young crush (young god series)
Macklin Celebrini x older!Reader
Summary: in which Macklin asks you out seventeen times, makes a bet, and scores a hat trick (in that order)
Series Masterlist
The first time Macklin sees you, he’s pretty sure his heart actually stops.
It’s a Monday morning in early October, and he’s walking through the administrative hallway at SAP Center with Will Smith, both of them still in their workout gear, when you round the corner with an armful of file folders and a coffee cup balanced precariously on top.
“Whoa, careful-” Macklin starts, reaching out instinctively.
You sidestep him smoothly, not spilling a drop. “I’ve got it, thanks.”
And then you’re past him, heels clicking efficiently down the hallway, and Macklin is standing there like an idiot, watching you go.
“Dude,” Will says. “You good?”
“Who was that?”
Will glances back. “Oh, that’s the new legal intern. Started last week, I think? Why?”
“No reason,” Macklin lies, but he’s already calculating how quickly he can manufacture a reason to visit the legal department.
***
He finds out your name is Y/N Y/L/N. You’re twenty-three, which makes you four years older than him — a fact that Will points out is “not that much, bro” when Macklin mentions it, which Macklin definitely wasn’t asking about. You went to Stanford for undergrad, you’re doing your law degree at Santa Clara, and you’re apparently the most organized person the Sharks’ legal team has ever seen.
Macklin thinks you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever seen, but he keeps that part to himself.
For about three days.
“So,” he says, catching up to you in the hallway on Thursday afternoon. “Y/N, right?”
You don’t slow down. “Right.”
“I’m Macklin. Macklin Celebrini.”
“I know who you are.” You shift the folders in your arms. “You’re kind of hard to miss.”
His heart does a stupid little flip. “Yeah? I mean—cool. That’s cool. So, I was thinking-”
“I’m not interested.”
He blinks. “I didn’t even-”
“You were going to ask me out.” You finally stop walking, turning to face him with a look that’s equal parts amused and exasperated. “The answer is no, but I appreciate the interest.”
“How did you-”
“You’ve been staring at me for three days straight, Macklin. You’re not exactly subtle.” But you’re smiling a little, and it gives him hope.
“Okay, fair,” he admits. “But hear me out-”
“No.”
“Just coffee-”
“No.”
“Lunch?”
“No.”
“Breakfast?”
“Still no.”
He grins, undeterred. “What about second breakfast?”
You actually laugh at that, short and surprised. “Did you just make a Lord of the Rings reference?”
“Is it working?”
“No.” But you’re still smiling as you walk away, and Macklin counts it as a win.
***
Will thinks he’s lost his mind.
“She’s said no, like, fifteen times,” he points out a week later, watching Macklin check his hair in his phone camera before heading to a “random” stop by the legal department.
“Sixteen,” Macklin corrects. “But who’s counting?”
“Apparently you are.”
“She laughs at my jokes, dude. That’s a good sign.”
“Or she thinks you’re funny-looking.”
Macklin flips him off and heads out.
He finds you in the break room, heating up leftovers in the microwave. You see him coming and immediately shake your head.
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything!”
“You were thinking it.” The microwave beeps, and you pull out your container. “The answer is still no, Macklin.”
He leans against the counter, watching you stir your pasta. “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“Let me guess.” You cap your container, turning to face him. “Coffee, lunch, dinner, or some creative variation thereof. Am I close?”
“I was actually going to ask if you wanted to come to the game on Saturday,” he says. “We’re playing Vegas. Should be a good one.”
“I have season tickets,” you say. “Section 107.”
“Oh.” He brightens. “So you’ll be there anyway?”
“With my dad, yes.”
“Cool, cool. So after the game-”
“No.”
“Come on.” He’s smiling because he can’t help it, because you’re standing there in your perfect blazer and your hair is coming loose from its bun and you’ve got a tiny bit of sauce on your chin. “One date. That’s all I’m asking.”
You grab a napkin, wiping your chin like you can read his mind. “Macklin, you’re nineteen.”
“So?”
“So I’m twenty-three. That’s-”
“Four years. Which is nothing.”
“It’s not nothing when you’re nineteen.” But your voice is gentler now. “You’re a baby.”
“I’m not a baby,” he protests. “I’m in the NHL. I have a 401k.”
That gets another laugh out of you. “Oh, well, a 401k. That changes everything.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No.” You pick up your lunch, heading toward the door. “You’re very sweet, Macklin. But the answer is no.”
“For now,” he calls after you.
You don’t disagree, and he takes that as progress.
***
By mid-November, the rejections have become routine. He asks, you say no, you both smile about it, and life goes on. It’s become a thing, he realizes. Your thing.
“This is sad,” William Eklund tells him after watching Macklin’s latest attempt get shot down in the parking lot. “Like, genuinely sad.”
“She’s going to say yes eventually,” Macklin insists.
“Based on what evidence?”
“She hasn’t told me to stop asking.”
“Maybe she’s just being polite.”
Macklin shakes his head. “You don’t know her like I do.”
“You don’t know her at all, dude. You’ve had, what, maybe five actual conversations?”
“Fourteen,” Macklin corrects. “And a half.”
“What’s half a conversation?”
“She said good morning to me once.”
Ekky stares at him. “You need help.”
But the thing is, Macklin does know you. He knows you take your coffee black with exactly one sugar. He knows you’re always exactly seven minutes early to everything. He knows you chew on your pen cap when you’re thinking and that you organize your folders by color and date. He knows you’re funny and sharp and kind, and that you always stop to talk to the arena staff, asking about their kids and remembering their names.
He knows that when you smile — really smile, not the polite professional one — your whole face lights up.
And he knows that you’re not entirely unaffected by him, even if you pretend to be. He catches you watching him sometimes, quickly looking away when he notices. You always know his stats from the previous game. You laugh at his jokes even when they’re terrible.
There’s something there. He’s sure of it.
***
The breakthrough comes in early December, before a game against Utah.
You’re walking past the locker room — which you normally avoid like the plague — when Macklin spots you and jogs over, still in his suit.
“Y/N, hey.”
You sigh, but you’re smiling. “Macklin.”
“Big game tonight.”
“I’m aware.”
“You coming?”
“Section 107, same as always.”
He takes a breath. This is it. His last shot. “What if I made you a deal?”
You raise an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”
“If I score a hat trick tonight-”
“You’re playing Utah,” you interrupt. “No offense to them, but come on.”
“Okay, fair point.” He thinks for a second. “If I score a hat trick, and we win, you go out with me. One date.”
You cross your arms, considering. “And if you don’t?”
“Then I’ll stop asking.” The words hurt coming out, but he means them. “Completely. You’ll never have to say no again.”
You study him for a long moment. He can see you weighing it, calculating the odds. Three goals plus a win is a tall order against any team.
“You’ll really stop?” You ask quietly.
“If that’s what you want, yeah.”
Something flickers across your face, too quick to read. “Okay,” you say finally. “Deal.”
His heart jumps. “Yeah?”
“But Macklin?” You step closer, and he can smell your perfume. “I’m not saying yes because I think you’ll do it. I’m saying yes because I think you won’t, and maybe this way you’ll finally move on.”
It should sting, but he’s too busy grinning. “We’ll see.”
“Yes,” you say, already walking away. “We will.”
***
In the locker room, Macklin is vibrating with energy.
“You good?” Tyler Toffoli asks, watching him bounce on his toes.
“I need a hat trick.”
“Okay …”
“Tonight. I need a hat trick tonight.”
Ryan Reaves looks up from taping his stick. “Why?”
“Because if I get one, Y/N finally has to go out with me.”
The room goes quiet. Then everyone starts talking at once.
“Wait, the legal intern?”
“You bet a date on a hat trick?”
“Dude, that’s actually kind of smooth.”
“He’s been chasing her for months-”
“Two months,” Macklin corrects. “And one week.”
Will throws a tape roll at him. “You’re insane.”
“I prefer determined.”
“What happens if you don’t get it?” Will asks.
Macklin swallows. “I have to stop asking her out. Forever.”
The room goes quiet again.
“Well,” Ryan says finally, “better make it count then.”
***
The game starts badly.
Utah scores first, a garbage goal that somehow squeaks past the goalie. Then they score again midway through the first period, and Macklin can feel the opportunity slipping away.
He can see you in Section 107, sitting with an older man who must be your dad. You’re wearing a Sharks jersey — his number, he notices with a jolt — and you’re watching the ice intently.
Focus, he tells himself. Focus.
He gets his first goal with three minutes left in the first period. A quick wrist shot from the slot that goes top shelf. He doesn’t celebrate much, just taps his gloves and gets back to the bench.
“One down,” Will says, bumping his shoulder.
“Two to go.”
The second period is a grind. Utah’s defense tightens up, and Macklin can’t find any space. He takes a penalty for holding, spends two minutes in the box hating himself, and comes out determined to make up for it.
With six minutes left in the second, he gets his chance. A beautiful feed from Dmitry Orlov, and Macklin one-times it past the goalie.
2-2.
And more importantly: two goals.
The arena erupts, and Macklin lets himself look up at Section 107. You’re on your feet, clapping, and even from here he can see that you’re smiling.
One more, he thinks. Just one more.
***
The third period is agony.
Utah scores again, making it 3-2. Then Will ties it up with eight minutes left, and the game becomes a desperate scramble. Both teams are exhausted, sloppy. The ice is choppy.
Macklin gets chance after chance, but nothing falls. He hits the post twice. Once, he has an open net and somehow puts it wide.
“It’s okay,” Ekky tells him during a TV timeout. “We’re going to OT. You’ll get another chance.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Then you don’t. But you’re not giving up now.”
Regulation ends 3-3. Overtime.
***
Three-on-three hockey is chaos at the best of times. Tonight, it’s absolute mayhem.
Utah nearly ends it thirty seconds in. Then the Sharks almost score. Back and forth, both goalies standing on their heads.
Macklin is exhausted. His legs are burning, his lungs are screaming, and all he can think about is you in Section 107, watching.
Two minutes left in OT.
Macklin gets the puck at center ice. He sees Ekky streaking down the right side, Tyler driving the middle. The Utah defenseman commits to Will, leaving a gap.
Macklin takes it.
He’s never skated faster in his life. The Utah goalie is sliding across, trying to cover the angle. Macklin fakes the pass to Tyler, pulling the goalie even further-
And then he shoots.
Time slows down. He can see the puck spinning, can see the goalie reaching, can see the tiny space between the glove and the post-
The puck goes in.
The horn sounds.
The arena explodes.
Macklin’s teammates mob him, screaming and laughing, but all he can think about is looking up at Section 107. You’re standing, hands over your mouth, and even from the ice he can see that you’re shaking your head.
But you’re smiling.
***
After the game, after the media and the showers and the endless chirping from his teammates, Macklin finds you waiting outside the locker room.
“Hi,” he says, suddenly nervous.
“Hi.” You’re still in his jersey, and it does something to his heart. “That was-”
“A hat trick?”
“Show-off.”
He grins. “A deal’s a deal.”
You sigh, but there’s no heat in it. “I can’t believe you actually did it.”
“Did you watch the whole game?”
“Of course I did.” You say it like it’s obvious. “I had to see if I was going to owe you a date.”
“And?”
“And apparently I do.” You’re trying to sound annoyed, but you’re failing. “When?”
“Now?”
You laugh. “You just played almost seventy minutes of hockey. You’re exhausted.”
“I’m not tired at all,” he lies. He’s pretty sure he could fall asleep standing up.
“Macklin.” You step closer, and his breath catches. “I know you’re not tired. But I am. And I’d rather our first date not be at eleven PM when we’re both dead on our feet.”
“Our first date,” he repeats, grinning like an idiot. “So there’s going to be a second one?”
“Let’s see how the first one goes.”
“When?”
You consider. “Friday? After work?”
“Done. Yes. Perfect.”
“There’s a Thai place near my apartment-”
“I’ll eat anything,” he says quickly. “Whatever you want.”
You smile that real smile, the one that lights up your whole face. “Okay. Friday.”
“Friday,” he agrees.
You turn to leave, then pause. “Macklin?”
“Yeah?”
“That was a really good game.” Your voice is soft. “Really good.”
“I had motivation.”
“Apparently.” You shake your head, still smiling. “Get some rest. I’ll see you Friday.”
“Wait-” He catches your hand without thinking, then immediately lets go, embarrassed. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Did you actually think I couldn’t do it? Or were you hoping I would?”
You’re quiet for a moment, and when you speak, your voice is honest. “I don’t know,” you admit. “Maybe both? I told myself you wouldn’t do it, that it was impossible. But then you kept getting chances, and I kept thinking-” You break off, laughing a little. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Were you cheering for me?”
“I was cheering for the Sharks.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
You bite your lip, and he’s never wanted to kiss someone more in his life. “Maybe a little,” you confess. “When you scored the third goal, I-” You shake your head. “Never mind.”
“Tell me.”
“I thought, ‘Oh no.’” You’re smiling now, embarrassed. “Because I realized that some part of me wanted you to do it. Wanted an excuse to say yes.”
His heart is going to explode. “You could have just said yes.”
“I know.” You meet his eyes. “But where’s the fun in that?”
“You made me work for it.”
“You needed to work for it.” Your voice is gentle. “You’re nineteen, Macklin. You’ve had everything come easy to you your whole life. Hockey, school, girls probably-”
“Not this girl.”
“No,” you agree. “Not this girl. And maybe that’s good. Maybe you needed to want something you couldn’t just have.”
“And now?”
“Now you can have it.” You reach out, squeezing his hand quickly. “One date. Friday. Don’t be late.”
“I’ll be early.”
“I know you will.” You’re already walking away. “Goodnight, Macklin.”
“Night, Y/N.”
He watches you go, and this time when you reach the end of the hallway, you look back. You catch him staring and shake your head, but you’re smiling.
He’s smiling too.
***
Friday takes forever to arrive.
Macklin changes his outfit four times, shows up twenty minutes early, and has to walk around the block three times to avoid looking desperate. When he finally knocks on your apartment door at exactly 6:30, his palms are sweating.
You answer in jeans and a soft sweater, your hair down for the first time he’s ever seen, and he forgets how to speak.
“Hi,” you say, amused.
“Hi. You look-” He clears his throat. “Really pretty.”
“Thanks.” You grab your jacket. “You clean up nice yourself.”
The Thai restaurant is small and warm, tucked into a strip mall. You clearly come here often — the owner greets you by name and gives Macklin an appraising look that makes him sit up straighter.
“So,” you say once you’ve ordered. “Tell me about yourself.”
“You know about me.”
“I know you’re a hockey player. I don’t know you.”
So he tells you. About growing up in Vancouver, about his family, about the pressure of being first overall and the weight of expectations. He tells you about his teammates, about learning to do his own laundry for the first time, about how sometimes he still feels like a kid playing dress-up in an adult’s life.
You listen like everything he says matters, asking questions, laughing in the right places. And when he asks about you, you tell him about law school, about wanting to work in sports law, about your dad who brought you to Sharks games since you were six.
“He was pretty excited about the hat trick,” you admit. “He might be more invested in you asking me out than you were.”
“Impossible.”
You laugh. “He said any guy who works that hard for a date probably deserves one.”
“Smart man.”
“He has his moments.”
The food comes, and you steal bites off his plate without asking. He pretends to be annoyed but immediately offers you more. You argue about the best Sharks players of all time, about whether the 2000s or 2010s had better rom-coms, about whether pineapple belongs on pizza.
“It absolutely does not,” you insist.
“It’s fruit! It’s healthy!”
“It’s an abomination.”
“You’re an abomination.”
You throw a napkin at him, and he catches it, grinning.
Somewhere between the pad thai and the mango sticky rice, he realizes he’s never been this happy. Not after winning games, not after scoring goals. Just sitting here, watching you laugh at his stupid jokes, arguing about pizza toppings.
This. This is what he wanted.
***
After dinner, you walk slowly back toward your apartment. It’s cold, and you huddle into your jacket. Without thinking, Macklin puts his arm around you.
You don’t pull away.
“So,” you say as you reach your building. “Verdict?”
“Best date of my life.”
“You’re nineteen. How many dates have you been on?”
“Enough to know this was the best one.”
You smile, looking down. “It was pretty good.”
“Just pretty good?”
“Okay, really good.” You look up at him. “You’re not what I expected, Macklin Celebrini.”
“Better or worse?”
“Better,” you admit. “A lot better. You’re-” You pause, searching for words. “You’re genuine. And funny. And you actually listen when people talk. That’s rare.”
“Especially for a nineteen-year-old?”
“Especially for anyone.” You lean against your door. “I’m sorry I made you wait so long.”
“I’m not.” He steps closer. “You were right. I needed to work for it. And now-” He doesn’t finish the sentence.
“Now?”
“Now I appreciate it more.” He’s looking at your lips. “Can I kiss you?”
You pretend to think about it. “I don’t know. Maybe you should score a hat trick for that too.”
“If I need to, I will.”
You laugh, and then you’re kissing him, and it’s better than scoring any goal, better than anything he’s ever felt. You taste like mango and you’re smiling against his mouth and his hands are in your hair and-
You pull back, breathless. “Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“So,” you say, still in his arms. “About that second date …”
He grins. “I thought we had to see how the first one went?”
“It went pretty well.”
“Just pretty well?”
You kiss him again, slower this time. “Really, really well.”
“Tomorrow?”
“You have a game tomorrow.”
“Sunday, then.”
“Pushy.”
“Determined,” he corrects.
You laugh against his neck. “Sunday. But only if you promise to actually focus on the game, not just stand around thinking about kissing me.”
“I can multitask.”
“Macklin.”
“Fine, fine. Hockey first, kissing second.”
“Good boy.”
He groans. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it does things to me.”
You pull back, grinning wickedly. “Good boy?”
“You’re evil.”
“And you’re nineteen and adorable and way too into me.”
“Guilty on all counts.” He kisses your forehead. “But you like it.”
“Unfortunately,” you say, but you’re smiling. “I really do.”
***
Later, after he’s left (and texted you goodnight, and good morning, and a meme he thought you’d like), Macklin lies in bed staring at his ceiling.
Joe Thornton pokes his head in. “So? How’d it go?”
“She kissed me.”
“I gathered, from the stupid grin you haven’t stopped doing.”
“I’m going to marry her.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’ve been on one date.”
“Best date of my life,” Macklin says dreamily.
Joe heaves a heavy sigh. “You’re hopeless.”
“Hopelessly in love.”
“Oh my god, I’m leaving.”
But Macklin doesn’t care. He’s already planning Sunday’s date, already thinking about how to make you laugh, already counting down the hours until he sees you again.
He thinks about you saying he worked for this, that he needed to. And maybe you were right. Maybe that’s why it feels so good now — because he earned it. Because you made him prove that he wasn’t just some kid with a crush, but someone who could be patient and persistent and worth your time.
His phone buzzes. A text from you: Stop smiling at your ceiling and go to sleep. You have practice tomorrow.
He laughs out loud. How did you know?
Because I’m doing the same thing.
His heart soars. He types back: Goodnight, Y/N. Thanks for saying yes.
Thanks for scoring a hat trick.
Thanks for wearing my jersey.
Goodnight, Macklin.
He falls asleep smiling, dreaming of Thai food and arguments about pizza and the way you look when you laugh.
Tomorrow, he’ll go to practice. He’ll take the chirping from his teammates about being whipped. He’ll count down the hours until Sunday.
But tonight, he’s just a nineteen-year-old kid who worked his ass off for one date with the most amazing girl he’s ever met.
And it was worth every single rejection, every single no, every single moment of doubt.
Because in the end, he got his hat trick.
And he got the girl.
***
On Sunday, you wear his jersey again. And when he scores (just one goal this time, but it’s enough), he points up at Section 107.
You’re already smiling.
After the game, he takes you for ice cream even though it’s December and not nearly warm enough. You get chocolate, he gets vanilla, and you share like you’ve been doing this forever.
“So,” you say, stealing his cone. “Three dates in one week. That’s pretty serious.”
“Is it?”
“For a nineteen-year-old and a sophisticated twenty-three-year-old? Absolutely.”
He steals your cone back. “What about for just two people who really like each other?”
You soften. “Then I guess it’s just right.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You lean into him, and he wraps his arm around you, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. “You know what’s funny?”
“What?”
“I knew you were going to get that hat trick.” You look up at him. “The whole game, I kept thinking, ‘He’s going to do it. He’s actually going to do it.’”
“And?”
“And I was terrified.” You laugh. “Because I knew that if you did, I’d have to admit I wanted you to. That I’d been wanting to say yes for weeks. That maybe you weren’t just some kid with a crush, but-” You break off.
“But what?”
“But someone I could actually fall for.” Your voice is quiet. “If I let myself.”
He stops walking, turning to face you. “So let yourself.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re nineteen, and I’m twenty-three, and you’re an NHL player, and I’m just-”
“You’re not just anything.” He cups your face in his hands. “You’re brilliant and beautiful and funny and kind. And yeah, I’m nineteen. But I know what I want. And I want this. I want you.”
Your eyes are shining. “Macklin-”
“You don’t have to say it back. Not yet. Just-” He swallows. “Just don’t count me out because of a number, okay? Give me a chance to prove I’m not just some kid.”
You’re quiet for a long moment. Then you smile, slow and sweet. “You already have.”
And when you kiss him this time, right there on the sidewalk with ice cream melting in your hands and the December wind biting at your faces, he knows.
This is it. This is everything.
Four years, four months, four decades — it doesn’t matter. When you know, you know.
And Macklin has never been more sure of anything in his life.
