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“Macky, you seem more hyped up than normal,” Will said, passing the soccer ball back to mack across the arena floor.
Mack caught the ball with his toe, rolling it under his skate absentmindedly. "Yeah? Maybe." He grinned, bouncing on his toes like he had electricity in his skates. "Big game, y'know." The lie was obvious—Will had seen Mack play a hundred big games, and none of them had him fidgeting like this.
“Mhm, so this extra energy has nothing to do with the team we’re playing tonight?” Will arched an eyebrow, nudging the soccer ball back toward Mack with deliberate slowness. The arena lights caught the faint smirk on his face, and Mack knew he was busted.
“Okay, so maybe I’m a little excited,” Mack admitted, finally letting the ball roll to a stop under his skate. He glanced toward the tunnel where Pittsburgh’s players would emerge for warmups, then back at Will with a sheepish shrug. “It’s Sid, man. You know how it is.”
“You’re not gonna go easy on him, right baby?” Will teased, knowing full well Mack intended to play his heart out—both for Sid’s approval and his teams.
Mack scoffed, flicking the soccer ball back with more force. “Easy? I’ll skate circles around him.” The bravado lasted exactly two seconds before he cracked, shoulders dropping. “Okay, fuck, I hope he notices if I do.”
The arena buzzed with pre-game energy, the hum of skates cutting ice blending with the distant chatter of fans filtering in. Mack kept stealing glances toward the tunnel, his fingers tapping restlessly against his stick. When Pittsburgh’s players finally spilled onto the ice, his posture straightened like a kid spotting the ice cream truck.
The moment Sidney Crosby stepped onto the ice, Mack's breath hitched—just slightly, but enough that Will noticed. Sid's presence carried the same effortless gravity it always did, and Mack's fingers tightened around his stick like he was afraid it might slip. Across the rink, Sid caught Mack's eye during a lap and gave him a small, knowing nod. Mack's answering grin was instant, almost giddy, before he remembered himself and schooled his expression into something cooler.
Ever since the Olympics. Sidney had become something more than just a hockey legend to Mack—something closer to kin, a quiet north star in the chaos of the league. Sidney called Mack after every game to debrief his plays, sent him ridiculous memes at 2 AM, and once, when Mack had been benched for a stupid penalty, Sidney had driven to his apartment unannounced with a tub of cookie dough ice cream and a DVD of Miracle. Sidney Crosby, eating ice cream straight from the container in Mack’s kitchen at midnight, had been the most surreal and comforting sight of Mack’s career.
“Macky, stop staring and go say hi,” Will murmured, nudging Mack’s elbow with his glove. “You look like a golden retriever who just heard the word ‘walk.’”
“But what will the team think? I don’t wanna be a traitor before puck drop,” Mack muttered, already shifting his weight toward Pittsburgh’s bench.
“The team knows Sid’s basically your hockey dad at this point,” Will said, rolling his eyes. “Just go tap sticks with him before Coach starts yelling about focus drills.”
Mack didn’t need further convincing. He pushed off toward Pittsburgh’s bench with quick, eager strides, his stick tapping the ice in rhythm with his heartbeat. Sid spotted him coming and met him half way, their sticks clacking together in a practiced, wordless greeting. Up close, Sid’s smile was warm but edged with the usual pre-game intensity—the kind that made Mack stand a little taller, like he was being assessed without being judged.
“Hey, Macky, how was the flight in?” Sid asked, keeping his voice low enough that the cameras wouldn’t pick it up over the arena noise.
“Long as hell, but worth it,” Mack replied, his grin widening as Sid chuckled. The sound was familiar, grounding—like the scrape of skates on fresh ice. Sid’s gloved hand clapped his shoulder briefly, and Mack caught the scent of his cologne beneath the sharp tang of arena chill. “You ready for me to embarrass you out there, old man?”
Sid snorted, squeezing Mack’s shoulder before letting go. “Keep dreaming, kid.” His eyes flickered over Mack’s shoulder—toward Will, who was watching them with amused fondness—then back to Mack’s face. Sid’s expression softened, just for a second. “Will treating you right?”
Mack's grin softened into something more private at Sid's question. "Yeah," he said, glancing back at Will, who was now stretching by the boards with exaggerated nonchalance. "Yeah, he's—" He caught himself before he could gush, clearing his throat. "He's the love of my life.”
Sid’s smile deepened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You sound just like me talking about Geno in ’09,” he said, nudging Mack’s shin guard with his stick.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Mack shot back, but his ears burned pink at the comparison. “Although, Will is way hotter than Geno.”
Sid barked a laugh loud enough that Pittsburgh’s backup goalie turned to stare. “You’re lucky I don’t check you into the boards for that,” he said, but the threat was ruined by the way his glove ruffled Mack’s hair like he was twelve. Mack swatted at him, grinning, but didn’t pull away—too busy soaking up the rare, unguarded affection.
“Alright, Macky, go back to your team, almost time for puck drop,” Sid said, giving Mack’s shoulder one last squeeze before turning away. Mack skated back to the Sharks bench, his chest warm despite the frigid air. Will caught his eye as he approached, mouthing "Hockey dad" with a smirk. Mack flipped him off, but his grin gave him away.
The first two periods passed in a blur of controlled chaos—sharp passes, clean checks, and Mack’s pulse thrumming in his throat every time Sid’s line rotated onto the ice. He’d stolen glances whenever he could, noting the way Sid’s stickhandling had lost none of its precision with age, how his voice carried over the boards even when Mack wasn’t close enough to hear the words.
When Mack was able to steal the puck from Sid halfway through the third, he couldn't help the triumphant laugh that burst out of him, at least until Sid stole it back with a quick stick lift that sent Mack stumbling. "Still got it, huh?" Mack huffed as Sid sped past him, the familiar teasing lilt in Sid's voice making Mack's chest tighten even as he scrambled to recover.
Mack’s joy was short lived. The next shift change brought Pittsburgh’s fourth line onto the ice—heavy hitters with something to prove. Parker Wotherspoon, a six-foot-three wrecking ball of a defenseman, lined up across from Will during a faceoff in Pittsburgh’s zone. Mack, circling behind the play, saw it unfold in slow motion: Wotherspoon’s shoulder dipping low, Will turning to chase the puck along the boards, the sickening crunch of impact as the hit came late and high.
Will crumpled into the boards with a sound that Mack would replay in his head for weeks—not the sharp crack of plexiglass, but the wet, breathless grunt that followed. The arena noise dimmed to a underwater hum as Mack watched Will's glove clutch at his left shoulder, fingers digging into the fabric of his jersey like he was trying to hold his arm on.
Mack was moving before his brain caught up, his skates carving trenches in the ice as he lunged toward the scrum forming around Will. Wotherspoon was already backing away, hands raised in a half-assed apology, but Mack didn't see the gesture—he saw the way Will's knees buckled when he tried to push himself upright, the grimace that twisted his usually calm face into something unfamiliar and wrong.
Mack's gloves hit the ice before his brain registered the movement, his hands already fisting in Wotherspoon's jersey. The roaring in his ears drowned out the whistle, the crowd, even Will's strained "Mack, don't—" as he hauled the defenseman around with a strength he didn't know he had. Wotherspoon's eyes widened—not in fear, but in surprised recognition that this wasn't some routine scrum. Mack's first punch landed wild, more elbow than knuckles, fueled by a white-hot terror that turned his vision red at the edges.
The arena erupted as they crashed into the boards, Mack's knee catching Wotherspoon's thigh in a desperate scramble for leverage. He didn't know how to fight—had never needed to with Will always stepping between him and trouble—but Will wasn’t here to step between them because this asshole had put Will on the fucking ice. Mack's second punch grazed Wotherspoon's jaw as the bigger man ducked, and suddenly Mack's helmet was flying off, knocked loose by a retaliatory shove that sent him stumbling backward.
Teammates swarmed in—some to pull them apart, others to square up with Pittsburgh's fourth line—but Mack barely registered the bodies pressing around them. He lunged again, this time catching Wotherspoon's shoulder pad with a right hook that sent a bolt of pain up his own wrist. "You piece of shit!" The words tore from Mack's throat raw and ragged, nothing like his usual playful chirps. "Late hit and you fucking know it!"
Wotherspoon shoved back, his gloves still half-on in that hockey fight hesitation, but Mack didn't care about the rules anymore. He grabbed the defenseman's collar with one hand, the other cocked back for another swing. “I’m gonna fucking kill you,” Mack snarled, voice cracking with something between rage and panic. The words tasted metallic, like blood from where he'd bitten his tongue.
Time blurred as Mack kept throughing punches and screaming obscenities. His vision narrowed to Wotherspoon's sneering face—the way he barely flinched when Mack's fist connected, like he was used to absorbing hits from smaller, angrier men. Mack didn't care. He swung again, his knuckles catching the edge of Wotherspoon's visor, sending a shockwave of pain up his arm. Somewhere behind him, his team was shouting his name, but the sound was muffled, drowned out by the blood roaring in Mack's ears.
And then, Mack was being yanked away by the back of his jersey. At first Mack thought it was a ref—until Sid’s familiar glove curled around his shoulder pad, firm as an anchor. “Mack. Enough.” Sid’s voice cut through the roaring in Mack’s ears, low and steady—the same tone he’d used when Mack was in Milan and too wired after a bad turnover. But Mack wasn’t Milan, and this wasn’t a bad turnover. This was Will crumpling against the boards, breathless and hurt, and Sid’s teammate had caused it.
Mack whirled around to face Sidney, “I don’t wanna fucking hear it from you right now!” Mack snapped, chest heaving as Sid’s grip tightened on his jersey—not restraining, but grounding. The touch only made it worse. “What the fuck kind of captain are you if you let your guys pull shit like that?” Mack jerked backward, twisting free of Sid’s hold with a snarl.
“Macky—” Sid tried.
“No! Fuck off! Toff would bench me for the rest of the season if I pulled that shit!” Mack shoved Sid’s glove away, his voice cracking on the last word. The realization hit Sid’s face like a slap—eyes widening, mouth tightening—but Mack was already turning back toward the scrum, his blood still roaring in his ears.
Mack spent the remaining six minutes of the game either in the sin bin or on the bench, his fingers gripping the boards so tight his knuckles went white. He barely registered the final buzzer.
Mack didn’t even bother stripping off his gear, he went straight to the training room where he knew Will would be—the adrenaline still buzzing through him like live wires, his knuckles throbbing dully beneath his taped-up gloves. The sight of Will sitting on the exam table, wincing as the team doctor adjusted his sling, sent a fresh wave of nausea through Mack’s gut.
“Oh my god, babe—” Mack choked out, already crossing the room in two strides. His gloves hit the floor with dull thuds as he reached for Will’s face, cradling his jaw with trembling hands. Will’s left arm was tucked tight against his chest in a sling, the shoulder visibly swollen beneath his sweat-damp jersey. Mack’s breath hitched at the darkening bruise already blooming along Will’s collarbone. “Fuck, fuck, is it—?”
Will winced as Mack's fingers brushed the edge of his bruise, but managed a weak smile. "It's just a separated shoulder, Macky. Not my first rodeo." His voice was strained but steady, the same calm tone he used when Mack was spiraling after a bad game. Mack's hands shook against Will's cheeks as he craddled his face, his breath coming in short bursts like he'd just finished a penalty kill.
The doctor cleared his throat pointedly, and Mack reluctantly stepped back, though his fingers lingered on Will’s wrist like he was afraid to let go completely. "Two to three weeks," the doc said, scribbling something on his clipboard. "No skating until the swelling goes down. Keep the sling on." Mack barely heard him—his eyes were locked on the way Will’s jaw tightened when he shifted his weight, the subtle flinch he tried to hide.
The doctor left with a final warning about ice packs, and the second the door clicked shut, Mack’s hands were back on Will—adjusting the sling strap where it dug into his neck, smoothing his thumb over the edge of the bruise like he could erase it by touch alone. His fingers were shaking, his breaths still uneven, and Will caught his wrist gently. "Hey. Look at me." Mack’s gaze snapped up, wild and unfocused. "I’m okay," Will said slowly, squeezing Mack’s pulse point. "Just bruised. Not even concussed. Don’t waste your tears.”
Mack wasn’t even aware he was crying until, Will’s good hand came up to swipe at his cheek, catching a tear Mack hadn’t felt fall. “Fuck, I’m supposed to be the one comforting you,” Mack muttered, but his voice broke halfway through, and suddenly he was folding forward, forehead pressing against Will’s uninjured shoulder like a puppet with its strings cut. Will’s fingers carded through his sweat-damp hair, grounding and familiar, and Mack inhaled shakily, breathing in the scent of Will’s post-game sweat mixed with the sharp antiseptic of the training room.
“Oh my god, baby, your hands,” Will murmured, pulling back to examine Mack’s bruised knuckles. He traced the split skin with careful fingers, his brow furrowing. “What did you do?”
Mack clenched his fists instinctively, then hissed as the movement sent fresh pain shooting up his wrists. "Nothing," he muttered, but the lie was transparent—his knuckles were already purpling, the skin split from where he'd connected with Wotherspoon's visor. Will's fingers lingered over the injuries, his touch feather-light, but Mack still flinched. "He deserved worse," Mack added, his voice rough.
Will exhaled through his nose, his thumb still pressed gently against Mack's swollen knuckles. "You've never fought anyone in your life," he said quietly, not looking up. "Not even in juniors. Did you get into your first fight for me?"
Mack swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. "Yeah," he rasped, flexing his fingers against Will’s palm. The admission hung between them—raw and unvarnished—and Will’s grip tightened fractionally. “He hurt you, I couldn’t let that slide. I should’ve killed him.”
“Is it fucked I think that’s kinda romantic?” Will teased, pressing his lips to Mack’s bruised knuckles before letting go. His smile was soft, but his eyes were sharp—watching the way Mack’s jaw clenched, the restless twitch of his fingers against his thigh.
“So, how’d Sid take you roughing up one of his guys?” Will asked as they made their way back to the now empty locker room.
The mention of Sid’s name sent a fresh wave of anger crashing through Mack’s chest. He flexed his injured hand, the sting grounding him for a second. “I don’t give a fuck how he feels about it,” Mack snapped, tossing his skates into his bag.
Will’s eyebrows shot up at Mack’s tone, but he didn’t push—just watched silently as Mack yanked his jersey over his head with more force than necessary, the fabric catching on his elbows in his haste. The locker room was eerily quiet, most of the team already showered and gone, leaving only the hum of the overhead lights and the distant clatter of equipment managers packing up. Mack’s hands shook as he stuffed his gear into his bag, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, like his body was still running on fight-or-flight adrenaline.
"Give me that," Mack muttered, snatching Will's equipment bag off the bench before Will could reach for it with his good hand.
“Baby, I got it—” Will protested as Mack swung both their equipment bags over his shoulder with a grunt.
The parking garage was deserted except for the echo of their footsteps on concrete. Mack kept pace with Will, hovering just close enough to catch him if he stumbled, despite the fact that Will’s legs worked perfectly fine. The sling was the only thing slowing him down, but Mack acted like he was made of glass—adjusting the strap when it slipped, pressing the elevator button before Will could lift a finger.
The garage lights flickered overhead as they rounded the corner toward Will’s SUV, casting long shadows across the concrete. Mack’s grip tightened on the straps of their equipment bags—then froze. A familiar silhouette leaned against the driver’s side door, arms crossed, head tilted down like he’d been waiting awhile.
“Mack—”
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Mack spat before Sid could even lift his head. The words came out sharper than intended, laced with venom that made Will flinch beside him. Sidney straightened slowly, his expression unreadable in the flickering garage lights—but Mack didn’t need to see his face to know what it looked like. That same quiet concern, that same patient disappointment. It made Mack’s blood boil.
“I wanted to check on Will and talk to you,” Sid said quietly, pushing off the car door. His voice was measured—too measured—the way he sounded in interviews after a bad loss. His face was carefully neutral, but Mack noticed the way Sid's fingers flexed against his folded arms like he was holding himself back from reaching out. The sight made Mack's stomach twist.
“What? Wanted to rub salt in the wound? The actual fucking wound, because yeah, Will has aa god damn separated shoulder, Sid—because of your god damn player,” Mack snapped, stepping forward like he was ready to square up all over again. His hands curled into fists at his sides, the knuckles throbbing where the skin had split against Wotherspoon’s visor. The pain grounded him—sharp, clean—better than the wildfire roar in his chest.
“Woah, Mack, Sid wasn’t the one who hit me,” Will interjected, his hand landing lightly on Mack’s shoulder—part restraint, part reassurance. Mack shrugged him off without thinking, too focused on the way Sid’s jaw tightened at the accusation.
“No, he’s just the god damn captain who lets his guys pull that shit,” Mack snarled, “You’re supposed to control your fucking team, Sid.” The words landed like a slap—Sid’s posture stiffened, his shoulders drawing up just enough that Mack knew he’d hit a nerve.
Sid took the blow without flinching, his hands still at his sides—no fists, no defenses. Just that same steady, patient stance that made Mack want to scream. "You're right," Sid said quietly. "I should've reined him in. But Mack, I don’t support dirty play, my team know that." His voice was calm, but there was something raw under it, something Mack had never heard directed at him before: hurt.
“Really? They know that? Did that asshole ‘know that’ when he rammed Will into the boards?” Mack’s voice cracked, the words jagged as his split knuckles. He took another step forward, “would he have done that shit if he knew that his captain wouldn’t allow it? No, so clearly someone gave him that idea. Maybe his fucking captain.”
“Mack, I’m sorry—”
Sid’s apology hung in the cold garage air like a punch Mack hadn’t seen coming. He opened his mouth—to spit back something vicious, something that would make Sid flinch—but Will’s hand clamped down on his elbow, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
“Mack, I gotta ice my shoulder,” Will murmured, his grip tightening subtly—a silent plea beneath the words. Mack’s breath hitched, the fight draining out of him as he glanced at the sling, the bruise peeking out from beneath Will’s collar. Anger faded to concern, sharp and immediate.
Will shot sid a sad smile over Mack’s shoulder as he tugged him toward the car. Sid nodded once—understanding, resigned—and stepped aside to let them pass. Mack didn’t look at him as he wrenched the car door open, tossing their bags into the backseat with too much force. The silence in the SUV was thick enough to choke on, broken only by the click of Will’s seatbelt and the engine rumbling to life.
“How’s your shoulder?” Mack asked as they pulled out of the garage, his voice rough from yelling. He kept his eyes fixed on the road, fingers drumming against the steering wheel in a jagged rhythm.
“No worse than it was five minutes ago,” Will said, shifting carefully in his seat. The sling strap dug into his neck when he leaned forward, and Mack’s fingers twitched toward it before forcing himself to grip the wheel tighter. The city lights blurred past the windshield, streaks of neon against black asphalt.
“Are you okay, Macky?” Will asked softly, watching Mack’s white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. The question wasn’t about his hands, or even the fight—it was about the way Mack’s jaw kept clenching, the tremor in his fingers that hadn’t stopped since the hit.
“Of course I am, I’m not the one on the IR,” Mack snapped—then immediately winced at his own tone. “Sorry, babe. I’m just—fuck.” His hands flexed around the steering wheel, the split skin of his knuckles stretching painfully. He exhaled through his nose, forcing his fingers to relax. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Hey, honey, it’s okay,” Will murmured, reaching across the console to press his palm against Mack’s thigh. His touch was warm and grounding, fingers curling gently into the tense muscle. Mack inhaled sharply, his grip on the wheel loosening slightly—enough that Will could see the crescent-shaped indents his nails had left in the leather. “You’re allowed to be upset.”
The hotel room door clicked shut behind them with finality, and Mack immediately kicked off his shoes with too much force, sending them skidding across the carpet. "Sit," he ordered, pointing at the bed like Will was a misbehaving puppy instead of a grown man with a minor injury. Will rolled his eyes but obeyed, easing himself onto the edge of the mattress with only a slight wince.
Mack's hands moved with frantic precision—adjusting pillows behind Will's back, smoothing the hotel blanket with sharp tugs, arranging the ice pack just so over Will's sling. His fingers trembled as he fussed with the strap, loosening it where it dug into Will's neck, then tightening it again like he couldn't decide which was worse—the bruising pressure or the risk of the sling slipping.
"Babe," Will said softly, catching Mack's wrist mid-adjustment. "The sling's fine."
“Right, I know, I’m sorry,” Mack muttered, but his hands didn’t stop moving—fluffing a pillow that didn’t need fluffing, smoothing the blanket that was already wrinkle-free. He was halfway to rearranging the entire minibar when Will caught his elbow with a gentle tug. “I just want something to do with my hands,” Mack admitted, voice cracking as his fingers twisted the hem of his shirt.
“If you need something to do you could get into this bed with me and cuddle,” Will said, patting the empty space beside him with his good hand.
I don’t wanna hurt your arm," Mack mumbled, hovering at the edge of the bed like a nervous shadow.
“You’re gonna hurt my feelings if you keep acting like I’m made of glass,” Will muttered, hooking his fingers into Mack’s belt loop and tugging. Mack let himself be pulled forward until his knees hit the mattress, his hands hovering uncertainly over Will’s sling like he was mapping out safe zones. “Jesus, Macky, just—here.” Will guided Mack’s palm to his good shoulder, pressing it down firmly. “See? Not gonna break.”
“I know, I know,” Mack exhaled, letting Will guide him onto the mattress with stiff reluctance. His fingers twitched against Will’s good shoulder like he was resisting the urge to check for injuries there too. The bed dipped under their combined weight, and Mack immediately curled onto his side, facing Will with the intensity of a storm warning. “I just—fuck. I can’t stop seeing it. The way you hit the boards. The way you didn’t get up right away.” His voice fractured on the last word, raw as his knuckles.
Will’s thumb traced the ridge of Mack’s collarbone through his shirt, slow and deliberate. "I got up," he murmured. "I always will”
“I’m just so angry,” Mack confessed into the space between them, his fingers twisting the sheets. The admission felt too small for the wildfire in his chest. “Not just at Wotherspoon—at Sid, at myself, at the whole fucking game.” His voice cracked, the sound swallowed by the hum of the hotel AC. Will’s thumb stilled against his collarbone, waiting.
“I know, but anger isn’t gonna fix my shoulder.” Will’s fingers brushed Mack’s cheek, catching a tear Mack hadn’t realized had fallen. “And it’s not gonna fix whatever’s happening between you and Sid.”
Mack's breath hitched at the mention of Sid's name, his fingers digging into the sheets. "Someone needs to be held accountable," he muttered, but the fight had drained from his voice, leaving only exhaustion.
The notification chime from Will’s phone cut through the silence like a skate blade on fresh ice. Mack’s fingers twitched against Will’s thigh where they’d been resting—not gripping, not anymore, just anchoring himself—as Will reached for his phone with his good hand. The screen illuminated his face in blue tones, highlighting the exhaustion around his eyes.
When Will realized it was a text from Geno he was grateful Mack’s eyes were closed—because seeing Evgeni Malkin’s name pop up would’ve sent Mack spiraling again.
Geno — Sid wants to know if Mack okay. He won’t stop pacing in hotel room. Says he never seen Mack like that before. But refuses to text Mack because ‘space.’
Will’s thumb hovered over the screen, hesitating. Mack’s breathing had finally evened out beside him, his fingers slack against the sheets—but Will knew better than to think he was asleep. The tension in his shoulders was still coiled tight, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.
Will — Mack’s fine physically. Mentally? Not so much. He’s spiraling. He wants someone to blame and Sid’s the easiest target right now.
Geno — Understand. Sid same. Says Mack like son to him. Never seen him like this. Says Mack looked at him like stranger.
Will — I think all Mack saw was Pittsburgh’s captain standing between him and Wotherspoon. Not Sid. Not his mentor. Just the guy who lets his players take cheap shots.
Geno — Sid about to rip hair out. Is worried because Mack usually talks to him when upset. Now Mack won’t even look at him. No support system.
Will — I tried to bring up the topic earlier. Mack just snapped again. He’s not ready to hear Sid’s side yet.
Geno — Not good idea for Mack to get on plane tomorrow still angry. Will make it worse. Need to fix before leave Pittsburgh.
Will — So what do we do? I can’t force Mack to talk to Sid. He’s like a feral cat right now—hissing if I even mention his name.
Geno — Meet tomorrow morning. Penguins practice facility. I arrange private ice time. No teammates, no pressure. Just talk.
Will — I’ll get him there
Geno — Good, Sidney is not pretty when he worries.
Will shut his phone off with a quiet click, exhaling through his nose as he glanced at Mack’s rigid form beside him. The dim hotel light carved shadows under Mack’s clenched jaw, his fingers still twitching intermittently against the sheets like live wires. Will hesitated—then reached over, pressing his palm flat against Mack’s sternum, feeling the rapid-fire thrum of his heartbeat beneath his fingertips.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mack woke up to Will’s fingers carding through his hair, the touch feather-light and grounding. Morning light filtered through the hotel curtains, casting stripes of gold across the rumpled sheets.
“Morning, baby,” Will murmured as Mack blinked awake, his voice thick with sleep but laced with love.
“Why are you up? It’s too early?” Mack mumbled into the pillow, voice rough with sleep. He squinted against the sunlight, instinctively curling closer to Will’s warmth—until his brain caught up with the sight of Will’s sling, and he jerked upright like he’d been electrocuted. “Fuck, your shoulder—”
“Still attached,” Will said dryly, catching Mack’s flailing hand with his good one. “Relax, Macky. I’m up because we have plans.”
Mack frowned, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Plans?" The word came out hoarse, his throat still raw from last night's shouting.
“Yup,” Will said, shifting carefully to sit upright. The sling strap dug into his neck, but he ignored it, watching Mack’s confusion deepen. “But, I’m not telling you where we’re going. You gotta trust me.”
They were dressed and ready half an hour later, Mack hovering near the door while Will struggled to tie his shoes one-handed. Mack knelt immediately—too fast—his fingers brushing Will’s away to tie the laces himself. “Jesus, babe, just ask for help,” Mack muttered, but his hands were gentle as he double-knotted the sneakers.
The Uber pulled up to the practice facility just as Mack was finishing his third protein bar of the morning—nerves gnawing at his stomach like a dull blade. The building loomed ahead, all sleek glass and steel, the Penguins logo catching the morning sun in a way that made Mack’s throat tighten. He crumpled the wrapper in his fist. "Why the fuck are we at practice Arena on an off-day?"
“Do you trust me?” Will asked, his fingers brushing Mack’s wrist as they stood in the empty parking lot. The morning air was sharp with the bite of early winter, their breaths puffing out in faint clouds. Mack’s pulse jumped under Will’s touch—too fast, too uneven—but he didn’t pull away.
“Of course, but—”
“Then trust me,” Will said leading them to the door Mack had been staring at, the one with the Penguins logo mocking him. The facility was empty, eerily silent except for the echo of their footsteps. Mack’s pulse hammered in his throat as they pushed through the doors into the rink area—the cold hit him first, the familiar scent of ice and Zamboni fumes wrapping around him like a ghost.
“Will, you aren’t allowed to skate with your shoulder—” Mack’s protest died in his throat as the arena lights flickered on, illuminating the lone figure standing at center ice. Sid’s shadow stretched long across the fresh sheet, his stick resting lightly against his thighs, his stance familiar and achingly patient. Mack recoiled like he’d been slapped, his boots scraping against the concrete as he backpedaled. “No. Fuck no.”
“Baby, please.” Will caught Mack’s wrist before he could bolt, his grip firm but not restraining—just anchoring. Mack’s pulse hammered against Will’s fingers, wild as a trapped bird. Sid hadn’t moved from center ice, his silhouette stark under the arena lights, his gloves tucked under his arm like he’d been waiting for hours.
"You knew he would be here? How could you ever want to see him again after what he did?" Mack said.
“Just ten minutes,” Will murmured, pressing his forehead to Mack’s temple. “For me.”
“You’re lucky I love you,” Mack growled under his breath, but his fingers twined with Will’s as they stepped onto the bench. “Ten minutes, and don’t expect me to fucking apologize.”
“I’m not expecting anything,” Will murmured, pressing a kiss to Mack’s bruised knuckles before nudging him forward. With that Will and Geno left the ice, disappearing through the bench doors with a quiet click that echoed louder than it should have. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until Sid broke it with the scrape of his skate against fresh ice. He didn’t approach—just pushed a puck toward Mack with deliberate slowness, the sound of rubber on ice unbearably loud in the empty arena.
Mack laced up the spare skates sitting by the bench with jerky, deliberate movements—refusing to acknowledge Sid’s presence beyond the puck sliding toward his feet. The rubber slid to a stop against his blade with a quiet tap. He exhaled sharply through his nose before grabbing a stick and passing it back.
The puck slid between them in slow arcs, a mechanical rhythm filling the icy silence. Mack kept his gaze locked on the black rubber instead of Sid’s face, his passes sharp and precise—no wasted movement, nothing that could be mistaken for hesitation. Sid mirrored him, his own motions fluid and measured, the way he handled everything: practiced, patient, infuriating.
“Would you just fucking say something?” Mack snapped, sending the puck harder than necessary—it ricocheted off Sid’s stick blade with a sharp crack. The sound echoed through the empty rink, bouncing off the rafters like a gunshot. Mack’s chest heaved, his breath fogging in the cold air between them. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it.
“I was planning on letting you talk first,” Sid said quietly, tapping the puck back with deliberate softness—too soft, like he was handling something fragile. His gaze flicked up for the first time, eyes shadowed under his cap brim but unmistakably raw.
The puck slid back toward Mack, its path slower this time—deliberate, like Sid was giving him time to breathe. Mack caught it hard against his blade, the impact reverberating up his arms. "There's nothing to talk about," he bit out, flicking the puck away with too much force. It careened off the boards with a hollow thud.
“Mack you know that isn’t true,” Sid said, catching the next puck mid-air with his glove before dropping it between them. His voice was steady, but his glove hand flexed—subtle tension Mack recognized from a thousand post-game press conferences where Sid had swallowed frustration. “You’re pissed at me. Fine. Be pissed. But don’t pretend there’s nothing to say.”
Mack’s stick clattered to the ice as he wrenched his gloves off, fingers curling into fists. "Fine. You wanna talk? Let’s talk about how your fucking teammate nearly ended Will’s season with a dirty hit—and you just stood there." His voice cracked on the last word, raw as the windburn on his cheeks. Sid didn’t flinch, just bent to pick up Mack’s stick with careful hands, offering it back handle-first like a peace treaty.
“I agree, the hit that Wotherspoon made was dirty, and I don’t agree with it,” Sid said, holding Mack’s stick out between them, his voice low but firm. “But Mack, you know damn well I would never condone that kind of play.” His fingers tightened around the shaft of the stick, not pushing it forward, just holding it there—waiting. The silence stretched, the cold air pressing in around them like a third presence.
Mack stared at the stick like it was a snake about to strike. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, the cold air burning his lungs with each ragged inhale. "No, I don’t know that," he spat, but his fingers twitched toward the stick anyway. "Because your player did it, Sid. And you—" His voice hitched, his gaze flicking to where Will and Geno had disappeared. "You tried to stop me from going after him. Why the fuck would you do that?”
Sid exhaled sharply, his breath misting in the cold air between them. He didn’t drop the stick, didn’t retreat—just stood there, solid as the boards Mack wanted to slam him into. “Because you were about to get yourself suspended,” Sid said, quiet but unwavering. “Or worse. If I hadn’t stepped in, you would’ve taken a major penalty, maybe even—”
“Oh don’t give me some Sidney Crosby dad lecture, that’s not why you did it. You did it because you were Sidney Crosby team captian and you didn’t want one of your players getting rocked,” Mack snapped, kicking the puck away with his skate blade. The rubber smacked into the boards with a hollow thud that ricocheted through the empty arena. His hands flexed at his sides, aching from the fight—from holding back everything he wanted to say since the hit. “And you know what? Fine. But don’t pretend it was about protecting me.”
Sid’s jaw clenched—just once, barely noticeable—but Mack saw it. Saw the way his shoulders tightened under his Penguins hoodie, the way his grip shifted on his stick like he was considering dropping it entirely. When Sid spoke again, his voice was still calm. "You think I give a damn about protecting some fourth-liner over you?" The question hung between them, sharp as skate blades. "I pulled you off because I watched your eyes go blank, Mack. You weren't seeing anything but blood."
Mack recoiled like Sid had struck him. The truth of it—the memory of that white-hot rage blinding him—lodged like a puck to the ribs. His hands shook where they hovered between them, fingers twitching toward the stick Sid still held out. "And so what if I was seeing blood? What did you want me to do? Just stand there while guy who hurt my fucking boyfriend skated away?"
Sid exhaled sharply through his nose, his breath misting in the frigid air between them. His grip on Mack’s stick tightened—not threatening, but grounding, like he was anchoring himself against the storm in Mack’s eyes. “No,” he said quietly. “But, there’s a difference between a scrum, and what you were about to do. You weren’t thinking, kid.”
“I was thinking! I was thinking he hurt Will!” Mack’s voice shattered the quiet of the rink, raw and ragged. His fingers finally closed around the stick Sid offered, but instead of taking it, he shoved it back hard—not enough to make Sid stumble, just enough to put distance between them. The movement sent a fresh ache through his bruised knuckles, a pain he welcomed like penance. “You don’t get it. You’ve never had someone—” His throat closed around the rest, the words too fragile to voice.
Sid’s expression fractured—just for a second—before he schooled it back into that infuriatingly calm mask. He let the stick drop to the ice between them with a quiet clatter. “You think I don’t understand?” His voice was softer now, fraying at the edges. “Mack, I watched Geno take hits that made me want to put guys through the glass. I know better than anyone.”
“Yeah, but—” Mack started before Sid gentley cut him off.
“I can still remember the first major injury Geno got after we had made things official,” Sid said, tracing idle circles on the ice with his blade—not meeting Mack’s eyes, giving him space to breathe. “We were playing the Oilers. Some rookie defenseman wanted to prove something, Geno didn’t even have the puck.” His voice hitched almost imperceptibly. “He hit the boards wrong. I saw his head snap back before he crumpled. Just—just dropped. Found out later it was broken collarbone and a grade three concussion.” Sid’s knuckles whitened around his stick. “I went after that kid so fast the refs barely caught me. Got suspended three games.”
Mack's breath caught. The image of cool, calm, collected, Sidney Crosby losing control—really losing control—hit him like a puck to the ribs. He stared at Sid's hands where they gripped his stick, remembering the way his own had trembled with adrenaline-fueled fury. "But you’re so… so fucking composed all the time," he muttered, the fight bleeding out of his voice.
Sid’s mouth curved into a humorless smile as he tapped his stick against the ice. “Not always.” He lifted his head, finally meeting Mack’s gaze. “I learned the hard way that losing control doesn’t fix anything. It just means you’re not there when they need you most.” The quiet ache in his voice made Mack’s throat tighten. “Seeing Geno like that killed me, Mack. Just like I know this is killing you.”
“It is, god it fucking is,” Mack choked out, his fingers clenching and unclenching around nothing. The confession ripped out of him like a loose puck—raw and unexpected. His knees wobbled suddenly, the adrenaline crash hitting him full force. Sid lunged forward just as Mack’s legs gave out, catching him by the elbows. The contact burned—too warm, too real—and Mack flinched like Sid’s hands were branding irons. “Don’t—“
“It’s okay Mack,” Sid murmured, his grip firm but not restraining—just steadying, the way he’d done a hundred times before when Mack was a rookie learning to balance on fresh blades. “I’ve got you.” Mack shuddered against him, his breath coming in ragged bursts that fogged the air between them. For a heartbeat, he resisted—muscles taut, shoulders rigid—before sagging into Sid’s hold with a broken noise that wasn’t quite a sob. Sid’s arms came up around him automatically, one hand cradling the back of Mack’s head like he was something precious.
“I’m scared,” Mack choked out against Sid’s shoulder, the words muffled by the fabric of his hoodie. His fingers twisted into the material, clinging like Sid was the only thing keeping him upright. “I’ve never been that scared before.”
Sid exhaled shakily, his breath warm against Mack's temple. "I know," he murmured, his hand smoothing down the back of Mack's jersey like he was gentling a spooked horse. "First time's the worst." Mack's shoulders hitched under his palms, and Sid tightened his grip—just enough to ground him. "You think you're prepared until it happens.”
“He got up this time, but what about next time?” Mack’s voice was barely audible, raw with a fear that went deeper than hockey. His fingers trembled where they clutched at Sid’s hoodie, knuckles brushing the familiar Penguins logo like it was something foreign now. “What if—what if he doesn’t get up?”
Sid’s arms tightened around Mack, his breath warm against the crown of Mack’s head. “Then you’ll be there,” he said, voice steady despite the way his own fingers trembled slightly against Mack’s back. “Just like you were this time. Just like I was for Geno.” He pulled back just enough to meet Mack’s gaze, his eyes dark with understanding. “But losing your shit on the ice doesn’t help him, kid. It just means you’re not thinking straight when he needs you most.”
“Oh my god, I did everything wrong,” Mack whispered, his forehead dropping against Sid’s shoulder again. The weight of his outburst—the fight, the accusations, the way he’d shoved Sid—crashed over him all at once. His hands shook where they gripped Sid’s sleeves. “I shouldn’t have said those things to you. I shouldn’t have—”
Sid’s hand came up to cradle the back of Mack’s head, fingers threading through his sweat-damp hair. “Hey,” he murmured, voice rough with something that wasn’t quite reproach. “You were scared. I get it.” Mack shuddered against him, his breath hot and uneven against Sid’s collarbone. The admission—that Sid understood, that he wasn’t angry—lodged in Mack’s chest like a sob he couldn’t release.
“Why are you being so nice to me? I was awful to you.” Mack’s voice cracked against Sid’s shoulder, muffled by the fabric. His fingers tightened in Sid’s hoodie like he was afraid to let go. “I pushed you. I yelled—I said horrible shit—”
Sid’s chuckle vibrated against Mack’s temple, unexpected and warm. “Because I’ve been where you are,” he said, fingers still carding gently through Mack’s hair. “First time Geno got hurt after we got together, I broke a water bottle in the locker room so hard it left a dent. Nearly took a reporter’s head off in the post-game presser too.” He pulled back just enough to meet Mack’s red-rimmed eyes, his thumbs brushing away tears Mack hadn’t realized had fallen. “Difference is, I didn’t have someone to pull me back. You do.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mack choked out, his forehead still pressed against Sid’s shoulder. The words tasted like blood and salt—too raw, too honest. His fingers unclenched from Sid’s hoodie slowly, as if afraid the contact would vanish if he let go. “I acted like you were the one who hurt him. I didn’t—I couldn’t see past it.”
Sid’s hands framed Mack’s face gently, forcing him to meet his steady gaze. “Look at me,” he murmured, thumbs brushing away the dampness under Mack’s eyes. “It’s okay. Your heart was in the right place—just got lost on the way.” Mack shuddered, leaning into the touch like a kid seeking comfort after a nightmare.
“Does it— does it get easier, seeing him hurt?” Mack whispered, his voice cracking around the edges like thin ice. He didn’t pull away from Sid’s grip, but his fingers dug into Sid’s sleeves like he was bracing for impact. Sid exhaled slowly, his breath warm against Mack’s temple as he considered the question.
“I won’t lie to you—no,” Sid said, his thumb brushing away a tear that streaked down Mack’s cheek. His voice was quiet, the kind of honesty that came from years of swallowing the same fear. “It doesn’t get easier. But you learn how to carry it.” Mack’s breath hitched, his fingers twisting into the fabric of Sid’s hoodie like he was anchoring himself. Sid didn’t pull away. “You learn how to be there for him after instead of losing yourself in the moment.”
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant hum of the Zamboni in the hallway. Mack swallowed hard, his throat dry from the cold air and unshed tears. Sid’s hands were still cupping his face, steady as the ice beneath their skates. "I don’t know how to do that," Mack admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Of course you don’t,” Sid murmured, letting his hands slide down to grip Mack’s shoulders. His thumbs pressed gently against the tense muscle there, grounding him. “You think I knew how to handle it the first time? I nearly got suspended for throttling a kid who wasn’t even legal drinking age.” His mouth quirked at the memory, the lines around his eyes softening. “But you learn. And you have Will—just like I have Geno. That’s the point.”
They stayed like that awhile longer, Sid's hands resting heavy on Mack's shoulders—not restraining, just reminding him he wasn't alone. The chill of the rink seeped into Mack's bones, but Sid's grip was warm through his jersey, steadying him against the aftershocks of his breakdown. When Mack finally pulled back, scrubbing a shaky hand over his face, Sid handed him his discarded stick without comment. The simple gesture—offering him back the tools of their trade—felt like absolution.
“You feel any better?” Sid asked quietly, nudging Mack’s skate blade with his own—casual contact, nothing intrusive. Mack flexed his fingers around his stick, the familiar grip grounding him. His pulse had slowed to something resembling normal, though his ribs still ached from the force of his own breathing.
Mack exhaled slowly, watching his breath curl into the frigid air like smoke. His fingers tightened around the stick Sid had handed back—solid, familiar—but his grip lacked its usual precision. "I’m better," he muttered, though the words tasted like a half-truth. His gaze flicked toward the bench doors where Will and Geno had disappeared, then back to Sid’s patient expression. "Still feel like shit for how I acted."
Sid snorted softly, nudging Mack's skate again—just a light tap of blade against blade. "Good," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Means you're not a sociopath."
“You’re supposed to make me feel better, not worse,” Mack grumbled, but the tension in his shoulders had eased slightly. He rolled his stick in his hands, the familiar weight a small comfort. The silence stretched again, less charged this time, until Sid cleared his throat.
Sid shifted his weight, the scrape of his blades cutting through the quiet. "Listen," he said, voice low but carrying in the empty rink. "You wanna make it up to me? Stop acting like I'm gonna hold this against you." He tapped Mack's stick with his own—light, deliberate. "You're allowed to fuck up, kid. Even with me."
Mack opened his mouth—probably to argue—then snapped it shut when Sid raised an eyebrow at him. The look was so familiar, so Sid, that something in Mack’s chest twisted. He exhaled sharply through his nose, his breath fogging between them. "Yeah, okay," he muttered, toeing the puck between his skates. "Still. I shouldn’t have shoved you."
“Buddy, if you think that little love tap hurts worse than some of the shit I’ve taken from Marcus Foligno, you’re dreaming.” Sid’s smirk was small but genuine. “Now, you’ve got a plane to catch—and Will’s probably pacing holes in the floor waiting for you.”
Mack snorted, rubbing his sleeve across his face—too roughly, like he was trying to scrub away more than just tear tracks. "He better not be pacing with that shoulder," he muttered, but there was no heat in it. His hands flexed around his stick, the grip familiar but his fingers still shaky with residual adrenaline.
“Well then you better go stop him,” Sid said, nudging Mack toward the bench with a gentle push. His voice was lighter now, teasing—the same tone he used when Mack was a rookie who’d forgotten to tie his skates properly. Mack hesitated, his blades scraping against the ice as he glanced back at Sid. The overhead lights cast sharp shadows across Sid’s face, but his expression was open, patient.
“Thank you,” Mack said abruptly, the words too loud in the quiet of the rink. He didn’t elaborate—couldn’t—but Sid’s answering nod said he understood anyway.
When Mack entered the hallway outside the rink, Will was slumped against the wall—not pacing, thankfully—with his injured arm cradled carefully against his chest. Geno stood beside him, speaking in low, rapid Russian that cut off abruptly when Mack’s skate guards scraped against the concrete floor. Will’s head snapped up so fast Mack winced in sympathy.
“So?” Will pushed off the wall, wincing slightly as his shoulder protested the movement. His eyes darted over Mack’s face—red-rimmed but calmer now—before flicking toward the rink doors behind him. “Are you...?”
Mack caught Will’s wrist before he could gesture toward the rink, his fingers sliding down to intertwine with Will’s. "Yeah," he said roughly, squeezing once. The warmth of Will’s skin against his own was a grounding counterpoint to the lingering chill from the ice. "We're great. But you won’t be if you don’t stop moving that shoulder." His thumb brushed the inside of Will’s wrist—a silent apology, a promise.
The door opened behind him and Sidney stepped out, his skates swapped for trainers, his hoodie zipped up to his chin. He looked tired but relaxed—more like the Sid Mack remembered from late nights at the Olympics than the man Mack had screamed at hours ago.
“Mishka?” Geno’s voice cut through the hallway’s stale air, his eyebrows raised at Sid in silent question. “Good now, yes? You give dad talk?“
“Yes, honey, I gave the dad talk,” Sid sighed, rubbing his temple with the heel of his hand—exasperated but fond in that particular way only Geno could pull from him. The fluorescent lights overhead caught the exhaustion in the lines around his eyes, but his mouth curved slightly when Geno slung an arm around his shoulders, pressing a loud kiss to his temple.
“Ew,” Mack muttered automatically, wrinkling his nose at Geno’s theatrical smacking noises against Sid’s temple. “It’s like when your parents kiss in front of you.” His grip tightened reflexively around Will’s fingers—anchoring himself in the warmth of Will’s palm against his own, the steady pulse under his thumb. The familiar banter settled something in his chest, loosening the last of the tension coiled between his ribs.
“Now, you boys go catch your flight,” Geno said, waving them off with a grin. His arm was still slung over Sid’s shoulders like a human seatbelt. “And Mack? Next time you yell at my husband, I yell at you.” The threat was undercut by the way he ruffled Mack’s hair as he passed, rough but affectionate, before steering Sid toward the parking lot exit.