Little snippet of what I'm working on
“What kind of weird?” Will asks, quieter now. Mack swallows. “Just my – my body feels off.” That’s enough.
Will doesn’t push. Doesn’t question more. He just nods slightly and reaches up, hands steady as he unbuckles Mack’s helmet. The click of the straps sounds too loud in the quiet room.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you out of this stuff, yeah?” Normally they keep themselves a bit more separate in the locker rooms, but tonight’s loss warrants a bit more closeness, Will decides.
Mack doesn’t help. That’s the second thing that’s wrong.
Usually, even when he’s upset, he’d at least go through the motions. Now he just watches, eyes tracking Will’s hands with an intensity that feels… off. Too focused. Too still.
Will pulls the helmet free, sets it aside, his hand just briefly running through Mack’s hair, then moves down, fingers working at the laces of Mack’s skates.
Mack feels it, sort of, kind of. He sees what Will’s doing. Sees the hands, the movement. But the sensation doesn’t match. It’s dulled, so distant, he wouldn’t even be sure a hand was actually there if he didn’t see it with his own eyes.
His stomach twists. Something’s not right.
He tries to shift his foot, to help, and it moves but not the way he expects. Not fully and entirely too slow. Like there’s a delay between thought and action. He tries again, more forcefully – this time there is no movement. Panic flickers, low and sharp. “…Will,” he starts, but the word catches, too quiet, too unsure.
Will doesn’t notice yet. He’s focused, slipping the first skate off, then the second, pulling away the gear with practiced ease. Socks and pads follow, then the rest of the leg equipment, piece by piece.
Mack’s legs are free now, except for the bulky hockey pants.He watches them. They don’t feel like his. The panic grows. “Hey,” Will says softly, glancing up. “You with me?” Mack nods, a fraction too slow.
Will hesitates, just for a second. Then he moves on, reaching for the hem of Mack’s tarp. “Arms up.”
Mack obeys automatically, lifting them. The fabric slides up, over his ribs, his chest – Then over his head. Darkness. And suddenly there’s nothing.
No sense of where his body is now that his vision is gone. No grounding. No feeling in his core, his legs. Nothing to tell him how to stay upright.
The jersey snags on his left arm’s shoulder pad, trapping his arms halfway up. Mack sways. He doesn’t see it happening – only feels the shift, the tilt of the world as it slides sideways.
He tries to correct. His body doesn’t respond and then he’s falling.
“ Oh shit, Mackie – !”
