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The first thing Macklin notices is the sound.
Not the crowd, that’s a roar, a wave, a living thing crashing against the glass, but the sharp, clean *ping* of the puck hitting the inside of the post before it slides in.
It’s a perfect sound.
For half a second he doesn’t move.
Then the arena in Milan explodes.
And suddenly his teammates are crashing into him, helmets knocking against his, gloves grabbing at his shoulders. Someone is yelling his name and the Canadian section of the crowd is a blur of red and white flags.
His first Olympic game.
His first Olympic goal.
And it’s the first goal for Team Canada at the Milano Cortina 2026 Games.
He lets himself smile, big and disbelieving and a little breathless, as they shove him toward the boards. Cameras flash. The announcer calls his name in Italian and English, the syllables rolling over the speakers.
“Macklin Celebrini!”
He thinks distantly that he should look composed. Professional. Calm.
Instead, he looks like a nineteen-year-old who just scored the biggest goal of his life.
Because that’s exactly what he is.
---
Later, in the locker room, it’s louder in a different way.
Music blasts from someone’s speaker. Sticks clatter against the floor. Someone dumps half a water bottle over his head and yells, “First one’s yours, rook!”
Mack just laughs.
He feels light. Electric. Like he hasn’t quite landed back in his body yet.
When the media finally clears out and the interviews are done, “What did it feel like?” “Walk us through the play.” “First Olympic goal, how does that sound?” he sits for a second in front of his stall and lets the noise wash over him.
He checks his phone.
Thirty-two notifications.
Most of them are from teammates, friends, old coaches.
One of them is from Will.
He doesn’t open it yet.
He knows if he does, he’ll lose whatever fragile composure he’s still holding onto.
Instead, he types quickly in the team group chat: *Going up to the room. Coming back later.*
Someone replies immediately: *Olympic golden boy needs beauty sleep.*
He rolls his eyes.
He doesn’t tell them that he just needs a quiet second.
---
The hotel room is warm and dim when he walks in.
Milan at night glows outside the window, streetlights reflecting off stone buildings, headlights sliding through narrow streets. In the distance, he can see the faint outline of the city, elegant and old and impossibly alive.
He leans his forehead against the glass for a second.
He did it. He actually did it.
His phone buzzes in his hand.
Will.
He swallows, then answers.
“Hey.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end, the soft kind, not awkward. The kind where someone is smiling.
And then Will’s voice, warm and low and familiar enough to feel like home.
“Hi, Olympic goal scorer.”
Mack laughs, ducking his head even though Will can’t see him. “Shut up.”
“No, absolutely not,” Will says immediately. “You scored the first goal for Canada at the Olympics. I will literally never shut up about this.”
Mack slides down until he’s sitting on the floor with his back against the window. “It wasn’t that big of a deal.”
Will scoffs. “It was a huge deal. I rewound it three times.”
“You did not.”
“I did!"
Mack presses his lips together, trying to fight the smile stretching his face.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m proud,” Will says, softer now.
The teasing edge drops out of his voice, and something warm settles in Mack’s chest.
“Yeah?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah.” A pause. “I’m really proud of you.”
The words hit harder than the crowd, harder than the horn, harder than the commentators saying his name.
Because this is Will. His best friend.
His teammate.
The boy who knows how he takes his hot chocolate and which pregame song he plays on repeat and how he taps his stick twice on the ice before every faceoff.
The boy who knows him.
“You watched it live?” Mack asks.
“Of course I did. I woke up just for that” Will says. “Worth it.”
“You’re insane.”
“Yeah,” Will replies easily. “But you already knew that.”
Mack exhales slowly. He can hear the faint hum of whatever room Will is in, probably sitting on the couch in sweats, hair messy, eyes tired but bright.
He pictures it too easily.
“You looked…” Will starts, then stops.
“What?”
“Happy,” Will finishes. “You looked really happy.”
Mack closes his eyes.
“I was.”
Another small silence.
In the background on Will’s end, there’s the faint sound of a TV still playing highlights. He must have left it on.
“They’re replaying it again,” Will murmurs.
“Stop,” Mack says, but there’s no bite in it.
“I can’t help it. It’s kind of my thing now.”
“Being annoying?”
“Being your biggest fan.”
That does it.
Mack feels his throat tighten unexpectedly. The adrenaline from the game is fading now, leaving something softer in its place.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says quietly.
“Yeah,” Will says. “I do.”
There’s no hesitation. No joking. Just certainty.
Mack tips his head back against the glass. “I miss you.”
The words slip out before he can overthink them.
On the other end, Will goes quiet.
Then, just as softly: “I miss you too.”
It’s different, saying it like this.
They’ve done long road trips before. Away games. Weeks apart.
But this feels bigger. Oceans and time zones and the weight of something historic sitting between them.
“You would’ve loved it here,” Mack says after a moment. “The arena’s insane. The crowd’s loud even when they’re not cheering for us.”
“I would’ve been in the stands losing my mind,” Will says. “Full Canada jersey. Probably crying.”
“You cry at everything.”
“You cried when you got drafted to the Sharks,” Will shoots back.
“That was different.”
“Uh-huh.”
Mack smiles, staring up at the ceiling now.
“Hey,” Will says, quieter again. “When you scored… you looked up into the stands.”
Mack’s heart skips.
“Did I?”
“Yeah. For like a second.”
He had. He hadn’t even realized it consciously. It was instinct, that quick lift of his head, like he was searching for someone.
“I guess I was just taking it in,” Mack says carefully.
Will hums.
“You always look for your people, and your family” he says.
Mack swallows.
“And you’re my people, and my family” he replies before he can stop himself.
The line goes completely silent.
For a second he panics, thinks maybe he said too much.
Then Will breathes out, shaky and fond.
“Yeah,” he says. “I am.”
The air feels thick suddenly.
They’ve danced around this for months, touches that last a little too long, inside jokes that sound suspiciously like flirting, the way they always end up next to each other at team dinners like it’s gravity.
Best friends. But also more.
So much more it aches sometimes.
“You’re amazing, you know that?” Will says.
Mack laughs softly. “You’re just saying that because I scored.”
“I’m saying that because you’re you.”
It’s unfair, the way Will can say things like that so easily.
“You worked so hard for this,” Will continues. “I know how much this means to you. I know how much you wanted to prove you belong there.”
“I still do,” Mack admits.
“You do belong there,” Will says immediately. “You always have.”
Mack presses his lips together, fighting the sting in his eyes.
Through the window, Milan stretches out, ancient and golden and impossibly faraway.
“I wish you were here,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
There’s a rustle on the other end, like Will shifting on the couch.
“If I was there,” Will says slowly, “I would’ve dragged you out to celebrate.”
“I’m supposed to be downstairs celebrating right now.”
“And you’re not.”
“Nope.”
“Because you’re talking to me.”
Mack huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah.”
Another pause.
“Selfish of me,” Will murmurs.
“It’s not selfish.”
“Little bit.”
“It’s not,” Mack insists. “I wanted to talk to you.”
There’s something vulnerable in that admission.
Will goes quiet again.
Then, softly: “Good.”
Mack traces patterns on the hotel carpet with his finger.
“You’re really proud?” he asks, voice small in a way he doesn’t let many people hear.
“More than you know,” Will says. “I miss you, and I’m so proud of you, and you’re really amazing.”
The exact words land like a hand over his heart.
Mack exhales shakily. “You’re gonna make me emotional.”
“Good,” Will says gently. “You deserve to feel it.”
For a moment, neither of them speaks.
They just breathe.
Thousands of miles apart, but somehow right there with each other.
“When do you play next?” Will asks.
“Two days.”
“I’ll be watching.”
“I know.”
“I’ll text you after every shift.”
“Please don’t.”
“I will.”
Mack smiles to himself.
“You should get some sleep,” Will says eventually. “Big Olympic star needs rest.”
“You should too.”
“Worth it,” Will repeats.
The word hangs there.
Worth it.
“You don’t have to stay up for me,” Mack says.
“I know,” Will replies. “I want to.”
Silence again. Not heavy. Just full.
“Mack?” Will says.
“Yeah?”
“Next time you score, look at the camera.”
“Why?”
“So I can pretend you’re looking at me.”
Mack’s chest aches in the best way.
“You’re such an idiot,” he whispers.
“Yeah,” Will says, smiling through his voice. “But I’m your idiot.”
There it is. The line in the sand.
Mack closes his eyes.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “You are.”
Neither of them says goodbye right away.
They linger.
They always linger.
Finally, Will clears his throat. “Go celebrate a little, okay? Don’t spend your entire Olympic night on the floor of a hotel room talking to me.”
Mack laughs. “Okay.”
“And, Mack?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
It’s quiet. Careful. But certain.
Mack’s breath catches.
He doesn’t hesitate.
“I love you too.”
The words feel like stepping off a ledge and realizing you can fly.
There’s a soft exhale on the other end, relief, maybe.
“Goodnight, Olympic goal scorer,” Will murmurs.
“Goodnight,” Mack replies. “My biggest fan.”
They hang up.
The room feels different now.
Not empty.
Just… steady.
Mack stands, walks back to the window.
Milan glows beneath him. Somewhere in the city, people are still celebrating. Somewhere downstairs, his teammates are probably chanting his name.
He presses his palm lightly to the glass.
He thinks about the next game. The next shift. The next chance.
And somewhere across the ocean, Will is probably still awake, replaying the goal one more time.
Mack smiles.
Next time he scores, he’ll look at the camera.
Just in case.