hi!! was just scrolling through Instagram and found an interesting picture of Mack!! Haha I have no idea what the context is behind it but it’s from a makeup artists instagram??? @rosehillmakeupartist on ig, posted on dec 19
╰ Synopsis After your best friend Fraser introduces you to Macklin after a wjc game, Mack likes you but thinks he has no chance because you’re so close to Fraser.
tags/contains Macklin Celebrini x fem!reader. Angst(??), fluff(??), Mack avoiding you, mentions of fraser minten x reader, kissing, mutual pinning, requested.
➺ from Sera, to you📨. Genuinely I’ve already written 2-3 fics like this for Mack and my last brain cell can’t make fics of plots like this anymore, but the things I’d do just to please yall 😔
masterlist ᥫ᭡ please reblog this fic if you enjoyed it!
You’ve known Fraser since freshman, back when he still had that awful middle part and you were the only person who didn’t laugh when he read his poetry assignment out loud.
He started dragging you to every single Toronto Marlies home game he could sneak into, claiming you were his “good luck charm”.
When he found out he was heading to Gothenburg for World Juniors 2024, he acted like he’d won all the games already. Two weeks before Christmas he cornered you outside the library, cheeks pink from the cold, and shoved an envelope into your mittened hands.
“It’s a plane ticket. The hotel is covered and you ARE coming,” he said, like it was already decided. “It’s different when it’s the jersey with the maple leaf, you’ll see.”
You told him he was insane. He just grinned and said, “it’s going to be fun, I promise.”
So you went, you couldn’t say no.
The first time you saw Macklin in person was the night Canada beat Switzerland 6-2. Fraser had spent the entire warm up hyping you up to him over the bench glass, leaning in so far he nearly fell onto the ice.
“She’s literally the coolest person I know,” Fraser told him, voice carrying even over the crowd. “And, like.. really pretty. Like, stupid pretty.”
Macklin had laughed, slapped Fraser’s calf with his stick, and said something you couldn’t hear. Whatever it was made Fraser turn the color of a stop sign. At the time Macklin just thought it was cute, Fraser crushing on some girl from home who probably wore his junior jerseys and baked cookies after wins. He was happy for him, Fraser deserved that.
Then the team went out for dinner after the win, some lowkey Italian place the staff booked. Fraser showed up late, sliding into the booth with a shy little smile and you right behind him.
Macklin looked up from his phone and forgot how to swallow.
You were still wearing the teams jersey, two sizes too big, Fraser’s, obviously. You laughed at something Cowan said and the sound cut straight through the restaurant noise and lodged behind Macklin’s ribs.
Fraser introduced you to everyone like he was presenting an award. When he got to Macklin, his voice did that soft proud thing it always did when he talked about you.
“This is Macklin. The guy who got drafted.”
You stuck your hand out. “Hi. I’ve heard much about you, kind of a fan.”
Macklin shook it and tried to think of something clever. Nothing came, but he managed a “hey” that cracked halfway through.
You just smiled wider, like you already knew he was drowning and thought it was kind of sweet.
Fraser kept bringing you to every game after that. You sat three rows behind the bench in a borrowed Minten jersey, screaming louder than half the dads in the section.
Macklin found himself looking for you during warm ups, scanning until he spotted the familiar 94 on your back. He told himself it was because Fraser would kill him if he didn’t wave. That was a lie and he knew it by day four.
The tournament ended the way no one wanted. Fifth place, a 6-2 loss to Czechia in the quarterfinal that felt like swallowing glass. The locker room was dead quiet, just the sound of tape being ripped off socks and the occasional sniffle no one wanted to acknowledge.
Macklin was desperate to get out before the media swarmed. He pulled on jeans and a hoodie, grabbed his backpack, and slipped out the side door the vets always used.
You were leaning against the cinderblock wall, hands stuffed in the pockets, hiding from the cold.
When you saw him, your whole face changed, like someone flipped a switch. You pushed off the wall and waved him over with this urgent little flick of your wrist.
“Hey,” you said softly as he got close. “You okay?”
Macklin shrugged. The motion felt too heavy. “Yeah, it kind of sucks.”
“I know.” You bit your lip, then stepped closer “I’m really sorry, Mack. You were incredible out there, all of you were.”
He nodded, and kept waiting for you to ask about Fraser, to say you’d wait for him, whatever. But you didn’t.
“I hate seeing you upset. If you ever need to talk or, like, vent about dumb hockey stuff, I’m around. After we get home, I mean.”
His heart was hammering so hard he was sure you could hear it. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You pulled out your phone, thumbs moving fast. “Here, give me your number. We could get something to eat or something. I’m a great listener for loss recovery.”
Macklin stared at the screen like it might bite him. This was Fraser’s girl. Fraser, who’d blushed talking about you for weeks. Fraser, who was probably still grieving over the loss.
But you were standing there, waiting, and he’d never wanted anything more than to keep talking to you for five more minutes.
“Uh.. sure,” he heard himself say.
You grinned and handed him your phone. He typed his number with shaking thumbs.
You took the phone back, saved the contact, and immediately sending him a message. His phone buzzed in his pocket.
“There,” you said, rocking on your heels. “Now you can’t ghost me.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he managed.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway, Fraser’s voice calling your name, tired but warm. You didn’t move right away. “Text me when you land in town, okay?” you said. “Or before. Whatever.”
“You good, Mack?” Fraser asked.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
The next few months passed in a haze of texts that lit up Macklin’s phone at the weirdest hours.
You’d send him a voice notes. He’d wake up to it before morning skate, and play it twice just to hear the way you said his name like it tasted good.
He always answered. Even when he was dead on his feet after back to backs, even when the vets were chirping him for smiling at his phone like a lovesick teenager.
You kept texting him, even stupid hockey tiktoks, just so you could have something to talk about. You started adding little x’s at the end of messages, but he never added any back.
When the Sharks finally had a road trip that brought them to Toronto, you texted before he even landed.
You: back in the six this weekend. You: wanna get out of the hotel and do something actually fun? You: I know all the good spots fraser never wants to go to
He stared at the message for a full five minutes in the uber from Pearson.
Macklin: Yeah, I’m down
You sent a heart eye emoji and a thumbs up.
Friday night he met you outside your residence, it was minus a million and he still hadn’t learned how to dress for real winter. You wore an puffer jacket and a knit scarf and when you spotted him you broke into this huge grin and basically launched yourself at him.
He caught you on reflex, arms around your waist, your cheek pressed to his chest for one perfect second before you pulled back.
“Hi,” you said, breathless, cheeks pink from the cold. “You’re taller in person.”
“You’ve seen me in person,” he laughed.
“It’s different now, you’re without skates and stuff.”
You grabbed his gloved hand like it was nothing and started walking. You took him to Kensington, to that tiny empanada place you swore had the best chimichurri in the city. Every time you leaned over the table he forgot how to hold the cue.
He thought, maybe, the way you kept finding excuses to touch his arm or laugh at his dumb jokes or steal sips of his drink, maybe this was something.
Then he opened Instagram the next day, and the first thing he saw was a blurry photo of Fraser’s face lit up, captioned “my favourite captain”.
Of course, he should’ve known better.
Three weeks later you texted again.
you: fraser says we should all hang when you’re back in town next month you: the three of us 🥹
He should have said no, but he said yes.
You both picked him up in Fraser’s Jeep. When Macklin climbed into the back you caught his eye in the rear view and smiled like nothing had changed.
You went to a food place in Yorkville. Fraser paid before Macklin could even reach for his wallet.
Fraser told a story about a junior tournament when you were sixteen and you laughed in all the right places. You tried to include Macklin, turned to him with that same bright smile but every time you and Fraser fell into the old shorthand, the inside jokes, the way you finished each other’s sentences, Macklin felt himself shrinking
You kept trying to touch him: he didn’t notice. Your knee bumped his under the table and stayed there: he shifted away.
By the time you dropped him back at the hotel he felt like he’d been body checked by regret.
He didn’t text you for four days.
You: did I do something? You: you’ve been weird since we hung out last time
Macklin: long trip. I’m good.
Two weeks later he was sprawled on his couch in San Jose, when your name popped up.
you: sharks in toronto march 8th right? you: I’ll be at the game if you want a friendly face in the crowd you: no pressure obviously!! just thought it’d be cool
He closed his eyes. The idea of you in the stands wearing his jersey made something hot and stupid claw at his chest.
macklin: yeah we’re there the 8th and 9th macklin: you should come, I’ll send you a ticket.
When you walked into the arena on the game night, the first thing you noticed was how different it felt.
The Sharks ended up winning. Macklin picked up a goal and an assist, both times looking straight up at you.
You waited for him in the tunnel after the game, bouncing on your toes until Macklin appeared. “Hey,” he greeted you.
He took you east along the lake to this tiny pier he’d spotted from the team bus. It was closed for the season, but the gate was open and the city lights shimmered across the water like spilled glitter.
For two hours it was easy. He told you about the dinner where his friend made him sing karaoke, you told him about the time Fraser accidentally dyed his hair blue the night before school photos, and how you laughed so hard cinnamon sugar went up your nose.
Eventually the laughing slowed and the air felt different. You turned to look at him at the same time he turned to you. His eyes dropped to your mouth and you thought it was a good sign to lean in.
He let you get close, you felt the warmth of his breath then his palm came up to your chest, gentle but firm, stopping you an inch away.
Your heart stuttered. “Mack?”
He swallowed hard. “What are you- what about Fraser?”
You blinked. Pulled back just enough to see his face. “What?”
“You and Fraser. I don’t.. I can’t do that to him.”
You stared at him, like you were trying to solve a math problem that didn’t add up.
“Macklin,” you said slowly, “you’ve been hanging out with me for three months thinking Fraser and I are together?”
He nodded once, miserable.
You laughed. “Are you kidding me right now?”
His brows pinched. “He told me you were pretty. Like, blushing, stammering, the whole thing. He brought you to every game, gave you his jersey-”
“Macklin. Fraser and I have been best friends since we were fifteen. He’s literally like my annoying older brother. He blushes when he talks about anyone he cares about: his mom, his dog, that’s just Fraser.”
Macklin opened his mouth. “But the Instagram stories, the way you guys-”
“I wear his jersey because he shoves it at me every game and whines if I don’t. I post him because he’s my best friend and he gets sulky when I don’t hype him up.” You shook your head, still laughing. “I’ve been trying to flirt with you since Sweden and you thought I was dating Fraser?”
His ears went red. “So I wasn’t delusional when you gave me small signs?”
“Nope.”
Macklin looked wrecked. “I thought I was the biggest asshole in the world for wanting you anyway.”
You reached up, cupped his jaw. His stubble scratched your palm. “I have been into you since the night you came out of that locker room looking like someone kicked your puppy and still smiled at me. I tried everything to get noticed by you.”
His eyes searched yours, wide and stunned and so painfully hopeful it hurt. “You’re not messing with me?”
In answer you closed the last inch of space and kissed him.
He made this soft broken sound against your mouth, like every ounce of tension in him snapped at once. His hands came up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks, and he kissed you back like he’d been waiting years instead of months.
not just the regular, “played four games in six nights and got cross-checked into next week” kind of tired. it was the kind of tired that sits behind your eyes, quiet and heavy. like a weight you forget is there until you try to smile and realize it doesn’t quite reach.
they’d gone 2–2 on the road. not awful, not great. he’d played fine—had a couple points, made some good reads, but nothing special. and that was maybe the part that bugged him. he didn’t feel bad, but he didn’t feel electric either. and macklin was used to feeling electric. used to buzzing around the ice, feeling sharp, dialed in. this trip, he just felt… okay. which is fine. but also kind of not.
the plane landed just after noon. cloudy sky, a little drizzle on the tarmac. he pulled his hoodie over his head, earbuds in, duffel slung across his shoulder, same rhythm as always. say bye to the boys, head for the lot, text his girl. same pattern. but today felt different. not in a big dramatic way. just in a quiet, homesick kind of way.
he scrolled to her name.
mack: “just landed. almost home.”
y/n/n: “can’t wait to see you. I missed you a lot , made cookies”
that got a little smile out of him. not a big grin, just a small lift in the corner of his mouth. warm apartment. her. suddenly, the tired felt a little lighter.
the drive home was chill. light traffic, music low. he let his thoughts wander. kept thinking about how she’d probably be waiting by the window, hair tied up, sweatshirt too big, maybe even his. maybe that blue one she always stole. she always looked better in his stuff anyway.
he parked, grabbed his bag, took the stairs two at a time even though his legs were barking. habit. adrenaline. the kind of buzz that only came from knowing someone was on the other side of the door.
he didn’t even knock.
as soon as he opened it, she was there, barefoot, smiling, arms wide.
“hi,” she said, voice soft and happy and home.
he dropped his bag and walked straight into her, wrapping her up like he hadn’t hugged anyone in a hundred years. her hands slid up his back, fingers tracing the lines of his shoulder blades, like she could feel how tense he’d been without him saying a word.
“missed you,” he mumbled into her hair.
“missed you more,” she whispered back.
they stayed like that for a minute. maybe more. no rush. no words. just two people in the middle of the kind of quiet that feels safe.
eventually she pulled back, looked up at him.
“you look tired.”
“i am,” he said, laughing a little.
“go sit down. I'll grab some cookies.”
he kicked off his shoes, flopped onto the couch, and watched her move around the kitchen like it was the most interesting thing he’d seen all week. she had music playing quietly—some soft indie playlist she always had going—and she hummed along like this was just another wednesday. for her, maybe it was. for him, it felt like breathing again.
she brought over two cookies on a little plate, warm and soft, melty in the middle. he took a bite and let out a noise that made her laugh.
“good?” she asked, nudging his knee with hers.
“ridiculous,” he said, mouth full. “marry me.”
she raised an eyebrow, grinning. “for cookies?”
“among other things.”
she laughed again, tucked her legs under her on the couch, and leaned her head against his shoulder. he rested his cheek on top of her head and let himself sink into the moment. no pressure. no games to prep for. just her.
they talked for a bit—about the trip, the stupid hotel pillows, the team group chat getting out of control. she told him about her week, some drama with her coworker, the plant she accidentally killed and tried to revive with coffee. he listened, actually listened, because he liked the way she told stories. even the small ones.
at one point she reached up, brushing her fingers through his hair, slow and careful, and he thought: yeah, this. this is it.
“you’re quiet today,” she said gently.
“just tired,” he replied. “but i feel better now.”
“because of me?”
“duh,” he said, nudging her. “you’re the only person who can fix me with banana bread and head scratches.”
she smirked, kissed his jaw. “i’ll take that title proudly.”
they stayed there most of the afternoon. didn’t really move. just background noise, soft blankets, the kind of silence that didn’t need filling. he dozed off at one point, and she let him, covering him with a throw blanket and tucking his hand in hers like it was second nature.
when he woke up later, sun low and golden through the window, she was still there. scrolling her phone, sipping tea. and she looked at him like he hadn’t gone anywhere at all.
“feel human again?” she asked.
he nodded. “getting there.”
“good,” she said. “you don’t have to be anything here. just you.”
he reached for her hand, squeezed it.
“that’s more than enough,” he said, and meant it.
home wasn’t just a place. it was her. always had been.
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a/n: iiii ammmm backkkkk!! i stopped writing for a minute due to school and i had a europe trip but i am back now! send requests
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