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“Perhaps all that’s needed is a little rain—
for everyone to drink and have a bath.
Outside: a car humming,
somewhere, his mother’s singing.”
—”The Big Loser” by Max Ritvo
“I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do.
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass.
We want whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more
and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living. I remember you.”
—”What the Living Do” by Marie Howe
“To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
To love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.”
—”In Blackwater Woods” by Mary Oliver
Richard Celebrini Junior is the best thing in Macklin Celebrini’s life. The only consistently good thing he has left, if he wants to be depressing about it. So it’s nearly enough to break his heart when his baby brother decides to billet with another player for his rookie year instead of choosing to live with Macklin in their family home.
A home that Macklin has carefully built back up over the summer with trembling hands. It had started with shaking the cobwebs and dust from the corners, opening windows and letting the light back in. Then slowly, surely, working to preserve the laughter echoing in the walls, the scuff marks on the base boards. He left that one hole in the basement on the wall behind the washing machine that is distinctly puck-shaped. Latching onto the kinder reminders of their shared childhood. Years of avoidance and nauseating heartbreak put aside to make something good and safe. It’ll still be his brother’s home, of course, but a small part of him had hoped that would be enough to make RJ stay.
Realistically, logically, it makes the most sense.
RJ needs to be geographically closer to the rink to avoid the long commute with how intense his practices and games will undoubtedly be. Rookie camp was an intensive trial run of what the rest of his year will look like. The rest of his life, really. The commute then had been a slog, RJ turning into a shell of himself in the evenings when they finally made it back through the door. And the drive was something Macklin wouldn’t mind avoiding a few days a week. It would make his new job as a personal trainer at the gym a couple of minutes away from their home easier, at least.
They both know RJ needs to involve himself in the team culture, and the best way to do that is to be as close as physically possible. In the thick of it. It’s probably what Macklin would’ve done, once upon a time. In a different life, a different timeline.
It still hurts though, all the same. A feeling Macklin can’t escape.
Macklin’s a pitiful, lonely creature when RJ’s not around. Half a person. He knows this, but he can never seem to turn it off. He’s had years of practice but can’t figure out how to be a person when the only person he has for company is himself.
When he’s alone, the dark, cloying sadness creeps in. So he avoids it where possible. Drowns himself in work and RJ. His life starts and ends with making sure his brother feels safe and, against all odds, happy. It’s been nearly six years, and their lives have been tangled together ever since.
It helps soothe the hurt, that irrational feeling of abandonment that has never quite gone away, to know that RJ’s life is still steadily moving forward. He’s aging, growing. He’s still achieving his dreams, their shared dream, despite it all.
His brother’s life hasn’t been normal by any stretch of the imagination, either, but that was never really the goal for either of them. RJ’s doing what he was always meant to do, following in Macklin’s footsteps and surpassing him in the same breath. Macklin’s path had been severed and reconstructed into something wholly different but just as important.
Despite himself, instead of jealousy or hurt, all Macklin can feel for his brother is this overwhelming sense of pride. It spills out of him at every opportunity. A river that never runs dry.
It’s Macklin banging on the arena glass and being shushed by the mothers around him when RJ’s U13 team won their championship gold medal game. It’s taking him out for ice cream and pizza until their stomachs hurt when RJ was accepted to play for the Chicago Steel. It’s the BU shirt he wore for an obnoxious amount of time when RJ got his early admission offer at the age of seventeen.
He feels like a proud parent, a father and a brother all in one. Their father was never this loud in his pride, too conscious of perception and social standing. But Macklin can’t help but love his brother out loud, as cringey as it is. Can’t picture a world where he isn’t this way. He loves his brother fiercely, all consumingly. He’s wholly inexperienced in doing things by halves.
He knows RJ better than he knows himself, he thinks.
He knows this experience will be good for his brother. RJ’s already a confident kid—he chirps louder and bigger than most guys his age on the ice. And he can back it up. Never cruel, but intentional. He falls into easy friendships and he’s a team player through and through. He’s wicked fast and his hands are like silk. When Macklin watches his brother, it’s like watching his own tape back from college.
But Macklin knows they’ve become too insular—an island of two, keeping everyone else at a safe distance—and RJ needs to become someone that can stand on his own without his older brother on his periphery. He can’t keep looking over his shoulder expecting Macklin to be there. It’s not sustainable, even though they both know Macklin would go to the end of the earth for RJ. Move mountains.
RJ’s been holding the world at arms length for too long, and Macklin knows it’s his fault. But it’s so much easier to avoid hurt than to open yourself up to the possibility of it.
At the end of it, he can only say yes to RJ. He swallows his pride, acid trickling down his throat. Instead of feeding the urge to cry or break something, he calmly asks his baby brother for the older Shark’s contact information and ignores the dread curdling in his gut.
He’ll figure this out. He always does.
The first thing that crosses his mind when Will Smith opens his front door is Jesus Christ, he’s beautiful.
Pictures clearly don’t do him justice, because of course they don’t. He’s almost ethereal. His blonde hair is light in the California sun and has a slight curl to it, brushing his forehead and the nape of his neck. His eyes are startlingly blue and his nose is small, almost doll-like. His lips are so pink, it sends Macklin reeling. He’s radiant, even in the loose sweats and socks and slides he’s wearing.
Macklin is fiercely protective of RJ, so he’s immediately suspicious of this gorgeous, presumably single man. Will’s e-mail hadn’t mentioned a woman or kids, and neither did Macklin’s stalker-adjacent Google deep dive. Will’s a contradiction in mismatched socks and bedhead. It’s dizzying.
“So, are you like a pervert, or something?” He blurts out, arms crossing over his chest.
“Excuse me?” At the same time that Will Smith speaks, his voice half indignance and half laughter, RJ punches Macklin in the stomach. He’s giving his brother the kind of look he usually saves for when Macklin finishes off the peanut butter protein powder without letting him have it first.
Kind of like he could explode his brother with his mind if he concentrated hard enough.
“Well, you’re a single man, living alone,” he arches a brow as if to say correct me if I’m wrong, and continues, “offering to house an eighteen-year-old kid free of charge. Out of what? The goodness of your heart?”
He tightens his arms just enough to show the bulge of his biceps. As an intimidation tactic, of course. Nothing else.
And, listen, Macklin knows he sounds like an asshole, he just doesn’t particularly care all that much. Not when hidden under the half-joke is raw, genuine concern for RJ’s safety and wellbeing. It’s always at the forefront of his mind, clouding his judgement.
“When you put it that way, it does sound kind of pervy.” RJ pokes, waggling his fingers, but he’s grinning ear to ear so it’s obvious that he’s baiting Macklin and taking Will along as an unsuspecting victim. Will groans, and he looks like he’s resisting the urge to punch Macklin too.
“I have a stupidly large, mostly empty house, and I make great pancakes.” He deadpans, visibly awkward but trying to not look like it. He shifts from side to side. “You do the math.”
RJ had also gone on a lengthy spiel over the dinner table one evening about how he and Will had “clicked” and how he couldn’t wait for the older man to mentor him. It had been endearing at the time. Macklin doesn’t mention this.
“Pancakes! Mackie, pancakes!” RJ latches into his arm, shaking him. He fantasizes about strangling the kid in front of this veritable stranger. The childhood nickname tugs on his heartstrings, though, so he lets it slide. It’s nice to watch RJ act like a kid.
He gets caught up for just a second in how young his brother looks in the doorway of this big house, so obviously bought on an NHL player's salary. A bonus, maybe. It immediately seems too large, too much. Their home in Livermore is large, built to house a family that used to be bigger, but it’s comfortable and worn. This house is new and strange and overwhelming.
Not that RJ looks like he minds—he’s currently trying to look past Will further into his house like he can commit everything to memory in seconds.
It takes all of Macklin’s strength to resist the urge to bundle RJ up in his arms and buckle him back into the front seat of his Jeep. Run back to Livermore and forget this whole plan.
Hide him away from the world. Bubblewrap him up and tuck him away where nothing and no one can hurt him.
Except when his brother had sat him down with his wide hazel eyes and asked if he could billet with a teammate this year, Macklin could only say yes. He had folded shockingly fast, despite already feeling his brother slipping out of his grasp.
It’s just that RJ had quietly begged, an e-mail open on his iPad turned toward Macklin, his voice steady and careful. The voice he used back when Macklin was more prone to having bad days, not unlike approaching a spooked animal. He had asked in a way that suggested he already expected the answer to be no, but hope had still leaked into his small voice. A tiny spark that Macklin couldn’t extinguish. He was never able to deprive RJ of what he wanted. Not now, not ever. Not when he knows how fragile life can be.
RJ had been barely eighteen then, a couple of months past his draft day, and for the first time in a long time he hadn’t been able to stop smiling. Boyish and crooked and real. And Macklin would not, could not, jeopardize that smile for anything.
Outside the newness of the arrangement is the lingering fact that Will and Macklin sort of know each other already. Familiar enough to know the others’ stats from college, but unfamiliar enough to not mention it out in the open. Macklin could close his eyes and picture Will Smith’s backhand as easy as breathing. College rivals who would’ve been in the same draft class, if Macklin had made it that far into his freshman year.
Life had different plans for them both.
The point of the matter is that he doesn’t know him, not really. Doesn’t trust him as far as he can throw him. He doesn’t know if he’s a good influence for RJ or a good person. He has a vague recollection of stories about Boston College that involved Will Smith and his two wingmen.
He doesn’t know what his meal plan looks like, or if he’ll feed RJ at all. He’s twenty-four, after all. He’ll probably be content to let RJ sustain himself exclusively on Chipper and McDonalds fries. Will he force RJ to wash his sheets every two weeks like Macklin does? Will he make sure he goes on his morning run? Will he drive him to practice and let him wear his over-ear headphones and block the world out after a bad loss?
He feels overcome with the feeling of being replaced with a less complicated, looser version of himself. This pretty boy with his beautiful home and easy smile. It’s ridiculous, but he can’t help it. Will looks so normal, unburdened.
There’s so much that he wants to ask, and not enough time.
His ever-perceptive brother must see something complicated on his face, because he stops laughing, his hand tightening on Macklin’s bicep. Will just watches them both in a standstill in his doorway, letting the balmy California air in and his air conditioning out. He’s assessing, patient, before deciding how to move forward.
“I can show you where you’ll be staying, if that’s alright?” He offers warmly, easing the tension a little.
As they navigate through Will’s house, it’s evident that he cares about his space. Everything looks intentional, nothing out of place. It’s still lived-in, emanating the kind of warmth you wouldn’t expect from a home of this size. Macklin can almost picture the Sharks here, team gatherings, potlucks, movie marathons. Will has photos of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed family dotted around, which must be his. His kitchen smells good, too, like something had just been baked and is still cooling on the counter.
They wander down a hallway towards the back of the house into what appears to be a den, designed for comfort. Leisure. It’s admittedly nice.
“Oh, fuuuuck no.” RJ exclaims under his breath, groaning exaggeratedly.
“Language,” Macklin says, all parental reflex, leaning over to flick him on the ear. He’s immediately insecure, the way he gets sometimes when he feels like he’s failed at being both a brother and a parent. A pretender.
When he spots what RJ is pointing at, though, he lets out a matching groan. Childish and petulant. He can’t help himself. There’s a Boston College tarp framed obnoxiously on the wall next to a large television, a photo in the corner of a team celebrating winning the Beanpot. Will’s team, presumably.
Will just grins at them both, wide and toothy. He looks young when he smiles, his eyes sparkling.
“Sorry, kid. That stays up. Pretty sure my buddies glued it up there.” Will doesn’t look at all apologetic and RJ doubles down on his dramatics, wailing. The tension fades completely, and Macklin even suffers a laugh. RJ is good like that, likeable, easy in a way his brother hasn’t been in a long time.
The space Will has carved out in his house for RJ is nice, curated to look somewhere between modern and lived-in. The walls are a warm brown and there’s a quilt on RJ’s bed, the Sharks logo stitched into the patches. Homely. It’s a nice touch, Macklin admits. The type of thing a mother would think of, not a twenty-four year old bachelor.
There’s a door that leads to a large room with an en suite and a small kitchenette, a glass door to a balcony with a stunning view.
“You can have free rein of the house, obviously, but I hope this works for you.” He’s looking at Macklin when he says it. “There’s a door back here, too, that leads out to a separate driveway if you have a ride.”
He leads them to the door, swinging it open to show a small driveway that loops around to the front of the house, a basketball net currently occupying most of it.
“Ah, sorry.” He says sheepishly. “I meant to move that.”
“No, keep it,” Macklin interjects with a shrug. “He likes hoops, good for his hand-eye coordination.” RJ blushes a little, like the very idea that he likes something is embarrassing. Teenagers.
“And he doesn’t have a car.” Macklin adds, and Will nods like he had been hoping for that answer all along.
“Because someone won’t buy me one.” RJ whines, practically stomping his foot. He drapes himself over Macklin’s back, letting his brother take his weight for a moment.
He’s always been a tactile kid.
“You can buy one with your ELC, if you’re that desperate.” RJ just groans, rubbing his forehead into the back of Macklin’s neck before backing off.
The goodbye happens quicker than Macklin would’ve liked, but it’s easier for the both of them this way.
Will leaves them to their goodbyes, awkwardly offering to put some of RJ’s things in his room. Macklin sees the offer for what it is, and nods subtly at Will before he disappears into the house with a gear bag and a suitcase.
RJ folds into Macklin’s arms when they get back to his Jeep, his forehead resting on his older brother’s shoulder. They stand there for a moment, breathing in tandem. RJ sniffles once, and Macklin can feel his heart breaking.
“I don’t know if I can do this.” And just like that, all his previous bravado is gone. He’s just an eighteen-year-old again, still just a teenager.
“I think you can,” Macklin offers, and it’s true. He knows RJ because he knows himself. “You’re just scared. What did tata say about fear?”
“Fear is a reaction. Courage is a decision.” RJ mumbles into his shoulder, but his voice is already steadier. Macklin hums in response. He squeezes his kid brother once more for good measure before letting his arms drop, separating their bodies. RJ’s back straightens minutely, already back to normal.
“Love you, bata. Keep your head up, okay? Everything else is just noise.” He’s telling RJ just as much as he’s telling himself. It’ll all work out. It has to.
“Thanks, Mackie. Love you, too.” RJ punches him lightly in the shoulder before making his way towards the front door where Will is standing, watching them both.
His arms are crossed and he’s leaning against the door frame. Will's blue eyes are piercing, appraising but not unkind. He feels stripped bare under his gaze.
Macklin feels awkward all of a sudden, like he’s on display. He can feel a blush climbing up his neck to his cheeks, warming his skin. But before he can tuck his tail between his legs and run, get back into his Jeep and drive home, Will calls out his name. He pauses. Waits.
He jogs over to Macklin, waving his arm a little as he runs. His slides slap against the pavement. He looks ridiculous and cute and other things Macklin doesn’t want to name.
When Will stops in front of him, he runs his fingers through his curls and everything goes fuzzy for a moment. He’s laughing a little, out of breath. Little huffs through plush parted lips. Macklin has to avert his eyes before he says something stupid.
“Give me your phone.” He holds out his hand expectantly, his eyes sparkling.
“What?”
“Your phone. I’ll give you my number so you can text me if you need to, um, check in. Or whatever.” He runs his hand through his curls again, self-conscious. It feels like something a parent would’ve asked for already, and Macklin’s face goes hot. Fuck.
“Right, of course.” They swap numbers, Will calling himself from Macklin’s phone to make sure they have each other's contact.
Macklin saves his number as Will Smith (hockey) and Will just laughs, high and breathy, when he sees the contact name.
Later that night, when he’s trying and failing to go through the regular motions of his routine, he receives a single text from the man in question.
Will Smith (hockey)
7:46 PM
[photo of RJ washing dishes in Will’s kitchen]
Kid wouldn’t take no for an answer
He sends a thumbs up and then promptly saves the photo to his camera roll. It makes him feel warm all over, so fond and proud of RJ. He’s stubborn and endearing in that way. He’s the same way at home, and it helps to know he’s settling in quickly enough.
The weight on Macklin’s chest lessens just enough for him to breathe again.
In the second week of November, Macklin receives several texts in quick succession from Will.
He expects the texts to be some form of an update on RJ, which Will had started sending pretty regularly. Photos of him doing chores around the house, shooting hoops in the driveway, protein shakes he’d help make before morning skate. One particularly sweet photo of him slumped against the kitchen island, his hood up and his eyes closed. In the live photo you can hear him snoring softly against the counter, while Will laughs softly in the background.
Macklin had saved that one to his camera roll.
Macklin usually never responds, still feeling awkward about the ease with which Will had inserted himself into his and RJ’s lives, but he appreciates the kindness for what it is. Proof of life that helps to sustain Macklin until he can make it down to San Jose for a game or a morning run.
When he checks his phone, though, it’s not what he’s been expecting at all. His breath stutters in his chest.
Will Smith (hockey)
10:17 AM
Do you and RJ celebrate thanksgiving?
Wait
American thanksgiving
Not your blasphemous Canadian “thanksgiving”
10:21 AM
Hello to you too Smith
Ignoring your commentary
And no, not really?
10:22 AM
Hello Celebrini
Hear me out
10:24 AM
I’m listening
10:25 AM
I’m having my family over next weekend for thanksgiving
RJ is obviously invited but
Would you like to come, too?
10:26 AM
Unless you and RJ already have plans?
He almost laughs in response. What plans? The only day that he and RJ ever really celebrate is RJ’s birthday and, much more recently, Christmas.
The first and only time Macklin had tried to replicate a Celebrini Christmas for his brother, RJ had lost it. His round cheeks had reddened and Macklin had watched the bomb inside him detonate in real time. He screamed until he was hoarse and shattered a plate against the kitchen wall. The tree had looked bare and pathetic, devoid of lights, and Macklin had burned the frozen turkey so badly the house had smelled like char for weeks.
Before he can think of a polite way to decline the offer, his skin crawling, RJ texts him.
Bata
10:27 AM
Come to SJ for thanksgiving next weekend
Will’s hosting and he said he was gonna invite u
Pls
10:27 AM
You sure?
10:28 AM
Yea
Trying the courage thing
Whatever
10:28 AM
Okay, I’ll come
If eighteen year old RJ can do this, then twenty-four year old Macklin can. Maybe. Fifty-fifty.
He texts Will back, giving his assent, and offers to bring something. An offer Will quickly turns down, because he’s a gracious host, but also kind of a control freak under the surface. He likes things a certain way, and likes to pretend it doesn’t bother him when things don’t work out the way he pictured.
Something Macklin shouldn’t know about Will, but something he had tucked away in a folder in his mind labelled do not touch anyway.
The moment Macklin walks through the door of Will Smith’s home on Thanksgiving Sunday, he realizes suddenly, violently, how much he absolutely cannot do this. The house is a flurry of motion, and the air is pleasantly warm, carrying the smell of something savoury. It makes his mouth water and his stomach churn dangerously.
Will’s mother—she must be his mother, they have the same hair and eyes and soft face—pokes her head around the corner, and makes a pleased sound in the back of her throat. He wants to turn tail and run, but RJ is somewhere here and he’d promised himself that he’d do this for him.
She approaches, and Macklin has barely enough time to brace himself before she gathers all six feet of him in her arms, squeezing him tightly. It makes him want to shake her off, push her away. The feeling is foreign, borderline oppressive. All of a sudden he can’t breathe, the wine bottle in his grasp dangerously close to slipping out of his hand.
“Mom!” Macklin thanks his lucky stars that Will Smith exists. If he was a religious man, he might even pray. Thank God for giving him this man. Will’s mother lets go of him, but not before patting him on the cheek. If he was younger, he could imagine her pinching his cheeks with her manicured nails.
“My name’s Colleen, sweetie. You must be Macklin. Richard looks just like you.” Richard, not RJ. He decides on the spot that he does not like this woman. No one calls RJ by his first name.
Their parents never did.
“Yeah, RJ’s my younger brother. I hope he’s not causing too much trouble.” He’s trying to be nice, but he can tell he’s coming off as kind of prickly, tone flat, because Colleen stiffens slightly. She looks affronted, and her mouth opens to say something Macklin won’t be able to swallow.
Will interjects then, saving him. “Nah, he’s a good kid. Good head on his shoulders. Not too shabby at hockey either.” Cheeky.
From somewhere deeper in the house, Macklin can hear RJ squawk his disagreement.
Colleen nods then and disappears into the house, drifting away after giving Macklin and Will one more assessing look. She looks at Macklin like he’s playing pretend, a child in adult clothing. He’s not sure what Will would have told her about him. The not knowing makes his skin crawl.
“Sorry about her, she’s a hugger.” Will shrugs, but he looks painfully fond despite himself. Macklin hums in response.
“My dad’s in here somewhere too, and my sister. And my bubby.” Macklin must look confused, because he follows that up with, “my grandmother. Don’t worry. They don’t hug, but Grace might corner you at some point to talk your ear off.”
He visibly brightens as he talks about his family, a beautiful lopsided smile gracing his face, and Macklin’s gut churns dangerously. He can tell he’s jealous, the feeling hitting him all at once and knocking the breath out of his lungs. It burns in his stomach, acidic and crude.
“It’s okay. She seems nice,” and then, despite everything in him screaming at him to shut up, he continues. “I’m out of practice with things like this.”
“Yeah. RJ mentioned you guys don’t really do holidays.” Will nods as he speaks, voice soft but firm. No room for assessment or judgement, just an excuse presented for Macklin to use if needed. No mention of their lack of family, so painfully obvious and different from Will’s life.
He’s grateful for the offer sitting in Will’s open hands. An easy out that requires nothing personal in return from Macklin. Just something he and RJ don’t do, like it was a conscious choice. Not something taken from them, and instead just a thing they can’t be bothered to do.
It’s the type of throwaway kindness from Will that takes Macklin’s breath away. He assumes, hopes, it’s out of obligation to RJ. He doesn’t know what to do with the tiny, niggling feeling that Will might be doing something kind for him and him alone.
He’s learning that Will is just that type of person. Easy and intentional with his kindness—he gives it out in droves, but in very different ways depending on the person. He looks at Macklin like he can see inside his chest. His soft insides are shielded by ribs and tendons, and yet. Something in Macklin wants to tell Will everything, the part of him that’s a little desperate all the time for affection.
He pushes it down.
He feels like he’s intruding on something good, something he’s had to survive without for so long it feels strange and foreign. It’s painful. Will has a beautiful older sister, a grandmother he has a precious name for, and a mother and a father who are still here. Still alive.
Macklin wants to be mad about it, craving the fight. His first instinct is always anger. But he can’t bring himself to get there—too conscious of how little Will would deserve that kind of punishment. Will who is kind and patient and so, so good with RJ in a way that seems to come easy. Perhaps it’s the connection they have as younger brothers. Perhaps it’s because Will is everything Macklin isn’t.
It’s not Will’s fault his family is intact, and it’s not Macklin’s fault that his family was cut down to just the two of them. Severed and held together with glue and string.
He goes through the motions to the best of his ability. Smiles when he has to, answers questions about his job and RJ and pretends to not notice how everyone isn’t saying what’s on their mind. He says grace but misses half the words, tucking Will’s knowing grin away as a secret to unravel later when he’s alone in bed.
It’s good enough.
And RJ seems to be enjoying himself, smiling around Will’s family and his sister, letting the various little cousins running around hang off of him like he’s a glorified jungle gym.
By the time the day winds down and Will’s family are saying their goodbyes, Macklin is struck with the feeling of overstaying his welcome. RJ is narrating some football game on the living room television, but he can’t follow along with what RJ is saying. His mind drifts, and he finds himself straining to listen to the conversation going on in the foyer.
Will’s family is conversing in hushed tones, evidently trying to keep their conversation private, but their voices carry. Will’s mother is speaking louder than probably intended, like she’s trying to stay quiet but hasn’t learned how to whisper effectively.
“—that poor boy. He really doesn’t have any parents?” Colleen tsks like it’s an inconvenience to not have parents, or something RJ did to himself, rather than the alternative. “Does he have any family at all?”
“Mom,” Will bites out, less patient than Macklin has ever heard him. “He has his brother, Macklin. You just met him.”
“Yes, honey, but is that it?” She continues in her cloyingly sweet, sing-songy voice. Is that it? “It's just a bit sad, isn’t it? I mean, no one was there to see his rookie lap, but you had the whole family there.”
Macklin’s stomach roils. Will’s mother says sad but it sounds like she’s really saying pathetic. Passing an easy judgement on his brother’s life with one word. Like either of them had any choice in the matter. It makes him want to stand up and yell at this woman he barely knows. He doesn’t know what he’d say, only that he wants her to stop before RJ hears.
Will makes it there before him.
“Mom!” Will raises his voice, “Macklin was there. Front and center. He’s RJ’s family. No one needs one fifty fucking extended family members they barely know to watch them skate around for thirty seconds. Christ, I forgot how judgemental you can be.”
“William Charles Patrick Smith!” Colleen gasps, and Macklin tunes her out finally, a blush rising up his chest to his hairline. He turns his attention back to the television, some football game playing that he’s been trying and failing to follow.
When Will joins them back in the living room, he slinks in, huffing under his breath as he perches on the end of the couch. RJ takes this opportunity to sneak out to the kitchen to eat more pie than Macklin would typically allow with his meal plan. Macklin lets him, too tired to argue.
Without meaning to, he has peeled back one of Will’s layers, exposing a sharp, prickly underside. He’s a little less two-dimensional, a little more real now to Macklin. He imagines Will’s childhood, briefly. An overbearing mother and a complacent father. An image to uphold, blonde hair that has to sit just right.
Macklin watches Will out of the corner of his eye, body only slightly twisted toward him. Enough so it’s not obvious. Will’s quietly fuming, his nostrils flaring and his arms are crossed over his chest as he stares beyond the television.
“Will?” He speaks before he makes the conscious decision to do something about the turmoil brewing in the man to his right.
Will just hums in response, but his arms loosen a little.
“Thank you, for—” he gestures to the hallway, where the foyer lies just beyond what their eyes can see. Will groans before dropping his head into his hands, clearly embarrassed.
“Ah, you heard her then?” His voice is pitiful. Embarrassed, even.
“Hard not to.” He shrugs and angles his body towards Will, showing he’s not mad, not really.
“Sorry about her. She means well, I think.” He doesn’t look like he believes himself when he lifts his head to grimace at Macklin. “Maybe. I don’t know. It gets harder to tell the older I get.”
“RJ likes you,” Macklin extends, a life raft thrown, a smile tugging at his lips. “I can see why.”
He finds himself desperately trying to make Will feel better, the energy between them awkward and vulnerable. Wants to put him out of his misery. Will blushes furiously at the admission. It’s a nice colour on him, the pink flush making his eyes somehow even bluer.
“Really?” He says coyly, tongue poking out between his pink lips. Insecurity falling to the wayside, a flirtatious tone on his tongue.
“Don’t fish, Smith. Just take the damn compliment.” Will’s face cracks open and he leans into the back of the couch, honest to God giggling. Macklin laughs with him.
When he’s done laughing, Will turns his head toward Macklin, his eyes shining with the wetness of uncontrollable laughter. Macklin’s breath hitches in his throat. He stares back longer than he should, he knows this, but he can’t help himself. Will’s looking at him, open and honest, and Macklin needs to commit this to memory before time starts again.
“You’re not so bad yourself, Celebrini.”
He sounds unbearably fond. Macklin wants to bury himself in Will’s chest, find a home in his heart. Burrow deeper and deeper until he’s part of Will, two beating hearts behind one rib cage.
Macklin’s practically part of the furniture at SAP by the time the regular season is in full force. The chill of winter starts to creep through his open window on his early morning drives to work, reminding him of Vancouver. It’s bittersweet. They only go back now to train in the summer, it’s all they can bear. Too many reminders of a childhood they can’t return to. Winters spent on frozen ponds, hands warmed by their mother’s famous hot chocolate accompanied by her soft singing.
Summer is safer. Easier.
In California he feels lighter. He’s a proud season ticket holder for the Sharks, refusing RJ’s standing invitation for him to sit in the family box. He likes being there among the crowd, blending in with the sea of teal. When he’s in the crowd, the ache of missing hockey lessens. The smell of the ice and popcorn and sweat feels like coming home, in a way.
The Sharks have claimed him as some sort of good luck charm, and he greedily drinks up the attention.
When he’s in the arena, they win. When he’s not, they lose. There are some odd games in between, of course, and he hasn’t made the trip for an away game yet, but Dickie claims to have done the math and the answer is clear. When Macklin Celebrini is within the walls of SAP Center, the Sharks fare far better at home than when he’s not.
RJ takes this in stride, like everything else, even going so far as to brag to some of the other rookies that his brother is the team’s lucky charm. He’s blissfully unaware that he’s probably the actual reason the Sharks play better when Macklin is there—he plays like he’s possessed when his brother’s there, hardwired for approval and the need to impress. It’s a very Celebrini trait and he comes by it honestly.
The spell is bound to break soon, but it’s nice to feel wanted.
It also helps that RJ is settling in so well with the team. He’s playing on the first line, Will and Stenberg on his wings, and he skates like he’s flying. Like he was made for this. It doesn’t look easy, sweat matting his hair to his neck from exertion, but his skill does look God-given. Anointed.
He’s better on skates than on his own two feet on solid ground. He puts up points, more points than the other two rookies combined, and the team are so good with him. They listen to him, even though he’s eighteen and sort of insane. And a brat, but that’s Macklin’s internal assessment. He’s projected to break records, and Macklin’s heart aches twenty-four seven with pride and longing and something else entirely.
RJ scored his first NHL goal in his second game, and proceeded to tease Macklin relentlessly for crying on the Jumbotron. But beneath it all, Macklin could tell RJ was happy. Happy he was there to see it. His rookie lap, his first NHL goal, and now he’s on hatty watch and it’s only December and it’s fucking exhilarating.
It’s a home game tonight and Macklin had been late to the arena by his own standards—he had missed warm-ups, something RJ secretly always wanted him there for. He has the best of intentions to be there for his brother, but his session runs long with a regular client, a seventy-three year-old with multiple hip replacements under her belt. She’s sweet and intense and she had spent ten minutes trying to convince Macklin to accept her granddaughter's phone number. By the time he’s on the road, he breaks numerous speed limits, and manages to make it there for puck drop.
The game is a heater from the start, and this is the kind of play Macklin knows RJ lives for. He’s dancing around the Rangers, and there’s the deep thrum of satisfaction under Macklin’s skin when he watches RJ dangle around Perreault on the power play and bury his first goal at 6:17. It’s a beauty. Top shelf and powerful, the net pulled tight for a moment. RJ grins before he knows it’s in, all easy confidence.
Before Macklin can blink, Will rockets towards his brother and RJ throws himself bodily at the older man, unfettered joy over his face. Will is grinning just as wide, maybe even wider, so clearly happy his protege is happy.
The greedy part of Macklin wants to tuck this memory away, both of his boys on the Jumbotron, smiling like they’ve already won the game. Up 2-0 and on top of the world. It’s a good memory to have tucked away for a rainy day.
RJ buries another right before the first period is over, and Macklin can tell the bench is amped up. RJ’s cheeks are flushed red when Graf knocks their helmets together. He must say something about him being on hatty watch, because RJ admonishes him. Probably telling him not to jinx him, but he’s blushing while he pushes at Collin’s shoulder. The older guys on the team clearly love his brother, and something unfurls deep inside him.
RJ’s made quite the home in San Jose for himself. He wants to stay here, that much is obvious, but it warms Macklin to know there will be claw marks on his brother’s tarp if he has to leave.
His world is bigger now than just him and Macklin and hockey. He has a team here, something resembling a family in the way his team at BU hadn’t. No fault of their own, RJ always knew he was only going to be there for a year before he left for the show. He had confided in Macklin, as he always did, that he didn’t feel like putting down roots somewhere he couldn’t keep. He would always be a Terrier, sure, but it had always seemed to be in past-tense, even when he was wearing their colours.
Whether he knows it or not, RJ has roots here. Any maybe he does, too.
Macklin remembers choking up when RJ had told him, shy and pleased, that he had chosen Macklin’s number as his own. Number 71 stitched white and huge across his shoulders. Macklin’s wearing a matching jersey tonight, and he’s glad he wore it. It’s clearly good luck. Celebrini, 71.
RJ’s not going to let him wash this jersey if he actually seals the deal and gets his first NHL hatty tonight.
In the crowd, he blends in easily, and he can hear a group of guys behind him during the first intermission loudly discussing RJ and his projected career. They call his brother a firecracker, and then, much quieter, one of them says RJ’s going to bring a Cup to San Jose again. Hushed, like he’s just that superstitious. San Jose’s had a long drought, so he might be right to try to avoid jinxing it so early in RJ’s first season.
Macklin knows it’s true, though, he can feel it in his blood. His brother is just that fucking good. A tiny part of him wants that for Will, too, because he’s been here since he was drafted and still doesn’t have a Cup ring.
He tries not to think about that part of himself too much. The part of him that wants and wants for Will. And wants and wants Will, too.
It’s 19:54 in the second and RJ scores. His third of the evening. The crowd around Macklin absolutely loses it, and he’s on his feet too. He might be screaming, or crying, or both. When he looks to the ice, RJ’s pointing at his Section, like he’s saying this one’s for you. Yeah, he’s definitely crying now, the Sharks collapsing in on RJ, dogpiling him. Hats fly onto the ice. It’s glorious.
Will’s on the periphery, orbiting, staring up to where RJ was pointing only a moment prior. He’s grinning, small and cheeky, and for a moment it seems like he actually makes eye contact with Macklin. Blue boring into green. Macklin knows he’s so unbelievably fucked.
The game is tense to the end. The Rangers claw back, forcing the Sharks into their first overtime game of the season. It nearly falls apart there.
And then RJ finds Will in the slot for a one-timer and it’s over quicker than Macklin can register. The sound in the arena is nearly deafening.
He finds himself on his feet, screaming himself hoarse. Later, when he’s in bed, he’ll think about how Will had looked burying the OT winner behind Shesterkin. Him losing his footing once he releases the puck, hitting the ice on his side and sliding a couple of feet. RJ and Cagnoni pulling him to his feet and yelling into his face. He had grinned back, bunny teeth on full display.
Macklin can feel the win in his veins, and for a split second he wishes he was there on the ice too. The dull ache barely lasts a second, but it’s enough to throw him off balance. He hasn’t felt like this in years, but he finds himself wanting more than anything in the world to be on the ice with Will Smith. To feel what it would be like to receive a pass from him on his tape, the surety, the weight. He’ll never have that. Hell, he never even made it to the Combine that year. He hasn’t even worn skates in years, preferring to leave the on-ice training to the professionals. He can help his brother take care of his body, know his own limits innately, but it’s been years since RJ overtook him on the ice.
He loiters outside the Shark’s locker room when the energy dies down, a battered hat clenched in his fist. He’s been saving it for this moment. He had discovered it earlier in the summer on a hook under the basement stairs. An old relic of their father’s. Wishful thinking at the time.
RJ is one of the last to emerge from the locker room, having been pulled for media as soon as he came off the ice. Macklin’s patient, anything for his superstar of a brother.
He finally materializes with Will in tow long after the rest of the team have come through the doors. He’s backing out of the doorway, telling Will a story that involves a lot of sound effects.
RJ’s mouth is going a mile a minute, so fast and so animated that he nearly walks directly into Macklin. Will grips his brother’s shoulders and spins him around to face Macklin, both of them laughing.
“Congrats, bata.” He can’t help the unrestricted pride that seeps into his voice, in awe of the boy turning into a man in front of his eyes. An NHL hatty in his rookie year. His throat feels tight.
He holds the hat towards RJ who takes it from his grip.
RJ’s face cracks when he recognizes the emblem, running his thumb over the raised stitching. The easily recognizable blue and yellow crest. It’s a Vancouver 86ers hat, well worn and softened from years of use.
His brother’s eyes are instantly wet, his lip quivering, and he barely has time to steel himself before he pushes into Macklin’s arms. He holds RJ tight, his damp hair pressed against his cheek.
“Thanks, bato.” His voice breaks, his breath wobbly as he tries to stop the flood.
Will laughs from behind RJ, light and quiet. Before Macklin tucks his head into RJ’s hair, eyes closing to soak in this moment, he could swear he sees Will raise his phone to take a photo.
He’ll have to ask him for it later.
December arrives with a bitter chill in the air, the colour of the trees dulled into muted greens and yellows. The days are warmer still, but the nights are cooler and they feel peaceful in a way. It feels like all the good parts of Boston condensed into something manageable. It’s comforting, a gentle reminder that time continues to move forward. The seasons still change and the world still turns.
As much as RJ had appreciated, even loved being invited to participate in a Smith family event, he had been privately relieved when Will told him he wouldn’t be in San Jose for Christmas. Instead, Will had flown home to Boston to spend the weekend with his family and the extended Smith cohort, so RJ and Macklin spent Christmas in the repose of their Livermore home.
The holiday was good, noncommittal and meandering in a way they both appreciated. It was strange, at first, picking up where they had left off in Livermore. It felt like stepping back in time, almost, a picture on a mantle coming to life.
RJ insisted on a Christmas tree, with lights and ornaments, and Macklin always agreed. They’d hauled it out of the basement together, cobwebs and all. But they never did the turkey thing, not after that one Christmas, opting instead for whatever food RJ was fixated on. One year they had breakfast for dinner and the year they were in Boston, RJ begged until Macklin barbecued hot dogs and hamburgers in the freezing cold. This year, RJ had requested pizza.
Will had checked in once over text, which had been enough to put that strange, anxious feeling of something back in Macklin’s gut. The feeling had a way of creeping up whenever he was around Will, despite knowing he was of no real risk to him or RJ. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, dwell on the other reason why his body decided to get sweaty and flush around Will.
Will was attentive and patient with both RJ and Macklin. Within days, he knew what protein mix RJ liked best (peanut butter) and had kept it stocked ever since. He drove RJ to practice and home games, and he always made sure to text Macklin when they got home at the end of the night. Even when Macklin was too tired to stay up to wait.
He paid attention to Macklin’s coffee order, half sugar and a splash of milk, and the way he never dressed in the right amount layers for the weather. Always too warm or too cold. He noticed when Macklin’s hands shook and the way he twitched at loud noises like he was always bracing for disaster.
He was almost too perceptive, but it isn’t as unerring as Macklin thought it would be. To be known. Will moved around Macklin as though he was cataloguing every single thing that made him human. It was uncomfortable at first, almost, the ease at which Will was able to perceive him and pick him apart. Like his chest had been wrenched open for Will to see every rotten, misshapen part of him. It was mollifying.
When Macklin had brought RJ to Will’s home that first day, he must have had his dog tucked away to avoid the move-in chaos. The second time he had gone around to the back door where RJ had been waiting for him, impatient as ever.
The third time he showed up to Will’s house, RJ out on a run with a promise to be back soon. A flurry of golden fur had launched itself at him after Will had yelled for him to come in, the door’s open!
The loud bark had startled him, causing him to drop RJ’s things all over the front porch, spilling into the foyer. A hacky sack flopping out of the top of a bag and on to the floor. His heart raced, blood pumping loud in his ears. Later, he would recognize the bark as one of excitement, not anger.
He hadn’t realized his hands were shaking until Will had corralled his dog out to the back lawn, and then gently ferried Macklin into the kitchen. He stood there calmly, assessing, until Macklin drank the glass of water placed in front of him. Watching his hands until they stopped shaking.
He had only started talking after the initial shock wore off, giving way to embarrassment.
“I’m sorry about Juno. I forgot you hadn’t met her yet,” Will had said, sheepish. “She’s just over a year old so she still has that puppy energy. It can be a lot.”
“No,” his voice came out hoarse. He cleared his throat before continuing. “I should apologize for my reaction. RJ told me about her, I don’t know what came over me.”
A lie to save face. He does know. It shows in the way he carries himself, spine like an elastic band waiting to snap. He hasn’t let himself actually relax in six years. The sensation is completely foreign to him, but for some reason he had willingly let himself into Will’s home, his guard lowered for no other reason than the way Will’s voice had sounded in his greeting.
He barely knew the man, and yet.
“Still,” Will shrugged, letting the apologies sit in the air. Neither of them reached out to accept one.
“Agree to disagree,” Macklin offered. Will had let out a soft giggle, a higher pitched, breathy sound that sounded unintentional and raw. It made him want to chase the sound down his throat, pull it back up and make sure it never stopped. But that would be weird, wouldn’t it?
“Do you want to meet her for real, or maybe another time? No hard feelings.” He was giving Macklin an out, but he found himself wanting to spend more time in Will’s space, soak up what little of his life he could get. The air felt lighter here than anywhere else.
“Maybe—maybe another time?” He had mumbled, cheeks flushed. Will made him nervous in a way he usually wasn’t. It was unnerving.
“Sure,” Will had said, an easy, bunny-toothed smile gracing his face.
A smile that Macklin found himself searching out more and more often. It gave him a sense of security, something to latch on to, to claim as his own when it was just the two of them.
A stolen glance here and there before practices and after games. A look over his shoulder, a shy smile directed blindingly at Mack in a crowded room. He let himself see it, feel it, crave it.
December was objectively fine, a reprieve from RJ’s rookie season as first overall and Macklin’s slow undoing in the background. His body already bracing for impact.
January, on the other hand, approaches with all the heedless impatience of a speeding car on ice slick asphalt. The crash comes suddenly, with the inevitability of death and laundry.
On a plain Monday morning, barely day yet with the sun still peaking over the horizon, Macklin’s phone rings. And rings. The sun still willing itself to wake up around him, orange glow through his curtains. Macklin had barely slept the night before, his stomach roiling. His head murky and unpleasant. The ringing is incessant, and part of him wants to slam the phone against his wall. The other part of him knows it must be important. Too early for anything else.
On the other side of sleep, he could almost convince himself he wasn’t awake, wasn’t getting a call before the day had even begun. Instead, he answered the phone to Will, the voice on the other line frantic and apologetic in the same breath.
Will explained in frenetic detail that everything had seemed fine. A normal morning, completely innocuous and ordinary. And then, just as he was about to collect RJ for the drive to an optional morning skate, protein shake in hand, he heard glass shatter in the boy’s room. And then a crash. A guttural wail.
The resulting silence was deafening.
He had dropped the shake and rushed in there, scared for RJ in a way he couldn’t explain, only to find the boy slumped over on the floor holding a shattered frame. Blood on his hands. The sheets torn from his bed. A lamp overturned.
Upon seeing Will, he screamed at him and had thrown the broken frame in his direction. His eyes had been feral, unfocused, as though he wasn’t himself at that moment. Not the boy Will had grown to care for. No. He was a wounded creature, not quite human. Stuck between rage and something else.
So what else could Will do but call his brother? He didn’t know what was happening, only that it was critical to find Macklin so he could pull RJ back ashore. It seemed more than the unrestrained intensity of youth, the violence that RJ always seemed to evade on the ice. It was wholly frightening in its conviction to a grown man.
Will’s voice shook while speaking to Macklin, anxious and disoriented, a stark difference from the way the otherwise composed man usually spoke. It was as though once Will started talking, he couldn’t stop until Macklin quietly offered to come. Exasperated and confused and worried for his young lodger.
That was what had gotten him in the end. Not that he wouldn’t drop everything for RJ, no matter how far he was. But it was the sound of Will’s voice—not inconvenienced or angry at whatever damage RJ was inevitably causing in his grief. It was the genuine concern laced through his words, the care unmistakable in its rawness.
When he hangs up the phone, he allows himself to drown for a moment before gasping in a breath. He drags his heavy body through the motions of dressing, the sluggish side-to-side, up-and-down movement of a toothbrush against his teeth. Left shoe, right shoe. Keys. Wallet. One last look in the mirror to convince himself he’s a real person, after all. On days like today, he feels less like a person and more a combination of limbs that don’t feel quite right.
Six years.
The drive to Will’s gated home is painfully long, the journey through rush hour traffic frustrating and calming in equal measure. Bumper to bumper traffic, nearly at a standstill. He uses the time to collect himself, to become someone RJ needs again. Puts aside his own grief and washes it down with black coffee, stale and tepid from sitting in his cupholder overnight. He’s good at compartmentalizing. Scheduling his own breakdown for when it’s convenient.
Neither of them speak when the front door opens to let Macklin in. The California sun is beating down the back of his neck, sweat pooling just under his shirt collar, and Will’s ocean blue eyes are wild and watchful.
He looks scared, Macklin notes absently. Another casualty of the pervasive black cloud that drags behind the Celebrini brothers wherever they go. It always catches up, eventually. An apology gets stuck in his throat and he realizes, suddenly, that he cannot find the words to sum up the immensity of his guilt and embarrassment.
Will thankfully doesn’t follow Macklin down the hallway, nodding solemnly in his direction as if to say take it away. It feels like a death march.
When RJ, raw and wild in his grief, is finally worn down, his body gives way completely to slump against his brother. He lets the boy push his warm forehead into his neck, grip his collar tight with a shaking fist. He pretends to not notice the tiny whimpers, the damp spot growing on his shoulder.
“I don’t remember her,” RJ cried out, anguished. He curls into a compact ball, shaking and snot-covered like a child. Macklin just holds him, lets him get it all out. A raft in an ocean of grief.
RJ has finally finished shaking when he speaks again. He whispers, “I don’t remember her at all.” Haunted by the inattention of youth.
Macklin’s heart cracks beyond the limits of what he thought was possible. The truth is that he doesn’t remember much of her, either. Robyn. Their mother. It haunts him, and it’s painful to know it haunts RJ too. RJ who he had thought he had protected from the worst of it. RJ’s grief had always seemed cleaner to him, somehow. Clear cut and almost clinical.
Macklin’s grief comes with sharp edges, jagged and misshapen. Look, but do not touch.
His relationship with his parents had been complicated long before they died. He feels disrespectful and cruel when he dwells on it for too long. He knows he didn’t have a typical home life, but his life wasn’t typical, so it made sense at the time. By the time he was ten, he knew his life revolved around his making it to the NHL. It made his father happy and, in turn, made him happy.
His father was an objectively good person, that’s not something he’s willing to debate about. But he has questions about his tata that he cannot answer. What he knows is that he was always there in ways his mother never really was. But he wasn’t warm the way Macklin thought a parent should be. The way he tried to be for RJ to replace some of what had gone missing.
His relationship with Rick started and stopped with sport. Soccer when he was younger, a brief flirtation with basketball, and then hockey as he got older and found his niche. Evenings, weekends, and summers were consumed by training and meal plans and maintenance. He can’t remember a single conversation with his father that didn’t mention macros or training or focus.
The same thing had started to happen between RJ and Rick, the softness of youth being edged out in favour of sport and discipline. Both Macklin and RJ had been drawn toward that, chasing glory and the self-satisfaction of a goal met and surpassed.
His mother was present in body, mostly. She made breakfast every morning for him and RJ, and she cleaned their house, and folded their laundry. She laughed, an airy sound, when they did something funny and clapped when they did something impressive. She drove them to their practices, packed their bags, and remembered what colour Gatorade they each liked best. Blue for Macklin, yellow for RJ.
But she never hugged him all that much, he doesn’t think, nor does he think she hugged RJ much toward the end, either. She must have hugged them when they were kids, but he doesn’t remember what it felt like. Can’t conjure up a memory that feels tangible, real. Just another one of those things you notice in grief that never really mattered before.
RJ falls asleep quietly, his body and mind reaching their limit. With practiced hands, Macklin makes his bed, gently guiding his brother between the sheets. Tucks him in, neat and compact even though he’s nearly six-feet of gangly limbs. Macklin’s fingers tremble as he moves, but are careful and intentional when it matters. The only way he knows how to be with RJ.
He carefully cleans up the glass, slipping the frame onto the top shelf of the closet. He rights the lamp and places the Sharks quilt atop RJ’s relaxed frame. He looks like he never woke up this morning, like the events of the morning had never happened at all.
Everything is back in its place, frame sans glass the only evidence that something had gone awry. RJ will remember this when he wakes up, but for now he’s peaceful in sleep, his jaw slack and breath even.
Approaching the kitchen with a dust pan full of glass, he rounds the corner to Will staring at him. His lean figure leaning against his counter, his arms loosely crossed, curls haphazard as though he had been running his hands through them only moments ago. Macklin had expected him to hide away from all the ugliness, take his pretty face and his dainty knuckles and leave.
It’s comforting, strangely enough.
“Do you have a cardboard box?” Mack asked, feigning normalcy even though there was a slumbering wild thing in the guest bedroom of Will’s home. He gestures with the dust pan full of glass.
They were so good at hiding the dangerous parts of themselves, the Celebrini boys.
They practiced and practiced until it felt achievable, almost. Pushed down all the grief and the rage until it became malleable, energy to be directed elsewhere. RJ focused his on hockey, Macklin onto RJ.
It worked for them until it didn’t. Explosive and devastating.
Will doesn’t answer, his eyes wide and questioning. He opens his mouth, closes it again. His lips parting to form words he can’t find. He gapes like a fish at one point, and Macklin can see the cogs turning. Sees him trying to figure out what the hell to say, to do, to make what just happened manageable. Compartmentable. A valiant effort, all things considered.
Macklin navigates around him, rooting around in the cabinets until he locates a cereal box—Honey Nut Cheerios, so obviously purchased for RJ’s sweet tooth. He removes the inner bag, shakes the glass into the box, and seals it with tape from the junk drawer. Then calmly places the whole thing into the garbage, the lid closing with a metallic clang in the quiet of the kitchen.
As he’s staring at his own warped reflection in the stainless steel, Will’s throat finally starts working.
“Is he,” he pauses, finding the words. “Is he okay?” Macklin’s hands freeze. No, he’s not. His parents are dead and his brother is useless and the world is unfair.
“Yeah, I think.” Then, almost like muscle memory, he apologizes. “I’m sorry. I should’ve. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
He’s not entirely sure what he’s apologizing for. For letting RJ stay here with Will despite knowing how he can be. For the mess. For getting their grief and sadness everywhere, stuck to every surface like tree sap. For pretending to be normal.
Will could take his pick, and Macklin would get on his knees to apologize.
He just wants so badly for RJ to be okay. That’s it. Because if RJ’s okay then that means that Macklin’s done his job. Absorbed all of his brother’s grief and sadness like a sponge until he has it all and RJ carries none of it.
But life isn’t that simple, and grief doesn’t work like that. If you’re not careful, the blackness of it sticks to your bones, fills the cracks in your heart until you’re half human and half something else. A monstrous thing. There’s no way to absorb someone else’s sadness, not entirely. It just keeps coming, unending and all-consuming. You have to let them feel it.
“I’m not mad. Don’t do that. You’re always apologizing for things you didn’t do.” Will sounds frustrated and strangely fond despite the broken glass taking up residence in his garbage can. The broken sleeping boy down the hall.
He moves slowly, and stops behind Macklin, his hands hovering just over his shoulders. Unsure. It’s obvious he wants to comfort him, but doesn’t know how. They don’t touch. He can feel the warmth from his body through his thin shirt. Part of Macklin wants to press up into his palms. The other part of him feels like a frightened little boy. Small and fragile.
He’s struck, suddenly and violently, by the need to be hugged by a parent. His throat goes tight with want.
“It’s January the 7th.” He intones, voice as steady as he can force it to be. He keeps his eyes on his feet as he turns to face Will.
His chest feels like it’s collapsing, each breath heavy and laboured. He wants to go back to RJ and curl up around him like he did when they were kids. He wants to go home. He wants the ground to swallow him whole. He wants his parents to still be alive. He wants, he wants, he wants. He can’t help it. He’s always wanting things he can’t have.
“Yes?” Will’s quiet, patient when he gently prompts Macklin to continue.
“My—our parents. They died six years ago, on the 7th.” There’s a sharp intake of breath from Will but he doesn’t offer any platitudes, so Macklin continues.
“It’s the first time we’ve been apart for the—.” He can’t say the word anniversary. “I should’ve made him come home with me”.
Some childish part of him wants someone else to feel it, to know the largeness of his sadness. The way it fills his bones and makes his limbs heavy. To see what he carries and somehow make it better. He presents it to Will, fragile as a baby bird in his hands, trusting him to know what to do with it.
Macklin sighs, breath forced out of his lungs. “I’m always fucking up. With him.”
Later, he’ll question why he so readily handed over his heart to a man he’s only known for four and a half months.
“I don’t think you’re fucking up,” Will cuts through, taking Macklin’s baby bird heart in his hands. “I think you’re twenty-four and doing the best you can.”
“I—,” he chokes. Vaguely, he thinks he might be crying. His throat feels thick, his eyes warm and prickly and getting progressively blurrier by the second.
“That kid worships you. Did you know? It’s always Mack this, Mackie that. I feel like I’ve known you for years with how much that kid has told me.” He makes a sound of disagreement, but Will just shushes him. Continues talking in his soft, careful voice.
“You’re a good brother, Macklin. Any idiot can see that.” He says it with such finality that Macklin can’t argue with him. He’s sure Will’s wrong, but he doesn’t have it in him to fight.
At Will’s insistence, once his eyes have dried and his breath comes easier, Macklin stays. He tries to beg off, retreat to RJ’s room and tend to their matching wounds in private. Part of him feels the need to have eyes on him now more than ever. But Will won’t have any of it. He’s insistent, respectful but firm. Macklin can tell he would let him go home if he actually wanted to go, but it’s so easy to say yes to him.
There’s a lot that Macklin would do for Will if he would just ask. The thought is frightening. Like standing on the edge of a cliff and knowing the ground will eventually give way to the tide.
Will makes him a cup of coffee just the way he likes and leads them both out to the backyard, Juno gently trotting down the staircase and following them both closely behind before curling up at Macklin’s feet from where he sinks into the deck furniture. A small comfort of golden fur and warm breath. Her head rests on his foot, a solid weight.
He closes his eyes. Waits for Will to talk, to fill the silence.
“Tell me about them.” He prompts, his voice so soft and tender it hurts.
“You know this story already,” Macklin argues weakly, and it’s true, objectively. RJ’s tragedy—and in turn, Macklin’s tragedy—is not something they’ve ever had the ability to keep quiet.
He’s fine with that truth, to an extent. They both are. RJ less so.
The death of their parents has been a headline since the day it happened. First in relation to Macklin and now RJ. It’s so effortlessly interwoven within every conversation about his brother that it’s genuinely shocking when the announcers find something new to say. They point to his perseverance, his strength in the face of grief. Every success has been followed by and with everything he’s gone through at such a young age.
RJ has become the NHL’s poster child for dead parents, not unlike Schaefer was when he was first drafted. They all know the first overall draft pick doesn't have the privilege of privacy.
When he was drafted by the Sharks, RJ’s jersey had been adorned with a small red ribbon. A few years prior, Schaefer’s jersey had been embellished with a small pink ribbon. Both of them branded with their greatest tragedies in front of millions of viewers.
“I’d like to hear your version, if you’ll let me.” Will says, his voice steady. His eyes are warm, inviting.
So, spiteful in the face of every wall he’s built carefully with his own hands, Macklin tells him everything from the beginning. He can’t help it, not when Will is looking at him like this. Earnest and patient like they have all the time in the world.
It all rushes out of him.
He talks about how he was in his first year at Boston University, barely eighteen and on top of the world, when it all violently crashed down around him. The phone call from the emergency department at Boston Medical Centre that he stopped listening to right around the words there’s been an accident. The faint buzzing in his ears when no one could tell him where his little brother was.
His voice sounds faraway, disconnected, when he details how he had driven to the hospital in a haze. When he stepped into the emergency department and had been asked, in a well-intentioned voice, if he could identify his parents' bodies. How he hadn’t really looked at them, but he could feel them in the room with him one second and gone the next. How, in the immediate aftermath, he had no adult to turn to for guidance—his last remaining grandparent tucked away in a nursing home, his parents were only children. RJ was only twelve.
He tells Will that the months after the accident had felt impossible—trial after trial of unbearable things, each worse than the previous. The social worker at the hospital helped him with insurance, burial arrangements, and finding someone who could help him navigate his parents’ will, of all things. Something he hadn’t considered would even exist. She had even referred him to a grief counsellor.
He declined the appointment when it was offered.
He tells Will through gritted teeth that he had let the state move his brother into foster care without any complaint. He hadn’t known how to take care of himself, let alone someone else. Waking up had felt foreign, everything else a chore he couldn’t convince himself to do. He could barely convince his limbs to move. It had felt like the right thing to do at the time.
He had floated through life like a ship unmoored, head in a fog. Hours and days passed without pause while Macklin was still in that emergency room, waiting to wake up. Begging for this to all just be a bad dream.
Until RJ had called him around the six month mark after the accident to scream himself hoarse at Macklin, begging him to take him home, his voice raw with grief and betrayal. So he did. He was always weak for his brother.
His parents had left them everything, at least, which had included the house and a generous sum of money. Plus, a very good lawyer to execute their will. The same lawyer who had helped Macklin fight for guardianship of his brother and won. He showed he was good, stable, and had the word of a great aunt in Canada who would step in if he couldn’t hack it. A woman he had never met.
It helped to have a lot of money to throw around, too.
He slowly tried to put the pieces back together. He’s still not sure if RJ has forgiven him for those six months he spent in a stranger's home. He hasn’t asked and his brother hasn’t offered.
Macklin doesn’t register he’s crying until Will gently nudges his shoulder, nodding for him to continue. There’s a shine in Will’s eyes, too.
He’s lighter when he talks about RJ, anyone can see it. He details how RJ threw himself back into hockey with single-minded focus and he had thrived. Even without their father’s carefully constructed plan. Macklin knew the path to the NHL like the back of his hand, and had lived that life once himself. They plotted the whole thing from Shattuck-Saint Mary’s to the USHL to Boston University.
Sheepishly, he talks about how he had followed RJ around from program to program, apartment to apartment, because he couldn’t bear to let his brother out of his sight, let alone have him move to a different state without Macklin. Online classes helped him stay occupied when RJ wasn’t in front of him, and he had earned a bachelor’s degree in human kinetics that helped him keep his hands busy. Macklin’s life was lonely, revolving around RJ, but it was also fulfilling in a way he hadn’t expected. RJ gave his life purpose.
He made it his life’s mission to make sure his brother wasn’t consumed by what had happened to them.
So when the youngest Celebrini was projected to go first overall in the draft, neither of them had been that surprised. It had felt like an inevitability, a certainty. All that work, left incomplete by their father, had paid off. Life made sense this way. And then when the Sharks drafted his brother with their first overall pick, it had felt like a gift to Macklin.
They could move out of Boston and back home, back to California, together.
At Will’s gentle urging, he talks about his parents in stilted breaths. Finding it hard to talk about them out loud, the words foreign and strange in his mouth. He doesn’t do this, finds it nearly impossible to talk about dead things.
He talks about his dad’s big hands and warm eyes, the way he had somehow managed to secure a signed Henrik Sedin jersey for Macklin one year for Christmas. How his parents had let him live in it for a week until he spilled juice on the sleeve and cried his eyes out. His dad’s face when he signed with the Chicago Steel, and he almost looked like he was crying if you got close enough.
He talks about his mom’s soft, golden hair and gentle smile. How she went to every game, every parent-teacher meeting without complaint. How she was terrible at baking but still tried every birthday, just in case something changed overnight. The way she always used to make her pancakes with smiley faces made out of berries and chocolate chips. How she’d sneak him extra chocolate chips when his dad wasn’t looking, Rick’s carefully constructed meal plan be damned.
It’s nicer than he expects, talking about the good things he thought he forgot. It helps his chest loosen and the tears stop flowing after a while, dry and tacky on his cheeks. He finds himself smiling, small but there. The memories don’t hurt as much as he thought they would.
By the time he finishes talking, his voice is hoarse and Juno has wandered further into the yard to find a sun spot to lay in. Will is looking at him. He’s started doing that lately. Looking back.
Somehow, inexplicably, Macklin feels safer here, tucked under the trees in Will’s backyard, than most places he’s been these days. The grass is neatly trimmed and there’s a garden at the far end, colourful blooms that are clearly well tended to. A tall fence that keeps Juno in, but doesn’t obstruct the view. It’s beautiful and exactly what he would imagine for Will.
He can’t find it in him to be embarrassed of the flood of emotions that emptied out of him earlier. Will had received his grief with an ease he didn’t expect. There is no judgement here between them, just walls slowly being pulled down and reshaped with kind hands.
Will invites him to stay for lunch and he finds himself accepting the offer readily. Greedily. For once he isn’t searching for an excuse, an escape plan.
He takes what Will gives him, hands and heart cautiously open.
February arrives unobtrusively, mundane and pleasantly insignificant. What his mother would have dubbed an in-between month. The crispness of winter shifts into the kind of air that sticks to skin, tepid and cloying. The gloom of January slips behind a closed door, and Macklin is all the more grateful that he can put the past month in his rearview. The days are becoming longer and Macklin finds himself approaching happiness for the first time in a long time.
RJ’s season is going well, but not as well as he’d like, evidenced by the four game losing streak the Sharks are currently desperate to break. It reminds Macklin of playing good hockey, hard hockey. The wins that don’t come easy, the losses that still don’t make sense days later. Selfishly, he likes watching these games the best. The hard fought wins that much sweeter. A rebuild is exactly what it sounds like, he has to remind his brother. These things take time.
In between work and attending games and talking RJ down from ledges of varying heights, Will texts Macklin. A lot. And Macklin texts back. A lot.
It had started with the messages and photo evidence of RJ’s inability to sit down and relax at the beginning of his residence. Then it had slowly morphed into questions about his attendance at games, until Will had decided one day to just text him whatever comes to his mind, especially when he’s on the road. The conversations always came easier than expected, a welcome diversion from the monotony of life that Macklin typically craved.
Will Smith (hockey)
6:58 PM
Do you think Sharkie is actually a person
in a suit or just a sentient mascot costume??
7:01 PM
What?
7:02 PM
Pay attention
This is important Macklin
I’m doing research
7:04 PM
I genuinely can’t tell if you’re joking or not
Are you being fr?
7:07 PM
I can’t believe you rn
I’m deadly serious
I’ve never been so serious in my life
Cross my heart
7:08 PM
You kicked a soccer ball into the mans
face and you don’t know his name????
Harsh
7:10 PM
Liar
I’ve never seen this man
7:13 PM
There’s a man in the suit, William
His name is Gary
7:13 PM
Sounds fake
7:15 PM
Dude
How have you never met Gary?
He’s like the chillest dude ever
Bonafide Cool Guy™
7:16 PM
Why am I lowkey jealous of a mascot rn
😳😳
7:20 PM
You’re an insane man
I’m letting my brother live with a maniac
If he tries hard enough, maybe even squints his eyes and ignores the rush of blood in his ears, he can convince himself that Will might genuinely be flirting with him. He gives it almost too easily—a flirtatious comment here, a wink there. A hand through his mussed up curls. And Macklin falls for it every time. Hook, line, sinker.
He has to remind himself that Will’s just like that. He’s comfortable with all of the guys, touchy and kind. He’s just a nice fucking guy. An arm slung over a shoulder, a kiss pressed to a cheekbone. Baked goods offered in exchange for a hug from even the surliest of teammates. He’s painfully easy to lean into, soft despite the hardened muscle of his body. A pretty face and a gentle smile that has you wanting to spill every one of your secrets.
Will’s never touched Macklin specifically, though, not really. Casual brushes in hallways and doorways aside. He can’t pinpoint a single time when Will has intentionally touched him, and yet he leans into Will’s warmth like a moth to a flame. Aches for it. Wants Will to put his hands on him, but instead with Macklin he’s careful. Almost timid. He appears over-conscious of boundaries that Macklin isn’t sure he actually agreed to. Something Will has decided, he thinks. An unspoken agreement between them that says fragile and proceed with caution. Like Macklin is branded.
It’s infuriating, but he appreciates it, even if it makes him want to shake Will and ask him what the hell he wants.
Macklin doesn’t even know if Will is, y’know, into guys. There are rumours, because of course there are. Will and his old linemates from BC, guys from the NTDP and NCAA programs. Macklin’s not sure of the validity of these rumours, and he has no interest in asking anyone about them. Owes Will that respect.
There’s no proof, nothing safe and definitive that Macklin can point to so he can make himself seem less crazy. Less alone. Instead, he focuses on tamping down this crush, grinding his own heart under his shoe until it turns mangled and bruised. He can take it. Determined to extinguish this thing inside him before it kills him instead.
Will doesn’t make it easy.
Macklin finds himself thinking of the first time he laid eyes on Will Smith. BU versus BC. He remembers being infuriated by this pretty blonde-haired cocky bastard of a boy skating circles around his line. Around his whole team. He remembers the hot embarrassment that transformed into anger that eventually just fizzled down into cool jealousy. Jealous of the easy way he interacted with his teammates, his silky hands, the way Will’s hair looked perfect fresh out of his bucket even though he had just played nearly 30 minutes of college hockey.
Even now, looking back, Macklin can’t tell if it was all jealousy back then, or if there was something akin to admiration or obsession brewing under his skin. Then the accident happened and hockey became something to avoid. Will Smith faded into the background of his college experience, a small blip on his radar that disappeared the more distance he put between himself and the ice.
He had to Google the man when RJ announced that Will had offered to billet him for his first year on the sharks. And once he did, eyes recognizing that floppy blonde hair and wide blue eyes, he knew Will could only spell trouble for him and RJ.
He just didn’t expect it to be this kind of trouble. Against his better judgement, Macklin leans into it. Chases the high he’s come to expect from interacting with Will, and pretends he’s still clear-headed enough to recognize when to go cold turkey. When to quit Will before it becomes too much.
March is a slow, heavy grind of a month and the air is staticky. Electric and lethal. It tastes like blood and sweat, salty and acrid. It sticks to Macklin’s clothes and fills his lungs. Weighs him down.
The Sharks are fighting for a wildcard spot that likely will never come and Macklin can only sit by and watch as the team slowly comes undone. It’s a bitter feeling, but they still fight regardless. Each man haggard and pushed to their limits on the ice. RJ is playing dangerously high minutes on the ice, and Macklin is equal parts proud and concerned. He’s putting up good numbers, but the coaching staff have started limiting his optional practices and skates. Which tells Macklin that they know they’re pushing him beyond what he should be capable of. As a brother, it hurts to watch. As a professional, it pisses him off. It’s reckless, an invitation for injury.
He checks in with Will about his little brother to keep himself sane. The only reason Macklin knows RJ isn’t doing okay is because he knows himself and thus RJ by proxy. RJ isn’t necessarily all that different on the surface when he’s in his own head and overworked, but the mask slips if you can get close enough to look. The bags under his eyes are dangerously dark, and he’s struggling to take in enough calories to replace what he burns. He’s skinnier than he has been in a long time. Reedy muscles and bony limbs. His baby face is still there, which brings small comforts.
He would be the same, he thinks, if he was in RJ’s skates with the weight of a franchise rebuild on his shoulders. Still, he’s worried. Tries to not let it affect his day to day, but by the time the Sharks have played their third away game in a row, his nerves are raw.
His brother had taken a hit against the Habs last night, a legal boarding that knocked the wind out of both of their lungs, and now they have a game against the Senators tonight. Back-to-back games at the end of a roadie? RJ must be bone-tired. Macklin just wants RJ home.
So he texts Will. A lot.
12:19 PM
Hey
How’s he doing?
12:34 PM
Stubborn as always lol
PT looked at his shoulder and gave him the green light
12:35 PM
How’s his mental?
12:35 PM
Do you want the real answer or the nice answer?
12:37 PM
The truth
Please
12:40 PM
He’s a bit fucked up, I think
In his head and beating himself up about the hit
Tired too
12:42 PM
Fuuuuuuuuuuck
Do I need to get on a plane?
[screenshot of Google Flights]
12:43 PM
Nah
I was like it my first season, y’know?
84 is a lot of fucking games for a kid
He’ll be fine
12:51 PM
We’ll see you in two days, promise
It’s the we that makes his chest tight and his head reel. The promise that he’ll get to see both of his boys when they get back to San Jose on Monday. The relief at not only getting to lay his eyes on his brother again, but the confirmation that Will is thinking about seeing him too. He could get drunk on the feeling.
He must wait too long to reply because his phone starts buzzing, a call coming in. He lets out a breath before answering.
“Hey?”
“Hey, Macklin,” Will answers, light and airy. He sounds tired too, a little out of breath, but Macklin can hear the quiet smile in his voice. “You doing alright?”
The obvious no is there, so he doesn’t answer. Just hums a little and listens as Will pads around his hotel room, moving items around. Opening and closing zippers in a way that means he must be packing. The sounds calm him a little as he listens to Will exist.
“How are you feeling about the game this afternoon?” There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other line. An exhale that clearly takes effort.
“Don’t tell anyone,” Will laughs a little, self-deprecating and real. “I’m fucking cooked. Gonna be a battle, I think.”
“No dick trick tonight?” A call back to the Green Line rivalry that startles a genuine laugh out of Will. See? He thinks. I can make you laugh.
“Oh fuck you.” Their banter is easy, good. He could do this forever.
“Make sure my brother makes it home in one piece, alright?” There’s an unspoken question in there somewhere, a request to make sure he brings himself home in one piece too. Back to San Jose. Back to Macklin.
He’s possessive. Sue him.
“Scout’s honour,” Will says, and he can almost picture him holding up two fingers and placing a hand on his chest. Golden boy. And then he continues, cutting Macklin’s hesitant talk to you later short before the call ends. “You’re going to watch the game, right?”
He sounds embarrassed, almost. And he should be. It’s a stupid question, but Macklin answers anyway.
“Yeah, ‘course.”
“Mhmm. Might have to score, then.” The flirtatious tone is back, cheeky and playful. He stops pacing, pulling his lower lip between his teeth.
“Oh, really?” He’s only a man, so he flirts back. Lets his voice go all soft and honeyed. “For me?”
For a second he thinks he’s gone too far, the verbal batting of his eyelashes in Will’s direction a bit too much. Put his foot in his mouth and ruined the whole thing. He panics internally, his palms damp with sweat. His mouth is dangerously dry.
“You’ll have to watch and see,” Will whispers back. Breathless. “See you tomorrow, Macklin.”
“Mack,” he interrupts before Will can hang up. “You can call me Mack.”
Later that evening, when the game is finally over and the Sharks scrape an overtime win out against Ottawa, Macklin gets two texts in succession while cooking supper. He shivers.
Will Smith (hockey)
8:26 PM
One goal
As promised
He’s playing a dangerous game now, but he can’t stop.
Before he can even figure out what’s happening, Macklin finds himself falling head over fucking heels for Will Smith. His crush gains momentum, speeding uncontrollably off a cliff, until it sweeps his feet out from under him. It catches him by surprise, which is shocking in its own way. He prides himself on being prepared for every situation, but he had been wholly unprepared for Will Smith.
Slowly, and without even realizing the enormity of it, he starts to look forward to just seeing Will without the caveat of also seeing RJ. When he watches games, he starts to look for his brother and Will on the ice. Then RJ. And Will. By the time he figures it out, he’s in way too deep. Way too fucking deep.
The attraction to men thing has existed exclusively on the periphery of Macklin’s life. He had barely started to figure it out during his freshman year, and then the accident happened and everything else in his life had stopped mattering so much. Hockey, friendships, relationships. All of it coming to an abrupt halt.
So being attracted to Will isn’t the shocking part. The crush has been there since the first time they properly met. The lust came shortly after. The part that scares him is when he starts picturing a future with someone he can’t possibly have. It’s turning from an embarrassing crush on RJ’s landlord to something else entirely. Something too big, too real. A secret so precious he can barely look at it without being blinded. It’s fucking terrifying how much he wants and wants and wants.
There’s something that keeps him from doing anything about the tension that seems so painfully obvious between him and Will, even now. An RJ-shaped complication. His brother is Macklin’s first priority, they all know this. And what if he does something about this thing and it goes horribly and RJ hates him for it, hates him for ruining his relationship with Will on a whim?
And what if he does something about this thing and Will reciprocates his feelings, and RJ still hates him. Hates him for irrevocably altering his relationship with his mentor, the second-most important figure in his life? He can’t do that to RJ.
There’s a third option he doesn’t let himself consider with any real intent, the idea that this could work out so absurd to him. Except. Maybe? Hope is a dangerous thing.
It all comes to a head on a well-groomed trail behind a golf course in Livermore. The sun is beating down on his neck, but the air is cool and fresh. The kind of nice day that could only be ruined by an impatient teenage boy.
RJ has all the social tact you could expect of an eighteen-year-old who finished a single year of college with a criminally low attendance record. Which is to say, not very much at all. He announces what is on his mind at the most inopportune moments, as though the thought has to be spoken aloud or he’ll forget it. Which is a very real possibility.
He says the quiet thing out loud, no time for bullshit.
“Do you, like, have a thing for Will?” They’re on a run, so naturally Macklin nearly trips on his own feet and vaults head first towards the ground. He’s only saved by his own years of balance training and muscle memory. He does, however, choke on his own tongue. A blush climbs up the back of his neck.
“Excuse me?” He splutters, trying to find his pace again. RJ has adjusted seamlessly to his stuttered stop and start, matching his slower rhythm with practiced ease.
“Do you want to bone my landlord?” He deadpans, annunciating every word. He’s not even looking at Macklin when he says it, a smirk on his lips when he finishes talking.
“RJ!” Macklin cries, his face heating. Bone. He can feel his calves shaking. He speeds up, running ahead of RJ and this fucking conversation. His brother just groans and speeds up, matching his pace again. Infuriating little shit. He doesn’t let up, prompting Macklin again for a response. Macklin finds himself wishing for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. He tries to remember if San Francisco has had any recent reports of quicksand or sudden ground-opening events in the area.
I’m not—I don’t,” He frowns, the right words lost somewhere, and he finally stops running. His legs might very well give out beneath him at this rate. He barely has any oxygen left in his lungs. “Jesus RJ.”
He has thought about having this conversation with RJ before. Not about the whole Will thing, but he had entertained the idea of telling RJ about him being gay eventually. Had started to conceptualize the idea of coming out to his younger brother. It feels like something RJ should know, but he hasn’t exactly ever said the words out loud. Coming out hadn’t even been on the horizon when their parents had died, and then it just sort of. Faded. Something unimportant to be dealt with at a later date, until years passed and he wasn’t anywhere closer to doing something about it.
“I know you’re into dudes, Mackie. Or is this one of those things we pretend we don’t know about and we don’t talk about?”
His brow is arched and his arms are crossed over his chest. He looks like their dad when he stands tall like this, and Macklin feels a little like their roles have reversed. Like a child under his brother’s gaze, guilty with his sticky hands in the cookie jar.
“It’s not that simple, bata. Even if I did,” he says, and even he can hear how dejected he sounds. He sounds fucking miserable. “It’s not something I can act on.”
“Why not?”
“You know why. Besides the whole fucking—two dudes thing. He’s a professional hockey player and I’m some fucking personal trainer nobody living in the ‘burbs.” He says, and it feels like putting words to everything he’s been feeling over the last six months. “It wouldn’t work, RJ. It just. It can’t.”
“That’s not a reason, that’s an excuse.” He argues, huffy and childish, and Macklin wants to shake him around. Push him into the dirt.
“Don’t be like that. Plus, wouldn’t it be super fucking weird for you?”
“Dude.” He reaches over and flicks his older brother on the forehead. “He gives you heart eyes like all the time. It’s gross. Anyone can see it. Honestly, you’d be doing me a favour if you did something about all your weird tension.”
Macklin flushes. He wants to ask for proof, some form of confirmation of these supposed heart eyes. Evidence that this infatuation isn’t as one-sided as it seems sometimes. He shuts it down. Refuses to entertain the hope RJ has given him, unbidden and dangerous.
“Even so,” he shrugs. “What would tata say?”
“You’re so annoying,” Macklin says. RJ just laughs in his face. Fear is a reaction. Courage is a decision.
“And you’re acting like a pussy. I’m not telling you to do something about it right now. But maybe do something for yourself for once?”
He can’t argue with that. He’s not sure what he has left to be afraid of. The sting of rejection? What does that compare to the promise of something that has been building for months? The worst thing that could have possibly happened, happened to him. And he’s still standing, somehow. He’s lived the past six years in a constant state of fear—halfway between here and there. He keeps running from one thing to the next, following RJ from schools to programs and finally to the NHL to keep himself distracted.
If he keeps moving, the ocean of darkness can’t take hold of him. If his legs keep moving and he keeps his head just above water, there’s no opportunity for his lungs to fill with lead and weigh him down.
Or at least that’s what he thought. His idea of what his life would have to be is bending, changing with the tide. The idea of putting down roots, letting his feet slow from a run to a walk isn’t as petrifying as it used to be. The darkness is still there, because it probably always will be, but Will had witnessed the mess of it and stayed anyway. He had taken RJ and Macklin’s grief and pain, the ugliness of it all, and held it gently in his hands.
Will looks like a safe place to land.
And if it doesn’t work out, if he bares his heart and it breaks anyway, he can trust that Will will make it hurt as little as possible.
RJ must see something in his face, the steeliness of a man who has made a decision, because he whoops loudly and his grin is blinding. Macklin reaches out to punch him in the arm, but he darts out of his reach, a laugh left in his wake as he takes off again. Macklin follows close behind, and this time it feels like he’s running towards something instead of being chased.
The end of RJ’s first season in the show arrives on a warm April breeze, the air smelling of endings and beginnings. Macklin’s waiting for RJ and Will in the family room after their last game of the season when Michael Misa, RJ’s captain, pops around the corner.
His grin is wide and blinding as he extends an invitation to their season end get-together at his home. Macklin chokes, a question on his tongue. Michael must see the apprehension or the confusion on his face, because he honest-to-God tuts. His tongue clicks while he taps his foot gently on the linoleum.
“Don’t make me repeat myself, Celebrini.”
“You have the wrong Celebrini, Michael. RJ’s shorter, younger?” He holds up his hand to his shoulder, sarcastic. “Wearing teal? Ring any bells?”
Misa groans.
“Fuck off. You’re invited and we’re not taking no for an answer. The team wants you there. So you're coming.” Misa furrows his brows, crosses his arms. When he says team, it sounds like he’s saying something different entirely. His stomach twists.
“Okay?” Misa drops the tough act when he agrees, a goofy grin splitting his face. When he smiles he looks his age. Barely twenty-two, young and gangly and not at all like the idea of an NHL captain that Macklin’s mind conjures up. He likes this version better, he thinks.
“The guys will be thrilled,” he says, winking. “Also you’re in charge of the grill. Good with you? See you Saturday! Bye!”
“Michael Misa! Dude! What the fuck!” He yells, but Misa’s already halfway down the hallway, waving cheerily.
He’d be angry about having something like that dropped on him, but he’s grinning too, he can’t help it. His cheeks hurt with the effort.
Hanging around this team has reminded him of just how young he actually is, and it’s equal parts invigorating and terrifying. He feels twenty-four and uncomplicated for the first time in a long time. He’s just an older brother here, not a guardian signing permission slips. He can almost trick himself into feeling like he’s part of the team, almost. Part of something bigger than just him and RJ. A chosen family that has, in turn, chosen them.
It feels a bit pathetic, to yearn for something he can barely name, but he can’t help himself.
RJ plows into the room then, barrelling into Macklin, pulling him out of his own head. Will’s just behind him, laughing with his full chest. Damp hair sticking to his forehead. He’s breathtaking.
RJ isn’t shy with his affection, burrowing into the dip Macklin’s shoulder. Face warm and flush against his brother’s neck. Macklin places a hand on the back of his neck, grounding him. He must be so tired, and yet he still has the energy to do this, to give his joy so freely.
“Disgusting goal in the third, kid. Beauty snipe.” He had scored the go-ahead goal, followed by an empty netter by Stenberg. A good ending to an overall middling season.
“Yeah?” RJ leans back with a wide, toothy grin. He hasn’t been wearing his retainer, his gap tooth pronounced and child-like.
Macklin makes a mental note to talk to him about it over the summer, but for now he lets the lapse go. He wasn’t that good at remembering to wear his at that age, either. Lets RJ’s loose limbs and easy smile convince him to leave more serious matters for some other day. Tonight is about celebration, a season well-played.
“Hey now, Celly! Don’t forget who set you up!” Graf pulls RJ out of his brother’s grasp and into a good-natured noogie. Macklin lets him go, a fond smile tugging at his cheeks.
Will shuffles forward then, comfortably moving into Macklin’s space until they’re so close that he can smell the rink shampoo on his hair, his distinct earthy cologne over top. The air around Macklin bends to accommodate him, their toes nearly touching.
“Good game, hey?” Will sounds almost shy, coy.
“You kept up, I guess.” He shrugs, but it’s ultimately not true at all. Will plays a good game, and Macklin would even go so far as to say his game is beautiful. He hadn’t scored, but he was a playmaker and had tucked away a point in the first off an assist. He’s a force on the ice, despite lacking the burly force of the majority of the older guys. He’s lithe and stupid fast. The A on his tarp barely adds to his on-ice presence, his hockey already speaking for itself. Commanding and dangerous.
Off the ice and in front of Macklin he’s less imposing, his blonde curls already drying haphazardly into a mop hanging in his eyes, pink tongue poking out between his lips.
“Fuck off,” he says cheerily, a giggle bubbling out. Not for the first time, Macklin’s overcome with the urge to crawl into Will’s mouth and down his throat. To burrow next to his warm heart, safe inside his chest behind his ribs. The thought barely registers as something abnormal, because Will’s laugh is high and airy, distracting and perfect.
Macklin doesn’t act on any of this, instead choosing a much more normal route. Now that he’s come to terms with his own feelings, resolved himself to making them known, he’s hyper aware of every interaction they have. Everything that goes said and unsaid.
“You played well,” he says, a blush high on his cheeks. Will’s mouth snaps shut, blue eyes wide and bright. He looks terrifyingly happy at the small, barely-there compliment from Macklin.
“Thanks, Mack,” he practically whispers, soft and awestruck. He shrugs, suddenly shy. “Means a lot.”
This strikes Macklin as odd. Why the hell does his opinion on hockey, or anything really, matter so much to Will? He’s an NCAA Division I drop-out who hasn’t skated in what feels like forever. He can’t focus, his eyes watching Will watching him.
Graf slings an arm over Macklin’s shoulder then, startling him a little, but he easily leans into the other man’s grip. It’s strange how comfortable he’s gotten with his brother’s team, this rowdy group of misfits he wouldn’t trade for the world.
“I hear you’re coming to Misa’s next weekend?” Macklin’s still looking at Will who has tilted his head just a little, his brows furrowing. Questioning. Maybe even a little confused, assessing.
“Uh, yeah. Apparently I’m being blackmailed into going.” He jokes, but he’s still watching Will, wants to know how he feels about this turn of events.
Will’s face is unreadable. A tiny part of Macklin had thought Will would be happy to have him there, but he’s not sure anymore. He wants the Will of a few minutes ago back. Easy and giggly and happy.
They talk for a bit about party logistics, Collin joking about how many drinks he can sneak to RJ behind Macklin’s back, until he’s called away in the same direction he came. Graf says his goodbyes, collecting his fiancée who greets him with a sweet kiss pressed to his cheek.
He follows Will and RJ to the parking lot, scooping his brother into one last hug before letting him go with the team. He even presses a wet, smacking kiss to RJ’s cheek that has his brother shrieking and Will laughing loud and unabashedly. They part ways, with Macklin promising to come by the next day to help RJ pack up his room.
It’s bittersweet, knowing the inevitability of the season ending also comes with the inevitability of RJ returning home to Macklin. Leaving Will’s home that has become, inexplicably, a sort-of second home for Macklin, too. He’ll even miss Juno, he thinks foolishly. An easy truce had been struck between them after their second meeting, and he knows he’ll miss the feeling of her soft fur under his fingers. The weight of her against his feet.
It feels too final for everything still left unsaid, every strange and warm feeling in his chest, waiting to bubble up and over. He’s running out the clock, and soon it’ll be too late.
His drive home is quiet, the radio low. He plans, the loose ends of something coming together in his mind. He wants so badly for something good to happen. He wants to keep Will forever, if he’ll have him.
The season-end barbecue is good. Great, even. It’s lively and filled with easy conversation and even easier laughter. The beer is cold and the grill is this fancy thing Misa spent way too much money on. Macklin doesn’t resist the pull anymore, giving into the feeling of family and home.
He fits almost effortlessly into this group now, and Graf makes a terrible joke about him being a WAGPB (wives and girlfriends plus brother). It’s easy to tell how loose Collin is with alcohol in his system by how he doubles over at his own joke, snorting.
He had walked into Misa’s backyard behind RJ, wine in hand while his brother carried the only possession he deemed necessary—a soccer ball. His brother who had been flummoxed and annoyed when Macklin tried to bow out of the barbecue, not sure if he was stepping into something precious, something just for RJ.
For RJ, there had never been any question around Macklin’s belonging. The team belonged to Macklin just as much as it did to RJ. Home had always been wherever RJ was, but he could feel a different pull under his skin, steering him toward this team, this city. Toward a certain blonde with blue eyes.
They arrive separately from Will, something they’ll have to get used to again. RJ has already begrudgingly moved most of his belongings from San Jose to their Livermore home, the season over and training beginning again. Soon they’ll be on a plane to Vancouver to train with Connor and Fraser, a world away from the people in this backyard.
While Macklin was genuinely happy to have his brother home under his roof again, the boy in question was a storm of barely contained bitterness and misplaced anger. Angry at his first season for ending so abruptly. Embarrassment at missing out on the Calder Trophy. Frustration towards the lingering shoulder injury keeping him away from Worlds.
Macklin suspected his brother was also sadder than he let on at having to move out of Will’s home, away from Juno sleeping at the foot of his bed and Will’s Saturday morning pancakes.
So it’s nice to see him with a smile on his face again, his shoulders a little looser, head held a little higher. Macklin watches as RJ darts off in the direction of a group of the younger guys, the ball held high over his head as they all cheer. They collapse into each other, a game of sewer breaking out so quickly it’s hard to tell if any words were spoken at all. It’s nice.
He brings the wine to Misa’s fiancée, who presses a gentle kiss to his cheek, before Misa steers him towards the grill. He’s handed an apron that says kiss the chef and a Corona, which has the desired effect of giving him something to do other than watching the crowd for new arrivals. He has a good rhythm going, party goers coming over every so often to have a conversation, replenish his drink, and check in not-so-subtly about how RJ is doing.
The casual kindness does not go unnoticed.
Someone leans in close at one point while Macklin’s poking at a veggie burger he can’t decide is cooked or not, hot breath on his ear.
“Y’know, you could’ve just told Mis no.” Will. He startles, a tiny shiver down his spine.
When he turns to face him, his breath catches in his throat. Will looks good framed by the mid-afternoon sun, golden curls illuminated by the light. He has a pink burn creeping over the bridge of his nose, and he’s grinning wide, eyes crinkling at the edges.
“Like you’d ever tell him no.” He arches a brow, pulling a slow sip from his beer to wet his throat, occupying his mouth before he says something mortifying and real.
He wants to tell Will he missed him, even though he saw him a week ago. That he misses him all the time, even when he’s there. He wants to tell him he misses their texts and watching him play hockey like it’s fun. He wants to tell him he still thinks about that one time he almost fell asleep on Will’s couch, the way he pretended to be asleep when Will brushed his hair off his forehead and tucked a quilt up to his neck. He can't help but want and want and want around Will.
Instead he just watches as Will shrugs, a pout on his lips and a blush spreading over his cheeks. Because he knows it’s true, Will believes in respect given where it’s earned, and Misa has always deserved it.
RJ screams Smitty from across the yard, and Will’s smile turns smaller and warmer despite himself. His smile is directed over Macklin’s shoulder towards the fray. His boys. Before he’s pulled into the chaos, he leans forward into Macklin’s space and tugs on the string of his apron. He leaves his hand there, so close to resting on Macklin’s hipbone that he can feel the warmth of Will’s hand through his clothes.
“Find time for me later, okay chef?” All Macklin can do is nod, stunned.
“Of course,” he murmurs back, his heart in his throat. It’s not until after Will disappears behind him that he remembers his apron, the gaudy wording over his chest. Kiss the chef. Jesus Christ, Will Smith will be the death of him.
Macklin is relieved of his duties as grill master eventually, once he’s pleasantly buzzed and most of the food has been eaten by the growing athletes in Misa’s backyard. His face is warm and flushed red from the alcohol, not quite drunk but loose enough in his lawn chair that he’s been watching Will unabashedly across the yard. Drinking in the line of his back, his strong thighs from where he’s squatting down in front of Collin’s little girl. She’s animatedly telling him a story in half words and half babble, her tiny arms in the air. He nods along, blue eyes bright.
He watches and watches until Will looks over suddenly, his shoulders turning towards Macklin’s orbit as though he just realized he had his eyes on him. Will’s eyes sparkle as his smile gets impossibly wider. He turns back to say something to Collin’s little one and she babbles back at him, spit bubbling out of her lips. He pats her head once, nodding to Lauren before standing and stretching subtly.
Macklin’s gaze follows Will across the yard, watches as he disappears beyond the sliding doors and into Misa’s home. He stands and follows, possessed.
He slides the glass doors shut behind him, following the noise of rustling and quiet footsteps until he locates Will in the butler’s pantry, half-hidden in the dark. He spares half a thought for how fucking nice Misa’s house is.
“Hey,” Will murmurs, his voice low from where he’s bent and staring into a fridge. The light illuminates his face with a pleasant glow.
“Hey yourself.”
“Do you want another one of those,” he asks, nodding towards the Corona loosely hanging in Macklin’s grip.
“Ah, no. I just—” he stutters out and Will closes the fridge door without getting a drink for himself, the soft press of the door echoing in his ears. The party is loud and muffled outside, but he can hear his heart in his ears. He puts the bottle down on the nearest surface, his hands sweaty and trembling slightly.
“Making time for me, chef?” He looks down stupidly at his own chest, the apron still there. He had tried to undo the knot, but his fingers had been shaky so he had left it on and eventually forgotten it was there.
“Yeah. Always.” He confesses. The liquid courage in his gut emboldening him. Will lights up at that, a closed mouth smile pushing his cheeks up to crinkle around the corners of his eyes.
“Missed you, Mack.” He says quietly, stepping forward into Macklin’s space. “The house is quiet without RJ. Without you.”
“Will—,” he starts and then stops. Steels himself. “I missed you, too.”
Will makes the first move.
“Can I?” He’s looking at Macklin with those wide blue eyes, and Macklin’s looking back. He’s always looking back. His eyes dart to Will’s lips and time comes to a stuttering halt.
It’s just the two of them here, Will and Mack.
He nods, stunned, and Will nudges forward to brush his lips against Macklin’s. It’s soft, barely there. Will brings his hand to grip Macklin’s hip, to hold him in place. A solid presence, but loose enough that Macklin could shake his hand off if he wanted. There’s no world in which Macklin would do something like that. He wants to live in this moment forever, Will’s hands on his body and their lips pressed together. Will’s easy confidence and the self-assurance that Macklin would say yes. His patience, attentiveness.
Macklin pushes forward, capturing Will's lower lip between his own. He flicks his tongue out, testing. A hrmmph sound comes from the blonde’s throat, but he takes what Macklin has willingly given him. Surges into the kiss until it’s hard to tell where he stops and the other man begins.
It feels like coming home. The surety that comes from knowing you’re safe without needing to name it.
“Hi,” he murmurs when they finally separate, Will sucking in quiet breaths in their shared space. They’re still close enough that their noses brush with any movement. His hand falls to Will's hip, a gentle squeeze to say I’m here.
“Hi to you too.” Will grins, wide and toothy. He pulls Macklin into his chest and he goes easily, leaning into Will, their heartbeats mixing together.
“I’ve been wanting that for a long time,” Macklin confesses, his secret pressed to the warm skin of Will’s neck.
“Yeah. Me too.” Will offers in return, quelling the anxious fluttering in Macklin’s chest. He pulls back just enough to push his fingers gently into the hair at the nape of Will’s neck, holding him in place. The hair there is damp and warm, but he finds he doesn’t particularly mind. He runs his thumb down Will’s neck and under the collar of his shirt. Their mouths meet again and they’re both smiling into it, barely a kiss with how wide their matching grins are.
“RJ’s going to be insufferable about this,” Macklin groans when they separate. Will just laughs, loud and euphoric.
“C’mere,” Will says as he pulls him back in.
There’s time for the conversation later, the questions and the logistics of what the hell they’re starting. The what are we doing? question hangs unspoken between them, all the time in the world to figure it out. For now they both lean into it, body to body, heart to heart. He hasn’t felt this safe in years and he relishes in the feeling, letting it wash over him.
His feet are rooted to the ground, a man in motion finally stopped.
Maybe that’s how it goes. The unimaginable happens and you survive, despite it all. Your parents die and the world keeps moving. You mourn and you grieve and the earth spins anyway. Your center of gravity adjusts and your feet stay planted.
And suddenly there is laundry to fold, dishes to wash, and people to love.
Fin.