#macklin angst

[angeltees]

When Winter Comes Around Again

You had a week's break after a long tour that you planned to spend cooped up in your favourite cafe, all in hopes of getting over your writer's block. But somehow two strangers managed to change your plans. Your world started blending into theirs enough for the lines to blur. But just as you started thinking about forever you overheard something that suddenly made everything click into place. If there’s one thing you’ve always been good at, it’s running away.

pairings macklin celebrini x fem!singer!crosby!reader x platonic! will smith warnings hidden identities (ish), Sydney Crosby isn’t really mentioned a bunch but he’s an absent dad here, fluff, angst wc 14.6k notes don’t ask me how long this took to write. I don’t want to talk about it.

The Bay Area made for a great escape. There was nothing comparable to the feeling of the cool misted air encapsulating your heated body in a hug of frost. It was a different feeling, drowning in the waves of Mediterranean-like air that swept through your open window. Though it was foreign all those years ago, it wasn't unwelcome.

If you allowed yourself to be honest, you’d admit that it made for a nice change to the humid air you used to subject yourself to in Pittsburgh. It’s not saying much, though. You only stayed there during their hot summers, your bags already packed by the time the sun started setting a bit earlier than usual. 

You loved San Jose, you truly did. It’s been three years since you first landed with your mom’s teary eyes still reflecting through the hot summer heat waves, an oasis of what you were leaving behind. 

But it’s also been three years since you’d spent your last summer cooped up in a room too big, too unfamiliar. Only this time, this type of unfamiliarity wasn’t welcomed. The one that your dad spent weeks setting up every year. Planning through focused eyes, and unreliable Google results about what kids your age liked. Not that you knew, though. You always assumed too much and trusted too little. But how could you not? Three years since you’ve seen his face, the childlike glee that simmered in his eyes as his nervous hands shakingly held up a big, dramatic, welcome home sign. It was cruel, he was cruel. 

But that was before. It was before your world tilted on its axis, the one it’s been teetering on for years. Before heartbreak took on a clever disguise, and betrayal lingered hotter than the warmed tears forcing its way down your cheeks, ones that resembled the man you left behind.

So, you went home early. Back to your mom, back to Canada. For a while, it was good, great even. Until it wasn’t. It was the same vicious cycle, an event that haunted your timeline. After all, you were your father's daughter. Your eyes crinkled up the same way whenever your heart bloomed too fast, your smiles lighting up your entire face with a sheen of light. And the way everyone always did, they caught it.

Old friends, relationships, every single person you’ve ever talked to for longer than a fleeting conversation, eventually found out. And then you were that same little girl back in Pittsburgh holding back her tears, and suffocating under the weight of the name on the back of her jersey because the world didn’t know about her. Every relationship in your life circled back to your dad, and they all ended the same. Only this time you didn’t allow your dad to soothe the pains with poolside (virgin) piña coladas and extra sunscreen, you resented him. With no other choice, you blamed him.

So you changed the straw for a pencil, and the sobs for hums. You blocked a few numbers too many, and deleted photos that not even amnesia could make you forget. You erased everything with a flimsy eraser, graphite-filled holes littering each corner. And then you wrote over it as if your skin didn't shed with it, as if your pencil wasn’t fueled by the tears you’d spilled. 

But San Jose didn't bleed black and gold, it bled blue. After years of sitting like a wounded fish in water coloured by your own damaged fins, waiting for the circling sharks to lunge, you finally became something more.

The walls you built were strong enough to keep them out. And to keep you safe. Distance meant security, and secrets meant everything you could mutter out between clenched teeth. It didn’t burn the same when you never allowed yourself to feel it.

Even now, your sacrifices seemed worthwhile. The sharps of your troubled heart sometimes made themselves noticeable, but it was worth it. It had no choice but to be. But somewhere along the late nights you’d spent perfecting your albums and pushing yourself to perfection, you lost everything.

It’s a weird paradox of delusion that you were still far too blind to come to terms with. It wasn't always this way, and there was no one to blame but yourself- and the secret you’ve been forced to carry your entire life. 

But still, you closed yourself off to the world. And in response, the world kept spinning. People aged and the seasons changed, but you were still exactly where you left yourself. In San Jose. 

Your transformation was gradual since the beginning. It started with the rare out-of-body experiences, the echoes of the voices from the people you left behind bouncing off the walls of your apartment, their voices sharp as they spoke in tongues. Your body grew used to moving on autopilot as your mind forced itself into the passenger seat.

Because now, it is easier to pretend that nothing happened than to accept the fact that your entire world ended those few years ago. To pretend that you never succumbed to a shell of the person you once were, the type of person who didn’t flinch at the sight of every happy family you couldn’t help but watch through the slightly fogged windows of your favourite cafe buried deep in the heart of Silicon Valley.

And when you finally looked away in an attempt to hide your tears, your mind finally caught up. Your hands weren't yours, the nail beds were unfamiliar. And the overhead lights were too bright, too loud to be left on. But you weren’t your father's daughter anymore, so it was worth every slowly blinking away tear.

But now with your vintage sunglasses perched comfortably over your nose (not because it was sunny, but for fashion. Always for fashion) with your, just as loved, brown coach clutch practically glued to your bare thigh, it couldn't be clearer.

Nothing compared to San Jose. 

Your hands cramped with each swirly “Y” that you delicately carved into your notebook, your pencil suspiciously sharp beneath your much smoother fingers. But the burn only fueled the fire in your mind, words coming together and practically writing themselves, your stress-bitten pencil becoming your muse.

Your voice was low enough to get lost in the ambience, the tunes you turned to melodies floating far enough to dance with whichever elevator music the cafe usually played around this time. Playful, and light. Not that you were aware of it, though. Your headphones didn't allow for any sudden noise to interrupt your flow, your instrumentals coming in one ear and fluently travelling across to the other.

You read between the lines, the notes that carried heavier than they used to. The poems translated well onto paper, your emotions seeping through each new sentence. The words weaved between commas and ended after your periods, only to start back up again without a hitch. 

It wasn’t until a tap against your shoulder, one too light to ignore, but sudden enough to pull a harsh flinch out of you. You looked up too sharply to be played off as something less, your headphones suddenly feeling heavier against your done-up hair. You sat frozen as your mind travelled through excuses because normal people didn't flinch when someone noticed them. Normal people did not hide their faces even after the sun had set with glasses too dark to see through.

Before you could stammer out some sad sentence that you knew would come out too heavy, too rehearsed to be natural, you were cut off by the same elderly woman who’d tapped you. She spoke as if she were repeating herself, your eyes watching the slopes of her mouth as your music replaced her voice.

Even though you were finally writing something after a month of silence, your mind was empty every time you even dared to picture your notebook, you slid the headphones off. “–closing in a few minutes, dear.” You blinked once, your body relaxing when you realized what this was. Or wasn’t, about.

“Thank you, ma’am.” You nodded your head to show your thanks, your voice quiet with lack of use. The lady lit up, her warm smile growing – which you almost thought wasn’t possible. Her mouth opened as if she already had something to say, but then she stopped herself. Instead, she nodded. Her greyed hair swung with the motion, your eyes following the braid as if it held its own gravitational pull.

You watched through a confused gaze as she turned on her heel a little too fast, her braid swinging around and slapping across her frail shoulder. Your heart leaped the same time your legs did, your hands abandoning the one thing that had your everything in it.

She didn’t fall, but she didn’t have a chance to trip – thanks to you. She waddled on her feet for a second, her palm coming up and wrapping around one of your arms that wrapped around her from behind.  “Whoa, I got you.” You helped her gain her balance, your hands never straying far.

She turned around much more carefully, her smile a bit stunned but genuine. Up close you can see her face more clearly. She was beautiful. Her eyes that held warmth for a stranger she’d just met gleamed unashamed, her irises bright as if she’d been staring into the sun for too long. 

Her eyes carried deep lines, ones that branched down her cheeks and joined together at the bends of her mouth. It was obvious she’d spent her life smiling, perhaps loving everyone she'd ever encountered. Your heart ached, jealousy rooting over you. It was times like this that made you wish you weren’t alone. But standing in front of her with her nurturing gaze washing over you, you almost felt the ghost of it.

The lights began burning your eyes and her voice transformed into something you didn’t recognize. You spoke back in a voice soft enough to combat her, but you couldn’t hear your thoughts. Noises rang in your ears as you watched her walk away, round the corner of the counter, then disappear behind the back doors.

You’ve been coming to this cafe for all three years at every possible time you could, yet you’ve never met her before. But you couldn’t dwell on it now, not when your hands began shaking, your palms burning as you tried to feel something human-like again. 

By the time the bell rang one last time to announce your departure your body was already numb. It was dark enough that no one would recognize you but your glasses stayed on. Because what if they did? What if someone saw you walking this street yesterday and decided to camp out? What if the elderly lady was the same person who contacted Deux-Moi about some outlandish rumours that only made sense to the incels who believed them?  

If you were in your right mind you would know that you were overthinking everything. But growing up being forced into being a secret had its consequences, the eggshells still exist just as much now as they did back then. The burning in your palm could only keep you conscious long enough for you to get home. But when your apartment's lights remained flicked off, you spiralled.

There was nothing to comfort you when you were alone. Not even the voices that ricocheted off the walls had anything to say, not worth remembering at least. 

It was a few days later, but again you were found in the place your body almost always found itself during each short break you had. And as always, your notebook was sitting beside you. The same bitten pencil was placed absentmindedly adjacent to it. 

Your body was sunken down into the seats with a type of exhaustion that was downright criminal at this time of day. It was barely noon, and already the gravity was pulling you down and away from the world – into a secluded space that held no room for anything but you and your thoughts.

Your feet, clad in lacy red tights, swung gently beneath you. Your other leg was pushed under it, your warmth radiating across it enough to keep the bite of air away each time the door opened with a new unfamiliar face. Your black kitten heels were kicked off somewhere between your seat and the one across from you, not that it mattered at the moment. 

People watching was just as heartbreaking as exhilarating. While you loved watching the way every individual went about their days, some beaming with bright smiles, others with stained cheeks and tears lining their waterline – it was daunting. 

You made stories up for them in your head, some more heartbreaking than others. But it wasn't the sad ones that hurt the worst. No, it was the happiest ones that carried the melancholy.

It was the ones that had no choice but to be real.

The ones with loving parents nurturing their children, their voices soft as they spoke between hushed giggles and half-apologetic glances towards everyone who glanced over when their child cheered a bit too loudly when their favourite drink was placed in front of them. 

The ones where small groups of friends leaned over each other as they whispered into the night, their voices overlapping but never straying too far away. Notebooks crossing over each other enough to become obvious, but not enough for anyone to move them away.

It was the couples with their sides pressed as close as possible, their mouths whispering sweet nothings into the other's ears as they knocked their knees together in an affectionate bump. Cute, and hidden enough for it to be missed by anyone who wasn’t watching for it.

And it was the longing that filled your entire body when you observed them. Sure, you had some people you considered friends. But they were kept at arm's length, far enough that the collapse of the friendship couldn't possibly trap you beneath the rubble. You couldn’t do that to yourself, not after you barely survived the last one. 

Your fingers were cold against your drink. A milky, almost hazelnut taste lingered. It was the same elderly lady from the other night who surprised you with minutes ago, “a secret drink for our favourite regular,” she winked as if it meant nothing, but enough to untangle a part of you that you've been protecting. A regular, so she noticed you before. It did nothing but make you feel guiltier. If only she’d met you today, on a day when the world seemed a bit easier to hold.

The condensation that’s been collecting alongside the outer cup dripped down your fingers without a care, as if they were in a race towards a destination only they knew. Not that it was important right now, because whilst your journal was near, it was far enough that it couldn't get wet. 

It was folded open on the page you’d spent the last few nights buried in. And even though it was now in its review, the lines were still bare of worthy writing. The poems you sculpted weren’t as meaningful as it was the night you reminisced too long, when you let the world slip out from between your hands.

Your mouth tasted too sweet to hum along to the notes that held enough depth to bring salty tears to the surface, your hands too cold to hold the warmth of your collapsed lungs, your breath knocked out of your chest as the words became too real – too honest.

The world doesn’t just pay for honesty, it pays for emotion. Your lies used to sell for just as much as your truths, so you sold them for more. And by the time the bell rang with new customers, you were already losing your train of thought.

When you saw the type of girls who just entered the cafe, you sank deeper into your seat. You used your sunglasses – different ones than last time – as a mask, and your cup as a shield. When one of their eyes began sweeping across the seats you almost wished you’d grabbed your red hat instead of your same crimson shade of glasses. But when her eyes didn't linger, you exhaled a deep breath. 

It was risky being out in public, you knew it too well. Your indiscreet outfit didn't help either, your lips curling into your mouth to swallow your curses.

It wasn’t easy going unnoticed, not when the entire world was watching. But here, in this very cafe, it’s been the only place you could breathe without it being baited into being more. But it didn’t mean you didn’t flinch every time someone who looked a little too much like someone who’d listen to your songs walked in. 

Through your distracting thoughts you missed the door ringing, the world on mute as two pairs of feet made their way towards you, their footsteps unheard. It wasn’t until they spoke that you jumped, until you thought your safe space was corrupted for good.

“I like your jacket, is the leather real?” Blue eyes stared down at you with a boyish lightness, his amusement swirling around his expanded pupils before exploding across his irises. But then you remembered the question and you barely held back a scoff. Is the sky blue? 

“Dude, what kind of person asks that?” This time green eyes blinked owlishly at you, the strikingly beautiful colour almost enough to make you want to write a song about – what is wrong with you? You opened your mouth to respond, only to resemble a guppy as your trance dramatically dragged on. Your eyes traced the green-eyed man’s face, your mind already memorizing the arch of his eyebrows and his cute gummy smile – ok, so you were definitely not about to ogle some man who decided to come ruin your favourite cafe for you.

“I mean, by her silence I'm assuming she’s too embarrassed to admit it.” The same playful voice from the blue-eyed man finally pulled you back to earth. You openly gaped at him in shock, your eyes wide under your glasses. There’s no way he thought your Miu Miu leather jacket was fake, right? 

“Will!” The green-eyed man backhanded the blue-eyed man, who you now know is “Will”. Judging by the way both boys stifled a laugh, you knew he did. Your eyes caught sight of what they were wearing, oh? Lo and behold, the same man who was attempting to bait you, was clad in the most obvious fake denim jacket you’ve ever seen. You might even go far enough to say out possibly the worst one you've ever seen in your entire life.

You made a sound low enough to sound like a hiss, the air sucked behind your teeth dramatic enough for both men’s attention to be drawn towards it. They shared an amused look, Will looking almost triumphant to get a reaction out of you.

“I wouldn’t be talking this much if I were you.” You clicked your tongue in disapproval, your words sharp enough to cut through the smile on his face. Your eyes traced across his jacket slowly enough to pull both boys’ eyes down at it, confusion reflecting across both of their eyes. “Hopefully you didn’t pay more than a few bucks for that fake denim…” Will’s eyes shot back at yours. “It’s tacky, really.” You kissed your teeth.

The other boy laughed out loud, his eyes shining with amusement as he cupped his hand around the other man’s shoulder. Will looked from him, to you, down to his jacket that suddenly felt too heavy, then back up to you. “I–“ he stammered, “I got this from that one vintage store.” That one vintage store… very descriptive.

You shrugged cold enough for his eyes to narrow, “Dumpster diving must be competitive this time of year.” A scandalized gasp left his lips, “I’ll have you know I paid like what… fifty bucks for this?” He pretended to think even though you’d bet money on the fact that he knew exactly how much he paid. 

“If you say so.” Will, still trying to explain himself, nudged his friend. “Mack, tell her it’s real.” “Mack” just shrugged, his eyes moving down to take in your messy table. And as if he’d just remember him and Will were standing awkwardly in front of you, he glanced over at the empty seats across from you.

Will was still spiralling when you caught Mack’s eyes, your own following his line of vision. You hesitated when they met yours once again with a questioning look. Usually, you wouldn’t think twice before shaking your head no. But you usually never entertained anyone else, so today you suppose you were feeling bold.

Which explains why both boys were sitting across from you with their long legs pushed beyond the invisible line between you and them, Will’s shoes gently knocking against your bare ankle with each shake of his foot. It itched against your skin the way contact usually did, but you tried ignoring it.

You didn’t have to endure it long because he suddenly shot up as if he’d been struck with a thought, probably the first one he’d ever had. You snicker to yourself at the thought. His eyes were wide with excitement, his teeth gleaming under the artificial light as he smiled towards you. He was cute, you’d give him that.

“I have an idea.” You raised an eyebrow and shared a look with Mack – which was odd considering the fact he couldn't see your eyes – who was currently playing with your pencil that rolled across the table when he accidentally knocked into it while sitting down. “I sense you don’t have those often, huh?” You tried your best to replicate his playful tone, your chest burning with anxiety.

Something that comes with keeping everyone at arm's length is the inability to read their cues. But thankfully for you, Will playfully nodded his head in agreement, his voice holding a faux disappointment as he mused you, “first ever, actually.”

Mack giggled into his sleeve, his black sweater long enough to reach his knuckles. Your eyes watched the fabric roll down his wrist for a second too long when he suddenly adjusted his position, Will’s voice bringing you back once more.

“Hear me out, ok?” You nodded as best as you could with your drink nearing your lips. Will continued, “What if…” You raised an eyebrow high enough for them to see under your glasses, “You come hang with us,” his pointer finger gestured between him and Mack with a laziness to it that proved it was purposeful, “And help me choose a new jacket. Since mine is so “tacky”.” He bunny-eared the last word, his voice mocking yours a bit too accurately. 

You froze, uncertainty bubbling across your skin. This wasn’t a part of your schedule. You barely had over a week off, and you were already about four days in, and it felt almost too early to break the cycle. Your joints still burned with each movement you made, your back silently cracking when you straightened it to sit eye level with the waiting boys. 

Your tour was grovelling, and long enough for you to have no time to hang out with any of your so-called friends – the ones who only reached out when they wanted something from you. An invite to the beach, which was usually a photo for their Instagram. A request for your presence at an exclusive party, which served as their ticket in.

But with two pairs of hopeful eyes, you gave in. One day won’t hurt, and your favourite cafe will still be here tomorrow for when you’re back in at the same time as yesterday. Plus, it wouldn’t hurt to add a few more jackets to your collection. 

“Fine.” Both boys lit up, matching smiles growing more excited. “But…” You leaned forward, your eyes carrying an emotion you usually never allowed yourself to feel around strangers. “Only if you buy me a macaroon first. I’m famished.” Both boys sprang to their feet, their shoes loud enough to pull looks. 

You were proud of how naturally your words came out compared to how hard they came up. Maybe today would be a good day and your palms could thank you later by writing some new lyrics. Who knows.

“Done.” Mack was faster than Will to push his seat out far enough to squeeze past. Will was almost out right behind him, only to almost trip on something. He looked down over his shoulder as he speedily walked Mack’s path.

His eyes furrowed at the sight of your heels lying beneath his and Mack’s seats, “I knew I smelled gloves.” He winked at you with the same look he’s been giving you since he met you (five minutes ago). You shook your head and almost smiled. Almost. After all, he’s still the reason you have to abandon your warm… perfect spot.

You didn’t realize he said ‘gloves’ casually, nor that he seemed to throw the word around too easily. In your mind, you connected his words to the memory of your dad's hockey gloves, the stench that was enough to burn whatever small hairs your nose used to have. You didn’t think twice about it, which is weird because you usually think about what people say about three times.

You were too focused on not thinking of the fact that you were actually about to go out with two guys you’ve never met before, two guys who don’t even know your name, and reached down to grab your shoes. You put your notebook into your clutch, which was the perfect size to hold it, and stood up.

You were unaware of the two boys standing near the counter without the small divider, the spot designed to pick up orders, with their ears anticipating the fake names they gave for their order, watching your every movement. They both watched as you smoothed your matching black leather mini skirt, one that barely touched your upper thighs. Then as you used a small circle mirror, one that you managed to pull out of thin air, to check your lip gloss. 

You walked as if the world folded and blended for you, your feet unhurried as you made your way towards them. You felt their stare prickling your skin, yet you stayed silent. Even with your kitten heels, your height was obviously enough for others to notice. 

Will whistled low, “gotta say, fake leather suits you veryyyy well.” He smirked when Mack hit him again, only for it to fade into something softer when your nose wrinkled up shyly. “For, uh… Butthead?” Will perked up and Mack groaned low enough for just the three of you to hear. 

He looked at you and rolled his pretty eyes, “Don’t know why Butthead over here got his order first, I clearly ordered it before him.” He tried to act annoyed, but his small smile gave him away. Will came back over with a small pep in his step, his teeth exposed as he handed a small bag over towards you, “for the pretty lady.”

You huffed, but graciously took it with a polite smile, your voice soft as you murmured out your thanks. To which he replied with a gentle smirk, his eyes still soft as he gazed at you. “For Beavis?” When Mack lit up, you let out a genuine laugh. Perhaps your realest one in months. Will’s eyes flickered down to it right away.

“Beavis and Butthead?” Will nodded seriously, “our parents loveddd us.” He dragged on the word the usual way he does, as you’ve been learning. When Mack returned, both yours and Will’s jaws dropped. In his hand was a clear container, easily twelve inches long, and filled with macaroons.

“Dude…” Will trailed off, his eyes glancing from the container his friend bought, to the bag he handed you. Will shook his head before anyone could say anything, “Nope. Now I have to buy two of those.” He nodded his chin towards the clear container that Mack was graciously holding for you.

By the time the next song ended, you were walking out the door with three boxes of macaroons, and an empty bag, the macaroon taste rivalling your earlier drinks. Right before you got to the door a new song started. It was your song, the newest release. 

You didn’t freeze, but you noticed. It was rare that you went anywhere without hearing your music at least twice. But when the two boys beside you, one on each side, suddenly gasped as if something insane happened, you realized that maybe they too knew your name. Even if they didn’t show it.

You’d all agreed on going to your choice of store first, your insistence that it was close enough to walk to enough to convince them without any extra persuasion. 

The air burned hot enough to cause your skin to be warm to the touch, your leather doing nothing but pulling it all in even more. Both boys were flanked by your side, one on each. Both kept an obvious gap between you and them, but every time a car came a bit too close to the sidewalk you could see Will stepping a bit closer to you, as if he was trying to guide you more into the sidewalk, and away from any potential upcoming danger.

You barely made it down the street when Will was already complaining about the heat. “Dude, it’s so hot.” You side-eyed the man who was dramatically fanning his face, as if the warm air wafting across his skin was going to help.

You made it another two steps before Mack chimed in with agreement, "I think my skin is melting off.” Both boys rode off each other’s statements and tried to get a reaction out of you. They were aiming for a laugh, or a smile at least. It was weird how easily it came out of you, but later when you return to the comfort of your room and begin recalling your day, you’ll brush it off as if you were too hot to think.

Small, meaningless, chatter was shared between the three of you for the rest of the short walk. Though, it was mostly the two boys talking – you only chimed in when it got too silent and both of their expectant gazes turned to you. 

Will held the door open for you and Mack to enter first, his footsteps softer than before as both he and Mack stood in place. Their eyes were wide as they took the store in. You tried not to preen at the sight of their mouths open, and started walking right towards your favourite section right away.

You didn’t need to turn to know that they followed after you, their playful voices trailing after you. Your eyes lit up at the colourful rack of clothes in front of you. Your hands brushed against all sorts of textiles as your feet brought you towards a specific skirt that you somehow managed to spot amongst the many, many others.

Your feet paused when you finally reached it, your hand naturally falling to rest against it. It wasn’t necessarily as soft as it appeared, but it definitely wasn’t scratchy. With hands gentle enough to pluck it from its spot, you held it up in front of you.

Typically, it wasn’t the type of skirt you went for. Denims and leather are your recent go-tos. But it was nearing summer, and the soft blue hue was enough to conjure ocean breeze and fruity scents. Scenes of mid-day beach brunches paired with the exact sandals you suddenly remembered you owned, played in your mind. The shirt was already in your elbow before your toes even touched the sand, and your eyes were tracing across the array of options before the next scene could commence.

You absentmindedly pushed your glasses up, the need to see the colours exactly as they were was overriding the desire to hide. You’d processed the action too late, but for some reason, you didn’t care as much as you anticipated. Maybe it was Will’s following words that made it easier to deal with the anxiety that followed, or maybe the way you could finally make out what the mystery colour in Mack’s eyes was. 

Hints of blue, the colour in your arm. You already knew San Jose bled blue, maybe you could too. Your cheeks burned when you realized you were staring too long, not that either boy noticed. Will earlier declared that he saw another denim jacket, his voice holding notable amounts of awe. You’d think he’s only ever seen his jacket by the way his eyes sparkled at the sight of another, “in the wild denim jacket.” he’d say on his way to it.

Mack giggled, and you halfheartedly complained, when Will began dragging Mack behind him, both their eyes meeting yours over their shoulder. You moved on too fast from your skirt shopping, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to turn around and walk back over when Will’s proud smile beamed bright at you.

“So?” He held it against his front, his eyes not yet searching for a mirror. He stared at you as if he only cared about what you thought, which should've been a sign. Your expert eyes only traced the fabric once before you nodded, your expression confident.

“It will look really good on you, Will.” For the first time in a while, you were honest. “Really?” He asked, his gaze finally leaving you and wandering to find a mirror. You almost smiled and responded with a small hum. Both you and Mack took on a role familiar to ducklings, and followed Will as he guided the three of you around the store as if he’d chosen this spot himself.

Time passed in a blur, and the clothes in your arms started getting lighter. Not because you were putting them back, but because both boys started holding them instead. They both picked out different articles, their voiced opinions resonating with you enough to comply. Because yes Will, that shirt will look good with the low-rise jeans that Mack silently held up. 

Small talk was forgotten, and louder giggles were exchanged. For once, you weren’t yourself. You were just a girl out shopping with friends, a budget that only existed when you thought about it. 

You spent hours twirling in front of them with a boost of energy you haven’t experienced in a while, each article of clothing having its own fashion show. While your joints still argued, they didn’t complain. The boys gave their honest opinions, ones that actually managed to make sense, oddly enough.

You laughed when Mack tripped over his shoes when he tried mimicking your twirls, and your shoulder pressed close enough to Will to feel his natural body heat. This time, you offered better styling advice than they did for you. Which Mack took well, his eyes never leaving yours with an expression akin to pure attentive patience.

You smiled between each curtain Will disappeared behind, your eyes becoming shy while you and Mack tried your best to avoid eye contact that you knew you’d read too much into. But it got easier when Will got stuck in a leather pair of pants you just had to make him try on (not to buy, but for your amusement) and fell over, his hand catching on the fabric separating him from you both hard enough to expose him in all his fallen glory. 

It wasn’t until you were outside with your arms weighed down by bags that both boys could no longer hold, both their forearms mirroring your white lines, that you realized how many hours had passed.

The three of you awkwardly lingered there in silence, the quiet almost louder than everything you’ve said today. You weren’t exactly sure where to go from here. You were all aware that you’d only gotten to one location, and the day had already passed enough for the sun to set.

“Um…” The three of you laughed when you all spoke simultaneously, their laughter much louder than yours. You were the first to calm down, which unfortunately, wasn’t shocking to you. You were quite surprised you’d laughed at all today. And as if it’d all just dawned on you, you pulled away.

You knew they knew who you were. Not only because of their reaction to your song playing, but also by the way they both individually spoke your name without you ever introducing yourself. It didn’t bother you any more than it did when other strangers recognized you. But the way they treated you was definitely new. New enough for you to doubt their intentions.

But you already realized that not once did one of them pull out their phones, and no hidden click sounded whenever you turned your back for longer than a few seconds. There weren’t any leading questions, no words that came out disguised as something else.

But you were cautious. You didn’t have time for real friends, for people like them. There wasn’t room for heartbreak, you weren’t sure if you’d be able to deal with it all over again. It was easy this way, you reminded yourself. Which is why when Will asked with his breath hitched, Mack’s eyes wide with eager anticipation, if you'll meet them again tomorrow, to continue what you couldn’t finish today.

7am, he said. A cafe you’d never forget the name of, following after. You’d never heard of it before, but you knew your brain wouldn’t allow you to forget it. Not when you’ll spend the rest of your night researching everything there is to know about it. Not when the address was already written in your maps before you rounded the corner away from them.

You parted with a promise you weren’t sure you’d be able to keep. Yes, you’ll be there, that's what you said. But did you mean it? You weren’t sure yet. 

And you weren’t sure until you woke up the next morning to a silent phone. No calls from your PR team about a leaked photo. No headlines holding precarious attention grabbers. Nothing but the silence you created.

You hesitantly left your notebook, the pages slipping from your grasp at the last second. Your jeans were low enough to carve your waist the way you wanted, but not enough to guarantee any safety when you inevitably bent down. But it’s what you felt like wearing, so it was worth it. You were already cheating on your cafe by going to a different one, you can only sacrifice so much in one day.

You didn’t walk with a pep in your step on your way to your car, and you didn’t turn the radio on high enough to get lost in it. But the song that played hit deep enough to leave a mark. Soda. By Nothing But Thieves. Your windows were down, but the lyrics didn't leave your car.

Your lips moved to the words, venom catching on your teeth and burning beneath your tongue. Maybe it was performative. The lyrics, and their hypocrisy. But you didn’t have time to dwell in the wave of self-pity when the cafe came into sight. 

You parked along the road, not directly in front of the cafe to be seen by the two boys you could already see standing in front of it, but close enough not to worry about breaking a sweat.

Your glasses were a bit different this time, a pale pink matching the LA symbol on your denim hat. Maybe you felt inspired by Will’s outfit yesterday, or maybe you just really loved the way pink and denim looked paired with your complexion. Neither option mattered anymore, not when you were walking up to the boys, only to freeze when they both turned over and looked at you.

Will was wearing a navy blue track suit that he left unzipped, the top half having an almost bomber look to it. Beneath the open jacket was a white shirt whose neckline was low enough to display his silver chain. He had a red bull hat on front facing, the colours somehow not clashing with the rest of his outfit.

Mack was also wearing a hat, but unlike Will, he opted to flip it backwards. He wore a button-up black top that cinched perfectly along his arms, his biceps flexing when he crossed his arms across his chest. Your eyes looked down at black (slightly) baggy jeans. They were baggy enough to make it look purposeful, but not enough to stereotypically find him on a skateboard. 

Then you looked at your own outfit. Your shirt was the same pale pink that decorated your accessories, a tube-top styled bandeau crossing your cleavage before coming together in a tulle diagonal side triangle. One side of your stomach was exposed, the other covered in pink. The side triangle stopped just shy of your waistband, leaving just enough skin to catch the light. 

To other people, your outfits didn’t correspond in the slightest. But all three of you knew what it actually was, and what it meant. Each of your outfits consisted of the clothes you bought yesterday. 

You picking Will’s tracksuit, Mack choosing his top – his voice sly when he made a joke too low for you to hear, but funny enough for Will to cackle at.

Will finding Mack’s baggy pants, you throwing in the shirt that you pretended didn’t make your heart race at the thought of him wearing it.

Mack choosing your jeans, Will forcing the shirt into your hands with an exaggerated wink.

You clutched your diesel bag closer, as if the feeling on the rough denim against your bare skin could bring you back down to earth, and away from the scary thought that just crossed your mind. The warmth that spread along your chest was uncanny, and something you wish you could never experience again.

“Dressed up just for us, huh?” Will smirked when you rolled your eyes, a minuscule smile pulling on your lips. Mack nodded, his eyes lingering on your exposed waist long enough for you to feel it, “‘course she did.” You now regret having forgone bringing your notebook, your brain sparked with inspiration. Lyrics built up with the melody you’d already fine-tuned, letters coming apart in jumbles that actually made sense now.

Before standing in front of them you’d felt confident enough to leave your glasses on top of your hat. But now you weren’t sure. You’d been around enough people to read the look in their eyes, your mind distinguishing between each flash of colour, nitpicking every micro twitch.

They weren’t nervous, but relaxed. The opposite of you. You didn’t know it now, but they too had experienced similar scrutiny. Being in the public eye made them realize quite early on that some people didn’t mean what they said, or say what they meant.

But they couldn’t read you. Your walls high enough for them to see from the get-go. It only made them more convinced to break them, to climb over the ruins and help you build it into someone stronger, something that allowed them in.

And when the sun set that night, you almost wanted it. All three of your backs pressed against the blanket Will shoved in his car, your shoes kicked off and lost somewhere around the frills, your toes dug deep into the sand. But before that, Will had chosen to spend the first hour of the morning people watching, your guilty pleasure. 

You’d finally spoken your observations aloud, the same type of people you’ve seen in your cafe following you everywhere you went. You only feared the boy's judgment for a minute, long enough for your hot drink to fog the sunglasses you finally put down. Until they caught your bait. They added their own ideas, storylines that merged into yours with spilled ink.

Then you’d spent the afternoon stuffed in his apartment (one that he, unsurprisingly, shared with Mack), which you almost outright refused. It took them nearly half an hour to convince you to come, with promises of not making it weird enough for you to try it. You grew comfortable by the third hour, the melted chocolate mirroring your resolve.

Will acted like the chocolatier he seemed to think he was, directions falling from his lips as if he’d made these exact chocolate bars a hundred times. You found out he didn’t when your chocolate came out better than his, accusations of beginner's luck echoing off the walls in his kitchen. He’d done it a dozen times more than you, Mack barely matching half his attempts. 

Dubai chocolate never tempted you to break your strict diet before. But Will’s begging eyes, and Mack’s soft pleas, were enough for you to finish it. The three of you ate all three bars by the  dinner time came around. And just as you feared, it spoiled it. Dinner was undoubtedly your favourite meal, which was yet another part of your routine that the boys changed.

Then finally, Will dragged two very tired bodies behind him and towards his car. He woke up a few hours earlier than he was supposed to, just to stuff his car with supplies for his final idea. “I know a spot.” He boasted when you urged to know where he was bringing you, Mack silent from the back seat. (which was another thing you tried to complain about. Being beside Will was scary. Not because he was, but because you could tell that you were already letting them in. After only two days.)

Constellations used to be nothing more than lines between the stars, traces of figures you couldn’t make out with your naked eyes. But with Mack’s warm breath wafting against your cheek each time he turned towards you to explain what Will was trying to point out, it wasn’t what it once was.

You wanted to turn your head, just to see how pretty he looks in this lighting. Would the red that permanently stained his cheeks still be visible? How about the freckles that now reminded you of the very constellations you were looking for, would you be able to find the lines?

Will’s voice was low enough to match the ambience, “See? This one is the small dipper.” Your eyes squinted in the spot you've been searching for minutes, your heart still racing with the realization that the only ones you wanted to memorize were the ones belonging to the man pressed against your shoulder, whose voice still heard even with his mouth shut.

But then you saw it, and your body didn’t feel real. Down here you were everything you’ve ever wanted to be. Famous, rich, everything you’ve ever dreamed of. But out there, you would be nothing. You’d be as free as the next dying star, as bright as the supernova you’d become.

Planets wouldn’t spin for you, but for themselves. The fans that orbited you, who were drawn by your gravitational pull and hypnotized by your siren song, would turn to moons. Moons that had a purpose outside of you, craters that were unique to them.

In a universe of everything, surrounded by the nothingness that space left in place of time, you weren’t anything, not really. It spooked you, the cool air awakening goosebumps across your arms. Was this really what you wanted? You’d spent your life being a secret, something unshared beyond the people who already knew. 

Was that your purpose? To push everyone away in fear of being linked back to your absent dad? No, it wasn’t. It took these boys two days to make you realize something that no one else has ever managed to pull out of you. For the first time in years, you were willing to make new friends, Actual friends.

With the epiphany still on your mind, you agreed to exchange numbers with the boys. You smiled freely when Will offered you a ride home, and nodded with the wind that blew through your hair. Your car was still at Will’s chosen cafe, but you knew you’d get it back, you allowed yourself to trust in them. One last time, you told yourself. One last try, the final one.

Your arm hung out the window, your fingers spread enough to catch the salty air that lingered. Your eyes were wide with life, cheeks blossoming as loud singing left your beaming mouth. Mack, who was in the backseat and currently singing along to the song blasting from Will’s radio, was distracted. His eyes flickered to you every few minutes, his body buzzing like a life-sized kitten. 

You looked happy. Actually happy. He’d known you for less than forty-eight hours, and he was already obsessed. He noticed more than he wanted to, more than he ever expected himself to ever notice about anyone else. The way he held his breath when you looked at him was pathetic, but he couldn’t help it. And when he looked away between the time the song ended and the next started, he saw Will’s eyes glance at him in the rear-view mirror.

Then, he knew. He knew that Will knew. That he noticed. It was all starting to feel too real, so Mack spoke before he could really think about what he was saying. “Is it possible to get your number?” His cheeks warmed when he realized what he said, so he tried backpedalling far enough to explain himself. “I- well- for my day tomorrow.” You didn't turn around to face him yet, but you tensed. You watched the trees highlight the horizon as Will drove over the speed limit. Not enough to actually be speeding, but enough for your neck to feel the tension, the speed. 

“‘Cause we’re on for tomorrow, right?” You had limited free days left, but you still agreed. You were committed this time, almost convinced that this time was going to be different. Which is why when you got home, you turned the lights on.

Your shoes were carelessly kicked off at your door, your hat and glasses following suit. Then you grabbed your notebook and pen, the same lyrics you’d created earlier still ringing through your mind. Your legs barely touched your couch, half your knee still hanging over the end and beneath your other knee, before you had the cap of your pen in between your teeth.

You didn’t hum this time, didn’t drown the thoughts in loud music. Instead, you wrote until you couldn’t, until your fingers burned and callouses stiffened. Only this time, you had a new muse. Your interactions with Mack flashed in colours, scents that coaxed your room into a dreamlike state.

You felt the way his fingers grazed yours yesterday when you leaned in a bit closer to whisper about the next ugly shirt Will shamelessly modelled for you. The faint Chlorine scent that followed your bodies when you ran along a random splash pad that Will found around the corner from your house on his way to drop you off, one that he made you stand in front of for “photos”, then with himself for “memories”. Then finally with Mack, for “his fridge.”

By the time morning chimed you had three songs done. Not polished, but perfect in the sense that only mattered to you. You were committed to change, so you were honest. Your phone lit up with a text, a group chat already created with texts rolling in. You read it right before bed, your eyes half lidded with exhaustion. You were just about to put it down when a text from Will caught your attention. You read it once, then a second time. Macklin, a name you didn’t know until now.

When you finally put your phone down and closed your eyes, a dream of a boy named Macklin unpaused. It’s only been two days now, and you were addicted. 

Macklin chose to spend the morning at another cafe, yours this time. He sat across from you and Will, his arms resting in front of him, whereas Will had one of his behind you. It wasn’t touching you, but it was there. It didn’t feel romantic, but almost brotherly. 

You were deep into a story about something that happened on tour. One of your dancers accidentally unplugged your speaker system (and snapped the cord)  when she almost tripped over the cord. You giggled remembering the chaos that ensued. Sure it wasn’t funny when it happened, but now you could appreciate it. You told them about how the weight of your electric guitar felt on your hands, about the stinging it left on your fingers when you went backstage after the show.

You spoke of the media it brought, the fans believing it happened on purpose in order for you to showcase your musical abilities. The piano, your crumbs, the guitar you learned one summer after your dad heard about your obsession with the Big Time Rush show and panic bought three.

The mention of your dad caused their eyebrows to raise. It was the first time you mentioned your family, which is quite normal since you’d only met them days ago. “Three guitars? Dang, you must’ve been happy.” Will gurgled between loud slips of his milkshake. 

You shrugged and picked at a croissant, “not really. Three guitars didn't make up for his absence.” You weren’t trying to trauma dump this early on, but their comforting presence made it feel welcomed. After all, they’d already spoken about their childhoods, hockey coming up now and then. You still weren’t aware what their jobs were, but you didn’t want to push.

You took a smile bite to gather up the courage. You tried to start nonchalantly, but your voice shook the same way it always did when you talked about your dad. “I used to see him every summer.” Your eyes burned, but tears weren’t beaded yet. “I’d spend hours wrapped up in his arms with his hands rubbing my back, soft reruns of shows I could only name after I coaxed them out of him.” The ghost of his touch caressed your body, a cruel chill stemming up from your bones.

“He would decorate my room with cheesy toys and clothes that didn’t fit right. But the walls stayed the same. Drawings I did when I was barely a toddler showcased around wherever I could reach.” You could see the squiggles you proudly named “Daddy and Me.” with an arrow that he helped you write, his hand warm as he guided your much smaller ones to wrap around the black pencil crayon. But once you started thinking about him, you couldn’t stop.

“I loved it at first. But then I got older and realized what it meant. The clothes didn't fit me because he didn’t know what size I was, only the size kids my kids were expected to be. The toys weren’t my thing, not when I was in my movie phase.” You spent at least twenty minutes stuck in nostalgia, both boys hanging off your every word and chiming in with small awed comments.

“I loved my dad until winter came around.” You tried to finish it off there, to no avail. “What happened when winter came around?” Macklin’s curiosity won. You looked at him with glassy eyes and a thinned smile, “He was gone.”

The silence didn't have time to make itself known before a familiar voice came from the end of your table. “For you, dear.” All three of you looked up, both boys looking confused, but you with a small smile. Will saw the way you tried to stand up to greet her and shifted out of the booth.

Both he and Macklin had a silent conversation as you and the woman before you talked. By the time you sat back down with a plate of desserts and the same drink as the second time you’d met her, and Will slid in beside you, the scene was different.

Both boys stared at the treats in front of you. And after you nudged it more in the middle, they dove in. “Do you know the owner here?” Will smoke through mouthfuls, your nose wrinkling up at his open-mouthed eating. But you nodded. You did know her, but not any more than you knew them.

“I met her a few days ago when she almost fell.” You smiled at the worry on their faces and clarified, “Don’t worry, she’s okay.” You didn’t mention the fact that when you woke up the next morning sans notifications you deep dived into everything about this cafe, and the owners. She was the main owner, and the other staff you usually see are her grandkids. She didn’t come around often, but something must’ve pulled her back after all these years.

Macklin didn't have anything special planned until mid-evening, when he was going to introduce you to their life. To his life. The three of you spent the day hopping between lowkey stores that he’d called ahead of time, pleading with the owners to close their shops to the public with the promise of promoting them the following week. When the NHL picked up again after the Olympic break.

After shopping he drove the three of you over to get your car. They followed you home, his car remaining visible in your mirrors the entire time. He left the car running when he pulled up right behind you. He hopped out without hesitation and opened the door for you with a shy smile and blotchy cheeks that burned crimson when you thanked him with a pretty smile.

Then he was pulling out with his arm wrapped around the passenger seat headrest, a singular hand twisting the wheel with enough ease to come off as natural. You were in the backseat this time, even though he offered to make Will move.

There wasn’t any small talk, or any loud singing. Until Will got aux. A familiar song started playing, and your head snapped forward. Will was turned towards you with a shit-eating grin, his lips already mouthing to your lyrics. Mack giggled the way he always did and sang aloud, his blush softened now.

“I’ll tell ‘em one by one, show ‘em one by one, twist my wrist.” Mack sang badly on purpose, completely off tune and in a way that you wish you’d recorded just to listen to again. Will piggybacked off of his friend and in a voice just as bad he continued, “Goes like this, start with the track, eyes on me, archin’ my back.” They alternated between lines, surprisingly not messing up. 

You didn’t join in until the next song, Revolving Door. You were barely halfway through the song when Macklin laid information on you, “When this song came out Will probably listened to it thirty times in the first two days,” You gasped and looked at Will, who nodded with enthusiasm. “Gotta rep Boston.” 

Right, his birth town. Your mouth opened in an O, you already forgot that they both went to school there. Still, you teased Will. “Aw! Are you my fan, Will?” He nodded the same way as before and dragged out his responses the way he did when you’d met him, “biggesttttt fan!”

“He’s not lying.” Mack solidified it, and he wasn’t lying. He had to endure many hours listening to your songs on loop. It wasn’t that he didn’t like your music, it’s just the fact that Will loved to overplay music for days. It was a coincidence that it happened to be you more often than not.

Your songs played one by one up until Macklin was pulling into a place you recognized right away. You’d recognize it by scent alone if you were to be blinded. You froze, your hands numb as you stared up at the arena from your window.

The boys jumped out, Will opening your door this time – which caused Macklin to playfully huff. You stepped out slowly, every hair in your body standing up straight. Macklin stayed back to match your pace whilst Will walked ahead, his voice spewing out his endless thoughts.

“You okay?” You almost reverted to your prior self, barely stopping your flinch before it happened. You fixed your face and nodded with an unconvincing smile, “Yep.” You popped your p. Mack, though not convinced, didn't push. He just smiled a small grin, his eyes still searching your face.

You could feel his hand twitching by his side as you walked. Did he want to hold your hand? No, you were definitely looking too much into it. You must’ve imagined the way his eyes glanced down at them between every other twitch, his eyes clouded as if he was deep in thought.

The warmth of the lobby hit you right away. It was weird being here during the hockey season. Usually, you’d come during early summer mornings, your eyes closed as you dreamt about your chalk waiting for you to get back to your dad’s house. Because while p it wasn’t rare that your dad brought you to early practices, you’d spent your entire time in small closed rooms. Uncomfortable couches become your temporary bed as you sleep with one of his away jerseys as a blanket.

Your eyes lingered on the ice that seemed bigger up close. This wasn’t a professional hockey arena, but a small, local one. You saw cases filled with figure skating awards, the small numbered ribbons placed beside that correlating badge for that level. 

Yes, there were some hockey cases too. But your eyes lingered on the young girls who beamed in their group photos. Pretty purple frills with matching San Jose-coded blue bows tied up in their hair. You felt a weird sense of longing. You would’ve loved to experience the ice the way they did, maybe in another life.

Mack disappeared behind a door after he asked for your shoe size, only to return with a pair two sizes smaller. “For a snug fit.” He shrugged when he carried them on his own, his own pair in his other hand. Will was the next to disappear, choosing to meet the two of you in a dressing room with a helmet in his hands. A bubble.

Macklin looked at the helmet and shook his head with a laugh, his gums exposed enough for your heart to skip a beat. Or two. “For you, Miss Singer.” He playfully bowed as he passed it to you, which made all three of you lose your composure and laugh like little kids. 

By the time the three of you were on the ice – which took longer than it was supposed to because Will kept laughing every time he glanced at the cage over your face, which made Macklin laugh, his fingers pausing their attempt to tie your skates. Because you didn't play hockey, or figure skate, you weren’t even sure if you’d ever skated outside of your yearly school friend trips.

You wobbled on the ice once before Macklin was already holding your hands – which he grabbed after getting your permission. Will skated circles around your slowly moving figures, chirps falling from his lips. “Lookin’ real professional, miss singer.” You weren’t sure what made him start calling you that today, but you weren’t hating it as much as the first time he said it.

You scoffed, your hands tightening around Macklin’s when he rotated your body too fast – to which he apologized for with a soft look, “As if you’re a professional, Will.” Both boys stopped skating suddenly enough to not only make you wobble, but also for misted snow to come shooting at your skates.

Their faces were shocked, both of their eyes wide as they stared at you in disbelief. “What?” You nervously bit your lip, did you say something wrong? You were so prepared to make new friends on your own terms you’d forgotten about the fact that they’d need to feel the same. Did you ruin it already?

“Did you…” Will skated up to you, his shoulder pressing against Macklin’s. “Do you not recognize us?” Now you were confused, enough for it to bleed onto your face. “Oh my god?” Will wiped his hand across his face before slapping Macklin’s shoulder. “Dude, she doesn't know.”

Now it all made sense to them, everything from the day you met to now lining up. Why you looked normal when they first said their names. Why you gave them a weird look when people stared at them too long. Why you paused when you’d arrived at the arena.

“Y/n, we’re professional hockey players,” Macklin said it so gently you almost missed it, what? “You’re what?” They both nodded, “Yep, for the San Jose Sharks.” Will shook his head, his eyes still in awe. “I didn’t know.” Your voice shook, your hands trembling enough for Macklin to feel from his hold in you.

“Hey, that’s okay. You’re okay.” He was quick to reassure you, his thumbs rubbing circles on your hand. But it wasn’t okay, not really. Hockey was the thing you ran away from when you moved here, and now, when you finally opened up your heart once again, it followed. Macklin looked anxious, and his voice sounded with the same feeling, “It doesn’t change anything, right? We’re still Will and Macklin, the boys you've been hanging out with for days,” You nodded and said okay, but you didn’t mean it. It changed everything.

You kept it in the back of your mind for the rest of the day. It only came up one more time when the boys took turns shooting a puck through your shaking legs after Will made Macklin go get from his car after only twenty minutes on the ice.

But by the time they made you act like Bambi disguised as a goalie, you’d already gotten over it. They weren’t your dad, they probably never talked to him more than a few seconds, maybe a chirp or two landing. When it was Macklin’s turn to play the goalie, you basked in victory. He deflected all of Will’s shots, but used his skate to push the gloves you guys used as the net bounds for enough for your super out puck to come gliding in.

When he declared you the winner with a loud laugh and warm hands that rested against your waist to guide you to circle a faux disappointed Will, you loved whatever version of hockey they made for you. Your music career is going to love it even more, and your notebook is undoubtedly going to be littered with a few more songs by the time tomorrow rolls around.

After a few hours at the rink that Macklin also rented out, he brought you back to his and Will’s apartment. You spent the late night watching highlights of them playing, which made them look more excited than you've ever seen. There was a childlike gleam in their eyes as they explained plays. They shit on bad calls and icings that cost them a few victories. And for the first time in your life, hockey wasn’t about your dad.

The next few days flew by too fast. You’d spent all hours of the day with the boys, your bonds strengthening with time. The day after Macklin’s day was the first time you spent the night, your body too tired to love, your stomach full with oven-made s’mores – A recipe Will admitted to stealing from TikTok.

You woke up to Big Time Rush reruns, the exact ones you got the boys to watch last night after hearing they’d never heard of it besides the times you’d spoken about it. The lady at your cafe learned their names by their third visit, and by the fourth, they were already drinking the same drink she made just for you,

They infiltrated every inch of your life, and you loved it. Eventually, your break came to an end, but your friendship thrived. Weekly sleepovers included the same s’mores – Will sometimes trying to sneak in his pistachio mix that he had memorized by now. 

You actually found yourself watching their games over your phone between studio sessions, your new album is planned to be released within the next few months. You’d spam their phones with congratulations, or soft encouragements after each game. 

It was the day before their game against the Blackhawks when you called for your bi-daily FaceTime. You were in a hotel room that felt less stuffy than usual, your face squished against your pillow as your tired eyes stared at your reflection on your screen. Your bags disappeared enough to be hidden perfectly under light makeup, your sleepless nights scurrying off with your friends on the other line.

Macklin was the first to answer, his face still glowing from yesterday's win against Nashville. “Hey, Mackie.” You took on the nickname a few weeks ago after he surprised you with a customer jersey that had your first name on the back, and his and Will’s numbers – one on each arm. “Hi, pretty.” Also a new nickname, one that Will always mocked without fail. 

Which is why it was suspicious when no other voice chimed in. You were about to question it before you heard his distinct voice calling out in the background, “Mack! Don’t call little Miss singer until after my shower!” Macklin didn't try to hide his laugh when he saw the expression on your face, which meant you heard it.

Will’s groan was loud enough to get caught by Macklin’s microphone when the younger boy countered his request, saying you called them first. Macklin pushed his damp hair back with one hand and adjusted his phone, his eyes openly moving across your face with a cute smile. “I miss you.” He was earnest, his voice barely louder than his room's AC. 

You melted into his soft words and reciprocated the saying. But knowing you had a secret, you weren’t as sad as he was. “Are you excited for summer break?” He already knew you were, but he still asked. Just to see the way you’ll light up, to see your excited smile. You've been counting down the days until their summer break starts, plans of bringing them around with you for a few weeks enough to get you through the harder days where the world felt as heavy as it used to before them.

You nodded, “super excited! I’ve never been a fan of winter.” He knew why, but he also knew that he had been trying to change your mind. He wanted you to love it, to look forward to it the same way both he and Will always did. “I’ll change your mind.” Your head tilted with a half-confused smile, “What?”

Macklin looked more serious than you've ever seen him, and he nodded again. “When winter comes around again, you’ll love it.” You laughed like it was a joke, a quiet sure thing coming from your lips. But he doubled down, “You won’t be alone next time. You’ll have me.” Before it could get too serious, Will gasped from the door. “Um… and me?”

Will sat down beside Macklin, his bare chest exposed. He waved with a vigour he never failed to pretend didn’t exist. “I miss you more than Mack.” Macklin rolled his eyes with a shake of his head, and you smiled and playfully whispered back, “I believe you.”

The three of you talked into the night, up until it was getting late enough for all three of your eyes to begin dropping. You tried your best to hide the fact that you were in a hotel, and maybe it was because of their exhaustion, or maybe you just did a really good job, they didn’t realize.

Your phones stayed connected through the night and into the morning, them hanging up only when they met Tyler Toffoli, whom you’d met a few times while picking or dropping the boys off for practice, for breakfast. You woke up shortly after, your body naturally rising without an alarm.

You were excited, your body alive with nerves when you stepped out of the shower. Your housecoat felt softer than usual against your skin, perhaps because of the number of times you've exfoliated lately. A mixture of album nerves causing enough brain fog for you to do everything twice.

Your tights were the first thing you put on after your undergarments, a dark blue colour that matched spots on your jersey. Well, both of your jerseys. You weren’t sure which one you should wear yet. Your first choice was the one Macklin had made, your hands drifting towards it. But then again, you weren’t a regular fan. You were invited by the other team to sing the national anthem long before you’d ever met the boys. It was after a successful concert there, one where almost all players and their significant others attended.

Back then when your manager first accepted it you dreaded it. But now, you were nothing less than thankful. So you played it safe and grabbed both. You’ll wear the Blackhawks one for all public appearances, but change into your Sharks one after making it to your private suite.

Your manager’s voice faded into the background the closer you got to the arena, your heart stuck in your chest. You entered the arena earlier than the fans, and in an area that was constricted to only the home team players. You stopped a few times to talk to a few players that you recognized, having done your research before arriving. 

Specifically, you talked to Connor Bedard. You knew of him for a few different reasons, one being the fact that he’s friends with Macklin. Your conversation lasted around five minutes before your manager beckoned you over. You’d parted with a silly handshake, both your smiles evident.

You knew some media people were around so you were on your best behaviour, your Blackhawks jersey feeling imposterious knowing you weren’t exactly cheering for them, not that anyone knew. Your manager's bag held the real jersey that you cared about, the one you were itching to get your hands on.

It was hard to find a time to sneak off between all the photos the media team had you posing for, and the short interviews they scripted. But you found it, and you were off. You weren’t sure where you were going, but it was in the opposite direction so it must’ve been the right way. Because that’s definitely how it works.

You heard a few voices from down the hall after three minutes of blindly walking, and you perked up. Then you heard a loud scream of misery that your mind clocked as Macklin’s. He screamed about forfeiting, saying everyone else sucks. You were almost there, your body counting on your feet as you neared. Then you made the mistake of pausing to glance around the corner to where the boys were playing with a ball. Michael Misa, Sam Dickinson, Collin Graf, William Eklund, and your favourite two boys.

You waited a second too long before you heard one of their teammates start talking. “So now Mack is too good to play with us, huh?” You paused, your chest filling with a weird defensive energy. You knew his teammates were joking, but you didn’t know the context so you were offended on his part. Sure his season was good, but that doesn’t mean he was suddenly too good for them?

Then the heartbreak followed. Another teammate laughed, “Too busy kissing on Crosby’s daughter–“ he said more, but you couldn’t hear it. Crosby’s daughter? Betrayal burned like the lava that filled your eyes and you staggered back on weak ankles. 

Like you were the butt of a joke, another person added, “First, he goes off to Milan for the Olympics, then he gets close enough to Sidney Crosby to learn about his secret daughter, and now both he and Will are best friends with her?”

Milan, your hands shook, Macklin went to the Olympics? The pieces fell into place. Macklin, a Canadian athlete, played with Sydney Crosby, your dad, at the Olympics. Macklin, your Macklin. The one you confided in about your father, about how much he’d hurt you. He sat there and pretended like he cared, pretending that he didn’t already know. 

He almost let you love him. All these almost’s fell into place, and you fell out of them. Your throat burned as the sobs forced their way out, your presence already long gone before you allowed the first sniffle to sound. You yanked open a door to a random room when your body got too heavy to hold, your back sliding down against the door as you curled into yourself.

Meeting them wasn’t a coincidence, was it? Somehow they knew you’d be there at that exact time, knew you’d be alone. They pretended that you were a stranger, a random girl who sat with a leather jacket that you’d fought to prove was real.

It was a lie. Everything was a lie. They never cared for you, not the same way you did for them. Because you, you would’ve never done this to them. Until now you thought your dad was evil, but now you have realized that no one was as evil as Macklin and Will. 

You regretted everything. Every lyric you wrote about them, every secret you've ever told deep into the long nights, every message you've ever typed. Macklin was right in one way though, he did change your mind. You didn’t just dislike winter, you hated it. And you were sure that the next time it came around, you weren’t going to be here.

There wasn’t anything holding you to San Jose, you realized. You could easily go anywhere, studios were located all over the states. Your manager actually tried convincing you to move to Anaheim a few weeks ago. But at the time, you outright refused. But now? You considered it. Maybe you’d be the fool they thought you were by running away, but it’s what you did best. 

You've become a pro at packing your bags and leaving without a trace, ask anyone who’s ever known you for proof. Your phone vibrated in your pocket, which you fished out with trembling hands.

It was a text from Will. Before every game, you sent them a photo of you in your jersey, whether you were home or not. But instead of getting the photo he requested, you blocked both their numbers and locked your phone. You didn’t leave the group chat, not when you knew they were both huddled around Will’s phone waiting for a response, 

You saw the time before you put the phone away, it was ten minutes before you were supposed to go out. So, you played the role you used to have mastered. Your walk to your room was quiet, nothing but soft sniffles landing. By the time you opened your door, there were three minutes left.

Everyone was out waiting near the area you’d enter from. The room was bare except for the snacks you’d requested, and a bag that you recognized as your manager's. It hurts to open it and see the jersey inside, but as long as you don’t touch it, it doesn't exist in your mind.

After a few years of rushing between short outfit changes you’d mastered the art of fixing makeup in a limited time. Your makeup was already back to perfect when the sharp knock sounded, a staff official letting you know that your cue was coming.

On your way there, you realized something. The only way to get rid of ghosts was to confront them, to become them. So you whispered a plan into your manager's ear, one that might change the entire trajectory of your life. You weren’t going to be a secret anymore, not when secrets had a history of ruining your life.

The silence of the crowd when the announcer announced your name, your real name, dads last name and all, didn't compare to the roar that vibrated the ice when you stepped out. The microphone was held just under your chin, and your other hand was pressed against your chest. Unlike your dad, you were born in Pittsburgh. So coming into the world you were American. And coming out his daughter, you were red white and blue.

You tried your best to avoid looking over at the sharks, knowing two familiar pairs of eyes would be locked on you. But you couldn’t stop your eyes from wandering halfway through. Macklin Celerbini, and Will Smith, stood there gaping at you. Their faces etched with disbelief and something you couldn’t name.

They both tried to smile at you discreetly enough to be unseen by the crowd, but you didn’t react. Your blank eyes were worse than whatever anger they could’ve held. Will was the first to realize something they missed when they read your name, and it was the use of Crosby, the name you've spent your life running from.

Hot panic rose through his body. You knew. He was just about to turn to tell Macklin, when he noticed his eyes glazed over, Macklin knew too. But right now, as they were about to start their second-to-last regular-season game, there was nothing they could do but watch as you turned on your heels and walked out.

Macklin stood frozen when he processed the look on your face, and memories from the week before he met you came in flashbacks.

Macklin could feel his legs shaking from a mixture of nerves and something more. They’d just won Silver. Not Gold, but Silver. He was spiralling in his own mind, his thoughts loud enough for him to miss Sydney Crosby crossing the room to sit in his stall, which was right beside Macklin’s.

He didn’t play the final game, his injury happening at the worst possible time. But he knew what it was like to lose something you wanted more than anything, so he comforted him the only way he could think of. His hand landed against Macklin’s back suddenly enough for the young boy to jump in fright, his eyes wide and glassy as he looked into the hockey legend's eyes.

“I’m sorry–“ Macklin began apologizing for anything he could think of. For losing. For not being good enough. For not living up to the expectations people had for him going into today’s game. For not being as good as the man he was talking to.

But the older man shook his head and cut him off with a stern voice, “Don’t apologize for trying your best, Celebrini.” Mack’s frown didn't lift, so Sydney tried to distract him by admitting something he’s never told anyone besides his closest friends, and teammates.

“You remind me of someone.” Macklin tilted his head when Sydney started, his eyebrows furrowing at the ss look that crossed the older man’s eyes, “Of my daughter.” Macklin froze,p and his mouth dropped, it was enough to make him forget about everything he was sure would haunt him for the next four years.

“I haven’t seen her in years, she moved to San Jose early spring in 2022, almost four years ago.” Macklin stayed silent, and Sydney’s grip grew tighter around his shoulder. Sydney told him about the things he now knew you liked because right when you pulled away, that was when he really learned. He spoke of cafes and certain clothing stores. He whispered out your name through bitten lips, and with eyes as delicate as Mack’s he asked the thing he's been sitting in.

“She’s amazing, Macklin. But she’s alone.” This wasn’t the best time to ask such a thing of a heartbroken boy, but Sydney Crosby was a man who lived in milliseconds. “I think you’ll be able to help each other. You with the loss, and she with her loneliness.” Macklin didn't know why he agreed to such a thing, but he was desperate to feel okay again.

So he went to his room and called Will. They started searching all the Cafes in San Jose, and the day Macklin got back they’d begun hitting them, two a day. 

But when he agreed he expected a singular day with you, a fleeting memory that would fade with time. He didn’t plan to fall in love, but Sydney was right. You were amazing. And watching you disappear behind the door was worse than losing Gold. Because the Gold he could chase again in a few years. But you? You were gone by the time his game ended.

All that was left was a voicemail. He didn’t know that he was blocked earlier, then unblocked for just enough time for you to leave a voicemail. You knew he wouldn’t answer, so you did it then. Will was left with one too, just as heavy, just as heartbreaking.

Macklin listened to his the entire way back to San Jose after their game against the Jets, because while you could go home during the game, he was stuck on a tight schedule. He was in Winnipeg, too far to stop you from leaving.

By the time he and Will landed and hopped in Macklin’s car – Will driving because Macklin hasn’t stopped shaking since you blocked them. Your place was empty, and you were gone. And he and Will wouldn’t see you again until the next winter came around, when he found himself at another cafe, buried somewhere in Anaheim before a game against the Ducks. (Which also wasn’t much of a coincidence. Both he and Will spent months trying to convince the owner of your former favourite cafe to give them your address, which she only gave under one condition. To bring you home.)

But until then, all he had to prove your existence was the only thing you’d left. The voicemail, and the realization that he’d lost the only person he’d ever be able to love as much as he loved you, even if it was only for a few months.

And even thought Will wasn’t in love with you, he loved you like a sister. Enough to feel the lack of you, to miss you when not even Macklin could fill the gaps you left. Without your giggle to bounce off theirs.

“You knew. You both knew, and you still did it. I should've known that it was too good to be true, that I was too happy for it to be genuine. But you’re just like everyone back at home. You’re not special to me anymore, Macklin. You’re just mean. You’re worse than every friend I've ever had that found out, worse than every friend that used me for my name. Because I actually trusted you, I even started loving you. Was that your plan all along? To make me fall in love with you, to believe that you and Will actually cared about me? Everything always circles back to Sydney Crosby, I can never be happy if I’m still hiding behind him.” You paused long enough for Macklin to think your call ended here the first time he listened to it, but then your voice came back softer than before. You weren’t just crying, you were sobbing. “Even now I just wish you guys would’ve told me the truth from the start, or even from the day you told me you were hockey players. Because maybe we could’ve ended differently, maybe it would've been enough for me to stay. But I hope it was all worth it, Macklin. I really hope it was. Don’t tell anyone that you knew me, because I never knew you.”

Well… that and the entire three albums that came after you ghosted. All songs written about two unnamed boys who you left when things got hard.