice required in this situation, Will answers for him. “He says you may proceed, Longest Tenured Shark.”
“Please give Big Money Mack my regards.”
“Ahem, Longest Tenured Shark says -”
“I heard.”
Normally, Will would cackle at Mack’s pink cheeks along with the others. But he’s on thin ice now after that pinch, so he sips his electrolyte water until he’s sure he won’t collapse into giggles. Next time.
“My fellow baby sharkies, have we so easily forgotten our roots?” Graf points at Dickie. Misa. Cags. Will. Mack. Delly. “I implore you to remember who you are!” His gaze fixates on the stall across from his own. At present, it belongs to their darling rookie. But before that, it was a different Swede's. “If our fallen brother could see us now, he'd be so ashamed."
"Psychological warfare is a two-way street, isn't it?" Misa hums, sharing a diabolical grin with Dickie.
Mack catches Will’s eye. His (achingly familiar) expression essentially translates to, ‘I’m dying here, Smitty, please explain this to me in smaller and/or more direct words.’
“W-W-E-D.” A menacing grin spreads across Will’s face. “What would Eky do?”
For most players, the opposing team scoring fifty seconds into the start of a new period would be demoralizing. Not for Will. The Sharks have a unique, hella-stressful habit of blowing multi-goal leads in the third period. Playing one goal down or tied is actually preferred.
On the next shift, Radko Gudas, aka The Butcher, aka The Captain Butcher, Gudas pins Mack into the boards, giving him a hard cross-check in the back. Three, actually. The moment his stick first catches Macklin flat in the lower spine, Will begins mapping out the ensuing Power Play in his head - where he’ll position himself, how he'll… whelp, nevermind.
Marchment blows past Will like a heat-seeking missile, obliterating Gudas into the plexiglass. Both players lose their footing and hit the ice with a heavy thud, fingers locked into each other's equipment.
Sacré bleu, Captain Mack is going to be fucking livid… oof, whelp pt2.
Helmet askew, Mack’s white-knuckle grip locks onto the nearest red jersey, and he blindly shoves a guy twice his size. Feeling way more fond than he should - some things just never change, huh? - Will glides toward the fracas with deliberate strides, sticking to the perimeter. To prevent Mack from being double-teamed, he ‘unintentionally’ veers into Bennett’s path, giving Dickie time to catch up.
Will eyes the pile-up contemplatively.
Eky, my brother, wherever you are, this is for you.
His scheme requires precision, so he times it down to the millisecond: Referee turns to break up Macklin's pile. Will plants his stick firmly against Bennett’s shinguards. Gives an annoying upward hack. When a seething Bennett spins around, Will’s hands are already up, expression innocent. Still, the moron roughly shoves him in the chest, hard enough that Will stumbles back. Technically, retaliation. And deserved. To the referee, however, it's a notorious agitator bullying the young skill player that doesn't have a malicious bone in his body.
Make way, Hollywood, here comes Will Smith Actor II.
The Sharks get a Power Play, after all.
“Owe you big time, kid," Marchment says, skating by Will on his way to the box. "Next round of golf is on me."
Translation - thank you for sparing me from Captain Mack’s wrath.
In the end, he actually does the veteran one better. It takes until the waning seconds of the Power Play, but after being set up by Will's beautiful feed, Mack scores the Sharks’ first goal of the game and season. It evens the score 1-1.
For the remainder of the second period, the two teams basically exchange Power Plays. Luckily, the Panthers don’t capitalize on any. Unluckily, aside from the initial one, the Sharks don’t either. Heading into the locker room for the second intermission, the Panthers are up 2-1 after Lundell scores at full strength in the waning seconds of the period.
Of course, the barbarians can’t resist taking a parting shot before they go. “Yo, Smith, how come your buddy Leno can’t stand Celebrini?” Elder Tkachuk asks snidely. “Does it have anything to do with how you were his toy to play with first, but now your new master keeps you on a tight leash?”
Actually, Leno doesn’t like Macklin because it's massively frustrating to repeatedly go up against a kid who’s insanely talented and younger than everyone else on the ice… especially when that humble phenom spends the entire game running his giant, bratty mouth. Will low-key found it amusing (and was high-key jealous that Mack always paid so much attention to Leno, while ignoring his existence entirely). Gabe was indifferent. Leno, however, was incensed by it.
Aside from hockey, guess what else Mack and Leno have in common? They're both easily rage-baited, obnoxiously stubborn, and ace at holding grudges.
The Panthers' nastiest remarks are primarily about Will, but he has a sneaking suspicion he isn’t their actual target. Either that, or those morons are just exceptionally lucky.
For the Sharks’, their only good fortune is that the last pot shot was made as they were heading into the locker room. Because holy crash out.
Yelling a garbled mess of unintelligible words, Mack violently strikes his stick against the concrete wall, again and again, until it’s shattered into jagged pieces. Disinterested in becoming collateral damage, everyone gives him a wide berth on the way to their own stalls. But unlike past meltdowns, this one is over seconds after it begins.
When Mack collapses onto the bench beside Will, chest heaving, Toff (courageously) puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Giving up a goal so close to intermission sucks, but there’s still plenty of time -”
“For them to come up with even more vile insults to spew at Smitty!”
A dozen pairs of eyes turn to Will for explanation. Dickie, the only other Shark who'd been within earshot of that final remark, spares him from having to respond, bless. “Smitty, my best guy,” the defenseman purrs. “How does it feel being the first male victim of misogyny?"
“Woe is me,” Will deadpans.
“Don’t get me wrong, kid, I’m glad they’re not getting under your skin,” Sherwood says. “But does anything bother you?”
“No,” Mack petulantly grumbles. “And trust me, I’ve tried. Many times.”
It’s understandable as to why Mack is so disgruntled that nothing ruffles Will on or off the ice. Outwardly, that is. Because inwardly? There’s an ungodly amount of things that keep him up at night.
“There is stuff that bothers me," Will admits, taking care to keep his voice neutral, lest the sweet, competitive little freak that is his best friend perceives it as a challenge. "But neither Macky nor those bastards have figured it out yet.”
“Like someone calling you a bad boy-kisser?” Toff asks knowingly.
“Shh, don’t put that out in the universe!” Paranoid, Will’s gaze sweeps the room, worried the league’s biggest rat might suddenly pop out of the giant trashcan and yell, ‘Boo!’ Anything is possible with that guy. “Not with Marchand up my ass every shift… no pun intended.”
Captain Brat legit boos him. “Smitty, that was awful! You should -”
Opening an energy gel packet with his teeth, Will shoves it into his best friend’s mouth. This is HIS time to rant, so hush.
“No, bud. What’s actually awful is how a lot of these insults don’t make any sense! I mean, everyone lifts shirts, it’s how you get undressed!”
A bunch of people, including some of the staff, gape at Will. Amazed by his genius, no doubt. Because he is NOT wrong!
From several stalls down, Misa chimes in, “I Googled that after hearing it on Shameless. It’s an offensive slang term from the 70s and 80s used mainly in -”
Respectfully, please shut the fuck up. Because no one in this locker room is leaving until Will gets this off his chest!
“Being called a fairy doesn’t bother me either. Like yeah, maybe I am a tiny, mythical sprite who looks sweet on the outside, but actually harbors deep, nefarious intentions toward anyone that crosses my path on the ice? Wow, thank you for noticing."
Ever supportive of ‘WillMack’ and their shenanigans, Delly cries, “Hell yeah, brother. Maybe we’re ALL fairies!”
“Love the sentiment, but please don’t get caught saying that on a hot mic,” Warso begs, shaking his head.
Using the butt of his stick like a judge's gavel, Toff taps it several times against the bench. “All those in favor of Smitty and Celly dressing up as Tinkerbell and Peter Pan for Halloween, say aye.”
Will goes a little starry-eyed, thinking super respectful thoughts about what a pair of Peter Pan tights would do for his best friend’s magnificently sculpted posterior. Yum. Predictably, a resounding chorus of “ayes” echoes through the room. Toff doesn’t ask if anyone is opposed, because this isn’t a real democracy.
Mack's cheeks blaze a delicate pink. “Peter Pan and Tinkerbell, umm... wouldn't be so bad, right?” he asks hesitantly, his voice low to avoid being overheard. “But obviously if you don’t want to, we can -”
Oh no no no, absolutely not. Dangling something so wondrous in front of Will’s face, only to snatch it back the moment he reaches for it? Talk about cruel and unusual! He won't stand for it, no sir.
"Prepare yourself, Macky," Will croons. "Few weeks from now, I'm gonna be the hottest bitch in this joint.” He bristles when Mack rolls his eyes. "Just watch, you'll see!"
"Dude, unclench. I believe you."
"Well, it doesn't sound like it," the older boy sniffs.
Mack shrugs. “I'm just confused... that’s different from every other day, how, exactly?”
Will nearly chokes on his own energy gel packet.