Between the Lines — M.C + C.B
Macklin Celebrini + Connor Bedard x Reader!!
You and Macklin have never really defined anything.
No hard launch, no anniversary post, no official label that makes it easy for other people to understand what you are. Just something quiet that exists in the in-between spaces—coffee runs in downtown San Jose, late-night food after long practices, and you in the same section at home games, always visible enough that people start to notice a pattern even if you never name it.
Paparazzi notice anyway. Fans notice even more. Comment sections argue about it like it’s their job.
You and Macklin don’t change anything.
Until the morning of the Sharks vs. Blackhawks game, when everything gets louder for a completely different reason.
Your phone starts buzzing before you’re even fully awake. Group chats exploding. Notifications stacking up. Your name tagged in posts you didn’t even know existed yet. Hockey Twitter spiraling in real time.
It’s Connor Bedard in a pregame interview, relaxed, smiling the way he always does when a question is meant to be light. The reporter asks something casual—something about distractions, off-ice life, celebrity crushes, the usual filler meant to get a harmless answer.
He laughs a little before answering.
“I mean,” he says, “I guess she’s technically not a celebrity, but yeah… I’ve seen her around. She’s at a lot of Sharks games. I’ll say that.”
The reporter leans in, clearly interested now.
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “What? It’s not a secret. She’s my celebrity crush.”
He says it like it won’t detonate the internet in real time.
By the time you get to the arena later that day, the energy is already off.
The building feels louder than usual, like everyone is waiting for something to happen that hasn’t happened yet. You slip into your seat in the same section you always sit in, trying to make yourself smaller than you are suddenly being treated like you matter.
On the ice, Macklin skates out for warmups with the Sharks. Macklin Celebrini taps his stick against the boards out of habit, then looks up automatically toward your section.
He gives you that same half-smile—easy, familiar, like nothing in the world has changed.
Because the moment Connor steps onto the ice, everything shifts. Not dramatically, not obviously—but enough that you feel it in the way the crowd reacts, the way cameras linger a second too long, the way people keep glancing up toward your section like they’re trying to confirm a rumor in real time.
Connor skates a few laps, then his eyes lift toward the stands.
He doesn’t look away right away. Not in a way that feels intense or deliberate. Just aware, like he’s registering something he already knew was there.
You pretend to fix your sleeve.
The first period is fast, physical, sharp. Every shift feels like it carries extra weight, even though no one says why. When Macklin has the puck, the crowd roars louder than usual. When Connor answers with a clean play, there’s a ripple through the arena that feels more personal than it should.
It isn’t anger between them.
It’s something more subtle. Awareness. Pressure. The sense that everyone is watching not just the game, but everything orbiting it.
Midway through the second period, Macklin scores.
It’s clean—top corner, quick release, the kind of goal that makes the entire building explode without hesitation. His teammates swarm him, and for a moment he’s just grinning in the chaos.
Then, almost instinctively, he looks up.
And this time, the look holds a second longer than usual. Not possessive, not dramatic—just steady. Grounded. Like he’s reminding himself of something real in the middle of everything loud.
You don’t look away first.
Between periods, the broadcast replays Connor’s interview clip on the jumbotron. The crowd laughs, teases, reacts like it’s entertainment rather than something that has suddenly made the night feel different for everyone involved. You sink a little lower in your seat without meaning to.
When the third period begins, Connor plays sharper. More focused. Less casual. He moves like someone who has decided not to let the noise around him matter, even if it clearly does.
Late in the game, he scores to tie it up briefly. The goal is quick, decisive. His celebration is controlled, almost restrained—but as he skates past your section afterward, there’s the faintest flicker of something in his expression.
Not directed at you exactly.
Like he knows exactly what he said this morning.
The game eventually pushes into overtime, and the Sharks win it in a burst of speed and pressure that leaves the arena shaking.
Macklin is still on the ice when it ends, breathing hard, energized, relieved in that way only a win like that can give you. He looks up toward the stands again, finding you like he always does, even now.
Connor and Macklin meet at center ice.
They exchange a few quiet words you can’t hear over the noise of the building settling down. There’s no visible tension, no anger—just the kind of competitive respect that doesn’t need to be loud to be real.
You don’t leave right away.
You never really do after these games.
Instead, you end up in the hallway outside the locker room corridor, leaning lightly against the wall near a stretch of posted signage and security ropes. Staff move in and out, lanyards swinging, voices low and clipped. Everything feels organized in a way that contrasts with how unorganized your thoughts are.
You’re not really sure what you’re waiting for.
Or maybe you are, but you’re not naming it.
A few people pass you, glancing, recognizing, then looking away too quickly to make it obvious. It’s different now—everything feels slightly reframed after the interview, like you’ve been placed in a story you didn’t agree to narrate.
Then you hear footsteps that don’t match the rhythm of staff.
Not rushed. Not distracted.
He slows when he sees you, like he’s confirming something in his head before fully committing to approaching. There’s no entourage right behind him, just a couple of staff farther down the hall, giving him space.
For a second, neither of you says anything.
The hallway noise continues around you, but it feels like it’s happening somewhere else.
Then he nods slightly, almost like an acknowledgment of the fact that this is real and not just something that exists on screens.
You respond the same way. “Hey.”
There’s a pause—brief, but loaded with everything neither of you are saying out loud. The interview. The game. The internet currently tearing itself apart over a sentence he probably didn’t think would matter this much.
He shifts his weight a little, glancing down the hall before looking back at you.
“Didn’t think that would blow up like that,” he admits, a faint, slightly embarrassed exhale in his voice.
You let out a small laugh despite yourself. “Yeah. That’s kind of the problem with saying things into microphones.”
That gets a short smile from him—real, not performative.
For a moment, it feels almost normal. Like you’re just two people in a hallway after a game instead of whatever everyone else has decided you are.
Then he adds, a bit quieter, “I wasn’t trying to make it weird for you.”
It’s not defensive. Just honest.
You shake your head slightly. “It’s already weird. You didn’t really change that.”
That seems to sit with him for a second.
He looks at you properly then—not like a camera angle, not like a headline, just direct. Thoughtful. A little careful in the way people are when they realize something has stakes they didn’t expect.
Before either of you can say more, voices echo from further down the corridor—staff calling his name, the kind of reminder that he’s still in the middle of a job.
He glances over his shoulder, then back at you.
“Yeah, I’ve gotta—” he starts.
“Yeah,” you nod, already understanding.
There’s another beat where it feels like something could be added. Something clearer. Something defined.
Instead, he gives a small, almost apologetic half-smile again—less confident than on the ice, more human off it.
“See you around,” he says.
Not a promise. Not a statement.
Then he turns and walks back down the hall, disappearing into the noise and doors and life waiting on the other side.
You’re still standing there for a moment after Connor leaves, the hallway feeling quieter in a way that somehow makes it louder in your head.
The space he was in a second ago is already being filled again—staff moving, doors opening and closing, the steady rhythm of postgame routine continuing like nothing important just shifted.
You exhale slowly, pushing off the wall, ready to leave before you end up overthinking the whole night into something bigger than it already is.
That’s when the next door opens.
The locker room corridor door swings and out comes Macklin Celebrini.
He’s still in full gear except for his helmet, hair slightly damp, expression somewhere between tired and energized—the exact look of someone who just finished a game that demanded everything from him. He pauses when he sees you, like he wasn’t expecting you to still be here, even though he probably should have been.
His eyes flick briefly down the hall first.
Like he’s checking something.
“Hey,” he says, voice a little rough from the game.
“Hey,” you answer again, softer this time.
He steps closer, not fast, not hesitant either—just familiar movement, like he’s done this before without thinking about it. But there’s a subtle difference tonight. His gaze lingers on you for a second longer than usual, like he’s trying to read the air around you.
It’s simple, but it lands heavier than it should.
You nod quickly. “Yeah. Just… a lot going on.”
That earns a small huff of a laugh from him, like he already knew that answer before asking the question.
“Yeah,” he says. “I noticed.”
There’s a beat where neither of you moves. The hallway behind him is still active—distant voices, equipment clattering, the usual postgame chaos—but right here, it feels paused.
Then he glances down the hall again, more clearly this time, like he’s putting something together.
“You were talking to him?” he asks, not accusing, just observant.
You know immediately who he means.
“Yeah,” you say. “Briefly.”
His expression doesn’t change much, but something in it shifts—small, controlled, not negative. More like processing than reacting.
“Got it,” he says after a second.
Then he adds, quieter, “He seemed… fine.”
It’s such a simple word for something that’s clearly not simple.
You let out a breath that turns into a half-laugh. “Yeah. He was.”
Macklin nods once, like that’s enough information for now.
Then he looks at you properly again, attention fully back where it’s been all along, even if the hallway tried to split it.
“You waiting for me or just avoiding the chaos?” he asks.
There’s a hint of humor in it, but also something more grounded underneath—like he already knows the answer but wants to hear you say it anyway.
You tilt your head slightly. “Both.”
That gets a real smile out of him this time. Small, but real.
A staff member calls his name from inside the locker room area, more insistent this time.
He doesn’t move right away.
Instead, he holds your gaze for a second longer, then nods toward the exit.
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll walk you out.”
And this time, when he turns, you fall into step beside him without thinking twice.
