The masses speculating about the baby trapping so much that it shifts to the conspiracy theory that Mack's not actually pregnant at all and it's all a ruse because he's not showing heavily even as he gets later into his pregnancy and so ->
It started with the usual age gap discourse that had been circulating from the first photodrop. Mack can even say that it's a valid, nuanced conversation but then it very quickly weaponized. Words like manipulative and power imbalance started flooding Mack’s notifications. Then came the baby-trapping allegations. Tweets that go viral that people send him:
“So you’re telling me a random 19 y/o snags a multi-millionaire NHL vet who won the cup last year and just so happens to get pregnant? By a man who publicly ended his last relationship because he didn't want kids? This isn’t love, it’s strategy.”
“Not to be That Person but how come there’s zero real bump in any of these videos or photos? Not buying it. It’s giving PR stunt.”
And then a particularly brutal one that did numbers:
“Every girl knows a guy like Mack. The quiet ones who play dumb, wear cute outfits and talk sweet and pull a long con. WSH is a grown man who got trapped by a twink. Mack is getting everything he wants from WSH: the baby, the fancy cars, Cartier bracelets, and the wag lifestyle.”
Mack saw it all. Of course he did.
Even if he tried not to, he was restricting comments, turning off DMs, and trying to act unbothered. But still, it got to him. Especially when people started posting side-by-side comparisons of his bump at different times with captions like “where is it tho?” and “this bump is inconsistent af.” The implication being that he was faking it. That he was lying.
And God, it hurt. Because he was just…so happy, and he thought everyone could see that. He was proud of the little life growing in him. He loved watching Will get soft when he talked about names or rubbed lotion into Mack’s back at night. He loved their stupid little closet island debates and grocery runs and shared toothbrush holder.
And now? Every time he posted anything, it felt like feeding himself to wolves.
So he stopped showing his stomach. Swaps tighter tops for oversized shirts. Quits filming the silly little couple content he loved with Will, who would grumble but never minded really. Started sitting in the back row of the family section with a brim of a hat low over his eyes, clutching Will’s hoodie in his lap like a shield. He even deleted a video he’d loved. It was a time-lapse of them building a pretty white oak baby dresser, ending with Will lifting him up for a hug and kissing his cheek, because the comments were vile.
And naturally, Will noticed, because he was attentive and loving. Because he was the one holding Mack every night as he curled into himself in bed, silent tears sliding down his cheeks. He was the one who rubbed circles into Mack’s back and said, “I’m sorry, baby,” like he’d failed him.
He hates it. Hates the scrutiny. Hates that people who didn’t know anything about them got to shape the narrative. That strangers were doubting Mack’s body, his choices, his pregnancy, their love.
“Let me say something,” Will tells him one morning, sitting across from him at their kitchen table, voice quiet but serious. “Let me post something. Shut this shit down.”
Mack shakes his head, eyes down on his tea. “It’ll just make it worse, babe.”
Will leans over, tipping Mack’s chin up gently. “You’re carrying my kid. You’re the love of my life. You’re not trapping anyone. I walked into this with my whole damn heart.”
And Mack whispers, “Then why don’t they believe me?”
The silence after that was deafening.
That night, Will posted a carousel of images to his own Instagram. No caption: the first was just his hand on Mack’s bare belly, visibly more prominent now than it had been, but still slight on Mack's toned and lean figure. Mack’s fingers tangled with his. The background was warm, soft-lit. Peaceful. No words needed.
The second image was all warmth and domestic chaos, taken in the sun-drenched living room of their San Jose house. Will was sunk into the couch, wearing a loose white tee and gray sweatpants, his curls a little messy. His expression was flat, deadpan, like he’d just said something sarcastic that did not go over well.
Mack was draped across Will’s lap, arms flung dramatically to either side like he’d just been pulled down without warning, one knee hooked over the armrest of the couch. His head was thrown back onto Will’s thigh, mouth open mid-laugh, brown hair a tousled mess. He was barefoot in 5" inseam lululemon gym shorts and one of Will’s oversized team tees, half-ridden up his belly, the curve of his bump just visible where the shirt had bunched.
And the last shot is a video: Mack at an ultrasound appointment, the grainy little blob on the screen, the sound of a heartbeat in the background. Will off-camera, murmuring, besotted “Hi, baby girl,” while Mack wiped tears from his cheeks with a trembling smile.
And eventually, Will encourages Mack to post again: the video starts without fanfare. There are no filters, no music, just the quiet hum of their bedroom at night. It’s dim, the soft golden bedside lamp casting a warm glow across rumpled sheets and bare skin. The camera’s a little shaky, but it’s clear what Mack’s showing: his stomach.
His bump isn’t huge; it mostly just looks like he's bloated, but it’s very real, round, tight, and alive with motion. You can see the flutter of movement under his skin, a rapid little jab just beneath his ribs that protrudes out, and Mack groans, giggling breathlessly.
“She’s literally trying to rearrange my organs,” he mutters, flipping the camera for a moment to catch his own face. His hair’s a mess, cheeks flushed, lashes heavy with sleep. He's out of breath despite having just woken up. “I think she’s pressing into my ribcage and trying to MMA fight me. Like pick a struggle, baby.”
He turns the camera back to his belly just as another kick makes the skin visibly ripple.
From off-screen, there’s movement. Will’s voice, sleep-rough, tender, filters in.
“She at it again?” he mumbles.
Mack groans, long and dramatic, tilting the camera down as another little thump pushes up under his ribs. “Your daughter is on an absolute warpath,” he mutters. “I’m documenting this for your mother, by the way. She didn’t believe me when I said her granddaughter has been doing UFC training in my uterus and refusing to let me sleep. Said, and I quote, ‘that’s not in the Smith gene.’”
From off‑screen, Will’s voice comes in rough and sleep‑thick, the kind of gravel that makes Mack shiver. “’s cuz I was a saint in the womb,” he says, shifting closer until his hand slides into frame.
He cups the side of Mack’s bump, thumb brushing low and instinctive. “Alright, hey now,” he says softly, voice dropping to that special register he only uses for her. Mack can only describe it as reverent, warm. “What’s goin’ on in there, little lady? You givin’ your mama a hard time?”
Immediately, the bump stills. No more kicks. Just soft, steady pressure, like she’s nestling closer instead of trying to break out.
Mack gasps, eyes wide. “You see that? She’s literally obsessed with you.”
Will presses another kiss to Mack’s shoulder, hand still resting where she kicked. “Can’t blame her. I’m a great hang.”
“She’s gonna come out and only want you, watch,” Mack says, trying to sound annoyed but failing. His voice is full of awe. “I’m just the host. You’re the favorite.”
Will grins, eyes fixed on Mack’s bump like it holds the whole world. “She hears me and chills out. She knows her pops has her.”
There’s a long pause where they just breathe, Will’s thumb tracing lazy circles on Mack’s skin.
Mack finally says, quietly, “I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything more than this.”
Will doesn’t answer right away. He just leans in, presses a kiss low on Mack’s stomach, right where she last kicked, and whispers, “Same.”
Mack lets out a soft little sigh, eyes fluttering shut like he’s trying to soak in the moment and bottle it. But then he blinks back at the screen that's catching Will's hand rubbing over his tiny bump, lips twisting into something fond but wistful.
“This is gonna suck when you’re away on roadies,” he murmurs, thumb brushing absently over Will’s hand where it still rests against his bump. “She’s already obsessed with you, and I’m the one carrying her. Gonna be real fun when I’m getting drop-kicked from the inside and you’re in, like, Raleigh.”
Will chuckles, low and reassuring, voice warm with sleep and love. “I’ll FaceTime you both every night. And talk to her so she remembers who funds the snack cravings.”
Mack snorts. “She doesn’t care about FaceTime. She wants your hands and your voice in surround sound. She’s dramatic.”
Will leans in, murmurs against Mack’s skin, “Can’t imagine where she gets that from.”
And Mack just groans again, smiling through it. “I’m gonna be alone with a tiny diva who thinks my ribs are a jungle gym. Pray for me.”
And when Mack posts it with just the caption “my two loves 💕” the internet goes feral.
Anon i am on my knees, congested as all fuck, begging you or anyone else to pls give me more pls pls
