Hi! 🤍 I had an idea for an angst-heavy Connor Bedard fic. Connor Bedard and the reader were the NHL’s golden couple. Young, successful, and deeply in love, they seemed to have the kind of relationship everyone admired. Their wedding captivated the hockey world, and when they welcomed their daughter, fans became even more convinced they were living a real-life fairytale. But behind closed doors, perfection was only an illusion.
Somewhere along the way, Connor stopped turning to his wife first. Instead, he began confiding in someone else. It never became physical at first, but every late-night phone call, every inside joke, every vulnerable conversation, and every piece of himself he shared with someone else slowly chipped away at their marriage. The reader isn’t just heartbroken because another woman knows her husband—she’s devastated because she’s no longer the person he runs to first.
For the sake of their daughter, they continue pretending everything is fine. They smile through family photos, interviews, charity events, and game nights while their marriage quietly falls apart behind closed doors. I’d love lots of domestic angst, emotional flashbacks to when they were hopelessly in love, therapy, both POVs, and the heartbreaking realization that sometimes relationships don’t end because love disappears—they end because two people slowly stop letting each other in. Whether they find their way back to each other or ultimately let each other go is completely up to the writer
The person he stopped coming home to
SUMMARY : Connor Bedard and his wife were once hockey’s golden couple—young, adored, married, and parents to a little girl everyone believed completed their fairytale. But behind the perfect photos and polished interviews, Connor has started giving pieces of himself to someone else: his worries, his fears, his late-night honesty. It isn’t physical, but it is intimate enough to break something sacred. For their daughter’s sake, they keep pretending, until therapy, resentment, and the memory of who they used to be force them to decide whether love is enough to rebuild what they stopped protecting.
The first time you realized Connor Bedard was no longer coming home to you, he was standing in your kitchen.
Physically, he was there.
Barefoot on the cold tile, hair damp from the shower, one hand braced against the counter while the other held his phone. His wedding ring caught the soft yellow light above the stove every time his thumb moved across the screen.
Your daughter’s plastic cup sat beside him, half full of apple juice. A tiny purple hair clip was abandoned near the sink. There were goldfish crackers crushed under the high chair, laundry humming in the machine, and the faint smell of the chicken you’d reheated twice because Connor had said he would be home by six.
It was nearly nine, you stood in the doorway, unseen for a moment, watching the small smile tug at his mouth.
Not the polite smile he gave reporters, not the tired smile he gave fans when they stopped him in public, not even the soft smile he saved for your daughter when she ran toward him yelling, “Daddy!”
This one was private, quiet, familiar.
And it was not yours.
“Yeah,” Connor murmured into the phone, voice low enough that it felt like he was trying not to wake the house, even though you were awake. Even though you were always awake when he came home late. “No, I know. It’s just been a lot.”
Your chest tightened, he laughed softly “I don’t know. You get it.”
You get it, three words, that was all it took. You had heard Connor say a million things over the years. You had heard him whisper nervous promises before his first NHL game. You had heard him curse at himself after bad losses. You had heard him cry into your shoulder when the pressure became too much and he was too young to know where to put all of it.
You had been there for every version of him, the boy with shaking hands before draft interviews, the rookie who could barely sleep.
The young star who learned too quickly that talent came with expectations sharp enough to cut, the husband who once called you from hotel rooms just to hear you breathe, the father who had cried harder than you when your daughter was born.
And now, standing in your own kitchen, you listened to him tell another woman that she understood him.
Not you.
Her.
You did not say anything at first, you simply stepped back into the hallway, one hand pressed to your stomach, the other covering your mouth as if you could physically hold in the sound of your heart breaking.
Because the worst part was not that Connor was speaking to someone else, it was that he sounded relieved, like he had finally found the person he wanted to talk to.
And somehow, somewhere, that person had stopped being you.
—
Two years earlier, Connor had cried during his wedding vows, he had promised himself he wouldn’t, he had joked about it for weeks, rolling his eyes whenever you teased him “I’m not crying,” he’d said, lying across your bed while you sat beside him with wedding seating charts spread over your lap. “I play in front of twenty thousand people. I can handle saying vows.”
“You almost cried when our dog learned how to give paw.”
“That was different.”
“You also cried during that commercial with the old man and the horse.”
Connor had thrown a pillow at you “You’re making that up.”
“I have video evidence.” he had grabbed your waist then, pulling you down until you fell against his chest, your papers scattering across the comforter.
You had laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe “Connor,” you’d protested, still smiling. “The seating chart.”
“Don’t care.”
“Our wedding guests might.”
“They can sit on the floor.”
You had lifted your head from his chest, pretending to glare at him, but Connor had only looked at you with that soft, devastating expression that always made you forget what you were annoyed about “What?” you’d asked.
He had brushed his thumb along your cheek “Nothing.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look at me like that and then say nothing.” his smile had faded into something quieter “I just can’t believe I get to marry you.”
You had rolled your eyes because if you didn’t, you might cry “You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
He had kissed your forehead “I’m always going to come home to you,” he whispered. “No matter what happens. No matter how crazy everything gets. You’re my person.”
And on your wedding day, standing in front of family, teammates, cameras, and the entire hockey world waiting to turn your love story into content, Connor broke before he even finished his first sentence.
Everyone laughed softly, you cried too, not because it was embarrassing, because you believed him.
Because when he looked at you with shaking hands and wet eyes, you knew with the kind of certainty people spent their whole lives chasing that Connor Bedard loved you more than he loved the game, more than he loved the noise, more than he loved being adored.
He had promised you forever with his whole heart and you had promised it back.
—
Now, forever looked like Connor sleeping on the edge of the bed, his back turned toward you, phone face down on the nightstand.
A careful distance between your bodies where warmth used to be, you lay awake beside him, staring at the ceiling, listening to him breathe.
Your daughter, Ellie, was asleep down the hall with three stuffed animals tucked under her arm and a nightlight glowing beside her crib. She was almost two now, with Connor’s eyes and your stubbornness. She said “hockey” like “ock-ee” and clapped every time she saw her father on TV.
To her, nothing was wrong, to everyone, nothing was wrong, that was what made it feel unbearable, the world still saw the golden couple, the young captain and his beautiful wife.
The fairytale wedding, the baby announcement that had broken the internet for two days, the family photos in matching pajamas at Christmas.
The charity gala pictures where Connor’s hand rested at your waist and you smiled like your heart was not cracked clean down the middle.
The interviews where people asked how marriage and fatherhood had changed him.
Connor always smiled “It grounds me,” he would say. “My wife and my daughter are everything.”
And everyone believed him, you used to believe him too, now you wondered how many times he had said those words after texting her from the locker room.
Her name was Mia. she worked with the team’s media department, she was smart, funny, kind in that effortless way that made it impossible to hate her without hating yourself too. She never crossed a line in public. Never touched his arm too long. Never looked at him in a way other people would notice.
That almost made it worse, if she had been cruel, you could have blamed her, if she had been obvious, you could have called it what it was and screamed.
But Mia had not stolen your husband with lipstick on his collar or hotel room secrets, she had taken him one conversation at a time.
Or maybe Connor had given himself away.
That was the part you could not stop thinking about, every night he did not tell you what was wrong, every joke he saved for her.
Every insecurity he handed to her first, every part of himself he stopped trusting you with, you could forgive attraction.
Maybe.
You could understand temptation, maybe.
But intimacy? the kind that had once built your marriage?, the kind that made someone your home? that felt like betrayal in a language no one else could hear.
—
Connor knew you were awake.
He could feel it, you had always been too still when you were hurting. Too quiet. Too careful. In the beginning, he had learned all your silences like a second language.
The silence when you were tired, the silence when you were angry, the silence when you were scared, the silence when you needed him to reach for you but did not want to ask.
He used to be good at reaching, he used to roll over and pull you into his chest without thinking. He used to kiss the back of your shoulder until you softened. He used to ask, “Where’d you go?” when your mind drifted somewhere dark.
Now he lay on his side, facing the wall, pretending he did not know, ecause if he turned around, he would have to look at what he had done.
And Connor was terrified that if he looked too closely, he would not be able to lie to himself anymore.
It was not an affair, that was what he kept telling himself, he had never touched Mia.
Never kissed her, never slept with her, never said he loved her, he had only talked to her.
At first, that was all it had been.
A conversation after a brutal loss. Mia had found him sitting alone in an empty hallway after media, elbows on his knees, still in his suit, tie pulled loose around his neck “You don’t have to say the right thing all the time,” she had said gently.
He had laughed without humor “Kind of do.”
“No,” Mia had replied. “You just think you do.”
And something about that had made him exhale, not fully but enough.
He had been so tired.
Tired of being watched. Tired of being analyzed. Tired of being young and expected to carry himself like a veteran. Tired of coming home and seeing you with Ellie, tired too, stretched thin, giving everything you had to motherhood and marriage and the life his career demanded.
He didn’t want to add to your burden, that was the first excuse, you had enough on your plate.
You were home with Ellie alone during road trips. You handled missed dinners and rescheduled plans and the loneliness of being married to someone whose life belonged partly to the public. You smiled through it. You told him you were proud. You never made him feel guilty.
So when Connor felt himself unraveling, he stopped bringing it home, not because he didn’t love you, because he thought he was protecting you.
Then one conversation became two, two became texts, texts became late-night calls from hotel rooms, hotel rooms became inside jokes, inside jokes became comfort.
Comfort became habit and habit became a locked door between him and his wife.
Connor closed his eyes, beside him, you shifted under the covers, he wanted to turn around, he wanted to say your name, he wanted to confess everything, even though there was nothing and too much to confess all at once.
Instead, he stayed still, a coward in the bed he used to call home.
—
The breaking point came at a charity event, of course it did.
There were cameras, there were always cameras.
Connor wore a black suit, crisp and expensive, with one hand resting on the small of your back as you posed together in front of a sponsor wall. You wore a satin dress the same shade as champagne and earrings Connor had bought you after Ellie was born “You look beautiful,” he had said when you came downstairs.
For one fragile second, you almost believed things could be normal,hen his phone buzzed, you watched his eyes flick down, you watched his expression change.
Soft.
Instinctive.
Private.
You did not need to see the name on the screen, your body knew before your mind did “Don’t,” you whispered.
Connor looked at you. “What?”
“Don’t answer her while your hand is on me.”His face went pale, around you, people laughed and glasses clinked and photographers called Connor’s name.
“Baby,” he said quietly.
The word hit you like a slap, baby, he had not called you that in weeks, maybe months, you turned your head and smiled for the camera, Connor’s hand tightened on your waist, to anyone watching, it probably looked sweet.
Protective.
Loving.
You leaned closer, still smiling, and said through your teeth, “Move your hand.” His fingers fell away, the photographer lowered their camera, “Perfect, thank you!”
You stepped away from Connor before he could speak, you made it halfway down the hall before he caught up to you “Y/N.”
“Not here.”
“Please.”
“Not here, Connor" he glanced around, panic flashing across his face. “Can we just talk?” you laughed once. It sounded nothing like you “Now you want to talk to me?”
He flinched, good, you thought, then immediately hated yourself for it, Connor dragged a hand through his hair. “It’s not what you think.” you turned to face him.
There it was, the sentence every woman feared because it almost always meant it was exactly what she thought, just dressed in technicalities “Did you sleep with her?”
“No,” he said immediately. “God, no.”
“Did you kiss her?”
“No.”
“Do you love her?” Connor’s mouth opened, nothing came out, the hallway seemed to narrow around you, your whole body went cold “That,” you whispered, voice shaking, “should have been the easiest no of your life.”
His eyes filled “I don’t know what it is.”
You took a step back as if distance could save you, Connor reached for you, then stopped himself “I swear to you, I never meant for this to happen.”
“What happened?” you demanded. “Say it.”
He looked wrecked.
Good.
No.
Not good.
You loved him but you also hated that you loved him while he stood in front of you, unable to deny that some part of his heart had wandered outside your marriage “Say it,” you repeated, tears burning your eyes. “Because I need to know I’m not crazy.”
Connor swallowed hard “I let her become someone I went to.”
The words landed between you, small, devastating, honest, you nodded slowly, wiping your cheek before the tears could ruin your makeup “Yeah,” you whispered. “You did.”
His voice broke. “I’m sorry.”
You shook your head “No, Connor. You’re sorry I noticed.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither was making me share my husband without telling me.” He recoiled like you had hit him, for a second, neither of you spoke.
Then someone laughed around the corner, and the sound was so normal, so careless, that it made your chest ache.
You looked back toward the ballroom “We have to go back in.” Connor stared at you “What?”
You straightened your shoulders. “We have to go back in, smile, take pictures, thank donors, and pretend we’re fine.”
“I don’t want to pretend.”
“You should’ve thought about that before you made pretending the only thing we’re good at.”
—
That night, Connor slept in the guest room, not because you asked him to.
Because he did not dare crawl into bed beside you, he sat on the edge of the mattress with his elbows on his knees and his phone in his hand.
Mia had texted three times.
Are you okay?
I’m sorry if I caused problems.
Connor?
He stared at the messages until the words blurred, then he deleted the thread, not because deleting it fixed anything, because keeping it felt like choosing.
And for the first time in months, Connor understood with sickening clarity that he had been choosing every day, not in one dramatic moment, not in a single unforgivable act, but quietly.
Constantly.
He chose when he called Mia after losses, he chose when he told her things he had not told you, he chose when he smiled at his phone across the room while you folded your daughter’s pajamas alone.
He chose when he convinced himself that because he had not touched her, he had not betrayed you, Connor covered his face with both hands.
A memory came without warning.
You, pregnant with Ellie, lying on the couch with one of his hoodies stretched over your stomach. He had come home after a long road trip, exhausted and sore, and found you asleep with one hand resting protectively over your bump.
He had knelt beside you, pressing the softest kiss to your stomach “I’m home,” he had whispered, you had woken just enough to run your fingers through his hair “Missed you.”
Connor had rested his forehead against your belly “I missed both my girls.”
You had smiled sleepily “You don’t even know she’s a girl.”
“I do.”
“You do not.”
“I’m her dad. I know things.” You had laughed, and Ellie had kicked, and Connor had looked up at you like he had never been happier in his life.
He had meant every second of it, that was the worst part, he had loved you, he loved you now.
But love had not stopped him from hurting you.
—
Therapy was your idea, divorce was also your idea, not because you wanted it, because you needed Connor to understand that you were no longer standing in the ruins of your marriage with a broom, asking him where to sweep.
You told him on a Sunday morning while Ellie sat in her high chair eating banana slices and smearing yogurt across her cheeks, Connor froze with his coffee halfway to his mouth “What?”
You kept your voice low “I found a marriage counselor.”
He blinked “Okay.”
“And I found a divorce attorney.” His face went white, Ellie babbled happily between you, holding up a banana piece like she had discovered treasure “Baby,” Connor said, voice barely there.
You looked at him “I’m not saying I’m filing today.” his shoulders trembled with the breath he took “I’m saying I need both options. Because I don’t know which one we’re going to need.”
Connor looked down at his coffee, you could see him fighting tears.
Good.
No.
You were tired of that war inside yourself, tired of wanting him to suffer because you were suffering, tired of wanting to comfort him because he was still Connor.
Your Connor.
Ellie dropped her spoon, both of you bent down at the same time to pick it up, your hands brushed, you pulled back first.
Connor noticed, of course he noticed, his mouth tightened “I’ll go,” he said. “To therapy.”
“That’s not enough.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” Your voice cracked despite your best effort. “I don’t need you to attend therapy like it’s a punishment. I need you to show up. I need honesty. Ugly honesty. I need you to stop protecting yourself with half-truths.”
He nodded slowly “I’ll do whatever you need.” you stared at him, exhausted “I needed you to say that months ago.”
—
The therapist’s office had beige walls, soft lighting, and a box of tissues sitting on a table between you like a warning.
Connor sat on one end of the couch.
You sat on the other.
A space wide enough for a marriage to die sat between you, the therapist, Dr. Hall, was calm in a way that almost irritated you “What brought you here?” she asked.
You laughed under your breath, Connor looked down at his hands, you waited, for once, you needed him to go first.
He took a long time, then he said, “I had an emotional affair.” the words cracked open the room, you looked at him sharply.
Connor did not look away this time “I didn’t sleep with her,” he continued. “I didn’t kiss her. But I gave her parts of me that belonged in my marriage. I let her become the person I went to when I was overwhelmed or scared or upset. I hid it from my wife because I knew it was wrong. Even if I didn’t admit that to myself at the time.”
Your throat tightened, Dr. Hall looked at you “How does it feel hearing him call it that?”
You stared at Connor, painfully young, painfully sorry, painfully yours “It feels validating,” you whispered. “And horrible.”
Connor’s eyes shone “I’m sorry.” you shook your head, tears already falling “I keep thinking about how stupid I must have looked.”
His expression crumpled “You didn’t—”
“No, let me finish.” Your voice sharpened. “I keep thinking about all those nights I asked if you were okay and you said you were tired. I keep thinking about me lying beside you, wondering why you wouldn’t touch me anymore, wondering what I did wrong, wondering if having Ellie changed how you saw me, wondering if I became too much or not enough.”
Connor looked like he could barely breathe “I never thought that.”
“But you let me think it.”
The silence that followed was brutal, Connor wiped at his face with the heel of his hand “I know.”
You turned toward Dr. Hall “I wasn’t just his wife. I was his best friend. Before all of this. Before the NHL got so loud. Before everyone decided we were this perfect thing. He told me everything.” You looked back at Connor. “You used to call me first.”
Connor’s lips parted, no defense came.
Only tears.
“You used to call me first,” you repeated, quieter now. “And then one day you didn’t. And I didn’t even know it was the last time.” Connor bent forward, elbows on his knees, crying silently into his hands.
You wanted to touch him.
You didn’t.
—
Connor started sleeping at the team apartment three nights a week.
It was supposed to be space, that was what Dr. Hall called it, intentional separation with clear boundaries.
To you, it felt like practicing grief.
Ellie did not understand.
She stood at the front window the first night he left, palms pressed to the glass, watching his car pull out of the driveway “Daddy?” she asked. you crouched behind her and wrapped your arms around her little body “Daddy loves you so much, baby.”
“Daddy home?”
Your eyes burned “Daddy will see you tomorrow.” she turned around and patted your cheek with a sticky hand “Mama sad?”
You broke, not loudly, not dramatically, just enough for Ellie to frown and wrap her tiny arms around your neck “Mama no cry.”
You held her too tightly “I’m okay,” you lied, that night, after you put her down, you sat alone in the nursery long after she fell asleep, the rocking chair creaked softly beneath you.
There was a framed photo on the bookshelf from the day you brought Ellie home. Connor was sitting in that same chair, shirt wrinkled, hair messy, newborn daughter asleep on his chest. He looked terrified and completely in love.
You remembered taking the picture, you remembered how he had whispered, “How am I supposed to leave the house ever again?”
You remembered laughing “You have a job.”
“Not anymore. I quit.”
“Connor.”
“She needs me.”
“I need you too.”
He had looked up at you then, expression so soft it hurt “I know,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.” You stared at the picture until your vision blurred, people always talked about betrayal like it was a fire. Explosive, obvious, destructive, no one told you it could feel like water damage.
Slow.
Quiet.
Seeping into everything until one day the house you built no longer felt safe.
—
Connor hated the apartment, it was too quiet.
Too clean.
Too empty.
No toys underfoot. No tiny socks in the couch cushions. No shampoo bottles lined up in the shower beside yours. No half-finished mugs of tea abandoned around the house because you always forgot where you set them down.
No you.
He came back from practice, sat on the couch, and stared at the wall, for months, he had convinced himself he was overwhelmed by domestic life.
The crying baby, the schedules, the pressure of being needed at home and at the rink, but now that he had silence, he despised it.
He missed Ellie’s laugh, he missed your voice from the next room, he missed the way you used to slide cold feet under his legs on the couch.
He missed being irritated by your alarm in the morning, he missed you asking if he wanted the last bite of your dessert, even though both of you knew you did not mean it.
He missed his life and the ugliest truth of all was that he had been careless with it because he assumed it would always be there.
His phone buzzed, for one sick second, his body reacted like it used to, then he saw your name.
Can you take Ellie tomorrow morning? I have an appointment.
Connor sat up immediately.
Of course. What time?
Your reply came two minutes later.
8:30.
He stared at the screen, thumbs hovering, he wanted to ask what kind of appointment, he wanted to ask if you were okay, he wanted to say he missed you, instead, he wrote:
I’ll be there.
Then, after a pause:
Do you need me to drive you?
The typing bubble appeared, disappeared and appeared again.
No. Thank you.
Connor closed his eyes, that was what he had reduced you to.
Polite.
Distant.
Careful.
Like he was a stranger you were trying not to inconvenience.
—
Co-parenting while still married was its own quiet hell, Connor came over in the mornings sometimes, making Ellie pancakes while you got ready upstairs. You could hear him talking to her in the kitchen.
“Blueberries or bananas?”
“Boo.”
“Blueberries?”
“Boo!”
“Okay, bossy. Blueberries.”
Ellie giggled, your heart twisted, he was such a good father, hat made it harder, somehow.
If he were awful, you could leave cleanly.
But Connor was gentle with your daughter. Patient. Devoted. The kind of dad who let her put sparkly stickers on his face before games and then forgot to remove one before media. The kind who tucked her stuffed rabbit into his suitcase before road trips because she insisted Bunny needed to “watch Daddy hockey.”
He loved her beautifully, he had loved you beautifully too.
Once.
When you came downstairs, Connor looked up from the stove, for a second, the scene was so ordinary you almost forgot, then his eyes softened with guilt, and you remembered.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning.”
Ellie shrieked your name and lifted both arms, you picked her up, kissing her cheek “Did Daddy make breakfast?”
“Daddy boo pancakes!”
Connor smiled faintly, you hated how much you missed that smile, after breakfast, while Ellie played in the living room, Connor cleared his throat “I changed my number.”
You looked up “What?”
“And I requested that Mia be reassigned away from anything directly involving me.” His voice was careful, not defensive. “I know that doesn’t fix it. I’m not saying it does. I just wanted you to know.”
You gripped the edge of the counter “Did she fight it?”
Connor shook his head “I told her I crossed lines and that I couldn’t have any contact with her anymore.”
The room tilted slightly “What did she say?”
He swallowed “She said she understood.”
You looked away, a bitter laugh slipped out before you could stop it “Of course she did.” Connor flinched, but he did not argue.
Good, progress, maybe, pain, definitely “I’m not telling you because I want credit,” he said quietly. “I should’ve done it before. I know that.”
You looked at him then, really looked at him, he looked tired. Not practice tired. Not road-trip tired. Soul tired. His face had thinned. His eyes were red around the edges. He had the expression of someone who had finally understood the damage and knew understanding it did not undo it “I don’t know how to trust you,” you admitted.
Connor’s face crumpled “I know.”
“I don’t want to check your phone. I don’t want to become that person.”
“I’ll give it to you anyway.”
“I don’t want it.”
“I know.”
“No, Connor, I don’t think you do.” You crossed your arms tightly over your chest. “I don’t want access. I want peace. I want to not wonder. I want to not feel sick when your phone lights up. I want to not look at old pictures of us and wonder if I was happier because I knew less.”
His eyes filled, you hated that you still knew the exact second he was about to cry “I don’t know how to give you that yet,” he whispered. “But I want to learn.”
The words settled between you.
Not enough.
But something.
—
Therapy got worse before it got better, that was the thing no one put in the inspirational quotes, healing was not soft lighting and breakthroughs.
Sometimes healing was you sobbing so hard you could not speak while Connor sat beside you, shaking, forced to listen to every ugly thought you had swallowed for months.
Sometimes it was Connor admitting things that made you want to walk out “I liked being needed without feeling like I was failing someone,” he said one session, voice raw. “With Mia, there wasn’t history. There wasn’t a baby crying in the next room. There weren’t chores or resentment or expectations. I could just be the version of myself who was struggling, and she didn’t need anything from me.”
You stared at him “So I needed too much?”
“No.” He turned toward you quickly. “No, that’s not what I mean.”
“But that’s what happened.”
Connor dragged a hand over his face “I think I convinced myself you didn’t need me emotionally anymore. You were so strong after Ellie was born. You handled everything. And I felt useless, and then guilty for feeling useless, because you were the one doing most of the work. So instead of telling you that, I disappeared more.”
You laughed through tears “You felt useless, so you made yourself less useful?” Connor’s mouth trembled “Yeah.”
The honesty hurt.
But lies had hurt more.
Dr. Hall leaned forward slightly “What did you need from him then?” she asked you, you wiped your cheeks “I needed him to ask me if I was okay and stay long enough for the real answer.”
Connor lowered his head.
“I needed him to hold Ellie and tell me to take a shower. I needed him to notice that I was lonely. I needed him to come home from road trips and not act like being tired excused being absent.” Your voice cracked. “I needed my husband.”
Connor started crying then, not silently this time “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m so sorry.” For the first time in weeks, you reached for him, your hand covered his, Connor froze.
Then he clung to you like a drowning man, it was not forgiveness.
Not yet.
But it was the first time touching him did not feel like touching the wound.
—
The flashbacks came at strange times, you would be packing Ellie’s diaper bag and suddenly remember Connor at nineteen, standing in your first apartment with flowers from a gas station because he had forgotten Valentine’s Day until midnight“They’re ugly,” he had said immediately.
“They are.”
“I panicked.”
“I can tell.”
“I also got you a muffin.”
“A muffin?”
“Chocolate chip.” You had stared at him for three seconds before bursting into laughter, Connor had looked so relieved that you laughed harder.
Then he had crossed the room, wrapped both arms around you, and buried his face in your neck “I love you,” he had mumbled.
“With your gas station flowers and panic muffin?”
“Especially with my panic muffin.” You had kept the receipt pressed between the pages of a book for years, another memory hit while folding laundry.
Connor on your honeymoon, sunburned despite your warnings, insisting he was fine while moving like a man twice his age “You’re red,” you had said.
“I’m tan.”
“You look like a lobster.”
“A very athletic lobster.”
“You need aloe.”
“I need respect.”
“You need aloe.” He had pouted until you rubbed it across his shoulders, then immediately melted under your hands “I married well,” he murmured.
“You married someone smarter than you.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”
The memories did not comfort you at first, they made you angry, because that Connor had existed, that marriage had existed, you had not imagined it, you had not invented the tenderness or exaggerated the love.
It had been real.
And somehow, real things could still break.
—
The first time Connor asked to come home, you said no, he nodded like he expected it. You stood by the front door after Ellie had fallen asleep, arms crossed, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands.
It was one of his hoodies, you had put it on without thinking, Connor noticed but did not mention it “I’m not ready,” you said.
“I know.”
“I don’t want you back in our bed because you miss the house.”
“I don’t.”
You gave him a look, he corrected himself “I mean, I do miss the house. I miss Ellie. I miss you. I miss all of it. But that’s not why I’m asking.”
“Then why are you?”
Connor looked down, then back up at you “Because I want to be here for the hard parts too. Not just breakfast and bedtime and the moments where Ellie runs to me. I want to be here when she won’t sleep. When the dishwasher breaks. When you’re exhausted. When we’re uncomfortable and still figuring this out.” His voice shook. “I don’t want to keep being a visitor in the life I damaged.”
Your throat tightened, that was a good answer, you hated that it was a good answer “I believe that you believe that right now,” you said.
Pain flashed across his face “But you don’t trust it.”
“No.”
He nodded “Okay.” Connor reached for his coat, some part of you wanted to stop him, instead, you let him leave, then you slid down the door and cried into his hoodie until your chest hurt.
—
Connor did not ask again for three weeks, he kept showing up anyway, not dramatically, not with grand gestures that made forgiveness feel like a performance.
He showed up quietly, he took Ellie to the park so you could sleep, he fixed the loose cabinet handle you had asked him to fix six months ago.
He sent you his travel schedule before you had to ask, e called after games, but not to unload. To ask about your day. To ask how Ellie slept. To ask, carefully, if you had eaten dinner.
At first, you answered with one-word replies, then sentences, then one night, after a rough game, he called from the hotel.
You almost did not answer, then you did, Connor’s face appeared on the screen, hair wet, hoodie pulled up, exhaustion carved into his features.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
He hesitated “I had a bad game.”
Your stomach tightened out of habit, this was the kind of moment he had taken elsewhere, you waited.
Connor swallowed “My first instinct was to shut down,” he admitted. “Or say I was fine. But I’m not fine. I’m embarrassed and angry and I feel like everyone can see I’m messing up in every possible area of my life.”
Your eyes filled unexpectedly, he looked directly into the camera “And I wanted to tell you. Not because I expect you to fix it. Not because I deserve comfort. I just… I wanted to let you in.”
For a long moment, you said nothing, Connor looked terrified, then you whispered, “I’m sorry about the game.”
His shoulders sagged slightly “Thanks.”
“You looked tired in the third.”
His mouth twitched “Brutal honesty. Nice.”
“You called me, not ESPN.”
That made him laugh softly, the sound hurt, the sound healed, both at once “I miss you,” Connor said, barely above a whisper.
You closed your eyes “I miss who we were.”
“I do too.” when you opened your eyes again, he was crying.
“I don’t know if we can get back there,” you said.
Connor nodded, wiping his face “I don’t either.”
“But I think…” You took a shaky breath. “I think maybe I want to see if we can become something else.”
His lips parted, hope was dangerous on his face, you had to look away “Don’t make me regret saying that.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t get to promise that with words anymore.”
Connor nodded “Then I’ll show you.”
—
He came home on a Tuesday, no cameras, no announcement, no dramatic embrace in the doorway, Just Connor carrying two duffel bags into the house while Ellie screamed like he had returned from war.
“Daddy home!” Connor dropped one bag instantly and scooped her up “Hi, baby girl.” she grabbed his face between both hands “Daddy stay?”
Connor looked at you over her shoulder, your heart clenched, then he kissed Ellie’s cheek and said, “Daddy’s going to try really hard.”
It was not the perfect answer, it was the honest one, that night, he slept beside you for the first time in nearly two months.
Neither of you touched at first, the space between you was smaller than before, but still there, you lay on your back, staring at the ceiling.
Connor lay beside you, equally still, finally, in the darkness, he whispered, “Can I hold your hand?” Your eyes burned, such a small question, such a different man than the one who once assumed access to you because love had made it easy.
You turned your hand palm-up between you, Connor reached for it slowly, his fingers wrapped around yours, he exhaled like he had been holding his breath for months.
You cried silently, so did he, neither of you said anything. for that night, holding hands was enough.
—
Repair was not linear, some days, you laughed together while making dinner, and it scared you how easy it felt, some days, Connor’s phone buzzed and your entire body went rigid, some days, he reached for you and you leaned in, some days, you moved away, he learned not to make his hurt about your healing.
You learned that forgiveness was not one decision, but many, a choice made in small, exhausted increments, in therapy, Connor learned to stop saying, “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” as if intention could soften impact.
He learned to say, “I hurt you.” he learned to sit in the discomfort without asking you to reassure him.
You learned to say the ugly things before they became poison.
“I hate that I compare myself to her.”
“I hate that part of me wants to punish you.”
“I hate that I still love you this much.”
Connor listened, sometimes he cried, sometimes you did, sometimes both of you sat in the car after therapy, emotionally wrung out, sharing fries in silence because neither of you had the energy to cook.
One evening, after a session that left both of you raw, Connor drove home with one hand on the wheel and the other resting near the center console.
Not reaching, just there, an offering, you stared at it for three stoplights, then you placed your hand over his.
He did not squeeze too tightly.
He did not make it a moment.
He simply turned his palm up and held on.
—
The public never knew, not really.
They speculated, of course, they noticed Connor was quieter, they noticed you missed a few games, they noticed you stopped posting as much.
But eventually, the story changed because stories always did, someone got traded, someone got injured, someone else got engaged.
The hockey world moved on.
Inside your house, things moved slower, Connor started taking Ellie on his own during mornings after late games so you could stay in bed. He learned where her favorite pajamas were. He learned which cup she would accept and which one would cause a meltdown. He learned how to braid her hair badly, then better, then almost well.
He stopped treating fatherhood like something he helped with and started living inside it.
He stopped treating marriage like something that survived on love alone and started tending to it like something alive. One night, months later, you found him sitting on Ellie’s bedroom floor after putting her down.
The room was dark except for the nightlight, Ellie slept peacefully in her crib, Connor had his back against the wall, knees bent, head tipped back “You okay?” you whispered.
He looked over, his eyes were wet “Yeah.” you lowered yourself beside him, for a while, neither of you spoke, then Connor said, “I almost lost this.”
You looked at Ellie, then at him “Yeah.” he nodded, swallowing hard “I almost lost you.” You looked down at your hands “You did lose me for a while.”
Connor closed his eyes “I know.” that was another thing that had changed.
He no longer rushed to soften the truth “I don’t think I realized,” he said, voice breaking, “that love doesn’t disappear all at once. I thought as long as I loved you, we were safe. But I stopped letting you in. And you stopped feeling safe with me. And by the time I noticed, we were living in the same house like strangers.”
Your throat tightened “I kept waiting for you to come back to me.”
“I know.”
“I was so angry that you didn’t.”
“I know.”
You looked at him then, Connor’s face was open, devastated, honest “I’m still angry sometimes,” you admitted.
“I know.”
“But I’m not only angry anymore.”
Hope flickered across his expression, careful, fragile, you reached for his hand, Connor stared down at your fingers like he did not deserve them.
Maybe he didn’t, maybe deserving was not the point, maybe rebuilding was less about deserving a second chance and more about honoring one if it was given “I love you,” you whispered.
Connor broke, he covered his mouth, shoulders shaking, you moved closer, and this time, when he leaned into you, you let him “I love you too,” he choked out. “I never stopped.”
“I know.”
“But I stopped acting like it.”
You nodded against him “Yeah.”
He held you carefully, like something precious and breakable “I’m going to spend the rest of my life acting like it,” he whispered. “Not just saying it. Not just when it’s easy. I know I don’t get to ask you to believe me right away. But I’m going to show you. Every day. Even on the days you’re mad. Even on the days it hurts. I’m here.”
You cried into his shoulder, for the first time in a long time, his arms felt like home, not the same home as before.
That one was gone, but maybe this could be a new one, built slower, built honestly, built with doors open.
—
A year after the charity event where everything shattered, Connor stood beside you at another one.
Same kind of ballroom, same polished floors, same cameras.Different marriage, his hand rested near your back, not on it.
You glanced at him.
Then you stepped closer, allowing his palm to settle gently at your waist, Connor’s eyes softened.
Not private in a secretive way, private in a way that belonged to you again, a reporter asked for a photo, you smiled, Connor smiled too.
But this time, when his phone buzzed in his pocket, he did not look down, not even for a second.
His eyes stayed on you, later, in the car, your heels kicked off and Ellie asleep in her car seat, you looked over at him “You didn’t check your phone.”
Connor started the engine “No.”
“You didn’t even look.”
He glanced at you “There’s nothing on there more important than you.”
The words could have been too easy, too pretty, a year ago, they would have made you ache, now, they settled somewhere gentler, because he had earned the right to say them one ordinary choice at a time.
You reached across the console, Connor took your hand immediately, in the back seat, Ellie stirred “Mama?” she mumbled sleepily.
“I’m here, baby.”
“Daddy?” Connor looked at her through the rearview mirror “I’m here too, Els.” she sighed, comforted by the answer, and fell back asleep.
You looked out the window as the city lights blurred past, once, you had believed love meant never breaking, then you learned love could break in silence, in distance, in every conversation not had and every truth swallowed too late.
But you also learned something else.
Sometimes love came back not as a fairytale, not as perfection, not as the golden couple everyone thought they knew, ometimes love came back as therapy appointments and hard conversations.
As phone calls answered honestly, as hands held in the dark, as a husband learning, day by day, to come home with his whole heart.
Connor lifted your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles “I love you,” he said quietly, you looked at him, the boy you had married was gone, so was the girl who believed marriage could survive on promises alone.
But the man beside you was trying, choosing, staying and for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough to begin again “I love you too,” you whispered.
Summary: in which Macklin makes sure you take a break from studying even when you refuse to
Warnings: 18+ content
Series Masterlist
You’ve been studying for six hours straight.
Macklin knows because he’s been keeping track. You got up at six AM, made coffee, and went straight to your office — the second bedroom that’s now filled with your law books, practice tests, and color-coded notes covering every available surface.
It’s July, which means the Bar exam is in three weeks, which means you’re in full preparation mode. Which also means you’re stressed, focused, and operating on about four hours of sleep a night.
He gets it. He does. This exam is important. Your entire career depends on it. But watching you work yourself to exhaustion isn’t easy.
It’s two PM now, and you haven’t eaten since your six AM piece of toast. Haven’t moved from your desk except to refill your coffee. Haven’t so much as looked at him when he poked his head in an hour ago.
Macklin stands in the doorway now, watching you. You’re hunched over your laptop, one hand in your hair, the other highlighting something in a massive textbook. Your coffee mug is empty. There are dark circles under your eyes.
“Babe,” he says softly.
You don’t respond. You’re fully in the zone, muttering something under your breath about constitutional amendments.
“Y/N.”
Nothing. You flip a page, highlight another passage.
He tries again. “You need to eat something.”
“Not hungry,” you say, not looking up.
“You haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“I’ll eat later.”
“That’s what you said two hours ago.”
“Macklin.” You finally look at him, and there’s exhaustion and stress in your eyes. “I really need to focus. The exam is in three weeks. Three weeks. And I still have so much to cover.”
“I know. But you also need to eat and sleep and take breaks.”
“I will. After I finish this section.”
“You said that about the last three sections.”
You sigh, rubbing your eyes. “I can’t afford to take breaks right now. I’m behind schedule.”
“You’re not behind schedule. You’re ahead of schedule. You’ve been studying for months.”
“That doesn’t mean I know everything-”
“You’re going to pass.” He comes into the room, crouching next to your chair. “You’re the smartest person I know. You’re going to pass.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do know that. I know you. And I know that you’re going to make yourself sick if you don’t take a break.”
You look at him for a long moment. Then you turn back to your laptop. “One more hour. Then I’ll take a break.”
He recognizes a dismissal when he hears one. “Okay. One hour. But I’m making you lunch.”
“Thanks.”
He leaves, closing the door behind him. In the kitchen, he makes you a sandwich, cuts up some fruit, refills your water bottle. When he brings it back to your office, you barely glance at it.
“Thank you,” you say absently, eyes still on your screen.
“Will you actually eat it?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“When I finish this section.”
The sandwich sits untouched on your desk for the next forty-five minutes. Macklin knows because he checks on you three times.
On the fourth check, he’s had enough.
You’re so focused on your laptop that you don’t notice him slip into the room. Don’t notice him close the door quietly. Don’t notice him drop to his knees.
And you definitely don’t notice him crawl under your desk.
***
Macklin’s perspective from under the desk is limited but effective. He can see your legs — bare, because you’re wearing shorts and you always study barefoot — and the wheels of your office chair.
He can hear you muttering to yourself. “Okay, so for a valid contract you need offer, acceptance, consideration … but what about promissory estoppel as an exception …”
He carefully positions himself, wedging into the space between your legs and the desk. It’s tight, but he fits.
You still haven’t noticed him.
He reaches up, hands gentle on your knees, and slowly — so slowly — pushes them apart.
You startle, your chair rolling back slightly. “What-”
You look down. Your eyes meet his.
“Macklin, what are you doing?”
“Helping you take a break.” His hands slide up your thighs. “You’ve been working too hard.”
“I’m studying-”
“I know. And now you’re taking a break.” His fingers find the hem of your shorts. “Is this okay?”
You stare at him for a moment. He can see you trying to decide between sending him away and letting him stay.
“I really need to study,” you say, but your voice is weaker now.
“So study.” He tugs gently on your shorts. “I’ll just be down here. You won’t even notice me.”
“I’m definitely going to notice-”
“Then try not to.” He grins up at you. “Come on. Let me help you relax.”
You bite your lip, and he knows he’s won.
“Fine. But I’m still studying.”
“Absolutely. You keep studying.” He pulls on your shorts again. “Lift up for a second.”
You do, and he slides your shorts and underwear down your legs, tossing them aside. Then he pulls you forward in the chair, spreading your legs wider.
“Macklin-”
“Keep studying,” he reminds you. “I’m just helping you relax.”
He can see you trying to focus on your laptop, but your breathing has already changed. You’re anticipating.
Good.
He starts slow. Kisses to your inner thighs, gentle and teasing. You’re trying to type, but your fingers fumble on the keys.
“Constitutional law,” you mutter, clearly trying to refocus. “Article Three establishes the judicial branch …”
He kisses higher, closer to where you want him. Your breath hitches.
“Judicial power extends to all cases … all cases in law and …” You trail off as his breath ghosts over your center.
“Keep going,” he encourages. “You’re doing so well.”
“This is impossible-”
“No it’s not. You know this stuff.” He licks a slow stripe up your center, and you gasp. “Tell me about Article Three.”
“I, fuck—I can’t-”
“Yes you can.” He does it again, and your thighs tremble. “Come on, baby. Article Three.”
You’re trying. He can hear you trying to form coherent thoughts while he’s licking at you, tasting you, learning what makes you squirm.
“Article Three—oh god—establishes that judicial power is vested in-” You break off with a moan as he sucks gently on your clit.
“Keep going.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t. Keep going.”
“Judicial power is vested in one Supreme Court and-” Your hand flies to his hair as he works you with his tongue. “Inferior courts that Congress may establish—Macklin-”
“I’m listening.” He’s not, really. He’s too focused on the way you taste, the way you’re getting wetter, the way your hips are starting to move despite yourself.
“I can’t think when you’re doing that-”
“Sure you can. You’re brilliant. Tell me more about the judicial branch.”
“Federal judges serve during—during good behavior, which means—oh fuck, right there-”
He’s found the rhythm you like, the pressure that makes your legs shake. Your fingers tighten in his hair.
He slides two fingers inside you, and you actually whimper.
“Unless what?” He’s curling his fingers now, finding that spot that makes you see stars.
“Unless they—I don’t fucking know—unless they commit high crimes or—Macklin, I swear to god-”
“You’re doing so well, baby. Keep studying.”
“I am not studying. I am trying not to come on your face.”
“You can do both.”
“I really can’t—oh god-”
He can feel you getting close. Can feel the way you’re clenching around his fingers, the way your thighs are trembling. He doubles down, sucking on your clit while his fingers work inside you.
“Macklin, I’m-”
“I know. Come for me. Then we’ll go back to studying.”
“We are not—oh fuck-”
You come with a cry that you try to muffle with your hand. He works you through it, licking and sucking until you’re pushing him away, oversensitive.
When he pulls back, you’re slumped in your chair, breathing hard. Your laptop screen has gone dark from inactivity.
“Better?” He asks, grinning.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“But you’re more relaxed.”
You look down at him, and despite everything, you’re smiling. “I’m something.”
“Come here.” He stands, pulling you up with him. “Take a real break. Eat your sandwich. Drink some water.”
“I should get back to studying-”
“You will. After you eat. And after you let me hold you for ten minutes.” He guides you out of the office, toward the couch. “Come on. Ten minutes.”
You let him pull you down onto the sectional, curling into his side. He wraps his arms around you, and he can feel some of the tension leaving your body.
“You really do need to take breaks,” he says softly. “You’re going to burn out.”
“I know. I just—I’m scared.” Your voice is small. “What if I don’t pass? What if all this studying isn’t enough?”
“Then you take it again. But you’re going to pass. You know this stuff. You were literally reciting constitutional law while I was going down on you.”
You laugh despite yourself. “That was not reciting. That was incoherent babbling.”
“Still counts.”
You’re quiet for a moment. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For making me take a break. For taking care of me.”
“Always.” He kisses the top of your head. “Now eat your sandwich before I have to crawl under the desk again.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
“Depends on whether you eat the sandwich.”
***
You do eat the sandwich. And drink the water. And let him hold you for twenty minutes instead of ten.
When you finally go back to your office, you’re calmer. More focused, but in a healthy way.
Macklin feels like he’s done his job.
For the next few hours, he leaves you alone. Checks on you periodically, makes sure you’re drinking water, but doesn’t disturb you.
At six PM, he makes dinner. At seven, he brings you a plate.
“Dinner time,” he announces.
“Just let me finish this-”
“Nope. Dinner time means you stop studying and eat.”
You sigh but save your work. “Fine.”
You eat at the dining table together, and he asks you about what you’re studying. Lets you explain contract law and constitutional principles and all the things that are swirling in your head.
“You really do know this stuff,” he observes.
“Knowing it and being able to recall it under pressure are different things.”
“You’ll be able to recall it. You’re good under pressure.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve seen you. In mock trials, in that presentation you did for the Sharks legal team, every time you’re put on the spot. You’re good under pressure, Y/N.”
You look at him, and there’s something soft in your eyes. “Thank you for believing in me.”
“Always. It’s easy when you’re this incredible.”
After dinner, you go back to studying. But this time, you take breaks. Every hour, you come out for water, to stretch, to talk to him for a few minutes.
At ten PM, he makes the executive decision that you’re done for the day.
“Come on,” he says, appearing in your office doorway. “Bedtime.”
“I need to review-”
“You can review tomorrow. Tonight, you need sleep.”
“Macklin-”
“Bed. Now.” He uses his firm voice.
You respond immediately, standing up. “Yes, sir.”
“Good girl.”
In the bedroom, he helps you change into pajamas. You’re so tired you’re practically swaying on your feet.
“When’s the last time you slept a full eight hours?” He asks.
“I don’t remember.”
“That’s a problem.”
“I know. After the exam-”
“No. Starting tonight.” He guides you to bed. “You’re going to sleep. Full eight hours.”
“But-”
“No buts. Sleep.”
You curl up under the covers, and he wraps himself around you.
“Macklin?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too. Now sleep.”
You do, almost immediately. He feels you relax against him, your breathing evening out.
He stays awake a little longer, thinking.
The Bar exam is in three weeks. You’re going to pass — he has no doubt about that. But he also knows the next three weeks are going to be hard. You’re going to push yourself too hard, stress yourself out, forget to take care of yourself.
But he’ll be here. Making sure you eat, making sure you sleep, making sure you take breaks.
Even if it means crawling under your desk.
***
The next day follows a similar pattern. You’re up early, in your office by seven. By noon, you haven’t eaten or taken a break.
Macklin makes you lunch, brings it to your office. You’re so focused you barely acknowledge him.
He sighs. Looks at your desk. Looks at you.
Then he drops to his knees again.
“Macklin-” you start as he crawls under the desk.
“Keep studying,” he says, spreading your legs. “I’m just here for moral support.”
“This is not moral support—oh-”
He’s already pulling down your sleep shorts, already pressing kisses to your thighs.
“Tell me about … what are you studying?”
“Criminal law,” you gasp as his mouth finds you. “Oh god-”
“Tell me about criminal law.”
“There are different—different types of intent-” You break off as he licks at you. “Purposeful, knowing, reckless, negligent-”
“Good. Keep going.”
“Purposeful is when—fuck—when the defendant’s conscious objective is to engage in certain conduct-”
He slides his fingers inside you, and you lose your train of thought entirely.
“And knowing?” He prompts.
“I can’t—you’re evil-”
“I’m helpful. You’re studying.”
“I’m trying to study while you’re—oh god, right there-”
He works you with his mouth and fingers until you’re trembling, until you’re gripping the edge of the desk, until you’re coming with his name on your lips.
And then he does it again the next day. And the next.
It becomes part of your study routine. You work for a few hours, he crawls under the desk, you try to recite legal principles while he makes you come apart.
“This is insane,” you say one afternoon, breathless and flushed. “This is not a normal study method.”
“Is it working?”
“I … yes, actually. Weirdly, yes.”
“Then it’s not insane. It’s effective.”
And it is effective. You’re calmer, more focused. You take breaks without him having to force you. You eat, you sleep, you let him take care of you.
The week before the exam, he makes a rule: no studying after eight PM.
“But-”
“No. You know this material. Cramming at this point is just going to stress you out.”
“Macklin-”
“Do you trust me?”
You pause. “Yes.”
“Then trust me on this. No studying after eight. We’re going to have dinner, watch a movie, go to bed early. You need rest more than you need more practice questions.”
You don’t argue. And he can see the relief in your eyes — like you’ve been waiting for someone to give you permission to stop.
***
The night before the exam, you’re a mess of nerves.
“I’m going to forget everything,” you say, pacing the living room. “I know I am. I’m going to sit down and my brain is going to be completely blank.”
“It won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. Because you’ve been studying for months. Because you know this material backwards and forwards. Because you’ve been reciting legal principles while I’ve had my head between your thighs and you haven’t missed a beat.”
That gets a small laugh out of you. “That’s true.”
“So you’re going to be fine.” He pulls you onto the couch, into his lap. “You’re going to walk in there tomorrow, and you’re going to kill it. And then you’re going to come home, and I’m going to take you to that fancy restaurant you like, and we’re going to celebrate.”
“What if I don’t pass?”
“Then we’ll figure it out. But you will pass. I know it.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Because you’re brilliant. And hardworking. And you don’t give up. Ever.” He kisses you softly. “You’re going to be an incredible lawyer. This exam is just a formality.”
You rest your forehead against his. “I love you.”
“I love you too. Now come on. Early bedtime. You need to be well-rested.”
In bed, you can’t sleep. You’re tossing and turning, clearly anxious.
“Hey,” Macklin says softly. “Come here.”
You curl into him, and he can feel how tense you are.
“Talk to me,” he says.
“I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“What if I’m not good enough?”
“You are good enough. You’re more than good enough.”
“What if-”
“No more what-ifs.” He tilts your chin up to look at him. “You’ve done everything you can to prepare. Now you need to trust yourself.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know. And I’m so proud of you. For how hard you’ve worked, for how much you’ve sacrificed. No matter what happens tomorrow, I’m proud of you.”
You’re crying now, quiet tears sliding down your cheeks. He wipes them away gently.
“You’ve got this,” he whispers. “You’ve always had this.”
“Thank you,” you whisper back. “For everything. For taking care of me, for making me take breaks, for believing in me when I couldn’t believe in myself.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
You kiss him then, slow and sweet and full of emotion. When you pull back, you’re calmer.
“Okay,” you say. “Okay. I can do this.”
“You can definitely do this.”
“Early bedtime?”
“Very early bedtime.”
You settle against him, and this time, you fall asleep within minutes. He holds you, thinking about the past few weeks. About study breaks under the desk and late-night pep talks and making sure you ate and slept and didn’t work yourself to death.
About loving someone enough to take care of them even when they won’t take care of themselves.
You’re going to pass this exam. He knows it with absolute certainty.
And when you do, when you come home celebrating, when you finally let yourself believe that you did it-
He’s going to spend the entire night showing you exactly how proud he is.
But for now, he holds you while you sleep, and he thinks about how lucky he is to love someone so brilliant, so hardworking, so determined.
Summary: in which Macklin moves out of Joe Thornton’s guest-room
Series Masterlist
“Okay, so this one has two bedrooms, two and a half baths, in-unit laundry, and a parking spot,” you say, scrolling through the listing on your laptop. “But it’s on the third floor and there’s no elevator.”
Macklin looks up from where he’s sprawled on your couch, his own laptop balanced on his chest. “That’s a dealbreaker?”
“After a game? When your legs are dead? Yes, that’s a dealbreaker.”
“Fair point.” He makes a note on his phone. “What about the one in Santana Row?”
“The penthouse?” You pull it up. “Macklin, this is four thousand square feet.”
“So?”
“So what are you going to do with four thousand square feet? You’re one person.”
“I could have people over. Host team dinners.”
“Do you want to host team dinners?”
He thinks about it. “No. I want to order takeout and play video games.”
“Exactly.” You close that tab. “Next.”
It’s been like this for three days. Ever since Macklin told you he needed to find his own place before the season starts, you’ve been helping him search. Living with Joe Thornton for his first two years was great — like having a mentor and a dad rolled into one — but at twenty, Macklin needs his own space.
“What about this one?” He turns his laptop to show you. “Two bed, two bath, modern kitchen, gym in the building.”
You study it. “Location?”
“Downtown. Near SAP Center.”
“How’s the parking?”
“One assigned spot, street parking for guests.”
“And the noise level? Being downtown?”
He blinks. “I-I didn’t think about that.”
“You’re going to need to sleep, Macklin. After games, after practice. If you’re hearing sirens and traffic all night-”
“Right. Good point.” He adds it to his notes. “See, this is why I need you. I never would have thought of that.”
“That’s because you’ve been living in Joe’s quiet neighborhood in the suburbs. Downtown is different.”
“What else should I be thinking about?”
You set your laptop aside, giving him your full attention. “Okay, practical things: distance to the rink, obviously. Parking — both for you and for guests. Natural light, because seasonal depression is real. Kitchen size, because I know you don’t cook much but I do, and I’m going to be over a lot.”
He grins at that. “You are, are you?”
“Unless you don’t want me to be.”
“I always want you to be.” He reaches for your hand. “What else?”
“Noise, like I said. Floor plan — you want good flow, not a weird layout. Storage, because hockey equipment takes up a lot of space. Building amenities — is there a gym? A doorman? Package handling?”
“I didn’t know I needed to think about package handling.”
“You’re about to be living alone for the first time. You’re going to be ordering a lot of stuff online. Trust me, you want a place that handles packages well.”
He’s taking notes furiously now. “What about the building itself? Age, condition?”
“Newer is better for things like insulation, electrical, plumbing. But older buildings sometimes have more character, thicker walls, better soundproofing.” You pause. “And you need to think about security. You’re a public figure. You want a building with good security, maybe a doorman.”
“Okay, so: location near the rink but not too downtown, parking, natural light, good kitchen, storage, building amenities, newer building with good security.” He looks at his notes. “This is a lot.”
“Welcome to adulting.”
“Can you just—can you pick one for me?”
You laugh. “No. This is your home. You need to choose it.”
“But you have opinions. Strong opinions, apparently.”
“I have practical considerations. But what matters is what you want. How you want to live.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “I want to be close to the rink. I want space for people to visit — my family, the guys from the team. I want it to feel like home, not just a place I sleep.”
“Okay. That’s a good start.” You pull your laptop back up. “Let me filter by some of these criteria.”
***
Two days later, you’re standing in the lobby of a high-rise in downtown San Jose, waiting for the realtor.
“This is the fifth one we’ve seen,” Macklin says.
“And we’ll see a sixth and a seventh if we need to. You’re going to be living here for years, probably. It needs to be right.”
“I know, I just-” He looks around the lobby. “I don’t know what ’right’ feels like.”
“You’ll know when you see it.”
The realtor arrives — a woman named Teresa who’s been very patient with Macklin’s indecision and your long list of questions.
“Ready?” She asks cheerfully.
“Ready,” you confirm, because Macklin just looks nervous.
The elevator ride up is quiet. Macklin’s hand finds yours, and you squeeze it reassuringly.
“Relax,” you murmur. “It’s just an condo.”
“It’s my first condo.”
“And it’s going to be great.”
The unit is on the fifteenth floor. Teresa unlocks the door and steps aside to let you in first.
And oh.
The first thing you notice is the light. Floor-to-ceiling windows along the entire living room wall, flooding the space with natural light. The view is incredible — you can see the whole city, the bay in the distance.
“Wow,” Macklin breathes beside you.
You walk further in. The living room is spacious but not cavernous. The kitchen is modern, updated, with actual counter space and a gas stove. The floor plan flows naturally — living room to dining area to kitchen, no weird awkward spaces.
“Two bedrooms,” Teresa says, leading you down the hall. “Master has an en-suite. Second bedroom could be an office, guest room, whatever you need.”
The master bedroom is big. Really big. King bed big, with room for dressers and chairs and whatever else. The en-suite bathroom has a huge shower and a soaking tub.
“Heated floors in the bathrooms,” Teresa mentions. “And the whole unit has smart temperature controls.”
“What about storage?” You ask.
“Walk-in closet in the master, closet in the second bedroom, plus a storage unit in the garage that comes with the condo.”
You nod, mental checklist running. Macklin is wandering around, taking it all in.
“The building has a gym, obviously,” Teresa continues. “Twenty-four hour concierge, package handling, two parking spots assigned to this unit.”
You glance at Macklin. He’s standing by the windows, looking out at the view.
“Can we have a minute?” You ask Teresa.
“Of course. I’ll be in the hall.”
Once she’s gone, you join Macklin by the windows. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s perfect.”
“Yeah?”
“The light, the view, the space — it’s all perfect.” He turns to you. “What do you think?”
“I think the kitchen is actually usable. I think the closet space is good. I think two parking spots is great because then guests don’t have to deal with street parking.” You look around. “I think the layout makes sense. I think you’d be happy here.”
“But?”
“But what?”
“You have a ‘but’ face.”
You smile. “No but. I think it’s really great, Macklin. The location is good — fifteen minutes to the rink, close to restaurants and grocery stores. The building is new, good security. The unit itself is spacious without being overwhelming.”
“So you like it.”
“I like it a lot.”
“Okay.” He takes a breath. “Okay, let’s look at the rest.”
You spend another twenty minutes going through every detail. Testing the water pressure. Checking the closet space. Looking at the storage unit in the garage. Asking Teresa about maintenance fees, utilities, everything.
By the time you’re back in the car, you can tell Macklin is overwhelmed.
“That was a lot,” he says.
“It was. But good?”
“So good. I think-” He pauses. “I think that’s the one. The condo.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It feels right. Everything you said to look for, it has. And it just—it felt like home. Does that make sense?”
“Perfect sense.” You squeeze his hand. “Want to sleep on it? Look at a few more?”
“No. I want that one.” He’s decisive now. “I want to put in an offer.”
“Okay. Let’s call Teresa.”
***
Three weeks later, the offer is accepted, papers are signed, and Macklin has the keys to his own place.
“This is insane,” he says, standing in the empty living room. “I own this.”
“You own this,” you confirm. You’re standing next to him, both of you staring at the vast empty space.
“I need furniture.”
“You need a lot of furniture.”
“Where do I even start?”
You pull out your phone. “I made a list. Essentials first — bed, couch, dining table, basic kitchen stuff. Then we can worry about the extra things.”
“You made a list.”
“Of course I made a list.” You show him. It’s color-coded by room and priority level. “See? Red is immediate need, yellow is soon, green is eventually.”
He looks at the list, then at you, then pulls you into a kiss.
“What was that for?” You ask when he releases you.
“For being you. For making lists and thinking of things I’d never think of and making this whole thing less terrifying.”
“It’s not terrifying. It’s exciting.”
“It’s both.” He looks around again. “Okay. Furniture shopping. Where do we start?”
***
The next two weeks are a blur of furniture stores, delivery schedules, and assembly instructions.
Macklin quickly learns that he has opinions about things he didn’t know he could have opinions about.
“What’s the difference between these two couches?” He asks in the third furniture store you’ve visited.
“One is sectional, one is standard. One is leather, one is fabric. One is modern, one is more traditional.”
“Which one should I get?”
“Which one do you like?”
He looks between them. “I don’t know. They’re both couches.”
“Okay, practical questions: Are you going to have people over a lot?”
“Probably? Team guys, my family when they visit.”
“Then sectional might be good. More seating.” You sit on it, testing. “But leather might be better than upholstery if people are going to be over a lot. Easier to clean.”
“See, I never would have thought of that.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
He ends up getting the sectional in a dark gray Italian leather. And a coffee table that you have to talk him out of buying in glass (“You’re going to put your feet on it. Glass will show every mark”).
At the kitchen store, he wants to buy every gadget.
“Macklin, you don’t need a garlic press.”
“What if I want pressed garlic?”
“You can chop it. With a knife.”
“But this is easier.”
“You don’t even cook.”
“I might start.”
You give him a look. “Fine. Get the garlic press. But you’re not getting the avocado slicer.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a single-use tool that you’ll use twice and then it’ll sit in a drawer forever. Use a knife.”
He pouts but puts the avocado slicer back.
For the bedroom, you let him choose everything. The bed frame (platform, upholstered headboard), the mattress (he tests fifteen before finding the right one), the bedding (you veto his first choice as “too college dorm” and guide him toward something more adult).
“What about this?” He asks, holding up a duvet cover.
You examine it. “It’s nice. Good quality, neutral color. You like it?”
“I do. But-” He hesitates. “Would you like it?”
“It’s your bedroom. What I like doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me. You’re going to be here a lot. I want you to like it too.”
Something warm blooms in your chest. “I like it. It’s perfect.”
By the time everything is delivered and assembled, the condo is starting to look like a home. The sectional faces the windows, the coffee table is the perfect height, the dining table seats six. The kitchen is stocked with basics (and a garlic press). The bedroom has a bed that’s actually comfortable, blackout curtains for sleeping in after late games, and bedding that looks adult and put-together.
“We did it,” Macklin says, collapsing on the new couch.
“You did it. This is your place.”
“No, we did it. I couldn’t have done this without you.” He pulls you down next to him. “Seriously. I would have bought that glass coffee table and the avocado slicer and probably like, a disco ball or something.”
You laugh. “A disco ball?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know what I’m doing! But you do, and you helped me, and now I have a home.”
“You have a beautiful home.”
He’s quiet for a moment, looking around. “It’s weird. I’ve been living in San Jose for two years but this is the first place that’s actually mine. That I chose. That I made into what I wanted.”
“How does it feel?”
“Good. Really good. Grown up.” He grins. “I’m an adult with a home and a garlic press.”
“Very sophisticated.”
“I am very sophisticated, thank you.” He pulls you closer. “Thank you. For all of this. For the lists and the advice and talking me out of bad decisions.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“Is it?” His voice goes quieter. “Is that all you’re here for?”
You pull back to look at him. “What do you mean?”
He’s nervous suddenly, fidgeting with your hand. “I mean you’ve been here for all of this. Helping me find this place, furnish it, make it home. You have opinions about my kitchen and my closet space and whether I need blackout curtains.”
“Because you asked for my help.”
“I know. But-” He takes a breath. “It made me think. About how much time you spend here already. How you have a toothbrush in the bathroom and clothes in the closet and your favorite coffee in the kitchen.”
Your heart is starting to race. “Macklin-”
“And I was thinking, if you’re going to be here all the time anyway, and if you’re going to have opinions about the furniture and the layout and everything else-” He looks at you directly now. “What if you just lived here?”
You stop breathing.
“What?”
“Move in with me.” The words come out in a rush now. “I know we’ve only been together nine months. I know that’s fast. I know you have your apartment near campus and it’s convenient for school. But I also know that you’re here most nights anyway, and I sleep better when you’re here, and I want to wake up with you every morning, and-”
“Macklin-”
“I love you,” he continues. “I love you so much. And I know this is a big step and we can take it slow if you want, or we can wait, or-”
You kiss him. It’s the only way to stop the rambling.
When you pull back, he looks dazed. “Was that a yes?”
“That was a let me think about it.”
His face falls slightly. “Oh. Okay. Yeah, of course, take your time-”
“Hey.” You cup his face. “I’m not saying no. I’m saying I need to think about the practical aspects. My lease, my commute to school, logistics.”
“Right. Practical aspects. You’re practical.” He’s nodding, but he looks disappointed.
“But Macklin?” You wait until he’s looking at you. “I love you too. And I want to live with you. I just need to figure out how to make it work.”
His smile is like the sun coming out. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“So it’s not crazy? Asking after nine months?”
“A little crazy. But we’ve never been conventional.” You kiss him again, softer this time. “Let me look at my lease, talk to my landlord. Give me a few days?”
“You can have as long as you need.”
“How about three days?”
He grins. “Three days works.”
***
You spend those three days running numbers.
Your lease is month-to-month. Breaking it means losing your deposit, but that’s manageable.
The commute from Macklin’s place to Santa Clara Law is actually shorter than from your current condo. Twenty minutes instead of thirty.
Rent: you’d be saving money living with Macklin, even if you insisted on paying half of everything. Which you would, because you’re not going to mooch.
Pros: Living with Macklin. Waking up together every day. Not having to pack a bag every time you want to stay over. Building a life together.
Cons: You’re trying to think of cons and coming up empty.
On day three, you show up at Macklin’s new condo with your laptop and a folder of documents.
“That looks official,” he says, letting you in.
“It is.” You set everything on the dining table. “Okay. Let’s talk logistics.”
He sits across from you, nervous. “Okay.”
“My lease is month-to-month. I can give thirty days notice and be out by November first.”
“Okay.”
“The commute from here to school is actually better than from my current place.”
“Okay.”
“I want to pay half of everything. Maintenance, utilities, groceries. I’m not going to live here for free.”
“You don’t have to-”
“Yes, I do. We’re partners. Equal partners. Agreed?”
He nods. “Agreed.”
“I’ll need space in the closet. And drawer space. And half the bathroom counter.”
“Done, done, and done.”
“I study a lot. Late nights, early mornings. I’m going to need to be able to spread out and not worry about being in your way.”
“The second bedroom. We’ll make it your office. Desk, bookshelves, whatever you need.”
“I’m messy when I’m studying. Books everywhere, notes all over.”
“I don’t care.”
“I will have opinions about how we organize the kitchen.”
“Please have opinions about how we organize the kitchen. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
You’re trying not to smile. “I’m going to want to cook. A lot. Which means I’m going to want certain ingredients stocked, certain tools available.”
“I will buy you anything you want. Including the avocado slicer.”
“I don’t need the avocado slicer.”
“But if you wanted it-”
“Macklin.” You set your pen down. “Are you sure about this? Really sure? Because once I move in, I’m here. All my mess, all my stress, all of me.”
“That’s what I want. All of you.” He reaches across the table for your hand. “I’ve never been more sure of anything. Well, except maybe the hat trick bet, but that worked out pretty well.”
You laugh despite yourself. “It did.”
“So?” He’s hopeful, nervous, young and earnest and yours. “Will you move in with me?”
You look at him. At this man who asked you out seventeen times. Who scored a hat trick to get a date. Who lets you take the lead and calls you when he’s hurt and trusts you with every vulnerable part of himself.
Who wants to build a home with you.
“Yes.”
His face breaks into the biggest smile you’ve ever seen. “Yes?”
“Yes, I’ll move in with you.”
He’s around the table in a second, pulling you up, kissing you hard and desperate and happy.
“I love you,” he says between kisses. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too.”
“You’re going to live here. With me. In our home.”
“Our home,” you agree, and the words feel right.
He picks you up, spinning you around, and you laugh against his neck.
“When can you move in?” He asks when he finally sets you down.
“November first, if I give notice tomorrow.”
“That’s six weeks.”
“Is that too long?”
“Any time without you is too long. But I can wait six weeks.” He kisses you again. “We should celebrate.”
“How?”
“Well, we have a perfectly good couch that we haven’t christened yet.”
You laugh. “Macklin Celebrini, are you suggesting we have sex on the couch?”
“I’m suggesting we have sex in every room in this condo.” His hands are already sliding under your shirt. “Starting with the living room and working our way to the bedroom.”
“What about the kitchen?”
“Especially the kitchen.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
“I really do.”
***
Six weeks later, you’re carrying the last box into the condo. Macklin’s teammates helped with the heavy furniture earlier, and now it’s just you and Macklin, putting away the final pieces of your life into your shared home.
“Where do you want this?” Macklin asks, holding a box labeled BOOKS.
“Bedroom bookshelf. Left side.”
He disappears down the hall, and you look around. Your books are on the shelves. Your coffee mugs in the kitchen. Your clothes in the closet. Your toothbrush in the bathroom.
You live here.
Macklin comes back, wrapping his arms around you from behind. “How does it feel?”
“Surreal. Good. Right.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You turn in his arms. “I live with my boyfriend. In our beautiful condo. With our sectional couch and our garlic press.”
“Don’t forget the avocado slicer.”
“You bought the avocado slicer?”
“I bought the avocado slicer. It’s in the kitchen gadget drawer.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling. “You’re impossible.”
“You moved in anyway.”
“I did.”
He kisses you, soft and sweet. “Welcome home.”
“I’m home.” And you are. Not just in this condo, but with him. “We’re home.”
“We are.” He rests his forehead against yours. “This is it, you know. This is everything I wanted. You, me, our place. Building a life together.”
“We’re so young,” you say. Not arguing, just observing. “Twenty and twenty-four, living together. Some people would say we’re crazy.”
“Some people said you were too old for me. Some people said I was too young to play in the NHL. Some people are always going to have opinions.” He pulls back to look at you. “But I don’t care what some people think. I care what you think.”
“I think we’re doing exactly what we should be doing.”
“Good.” He kisses you again. “Now come on. Will and Ekky are coming over later to help us properly break in the condo, which apparently means pizza and video games.”
“Of course it does.”
“But first-” He’s pulling you toward the bedroom. “We have some christening to finish.”
“We already christened the bedroom. Twice.”
“But not with all your stuff here. That makes it different.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Are you complaining?”
You look at him — young and happy and so in love it radiates from every pore.
“Not even a little bit.”
***
Later, after the team has left and the condo is quiet, you’re lying in bed together. Your bed. In your bedroom. In your home.
“I’m really happy,” Macklin says into the darkness.
“Me too.”
“I was thinking-” He pauses. “This is it. This is the start of our actual life together. Not just dating, not just spending nights here and there. Actually building something.”
“It is.”
“And I know we’re young. I know we have school and hockey and a million things to figure out. But I also know-” He rolls to face you. “I know I want all of it with you. Every part. The boring parts and the exciting parts and everything in between.”
“Macklin-”
“I’m not asking for anything. I’m not—we just moved in together, I’m not going to propose or anything.” He’s rambling now. “I just wanted you to know. That I see a future. With you. A real future. Marriage and kids and growing old together, all of it.”
Your heart is so full it might burst. “I see that too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I love you. I love this life we’re building. I love that we get to do it together.”
“Me too.” He kisses you. “Me too.”
You fall asleep like that, tangled together in your bed, in your home, in the life you’re building together.
And in the morning, when you wake up and stumble to the kitchen for coffee, you’ll find your favorite mug already out, the coffee already brewing because Macklin set the timer last night.
And you’ll realize that this is what home feels like.
Summary: in which you and Macklin officially hard launch your relationship
Series Masterlist
The photos are perfect.
Macklin has been staring at them for twenty minutes, trying to decide which ones to post. There’s the one of you two at sunset, your head on his shoulder, both of you smiling at the camera. The one of you in the infinity pool, your arms around his neck, his hands on your waist. The one of you laughing at something he said, caught mid-giggle, genuine and beautiful.
And then there are the others. The one of you in that white bikini that made his brain short-circuit. The one of him kissing your neck while you tilt your head back. The one of you two in bed — nothing explicit, just limbs tangled in expensive sheets, but intimate enough to make a statement.
“You’re overthinking it,” you say from the balcony, where you’re reading in the sun.
“I’m not overthinking it.”
“You’re absolutely overthinking it.” You don’t even look up from your book. “Just post them. Who cares what people think?”
“I care what people think.”
“Since when?”
“Since-” He pauses. “Okay, fair point.”
You finally look at him, lowering your sunglasses. “Macklin. We’ve been together for seven months. Your family knows. My family knows. The team knows. The only people who don’t know are random strangers on the internet.”
“I know.”
“So post the pictures. Or don’t. But stop agonizing.”
He looks at the photos again. At you, happy and relaxed and his. At seven months of memories that no one else knows about.
“What if people are weird about it?”
“People are always weird on the internet.” You set your book down. “Come here.”
He goes, sitting on the lounge chair next to you. You take his phone, scrolling through the photos.
“These are beautiful,” you say softly. “We look happy.”
“We are happy.”
“Then show people that.” You hand the phone back. “And if anyone has a problem with it, they can fuck off.”
He grins. “So eloquent.”
“I’m on vacation. My eloquence is off duty.” You kiss him quickly. “Post them. I promise the world won’t end.”
So he does.
He picks ten photos — a mix of sweet and slightly spicy, a perfect summary of your relationship. He writes a simple caption best summer ever 🌊☀️and tags your Instagram.
Then he hits post and immediately puts his phone face down on the table.
“Done?” You ask.
“Done.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard.”
“Ask me again in an hour when the comments start coming in.”
You laugh. “Come on. Let’s go to the beach. You promised to rub sunscreen on my back.”
“I did promise that, didn’t I?”
“You did. Very enthusiastically.”
“What can I say? I’m committed to sun safety.”
You throw a towel at him, and he catches it, laughing.
***
The first hour is fine.
His phone starts buzzing immediately — likes, comments, follows. His teammates chirping him in the group chat (FINALLY, Will sends, followed by about fifty heart emojis). His mom commenting with heart eyes. Tyler commenting About time, Mack!
You’re lying on an oversized beach bed, the kind that’s basically a floating mattress with a canopy, and Macklin is indeed very committed to sun safety. He’s been rubbing sunscreen on your back for the past ten minutes, and you’re pretty sure he’s just using it as an excuse to touch you.
“You’re very thorough,” you observe.
“Don’t want you to burn.”
“Mmhmm.” You’re grinning into your arms. “This has nothing to do with you liking to touch me.”
“That’s just a bonus.”
His phone buzzes again. And again. And again.
“You should check that,” you say.
“It’s fine.”
“Macklin.”
“I’m on vacation. Vacation means no phone.”
“You literally just posted to Instagram.”
“That was different.”
You roll over, making him move his hands, and pick up his phone. “I’m checking.”
“You don’t have to-”
You’re already scrolling, and he watches your expression change.
“What?” He asks.
“Nothing.”
“That’s not your nothing face. What is it?”
You hand him the phone without a word.
The comments on his post are mostly positive — teammates, friends, fans saying you two look cute together. But someone has noticed his tag of you, and people have clearly found your page.
Your Instagram is public. You post mostly about law school, coffee, books, the occasional photo of you and your friends. And, for the last seven months, photos of you and Macklin.
There’s one from February: him sleeping on your couch after a game, your hand in his hair. Captioned my favorite person.
One from March: you two at dinner, him looking at you like you hung the moon. Captioned date night 💕.
One from April: a mirror selfie where he’s behind you, arms around your waist, kissing your temple. Captioned grateful.
They’re sweet. Intimate. Clearly a couple in love.
And now his fans have found them.
Most of the comments are nice. But some-
She’s 23 and he’s 19? That’s weird.
Four year age gap when he’s a teenager is kind of sus
She’s giving predator vibes ngl
Isn’t she an intern? She 100% groomed him
Poor Macklin, he doesn’t even realize he’s being manipulated
His jaw clenches. “What the fuck?”
“It’s fine-”
“It’s not fine.” He’s scrolling now, getting angrier with each comment. “They’re calling you a predator. They’re saying you groomed me.”
“Macklin, it’s just internet strangers-”
“I don’t care. They don’t get to say that about you.” He’s on his feet now, pacing. “You didn’t groom me. I chased you for two months. I’m the one who wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“I know that-”
“They’re acting like you’re some kind of-” He can’t even finish the sentence. “You’re four years older than me. Four years. That’s nothing.”
“To some people, it matters when you’re nineteen.”
“Well, those people can fuck off.” He’s typing now, fingers flying over his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Setting the record straight.”
“Macklin, you don’t have to-”
“Yes, I do.” He looks at you. “I’m not letting anyone talk about you like that. About us like that.”
You’re quiet for a moment, studying him. Then you sigh. “Okay. What are you going to do?”
“I’m going live.”
“Right now?”
“Right now.” He’s already opening Instagram, already tapping the live button. “Come here.”
“What?”
“Come here. I want you in the frame.”
You move to sit next to him, but he shakes his head. “No. I want to—can I lie on your lap?”
You blink. “You want to go live lying on my lap.”
“Yeah. Problem?”
A slow smile spreads across your face. “No problem at all.”
You sit back against the pillows, and he settles with his head in your lap. The phone is propped up on the table next to the bed, angled to show both of you — him reclining, you running your fingers through his hair.
The viewer count is already climbing. 100. 500. 1,000.
“Hi,” Macklin says to the camera. His voice is casual, but you can feel the tension in his shoulders. “So. I posted some photos today. Apparently, we need to have a conversation.”
The comments start immediately.
WHO IS SHE
OMG MACKLIN
You guys are so cute!
She’s too old for you
That last one makes him scowl. You squeeze his shoulder gently.
“First of all,” he continues, “this is my girlfriend, Y/N. We’ve been together for seven months. And before anyone asks — yes, she’s twenty-three. Yes, I’m nineteen. Yes, that’s a four-year age gap. And no, I don’t care what you think about it.”
The comments are flying now, too fast to read. The viewer count is at 5,000 and climbing.
“Second,” he says, “I’ve been seeing some comments calling her a predator. Saying she groomed me. And I want to be very clear about this.” He looks directly at the camera. “That’s bullshit.”
“Macklin,” you murmur.
“It is. It’s complete bullshit, and I’m not going to let people spread that narrative.” He shifts slightly, getting more comfortable in your lap. “You want to know how we got together? I asked her out. Seventeen times. She said no every single time.”
Someone comments: “Why did she say no?”
“Because she’s smart and she knew people would be weird about it,” Macklin says. “Because she was the Sharks’ legal intern and I’m a player and she wanted to keep it professional. Because she thought I was too young and wouldn’t be serious.”
“And?” Someone asks.
“And I scored a hat trick to get her to say yes.” He grins at the memory. “We made a bet. If I scored a hat trick in a game, she’d go on one date with me. If I didn’t, I’d stop asking.”
The comments are going crazy now.
THAT’S SO ROMANTIC
A hat trick bet??? King behavior
Did you score it?
“I scored it,” Macklin confirms. “In overtime. Walk-off goal against Utah. And she went on that date with me, and then another, and another. And now we’re here.”
Your fingers are still playing with his hair, and he reaches up to lace his fingers with your free hand.
“So no,” he says firmly, “she didn’t groom me. She didn’t manipulate me. She didn’t take advantage of me. If anything, I’m the one who pestered her until she finally gave in.”
“You were very persistent,” you say softly, speaking for the first time.
The comments explode.
HER VOICE
She sounds so sweet!
You guys are adorable
“Persistent is one word for it,” Macklin says, looking up at you with a grin. “Annoying is probably more accurate.”
“You weren’t annoying.”
“I asked you out seventeen times.”
“Determined, then.”
He brings your joined hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles. The gesture is casual, automatic, and the comments lose their minds.
OMG
THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER
I’m crying they’re so in love
“Anyway,” Macklin continues, “I wanted to address this directly because I’m not going to let people disrespect my girlfriend. We’re both adults. We’re both happy. And our relationship is nobody’s business but ours.”
“And your mom’s,” you add. “She has opinions.”
He laughs. “Okay, and my mom’s. But she loves you, so.”
“She does?”
“Are you kidding? She asks about you every time we talk.” He looks back at the camera. “My whole family loves her. My teammates love her. Everyone who actually knows us loves us together. The only people who have a problem with it are strangers on the internet who don’t know either of us.”
The comments are shifting now. More supportive, less critical.
You guys look so happy
Age gap isn’t even that bad
My parents have a 16 year gap, you’re fine
If you’re both happy that’s all that matters
“We are happy,” Macklin says. He shifts to look up at you. “Right?”
“So happy,” you confirm, smiling down at him.
“See?” He looks back at the camera. “Happy. So everyone can calm down.”
Someone asks: “How did your teammates react?”
“They’ve known for months,” Macklin says. “Everyone’s been super supportive.”
“They’ve been great,” you add.
“She makes the best cakes,” Macklin says. “Brought one to a team barbecue and now everyone asks her to bake for events.”
“You helped make that cake.”
“I ate half the ingredients. That’s not helping.”
You laugh, and the sound is clear and genuine. The comments are full of heart emojis now.
You guys have such good energy together
This is so cute I can’t
Okay I take back what I said, you’re perfect
What do you love about her?
Macklin doesn’t hesitate. “Everything. She’s the smartest person I know. She’s funny and kind and she calls me on my shit when I need it. She makes me better — at hockey, at life, at everything. She’s my best friend.”
Your hand in his hair stills for a moment, and he knows you’re trying not to cry.
“And she’s beautiful,” he adds. “Obviously. But that’s not why I love her. I love her because she’s her.”
The comments are a wall of hearts and crying emojis.
STOP I’M SOBBING
GET YOU SOMEONE WHO TALKS ABOUT YOU LIKE THIS
Okay fine you win, you’re adorable together
What about Y/N? Someone asks you. What do you love about him?
You’re quiet for a moment, and Macklin looks up at you expectantly.
“I love that he’s genuine,” you say finally. “What you see is what you get with Macklin. He doesn’t play games. He doesn’t pretend to be something he’s not. He’s just himself. And himself is pretty incredible.”
“See?” Macklin says to the camera. “She thinks I’m incredible.”
“I said pretty incredible. Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. Already there.”
You tug his hair gently, and he grins.
The viewer count is at 15,000 now. The comments are overwhelmingly positive.
“Can we be invited to the wedding?”
“NHL couple goals“
“I’m obsessed with you both“
Someone asks: “Are you living together?”
“No,” you answer. “I have my apartment near campus. We’re taking things at our own pace.”
“Which is slow,” Macklin adds. “Because she’s responsible and mature.”
“One of us has to be.”
He pokes your side, and you squirm, laughing.
“Okay, one more thing,” Macklin says, getting serious again. “I know I can’t control what people say on the internet. I know some of you are always going to have opinions. But Y/N is important to me. She’s-” He pauses. “She’s it for me. So if you’re going to be weird about our relationship, just unfollow me now. Because I’m not going to stop posting about her. I’m not going to hide this. We’re together, we’re happy, and that’s not changing.”
The comments are supportive now. Defending them. Shutting down the haters.
If you don’t like it, leave
He’s literally so happy let him live
Age gap discourse is so tired, they’re both adults
“Okay,” Macklin says. “I think that’s everything. Any questions?”
Comments flood in.
When did you know you loved her?”l
“First date,” Macklin says immediately. “Actually, no. Before that. The hat trick game. When I scored that third goal and looked up and saw her in the stands, I knew.”
“You’re such a romantic,” you say, but your voice is soft.
“Only for you.”
STOP
I CAN’T HANDLE THIS
You guys are killing me
Last question, someone asks. Any advice for relationships with age gaps?
Macklin thinks about it. “Honestly? Communication. And not caring what other people think. Y/N and I talk about everything. We’re honest with each other. And we don’t let other people’s opinions dictate our relationship.”
“Also,” you add, “making sure you’re on the same page about everything. We had a lot of conversations early on about expectations, about what we both wanted. Age gap relationships can work, but only if you’re intentional about it.”
“See?” Macklin says. “Smart. I told you she’s smart.”
“Okay, for real this time, we’re done,” Macklin says. “We’re on vacation and there’s a beach and drinks with umbrellas calling our names.”
“Thanks for watching,” you add.
“And thanks for being cool about us,” Macklin says. “Most of you, anyway. The rest of you can fuck off.”
“Macklin!”
“What? It’s true.” He grins at the camera. “Bye, everyone. Be nice to each other. Don’t be weird on the internet. Go outside. Touch grass.”
He ends the live, and the sudden silence is jarring.
“Well,” you say after a moment. “That was something.”
“Was it okay? Did I say too much?”
“It was perfect.” You cup his face. “Thank you. For defending me. For for all of it.”
“Of course. I’m not going to let people talk shit about you.”
“My knight in shining armor.”
“Just your boyfriend who loves you and won’t tolerate disrespect.” He sits up, turning to face you properly. “Are you okay? Really?”
“I’m okay. I knew there would be some negativity when we went public. It’s the internet.”
“Doesn’t make it okay.”
“No, but it’s reality.” You kiss him softly. “What matters is us. And we’re good.”
“We’re better than good.”
“We really are.”
He checks his phone. The live has already been screen-recorded and posted to Twitter, TikTok, everywhere. The comments are overwhelmingly positive now.
Macklin Celebrini really went live to defend his girlfriend, we love to see it
The way he looks at her 😭
Them lying on the beach bed together ... relationship goals
I was skeptical but that live changed my mind, they’re actually perfect together
His Instagram post has doubled in likes. Your Instagram has gained thousands of followers.
“You’re internet famous now,” he observes.
“Great. That’s exactly what I wanted while trying to study for the bar.”
“You love it.”
“I love you. The internet fame I could do without.”
“Too late. You’re stuck with it now.” He pulls you closer. “Stuck with me.”
“I can live with that.”
“Okay,” he tosses his phone aside. “No more phone. We’re on vacation. Let’s actually enjoy it.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Well, you still need more sunscreen.”
“Do I?”
“Definitely. Sun safety is very important.”
“You already did my back.”
“What about your front?”
You laugh, pushing him down onto the bed. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
“I really do.”
You kiss him, and he thinks about the live. About going public. About all those people watching, seeing you two together, seeing how happy he is.
And yeah, some people will always have opinions. Will always think they know better. Will always have something negative to say.
But lying here with you, on a beach in Cabo, the sun warm on his skin and your lips on his-
He’s never been more sure of anything in his life.
This is right. You’re right. You two together is right.
And anyone who has a problem with that can fuck right off.
***
Later that night, you’re at dinner when you check Instagram for the first time since the live.
“Oh my god,” you say.
“What?”
“Your fan accounts are making edits of us.”
“Already?”
“Already.” You show him your phone. Someone has edited clips from the live with music, focusing on the way Macklin looks at you, the casual intimacy of his head in your lap, the way you play with his hair.
the way he defends her 😭 this is what real love looks like
“We’re a meme now,” you say.
“We’re not a meme. We’re-” He watches the edit. “Okay, maybe we’re a little bit of a meme.”
“I can live with it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You set your phone down. “It’s kind of nice, actually. That people can see how happy we are.”
“We are pretty happy.”
“Understatement of the century.”
He reaches across the table, taking your hand. “I’m glad we went public.”
“Me too.”
“Even with the weird comments?”
“Even with that. Because now I get to post photos of you without worrying who sees them.”
“You’ve been posting photos of me for months.”
“Yeah, but now I can post the really good ones.”
“Define really good.”
You grin. “You’ll see.”
And later, when you post a photo of him from that night — sun-kissed and smiling, looking at you like you’re the only person in the world — with the caption mine ❤️, the internet collectively loses its mind.
But Macklin doesn’t care about the likes or the comments or the attention.
He only cares that the world finally knows what he’s known for months.
He’s yours, you’re his, and that’s all that matters.
I saw this video on twt for the first time with audio (last time I only saw it muted). Wills laugh is so adorable. I don’t want to sound crazy but Mack playing with Marleau’s kids when he was obviously just there to spend time with Will is so “I want to make a good impression on your family” coded. I mean obviously that’s just where he’s staying but if someone was living in my house and they had a friend showing up all the time I’d hope they’d be socializing a little and that’s what Mack does (obviously). Just love how Will is so in awe of the whole thing 🫠🫠🫠
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