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There was no pain – just a pulsing, all-consuming fatigue, spread through his muscles like molten metal. Will had barely made it to his apartment, leaning on the walls in the stairwell. Today's practice had been hellish – the coach seemed to have decided they needed to fly, not skate. His legs were giving way, his back was soaked with sweat under his tracksuit, and a white noise of exhaustion hummed in his head.
The door slammed shut behind him. Smith, not bothering to turn on the light in the hallway, headed straight for the bathroom. His clothes fell from him in damp clumps onto the tiled floor. He turned on the shower, adjusted the temperature to almost scalding – to steam out his knotted muscles – and held his face, neck, and shoulders under the stream. The water washed away the salt, the tension, the thoughts of tomorrow's game. His hands automatically soaped his body; shampoo foamed in his blond hair, which curled slightly from the dampness. He threw his head back, letting the water flow over his face, rinsing away the suds. His blue-grey eyes were closed.
Stepping out of the shower and wrapping a dark blue towel around his hips, Will collapsed onto the bedsheets. They were cool and smelled clean. He buried his face in the pillow, feeling his body begin to come back to life, bit by bit. And then he remembered: Mack was coming over. In an hour. Just to hang out. Of course they'd talk hockey – they couldn't not – but more than anything, they just needed to be near each other, in the same space. Smitty smiled into the pillow. Thoughts of Mack always brought a strange warmth to his chest.
To kill time, he reached for his phone. The screen lit up his tired, but still youthful face. His thumb automatically went to the TikTok icon. His "For You" page, tuned to his interests – hockey, movies, music – served up a surprise today. Or perhaps not a surprise. Will froze.
The very first video was of Mack. Macklin Celebrini. But not the Mack he knew on the ice – focused, swift, with green eyes burning with intensity. And not the Mack in the locker room – laughing loudly with his beautiful, wide smile.
This was a different Mack. Sexual. Explicit.
The edit was snatched from some interview or photoshoot. Mack was sitting on a barstool in front of a microphone. He wore only a simple white tank top – thin, clinging, so tight it showed the contour of his chest muscles and abs. And black shorts that stretched over powerful thighs. The light fell on him from the side, highlighting his jawline, the curve of his lips, his half-lidded green eyes looking somewhere off-camera with a lazy, provocative confidence. The video was edited to slow, sensual music, the shots shifting: him throwing his head back, exposing his throat; him turning, showing the outline of his back through the fabric, damp with sweat.
Will felt his breath catch. He had known for a long time. Accepted it. Made peace with the fact that his feelings for his friend and teammate went far beyond friendship. They lived in a tight symbiosis – the ice, practices, travel, wins, losses. Mack was his sunlight, his most reliable support. And his most forbidden, sweetest thought.
But usually, he kept those thoughts under control. Buried them deep, under layers of fatigue, competitive drive, simple friendly camaraderie. Now, alone in his bed, softened by the shower and exhaustion, he was defenseless against this video. Against this image.
He couldn't stop. He scrolled down. Another video. Mack in an unbuttoned hoodie, bare chest underneath. Another one – slow-motion training footage focused on the tension in his arms and back. The music thumped in time with his own racing pulse.
The pressure low in his belly, warm and heavy, grew with each new clip. The towel around his hips felt tight. Shame tried to break through the haze of arousal but was swept away by a wave of desperate, pent-up desire. He was so tired and so alone. And Mack was so unbearably beautiful and so unattainably close at the same time.
"He's not coming for another hour" – Will whispered to himself, his voice hoarse and unfamiliar. That was enough. Enough to justify recklessness.
He pushed the towel aside. His blue-grey eyes darkened, fixed on the ceiling, but they weren't seeing it – they were seeing the green gaze from the screen. His hand slid down his already tense stomach. The touch was electric. He bit his lip, stifling a moan. This was… sinful. Stupid. Dangerous. But he couldn't stop.
He imagined it wasn't his own hand. That it was someone else's—stronger, calloused from a hockey stick, with a powerful forearm and prominent veins. He breathed out a name: "Mack…" – a quiet, broken sound, filled with all the longing he carried inside.
The pace of his hand quickened. His breathing grew ragged, a ringing in his ears. He closed his eyes, and images flashed brighter than any video: Mack laughing at his joke, his wide smile. Mack helping him up after a hard check. Mack sitting just like that, on a barstool, looking right at him, Will, not at the camera. And those lips…
He was so absorbed, so lost in sinful, sweet oblivion, that he didn't hear the soft click in the hallway.
Macklin always walked into Will's place without knocking – he had his own key, a symbol of absolute trust between them. Today he had come a little early, pizza in hand and in a great mood. The apartment was quiet, only the muted noise from the street filtering in.
"Smitty?" – he called softly, toeing off his sneakers.
No answer. Mack frowned. The light in the living room was on, but from the slightly ajar bedroom door came only a narrow strip of darkness. Maybe Will was asleep after practice?
He walked to the door, intending to peek in, maybe cover his friend with a blanket. And he froze on the threshold.
It took his brain a fraction of a second to process the scene: Will, lying on his back among rumpled sheets, his beautiful body naked and arched in desire. Blond curls were stuck to his forehead, his face was flushed, lips parted in a silent moan. Will's hand moved between his legs in a fast, desperate rhythm. And on the floor, next to the bed, his phone screen glowed. And on the screen… was him.
Shock shot through Mack like a lightning bolt. But right on its heels, instantly, leaving no room for doubt, came a wave of such fiery, all-consuming desire that it stole his breath. All those months of unexplained attraction, special closeness, the need to be near – it all suddenly took on a crystal-clear, definite shape.
He saw Will muttering something and read his own name on his lips. That was the last straw.
Mack took a deliberate step back, scuffing his foot loudly on the floor, giving Will a chance to snap out of it, to cover up. But not to stop. No way.
Will flinched, his eyes flying wide open, filled with horror and panic. He jerked, trying to pull the sheet over himself, his face burning with shame.
"Mack! I… I didn't…"
But Mack was already walking into the room. Not embarrassed. Not judgmental. Focused. Determined. His green eyes burned with a dark, unfamiliar fire. He slowly approached the bed, his gaze never leaving Will's.
"I see you got inspired" – Mack said quietly, his voice low and rough. He nodded toward the phone. – "Shame you had to use a copy, though."
Will couldn't utter a word. He was paralyzed by shame.
Mack sat on the edge of the bed. He reached out and gently, but inexorably, pulled back the sheet Will was clutching in his fists. His gaze swept over his friend's naked body, and Will felt a shiver run through him – no longer from shame, but from something else entirely.
"Mack, I'm sorry, I…" – he started again, but Mack leaned down and covered his lips with his own.
The kiss was not a question, but a statement. Hot, wet, ruthless in its intent. It held everything: understanding, acceptance, promise, and the very desire Will had just tried to quench alone. Will moaned into the kiss, his body going pliant, resistance evaporating like smoke.
Mack broke away, his breathing as uneven as Will's, lips wet and slightly swollen from the kiss. The ice of concentration in his green eyes was melting, replaced by a dark, almost black shade of pure lust. The air between their faces was hot, thick with exhales and tension.
"Forget the apologies, Smitty" – he whispered, his lips brushing Will's ear, making him shudder. It wasn't a kiss, just a point of contact, hot and damp, sending a pure electric charge down Will's spine. He shuddered all over, an involuntary, traitorous moan escaping his throat. – "It'll be better with my participation. I promise."
His hand – that same strong, confident hand – moved to where Will's had just been. His touch was different – not hurried and desperate like Will's, but firm, unquestionably authoritative. His fingers wrapped around Will with such confident ownership, as if they knew every line, every nerve. His thumb swept over the sensitive head, while his index and middle fingers closed around him, creating perfect, relentless pressure.
Will cried out – sharp, loud, the sound torn from the very depths of his being. His back arched, his shoulders and shoulder blades lifting off the crumpled sheet. The muscles of his abdomen tensed to the point of trembling. It was too much and not enough at the same time. Mack's touch was knowing, maddening, because it didn't just stimulate – it seemed to say:
"I know what you need. I'll give it to you."
"Mack… please…" – It was a groan, full of agony and plea. Will could no longer think in words, only in sensations. The world narrowed to the palm of Mack's hand moving in a precise, measured rhythm, to his scent – clean sweat after a workout, with an underlying hint of something woodsy. But there was something else… Something unique that Will associated only with him.
"Please, what?" – Mack insisted. His voice was hoarse, but there was a note of teasing in it. He didn't speed up, didn't slow down, playing his game. His fingers moved with dizzying skill, finding sensitive spots Will didn't even know he had.
His other hand, his left, held Will firmly by the thigh. His fingers dug into the firm flesh, leaving white, then pinkening marks on the skin. That pleasurably painful pressure pinned him down, wouldn't let him escape, anchored him in the reality of this madness.
"I don't know… I…" – Will choked, his voice breaking on a high note as Mack's fingers executed a particularly wicked move. The whole world tilted, lost its edges. There was only this bed, this half-darkness, this body above him, and the unbearable, exquisite tension coiling in every cell of his own.
"You do" – Mack whispered right against his lips, not stopping the movements of his right hand. And he pressed against him fully, closing the remaining distance. Chest to chest, stomach to stomach. And through the thin fabric of his shorts, Will felt the pressure of another arousal. Hard. Hot. Demanding. This discovery, this physical confirmation that Mack wanted him just as badly, was like an electric shock. It didn't just drive him insane – it liberated him. All his secret dreams, shameful fantasies, materialized in that single sensation. Mack wanted him. Just as desperately, just as animalistically, just as recklessly.
All the struggle, all the fear, all the uncertainty inside Will crumbled, washed away by this wave of insane, mutual hunger. He stopped clinging to the remnants of shame.
"I want you" – he exhaled, and those words turned his entire world inside out. His voice was hoarse, strained, but utterly sincere. – "I've always wanted you."
The smile that touched Mack's lips was complex, layered. There was the triumph of a hunter who had gotten his prize, wild elation that his desire was reciprocated. But in the corners of his eyes, in the softening of his gaze, there was also a deep, almost tender victory – not over Will, but over ignorance, over the long wait.
"That's all I needed to hear."
He broke the kiss and, without taking his eyes off Will, began to undress. Hoodie, t-shirt, pants. Will watched, mesmerized, as that beautiful, strong body – which he knew so well on the ice and so little here, in his own bed – was revealed. The reddish hair on his chest, the taut muscles of his stomach, and between his legs – what so clearly spoke of Mack's desire.
When Mack returned to him, skin to skin, Will moaned at the contact. It was so much, so intense. The heat radiating from Mack's body seemed to burn him.
"How?" – Will asked, lost.
"Let me...Let me show you how I've imagined it." – Mack answered, kissing his neck, his collarbone.
Will could only nod. Mack reached for the bedside table, where, to his surprise and quiet laugh, he found an almost full bottle of lube.
Mack coated his fingers with the cool, slick substance, and Will shuddered at the temperature contrast. Mack's gaze changed – it became the same look he had on the ice in the final seconds of a decisive game: serious, collected, utterly focused. There was not a shadow of mockery in his green eyes, only unwavering determination to do this right.
"Relax, Smitty. Trust me."
The first finger entered slowly. The sensation was so alien that for a second, Will wanted to pull away. But there was no pain. Mack was incredibly, almost painfully careful. He wasn't just inserting a finger – he was giving every muscle inside Will time to get used to it, to accept it. And while his hand worked below, his lips, his breath, his attention worked above. Kisses, scattered over Will's face, were soft, distracting: touches to the corners of his mouth, his eyelid, his temple, hot breath against his neck. He kissed his chest, lingering on his nipples, making Will arch from this double stimulation – gentle above and insistently inevitable below.
"Good?" – Mack asked, adding a second finger.
Will could only nod, his voice stuck somewhere in his throat. The sensation of fullness grew deeper, more tangible. He felt his body adjusting, his inner muscles clenching around the intrusion. It mingled with the fire spreading through his veins from every touch of Mack's, from every one of his sighs. And then… the fingers inside him changed their angle. And found it.
It was unlike anything. A bright, blinding flash of pleasure, radiating not from the outside, but from the very core of his being. Will howled, wildly, inhumanly, his nails digging into Mack's back, likely leaving scratches. His body jerked as if electrocuted.
"There it is" – Mack whispered with a low, deep satisfaction in his voice. And he began to purposefully stimulate that spot – not quickly, but with a methodical, unbearable precision. Every movement of his fingers sent jolts of pure, unfiltered bliss along Will's nerves. Will thrashed beneath him, his consciousness floating, losing its grip on reality. He gasped for air, his hips moving of their own accord to meet those touches, demanding more, harder.
"Mack, now… stop, or I'll…"
"No" – Mack said softly but firmly. – "Not yet. With me."
He slowly withdrew his fingers. The sound Will made at the loss was pitiful, childish, full of such piercing anguish that Mack was surprised. But he didn't have to wait long. Mack slicked himself up. His face contorted for a moment with intense pleasure – his eyes rolled back, lips pressed tightly together, jaw muscles tensing. It was hypnotic: the way he touched himself, preparing to enter him.
Mack positioned himself between Will's legs, lifting his hips, sliding a pillow underneath. His hands, strong and sure, held Will firmly by the thighs, fingers digging in again, anchoring him in place. He hovered over him, and in the semi-darkness of the room, his silhouette seemed enormous, powerful.
"Look at me" – he commanded.
Blue-grey eyes, clouded with passion and tears of overwhelming feeling, met green ones. There was no trace of shame left in them. Only absolute trust, animal desperation of desire, and a whole sea of love that had finally found its physical form.
Mack pushed in. Initial resistance, a sharp, burning pain that made Will gasp and squeeze his eyes shut. But Celebrini didn't retreat. He entered inch by inch, giving Will's body time to stretch, to adjust. And the pain, sharp but brief, dissolved. Will felt every ridge, every centimeter, every pulse of Mack inside him.
They both stilled, breathing heavily, foreheads touching. Sweat dripped from Mack's temples onto Will's face.
"God, Will…" – Mack exhaled, and his voice trembled, broke from the overwhelming sensation. – "You… have no idea… how this…"
He didn't finish, just whispered his name again, like a prayer. And he began to move.
At first cautiously, almost timidly, gauging every movement by Will's reaction. Then, seeing in his eyes not pain but the same hunger, the same thirst, he moved more confidently, deeper. Mack set the rhythm – this was his game. But Will quickly caught it and began to meet him, lifting his hips to meet every thrust, wrapping his legs around Mack's waist to take him even deeper, even fuller. They found their sync. Breathing, movement, heartbeats – all merged into one.
Sounds filled the room, creating their own lewd symphony: ragged, hoarse breathing; wet, slick sounds growing louder and faster; muffled moans that Will tried to stifle by covering his face with his free hand. But Mack wouldn't allow it. He caught Will's slender wrist and moved it to his own shoulder.
"I want to hear you" – he rasped, and Will surrendered, letting out all the sounds stuck in his throat: moans, growls, a broken, sobbing laugh.
With each thrust, the tension coiled tighter, a taut, unbearable spring in the pit of Will's stomach ready to snap at any moment. Mack never looked away. His face at that moment was inhumanly beautiful: flushed, eyes half-lidded, reddish hair plastered to his forehead and temples, mouth slightly open in a silent groan. He was completely absorbed.
"I… Mack, I can't…" – Will cried out, his body tensing like a bowstring. He was on the edge; one more move and the fall into the abyss was guaranteed.
"Together" – Mack rasped, his movements becoming sharp, desperate, almost fierce. – "Let's go together… Now, Will!"
With one hand, he took hold of Will, slick and hard, syncing the movements of his palm with the powerful thrusts of his hips. That final, precise touch was enough.
Will shouted, unable to hold back. He arched, releasing hot bursts that soiled his own stomach and Mack's chest. His inner muscles convulsed around Mack, and that was the final straw. With a roar that mixed Will's name and something incoherent, Mack plunged into him one last, deep time and stilled, spilling into him with pulsing heat.
Silence was broken only by their heavy, ragged breathing. Mack slowly, carefully, withdrew and collapsed beside him onto his back. The sheets were sticky, the air smelled of sex and their mingled scents.
An eternity passed. Will was afraid to move, afraid this fragile moment would shatter like a dream.
Mack spoke first. He turned his head, his green eyes, soft and familiar again, looking at Will. A wide smile slowly spread across his lips.
"So, Smitty" – he said hoarsely. – "Should we talk hockey? Or would you prefer to continue… debriefing?"
Will snorted, and the chuckle turned into laughter – happy, relieved, slightly hysterical. He turned on his side and pressed his forehead against Mack's shoulder.
"Shut up" – he mumbled without malice. – "And don't you ever wear that white tank top."
Mack laughed, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and pulled him closer. – "I promise. But only if you'll be my personal stylist."
And lying there, in sticky but incredibly right arms, Will realized that his world, which had just been turned upside down, had finally settled into its proper place.