Work Text:
The rink is still loud long after the horn.
Macklin barely remembers the exact moment it happened—only the blur of white jerseys, the way his legs almost gave out when the final seconds drained off the clock, the sound crashing over him like a wave.
“And that’s it—Canada has done it!” the announcer’s voice booms over the arena, breaking with excitement. “The horn sounds, and Team Canada is Olympic gold medal champions!”
Gold, Mack thinks, breath still coming out in pants and fogging the visor of his helmet.
The words barely register before someone slams into him from the side. He laughs, breathless, half-hysterical. He feels seventeen different hands grab him at once, pulling him right into the pile. Someone is shouting his name repeatedly, almost in a chant. Helmets knock together. Sticks clatter to the ice.His chest hurts in that way that isn’t pain so much as too much feeling all at once.
Gold.
They line up. Handshakes are given with trembling hands. Cameras flash. The medal ceremony feels surreal, like he’s stepped out of his body and is watching himself from somewhere up near the rafters. When the medal settles around his neck, cool against sweat-soaked palms as he grasps it in disbelief, it finally hits him hard enough that he has to swallow around the lump in his throat.
He thinks of early mornings.
Of empty rinks.
Of the sound of skates cutting clean ice before the sun came up.
He thinks of his teams: Boston University, Chicago Steel…The Sharks.
He thinks of Will.
By the time he makes it back to the locker room, his phone has been buzzing nonstop. Messages from family. From friends. From people he hasn’t talked to in years. He scrolls through them absentmindedly while tugging his jersey over his head, the room still loud with laughter and music and clinking bottles.
He doesn’t answer any of them.
Instead, he taps one contact.
Will Smith (or, “Smitty/chaufer💙 🦈”, as he was saved as in his phone)
The phone rings once.
Twice.
Will picks up. “Hey, gold medalist.”
Mack laughs, breathless again, pacing between stalls, still half in his gear. “Did you see it? We—we actually did it. I don’t think my hands have stopped shaking yet.”
“I saw,” Will says, voice warm and steady. “I’m proud of you.”
That’s all it takes.
Mack’s throat tightens. He presses his free hand to his face, scrubbing at his eyes. “I wish you were here,” he admits quietly. “I mean, celebrating with the others is great but--”
There’s a pause. Not long. Just long enough to register.
Then Will says, calm and certain, “Turn around.”
Mack blinks. “What?”
“Just trust me,” Will says. “Turn around.”
His heart stutters.
And there he is.
Will stands just inside the open doorway, framed by harsh hallway lights. He’s in a dark jacket, hair a little messed up from travel, and in his hands—
Sunflowers.
Bright, ridiculous, unmistakable sunflowers.
Mack lets out a broken sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“Will—what the fuck—what are you doing here—are those—” His voice cracks completely. He doesn’t finish the sentence.
Will grins. “I panicked and bought the most aggressively cheerful flowers I could find. Thought it felt on-brand.”
Mack doesn’t walk.
He runs.
He doesn’t even remember crossing the space between them, just the sudden, solid impact of Will’s arms around him, the flowers crushed slightly between their chests, petals brushing Mack’s cheek. He clutches at Will like gravity’s finally been turned back on, like he’s been floating on a high for the last hour, and here’s Will to anchor him.
He’s crying openly now. No attempt to hide it. His shoulders shake as he buries his face into Will’s neck, breath hitching.
“You’re here,” Mack says, muffled. “You’re actually here. When the fuck did you get here?”
“Hey, couldn’t miss watching you win gold now, could I?,” Will murmurs, holding him tight, one hand firm between Mack’s shoulder blades. “Wanted to surprise you.”
After a moment, Will eases him back just enough to look at him properly, hands still warm and steady on Mack’s arms. Mack’s eyes are red, his hair damp with sweat, cheeks flushed from adrenaline and tears and joy all tangled together.
Mack laughs wetly, scrubbing at his eyes. He holds Will at arms-length, glancing down at the sunflowers between them. He brushes a finger over the petals. “Never been brought flowers after a game before.”
“Yeah well,” Will shrugs, handing hom the flowers, “You’ve never won a gold medal before either.”
Mack looks down at the gold medal against his chest. Despite the weight around his neck, it still doesn’t feel real.
Will’s smile softens completely. He reaches out, fingers brushing the ribbon, then the medal itself. He twists it absently between his fingers, like he’s testing that it’s real, like he’s memorizing the weight of it. “Look at you,” He breathes quietly.
Mack swallows, fresh tears threatening. “I kept thinking about you,” he admits. “Out there. I kept thinking—don’t mess this up. Don’t mess up something you’re gonna have to tell him about. You’ll never hear the end of it.”
Will crosses his arms and shakes his head. “Honestly? I respect the hell out of you just for being here. A gold medal is just the badass cherry on top.”
Mack lets out a shaky breath and leans forward again, forehead resting against Will’s shoulder this time, calmer but no less overwhelmed.
“Sunflowers, though?” he mutters.
Will chuckles softly. “You win gold and suddenly you’re picky.”
Mack laughs, really laughs this time, still clinging to him. He reaches up and adjusts the medal without thinking, letting it fall back into place.
Gold. Gradually, it is starting to feel more real, yet still no less unbelievable.
And Will—standuing right there, goofy smile on his face, like flying to another country just for Mack was the most obvious choice in the world.
For the first time all night, the noise fades enough that Mack can breathe. He presses closer to Will again and whispers, “Thank you for coming.”
Will rubs his back, gentle and certain. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he says.
Mack sniffs once, swiping at his cheeks with the heel of his hand, still smiling like his face hasn’t quite caught up with his emotions yet. Will is still standing close, one hand loosely hooked around the sunflower stems, the other resting warm and familiar at Mack’s elbow.
After a beat, Mack tilts his head, casual in the way that absolutely means he’s not.
“So,” he says, like he’s asking about dinner plans. “Do you wanna have a sleepover?”
Will blinks.
“A what?”
“A sleepover,” Mack repeats, dead serious. “Like. We catch up. We talk. We spill everything. I wanna hear all the tea you’ve been saving for me, and I refuse to do that over text.”
Will stares at him, dumbfounded in the most affectionate way possible. His mouth opens. Closes. He glances around the locker room, then back at Mack, lowering his voice instinctively.
“Mack,” he says slowly, like he’s explaining something to a very talented but extremely stubborn child, “the Olympic Village is not open to friends and family.”
Mack hums, unbothered.
“It’s very secure,” Will continues. “There are badges. And security. And rules. I am extremely not supposed to be there.”
Mack’s lips twitch.
Will narrows his eyes. “Why are you smiling like that?”
Mack reaches up, fingers catching the ribbon of his medal again, not to steady it this time, just to toy with it. When he looks back up at Will, there’s a spark in his eyes that Will knows very well. The kind that means trouble. The kind that has historically caused them to gain another story that starts with you’re not gonna believe this.
“Will,” Mack says, voice low and conspiratorial, leaning in just enough to make it feel like they’re sharing a secret. “I just won an Olympic gold medal.”
“Yes, I noticed,” Will says dryly. “Congratulations again.”
Mack suppresses a laugh. “All I’m saying is… people are being very nice to me right now.”
Will pauses.
Mack’s smile widens. He taps the side of his nose once, playful, and then steps back, already turning like this decision has been made and accepted by the universe.
“Trust me,” he says lightly. “I’ve got this.”
—-
Mack is vibrating.
That’s the first thing Will notices as they are standing outside a chain link fence, The Olympic Village looming in front of them. A padded gate stands intimatingly a few feet away. Will half expects to see snipers peering over the edge. Floodlights hum overhead, casting long shadows across the pavement.
Will stands beside Mack, hoodie pulled up, hands jammed into his pockets like that might somehow make him less visible. He stares at the gate, then at Mack, then back at the gate again, his heart beating nauseatingly fast.
“Mack,” he mutters, low and incredulous, “I have my own hotel room, y’know?”
Mack barely looks at him, already fishing his accreditation badge out of his pocket. “Yeah,” he says easily, “but that wouldn’t be nearly as fun.”
Will scoffs. “This is how people get banned from international sporting events.”
Mack grins. “You haven’t made it to the Olympics yet. This could be your only chance to stay in the Olympic Village.”
Will nudges him with his shoulder, playful despite himself. “I haven’t made the Olympics yet,” he corrects, though he knows it’s just a bit of brotherly teasing. “Still in my four year plan.”
Mack laughs under his breath, taps the badge to the scanner—
Beep.
Green light.
And just like that, the gate clicks open.
“Okay,” Will murmurs as they walk, keeping his voice low. “I would just like to formally state, once again, I still do not think this is a good idea.”
Mack doesn’t slow down. “You said you trusted me.” He flashes Will another trademark mischievous grin over his shoulder.
“I do trust you,” Will hisses, “With literally everything. But it feels like we’re in The National Treasure stealing The Declaration of Independence right now.”
Mack shakes his head, laughing. “And you’re who? Abigail Chase?’ He waves a dismissive hand when Will scowls again. “Relax. We’re not stealing anything. We’re having a sleepover. Worst case scenario, we get caught and we’re yelled out in a bunch of different languages.”
Will scowls. “Not helping.”
Mack just shrugs as they slip inside.
The first thing Will notices, once inside, is the sculpture of the Olympic rings rising in the center of a courtyard, lit softly by spotlights, surrounded by tall buildings on all sides. It’s quieter than he expects, but not empty. A few people bustle past, purposeful and distracted, some still in their team sweats, phones pressed to their ears and laughing, medals glinting faintly as they move.
Will’s pulse spikes anyway.
He keeps his head down, hoodie pulled up, acutely aware of every step. Then he realizes, to a small amount of relief, that no one is looking at him twice. In the low light, in the shuffle of athletes and staff, he doesn’t stand out. Just another figure passing through.
Thank God.
“C’mon,” Mack says, tugging Will toward a building with a large, bright red “Canada” sign tied to the chainlink fence and banners with maple leafs hanging from every balcony like this is the most normal thing in the world. On the way, he gestures with his chin toward a small, red moose statue planted just outside the entrance.
“Some other team—figure skating, I think—named that guy Shane,” Mack says cheerfully. “You know. After that guy on Heated Rivalry?”
Will snorts despite himself. “Real subtle.”
Mack smirks, a bit smugly. “Hey, that series has really got people talking about Canada.” He touches his chest, where his medal is sealed away under his zipped-up jacket, “Guess I also got them talking, huh?”
Will elbows him playfully again. “Okay, Bratlin.”
Mack scans his badge again at the door. A soft beep. A click. The door slides open, and suddenly Will is inside—really inside—and there’s no backing out now.
Will sucks in a breath. The hallway inside is long and clean, lit by a row of warm overhead lights. The floors are polished to a dull shine, scuffed in places by sneakers and equitment carts. Canadian banners line the walls at even intervals—maple leaves, bold red and white. A little excessive, Will thought. But he imagined it would probably feel amazing to see American flags hanging on the walls of his dormitory after winning a gold medal, so he couldn’t judge too much.
People move through the space, but sparsely. A pair of athletes pass them heading the other direction, deep in conversation, one still wearing team sweats and slides. Further down, someone leans against the wall scrolling on their phone, earbuds in, oblivious. No one looks twice. No one slows. Somewhere above them, a door slams, followed by laughter echoing down the stairwell.
Will keeps close to Mack anyway, shoulders still tight, hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie like he might disappear into it if he tries hard enough. His footsteps sound too loud to his own ears, even though the hallway absorbs most of the noise.
Mack glances back at him, clearly clocking the tension instantly. He lowers his voice to a whisper. “You’re good,” he murmurs, steering him down the hall. “Everyone here’s too tired or too drunk or too famous to care.”
Will swallows. His nerves don’t disappear, but they settle into something manageable. A tight buzz instead of a full-on panic. He exhales, slow and careful, as Mack hits the button on an elevator shaft.
They step inside the (thankfully empty) elevator, and the door slides shut with a soft thunk, sealing them into a small, brushed-metal box that smells strongly of sweat masked by various colognes and perfumes. Will leans against the wall without really meaning to, shoulders tight and hands wringing together in the pocket of his hoodie.
Mack, meanwhile, is rocking on his heels, humming some half-recognizable tune under his breath, glancing up at the floor numbers as they tick higher. Every so often he grins to himself, like he can’t quite believe this is real (or that he successfully talked Will into it).
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Will murmurs.
Mack doesn’t even try to hide it. “Are you kidding? I smuggled you into the Olympic village! That’s almost more impressive than winning gold.”
“If I get kicked out—”
“I’ll take full responsibility,” Mack cuts in. “I’ll say you’re my emotional support person.”
Will snorts, then immediately presses his lips together, like the sound might echo too loudly. “Yeah, that’ll work,” he whispers, rolling his eyes.
The elevator slows and dings softly. The doors slide open.
The hallway beyond is empty.
No people. No movement. Just a long stretch of muted gray carpet with red accents along the walls, doors evenly spaced on either side. For a split second, Will relaxes—
And then he hears it.
The hall may be empty, but it’s far from quiet. Cheering, distant but loud, echoes faintly through the walls. Celebratory laughter and the sounds of glasses clinking. Somewhere down the hall, music thumps dully, bass vibrating through the floor. A door slams. Someone whoops.
And then—
Will freezes.
From behind one of the closed doors comes a sound he absolutely refuses to think too hard about: low, muffled voices and a series of breathy noises. Then a rhythmic thump against a wall. Once. Twice. A pause. Another thud, sharper this time, like furniture shifting under momentum.
His ears burn, and he clears his throat, keeping his eyes firmly forward.
Mack snickers. “Yeah, you hear a surprising amount of that here, actually.”
Mack steps out like none of this is happening, utterly unfazed. “Almost there,” he says, dropping his voice anyway, like that might help.
Will follows close, heart racing again, every sound magnified now that the hallway is otherwise empty. The noise makes it worse somehow—proof of how many people are actually here, how much is happening just out of sight, how easy it would be to get caught.
Mack slows as they near the end of the corridor, counting door numbers under his breath. He stops, pulls a keycard from his pocket, and glances back at Will, grin softening.
“See?” he says quietly. “Told you no one would notice.”
Will huffs, half-nervous, half-laughing. “Barely.”
Mack swipes the card. The lock clicks open. Mack starts to push the door open, slow and careful, like the creaking hinges might somehow give them away in the middle of the loud hallway.
Then—
“Celebrini?”
Will’s stomach drops.
Mack freezes mid-motion, hand still on the door, shoulders going rigid in a way that is very different from his usual loose confidence. Will turns before he can stop himself.
Sidney Crosby is rounding the corner at the far end of the hallway, hair still damp like he’s fresh from a shower, metal ribbon peaking out underneath Olympic sweats, phone in one hand. He slows when he spots them, eyebrows lifting just a fraction—not surprised, exactly. More… curious.
Will’s brain helpfully supplies: Oh. So this is how I die.
Mack recovers first. Of course he does.
“Oh—uh—” Mack blurts, words tripping over each other as he scrambles for an explanation. “Sorry—hi—Captain—sir—I mean—Sid—I mean—this is—”
Will braces himself for security alarms. For questions. For being escorted out by someone with a clipboard and a deeply unimpressed expression.
Crosby’s gaze flicks between them. The corner of his mouth quirks up slightly. “You got…company.”
Will considers pretending he is, in fact, a coat rack.
Mack just grins, sheepish but unbothered. “Yeah. Uh. Friend.”
Sidney hums, amused, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Right.”
The cheering and laughter from deeper in the building swell for a second, like the village itself is conspiring against them. Will is acutely aware of how close he’s standing to Mack, how exposed the hallway suddenly feels.
Crosby’s face then breaks into a huge smile. He gives Mack a small, respectful nod. “Good game,” he says simply.
Mack’s mouth snaps shut. “Uh, I—thank you. You too.”
“Well,” Crosby says, exhaling, taking in Mack half-in, half-out of his room. “Looks like the room’s all yours tonight. I’m headed over to the American building anyways—going to see one of my buddies.”
Mack’s ears go pink immediately. “It’s not like that.”
Crosby laughs, warm and loud, and steps in close enough to throw Mack into a playful side-hug, ruffling his hair like Mack is still seventeen instead of an Olympic gold medalist. “Relax,” he says. “I’m just fucking with you, kid. Have a good night.”
Then his gaze flicks to Will.
He smiles. And then winks.
“Nice to see you again, Smitty.”
Will short-circuits. “Uh—hi,” he manages, which feels deeply inadequate.
Crosby is already moving past them, laughter lingering as he heads down the empty hallway. Just before he disappears around the corner, he calls over his shoulder, cheerful as hell, “Remember to use protection!”
Mack spins, scandalized. “Oh, shut up!”
“Language,” Crosby calls back, laughing.
Mack flips him off with a laugh and then finally shoves the door open the rest of the way.
The moment it shuts behind them, Mack drops his forehead against it with a groan.
“I hate him,” he says.
“No, you don’t,” Will says immediately. “He’s literally your idol.”
Mack turns and runs a hand down his face. “That does not mean he gets to yell about condoms in the hallway.”
Will snorts, the leftover adrenaline finally breaking into something like amusement. He steps farther into the room, letting the door close fully behind them, and takes it in.
It’s… surprisingly plain.
Two narrow twin beds sit on opposite sides of the room, neatly made with crisp white sheets stamped with Milan 2026 in bold lettering. Between them is a low and equally-plain coffee table, facing a modest TV mounted on the wall. Against one corner stands a small microwave perched on a flimsy metal stand, a coffee maker beside it with a handful of instant coffee pods and teabags.
A worn duffle bag sits half-unzipped, unmistakably well-used, with a black-and-gold Pittsburgh Penguins beanie spilling out of the top. A pair of slides are kicked off nearby, and there is a folded Pittsburgh Peinguins hooded draped over the chair.
Will stares at it for a beat, then crosses his arms. He looks back at Mack, squirting. “And apparently,” he says, scowling, “your roommate. Which you failed to mention.”
Mack winces. “Okay, in my defense—”
“You absolutely knew.”
“I didn’t think it would come up!” Mack says, pushing off the door and tossing his jacket onto one of the beds—the one closest to the window. “He’s barely here. He’s always over with the Americans or the trainers or—”
“—or yelling sex advice in the hall,” Will supplies.
Mack groans again, dragging a hand down his face. “I am never living this down.”
Will’s scowl softens despite himself. He drops onto the other bed, sitting on the edge, fingers brushing the stiff hotel-quality sheets. “You could’ve warned me,” he says, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth now. “I walked into the Olympic village, heard sex noises, and then got winked at by Sidney Crosby. That’s a lot for one evening.”
Mack tosses his head back and laughs. He undoes the zipper of his jacket, tossing it on top of his own duffle back on the floor. He slides the medal from around his neck and gently places it on the bed. For a moment, he stares at. The gold surface catches the light, and a small smile appears on his face.
Even though he was still shaken up by the events in the hallway, warmth spreads through Will’s chest as he watches Mack.
Mack turns to him then, eyes crinkling in a smile. “Still glad you came?” he asks.
Will exhales, glancing around the room again, then back at Mack.
“…Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I am.”
Mack beams, kicking off his shoes, and flops backward onto one the bed, arms spread wide, staring at the ceiling like he’s still half-convinced this is all a dream. “Okay,” he says through a kind of blissful sigh, “Now it feels real.”
Will takes a paper cup from the coffee machine area, filling it with water and dropping the sunflowers in, arranging them with exaggerated care. “Gold medal. Olympic Village. Getting parented by Sidney Crosby. Committing international crimes.” He smiles over his shoulder, “Yeah, I’d say you’re having a night.”
Mack laughs and rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. “Have you seen the group chat? My phone is basically unusable.”
“Oh, I know,” Will says, pulling his jacket off and tossing it over the chair. “I had to power mine off. I swear security was going to think I had a bomb with how much it was buzzing. Got a message from Ekky asking if you’re still alive or if you ascended.”
Mack sighs wistfully again. “Tell him I ascended.”
They sit cross-legged on the floor after that, backs against the beds, talking the way they always did after practices or games, like they had never been separated at all Mack tells him everything—little details from the tournament that never made it on TV, inside jokes, moments where he thought his legs might actually give out. Will fills in his side of the last few weeks too: road trips, training at the gym (and hitting a new PR!), a small rant about a certain teammate sending him “really dated” memes.
At some point, Mack ends up laughing so hard he tips sideways and has to brace himself against Will’s shoulder.
“I missed you,” he says quietly, looking up at his teammate and best friend.
Will doesn’t joke this time. He just bumps his knee against Mack’s. “Yeah. I missed you too, superstar.”
They sit there for a moment, comfortable and quiet Then Mack sits up suddenly.
“Oh,” he says, “Wait.”
Will squints at him. “That tone is dangerous.”
“Do you think,” Mack says slowly, already halfway to his feet, “that we could make chocolate chip cookies?”
Will blinks. “Here?”
“Yes.”
“In this room?”
“Yes.”
“With,” Will gestures vaguely, “that microwave?”
Mack shrugs, already opening the mini fridge and pulling out a packet of Pillsbury Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough. “Sid and I went to the store a few days ago. Thought of you when I saw these, and was going to make them after the games because I missed you.” He turns to the other shark now, grinning, “Now making them will be even better.”
Will looks at him then. Really looks at him. The messy hair that refuses to stay flat, the redness along his cheeks still lingering from the match, those gray-blue eyes glinting eyes. Will’s eyes fall to the gold medal still lying on the bed. He knows it is his best friend’s greatest achievement, his dream, and yet…here the rookie was. The youngest recruited to the Sharks, the youngest to be chosen for Team Canada Men’s Hockey Team. And somehow…still the same Macklin. Standing there, smiling like an idiot, with a packet of pre-cut Pillsbury cookie dough in hand.
It’s endearing in a way that should be illegal.
This is the same guy who just won Olympic gold. The same guy whose face has been everywhere for weeks.
Against every ounce of better judgment, Will feels himself cave.
“You are unbelievable,” he says, but there’s no heat in it.
Mack’s smile never falters. “That’s not a no.”
Will drags a hand down his face, already aware that he is losing this battle. “It’s definitely not a yes either.”
Mack hums, unconcerned, and turns toward the microwave. “Okay,” he say confidently, unwrapping the packet and sticking the small, cardboard tray full of cookie dough cubes inside, “We just…heat them up.”
Will opens his mouth. Closes it. Reconsiders every life choice that led him here.
Mack punches numbers into the microwave with reckless determination.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The microwave roars to life.
Will sighs, resigned. No going back now.
“Beautiful,” Mack murmurs, staring at the small window in the microwave like an artist admiring their masterpiece.
“They’re literally pre-portioned,” Will says.
Mack dramatically flips his hair, smug. “And now… we wait.”
There’s a beat. Then Mack’s eyes light up. “Oh! Wait!”
Will squints. “That tone is dangerous.”
Mack strides across the room, picks up his medal, and drapes it over his neck. “We have to take a selfie,” he announces, “For Ekky and Toff!”
Will lets out a long breath. “Of course. Our fathers.”
Mack is already unlocking his phone. “C’mon. Get in here.”
Will gives him a look. “You realize you just won Olympic gold and you’re about to document yourself microwaving cookie dough like a freshman in a dorm?”
“Exactly,” Mack says, like that proves his point. He slings an arm around Will’s shoulders and tugs him close. “Balance.”
Will mutters, “You are exhausting,” but he doesn’t pull away.
Mack lifts the medal, bites down on it with exaggerated drama—like every cliché Olympian photo ever taken—and angles the camera.
“Smile,” he says around the gold.
They take a few different shots, posing differently each time, making funny phases for some, the medal never leaving its place between Mack’s canines.
Mack flips the camera, switching to the back lens like he’s directing a magazine shoot. He bites the medal again, this time squinting dramatically, flexing a little without meaning to.
Will shoves his arm lightly. “Subtle.”
“Shut up.”
Snap.
They both lean in to look at the screen, shoulders touching, Mack’s arm still loose around him.
“Send it,” Will says before he can overthink it.
Mack types quickly into the group chat.
Mack: world champ!!! and look who snuck into my suitcase!
Will snorts and grabs his own phone from his pocket to add:
Will: i was kidnapped. Send help.
Mack gasps. “Snitch.”
Before Will can respond, there’s a faint smell.
Sweet.
Warm.
Then slightly… more…crisp.
They both freeze.
A series of loud pops echo from the microwave behind them.
Will turns his head slowly. “Mack.”
Mack swallows, medal still hanging around his neck. “Yeah?”
“How long did you put it in for?”
Before Mack can respond, a plume of smoke starts to billow from the sides of the microwave.
“Tell me you didn’t—” Will starts.
The smoke thickens.
“Mack.”
The gray cloud trails upwards
“Mack.”
Mack winces but doesn’t move to stop it.
Will’s voice rises. “How long did you put it in for?” he repeats.
Mack answers without looking away from the microwave. “Thirty minutes.”
Will blinks.
“Thirty,” he repeats slowly.
“Yes.”
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The smoke detector above the doorway begins flashing red and screaming, the microwave joining it shortly after in a screeching chorus.
“OH MY GOD,” Mack yelps, running to (oh so helpfully) grab a roll of paper towels from the kitchen.
“WHY,” Will shouts over the alarms, slamming his hands against his ears, “WOULD YOU DO THAT?!” He waves his hands uselessly through the air as the smoke clouds grow in amount and volume.
“THE PACKAGE SAID THREE-FIFTY DEGREES FOR THIRTY MINUTES. I THOUGHT I HAD TO FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS!”
“FOR AN OVEN, CELEY, NOT FOR A MICROWAVE!”
“TECHNICALLY, I DON’T THINK YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO MICROWAVE THEM EITHER!”
“NOT HELPING!” Will shouts, heart hammering.
They scramble. Mack helplessly fans the air with paper towels and frantically opens the microwave door. He immediately recoils as a cloud pours out. “Okay, okay, okay—”
“That’s not okay!” Will wheezes, lunging for the window and shoving it open as far as it’ll go. Cold air blasts in, making the curtains whip.
Mack keeps fanning the paper towels through the air like this will help everything.
“Why are you fanning it toward me?” Will coughs.
“I don’t know what I’m doing!” Mack fires back, eyes watering.
Will should be furious. He should be lecturing him. He should absolutely not be laughing.
But something about the scene—the medal still gleaming against Mack’s chest, the frantic waving, the ridiculousness of almost setting off the Olympic Village because of Pillsbury—breaks him.
He starts laughing.
It’s half hysteria, half disbelief.
Mack looks at him like he’s lost his mind.
“Don’t laugh!” Mack coughs, which only makes him start laughing too.
They’re both hacking, tears in their eyes, swatting smoke like idiots.
And then—
BANG BANG BANG.
“OPEN UP!” a voice calls from the hall. “What is happening in there?”
Mack looks at Will, eyes wide, suddenly no longer laughing. “Oh shit.”
Will feels himself glaring. He opens his mouth to return with a significantly more harsh exclamation, but before he can get it out—the door swings open to reveal two scrawny men in blue polos with Olympic Volunteer lanyards around their necks.
Behind them, the hallway is chaos. Red emergency lights flash along the ceiling. An alarm pulses rhythmically. Doors up and down the corridor are opening. Athletes are stepping out in sweats and slides, confused, some filming on their phones.
The two volunteers take in the scene. The smoke. The open microwave. The gold medalist holding a roll of paper towels like his life depended on it.
One of them blinks, then looks directly at Mack, like the medal around his neck commanded more respect. “Sir. We are evacuating the building.”
Will’s stomach drops. “Evacuating?”
“Yes,” the other volunteer says tightly. “The fire alert triggered on this floor. It’s protocol.”
Behind them, someone shouts down the hall. A security guard appears at the far end, directing traffic toward the stairwell.
Mack looks between the volunteers and the smoke still lingering in the air.
“…It’s just cookies,” he offers weakly.
The volunteers exchange a look. One of them closes his eyes and exhales slowly. The other looks to Mack again, brow creased. “Regardless. You both need to leave. Now.”
Mack glances at Will.
They follow the two volunteers
Will walks stiffly beside Mack, jaw tight. He doesn’t look at Mack. He doesn’t trust himself to. He feels like there is fire in his veins. How could Mack have been so stupid? How could he be so stupid, to allow Mack to convince him to stay? He clenches his fists.
Against his better judgement, he steals a glance at Mack as they walk down the hallway. Mack, for once, is quiet. He’s doing something Will’s never really seen him do—trying to take up less space. Shoulders rounded. Head slightly lowered. Medal tucked back under his shirt like it might incriminate him further.
They merge into the throng heading for the stairwell.
The stairwell door bangs open and the noise amplifies—echoing footsteps, voices bouncing off concrete walls, alarms still blaring overhead.
“Move, move, keep it flowing,” one of the volunteers urges.
They’re swept downward in a wave of bodies.
Will grips the railing tightly, still fuming.
“You evacuated the building,” he mutters under his breath.
Mack winces. “I didn’t mean to.”
There’s something in his voice that makes Will’s chest tighten.
Outside, the night air hits them all at once—cold, sharp, sobering. Athletes cluster in loose groups beyond the barriers—Team Canada jackets mixed in with USA hoodies, Swedish beanies, German track pants. Medals glint under the flashing red-and-blue lights of arriving fire trucks. Someone laughs. Someone else starts filming and gets immediately told to stop.
Someone with a French accent asks, “Which building is it?”
“Canada,” someone answers.
Will looks up at the building in front of them. Smoke curls lazily out of one of the upper windows. Their window.
A murmur ripples through the crowd.
“Whose room is that?”
“That’s on the fourth floor.”
“Is that the hockey floor?”
“No way—”
“Figures,” someone scoffs.
“Someone burned something.”
Will presses his lips together.
Mack stands very, very still beside him.
For a second, it almost looks like he’s about to bolt back inside out of sheer guilt. Instead, he shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets and stares at the pavement. Then, he subtly shifts so he’s half a step in front of Will, like that might somehow make him invisible.
“We need to look normal,” Mack murmurs out of the corner of his mouth.
Will keeps his gaze forward, jaw tight. “Normal people do not get evacuated from the Olympic Village at midnight.”
“Okay, but we can look less guilty.”
Will exhales sharply. “Mack,” he says, low but tight, “this is kind of your fault, honestly.”
The second the words leave his mouth, he wishes he could grab them back.
Mack doesn’t argue. He doesn’t deflect. He doesn’t joke. He just… goes still. The bravado drains out of him like someone flipped a switch. His shoulders sink. His jaw tightens in a way that looks less stubborn and more like he’s trying not to let it wobble. Under the emergency lights, his eyes look glassy.
“Oh,” he says quietly.
Will’s heart drops.
That wasn’t what he meant. Not like that.
“Hey,” Will says quickly, softer now. “No—no, that came out wrong.”
Mack shakes his head once. “It is my fault. I—I should’ve checked. I just—” He huffs out a shaky breath. “I didn’t think it would… you know. Evacuate the entire Olympic Village.”
Will winces.
There’s something painfully earnest about him right now—gold medal tucked under his hoodie, hair still a mess, looking like a kid who broke a vase while playing ball in the house or something.
“I shouldn’t have said it like that,” Will says. “I was just—”
“Mad,” Mack supplies.
“Yeah.”
They stand there a second, the noise of the crowd swelling and fading around them.
“I’m sorry,” Mack says quietly. “I just wanted to make you cookies.”
The sincerity in it hits harder than the smoke ever did.
Will swallows. “I know.”
“No, I—” Mack rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to ruin tonight.”
“You didn’t ruin it,” Will says immediately.
Mack gives him a look that says have you seen the fire trucks?
Will sighs and nudges his shoulder gently. “Okay. You partially ruined it.”
That gets the faintest flicker of a smile.
“I’m sorry,” Will says again, more deliberate this time. “For snapping. That wasn’t fair.”
Mack nods once. “I’m sorry for almost committing dessert-related arson.”
“That’s a start.”
They lapse into quiet again.
In front of them, the firefighters’ ladder begins to extend and they start to spray the building with a powerful hose.
Mack shifts his weight, gaze drifting upward too.
Then, hesitantly—
“Do you think the sunflowers are okay?”
Will blinks.
“…What?”
“The sunflowers,” Mack repeats, voice low. “By the coffee maker.”
Will stares at him, genuinely dumbfounded.
“Mack,” he says carefully, “there are firefighters in your building.”
“I know.”
“And you’re worried about the flowers?”
Mack’s mouth tightens slightly. “Yeah.”
Will studies him.
Mack shrugs, almost embarrassed. “They were by the window. So maybe they got air. I just—” He swallows. “You gave them to me.”
Oh.
The irritation drains out of Will in one clean rush.
Of course that’s what he’s worried about.
Not the medal. Not the room. Not the embarrassment.
The stupid, paper-cup sunflowers.
Will huffs a quiet breath, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re ridiculous.”
Mack looks down. “Sorry.”
“I didn’t say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Mack glances up at him, cautious but hopeful.
Before Will can say anything else, a familiar voice says, calm and unmistakable, “Well. That’s unfortunate.”
Will turns.
Sidney Crosby is standing there in a Team Canada jacket, hood up against the cold. Beside him, Auston Matthews has his hands shoved into his pockets, watching the ladder extend toward the fourth floor with open curiosity.
Sid’s eyes track up the building.
Follow the smoke.
Then drift—very deliberately—to Mack.
There’s a beat.
He doesn’t look angry. He just smiles. Knowingly.
Mack straightens instinctively, like he’s about to report for drills. “Hey, Sid.”
“Hey,” Sid replies mildly. “Interesting evening?”
Auston tilts his head. “Fourth floor, right?”
Mack swallows. “…Yeah.”
“Left side?” Auston asks.
Will closes his eyes briefly.
Sid’s smile deepens by half a centimeter. “Is that your window?”
Mack attempts dignity. “Possibly.”
The firefighters are still hosing down the side of the building. Water splashes dramatically against the glass.
Auston watches, impressed. “Wow. That’s… a lot of water for ‘possibly.’”
Will bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
Sid folds his arms loosely. “What was it?”
Mack hesitates.
Will says flatly, “Cookies.”
Auston blinks. “Like. A grease fire?”
“Pillsbury,” Will clarifies.
There’s a pause.
Sid nods slowly, like he’s absorbing a game plan briefing. “Microwave?”
Mack winces. “Five minutes.”
Auston lets out a sharp laugh before he can stop himself. “Five—”
Sid lifts a hand slightly without looking at him, and Auston immediately composes himself.
Sid looks back at Mack. “Rookie mistake.”
“I’m not a rookie,” Mack mutters automatically.
Sid raises an eyebrow.
“…In life,” Mack amends.
That earns a soft huff of laughter from Sid.
He steps a little closer, lowering his voice just enough that it feels private despite the crowd.
“You okay?” he asks.
It’s simple. Direct.
Mack nods. “Yeah.”
Sid’s gaze flicks briefly to Will, then back to Mack. He takes in the flushed cheeks, the slightly red eyes—whether from smoke or something else.
“And nobody’s hurt?”
“No,” Will says quickly. “Just dignity.”
Auston nods solemnly. “Critical loss.”
Sid’s eyes drift up to the window again, where firefighters are now fully inside the unit. “Next time,” he adds casually, “use the team kitchen.”
Mack groans softly. “There’s a team kitchen?”
Auston bursts out laughing.
Sid shakes his head, grinning now. “Fully equipped with an oven.”
Mack runs a hand down his face, groaning.
Sid just pats him lightly on the shoulder as he steps back. “Congratulations on the gold,” he says. “Try not to burn down the country before we get home.”
A few minutes later, the ladder retracts with a mechanical whir. The spray stops. Smoke thins into nothing more than a faint haze drifting out of the open window.
One of the firefighters steps forward, helmet tucked under his arm, addressing the cluster of Canadian athletes nearest the tape line.
“Alright,” he calls out. “Fire’s contained. Minor kitchen incident.”
There’s a ripple of relieved chatter through the crowd.
The firefighter glances at a clipboard, then back up at the group. “And just as a friendly reminder to Team Canada—” He pauses, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “Cookie dough cannot be microwaved.”
The courtyard goes very, very quiet.
Then—
Laughter erupts.
The kind of laughter that spreads fast and mercilessly through a group of sleep-deprived elite athletes.
Will feels heat crawl straight up his neck.
Beside him, Mack goes red to the tips of his ears.
Mack mutters, “God, I hope I didn’t just create a dumb Canadian stereotype."
“Hate to break to you. You didn’t start it, and it's a stereotype for a reason,buddy,” Will says. But’s he’s smiling
The firefighter gives a final nod. “You’re clear to head back in once building staff finishes inspection.”
The crowd begins to break apart, athletes filtering back toward their respective entrances, still talking.
Will exhales slowly.
Mack stands there, hands in his hoodie pocket, medal glinting faintly under the courtyard lights. He looks equal parts mortified and relieved.
Will watches him for a second.
Then, without overthinking it, he steps forward and pulls him into a hug.
It’s quick at first.
Then firmer.
Mack freezes for half a heartbeat, then melts into it, arms wrapping around Will’s back.
Will presses his chin briefly against Mack’s shoulder. “How about we stay at my hotel?” he murmurs. “Fun as being snuck into the Olympic Village has been.”
Mack lets out a soft, breathy laugh against his hoodie. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Probably less flammable.”
“Significantly.”
They pull back slightly, still close.
Mack searches his face, suddenly serious again. “Do you forgive me?”
Will rolls his eyes, but there’s no bite in it.
Instead of answering, he lightly taps his knuckles against Mack’s cheek in a mock punch. “Tonight’s your night, superstar,” he says. “No matter how many dumb decisions you make, I’m always proud of you.”
Mack’s expression shifts to something soft and stunned and deeply, quietly grateful. Then, he laughs, real and unguarded this time.
The emergency lights are shutting off now. The courtyard is emptying. The chaos is fading.
Mack glances up at the building one last time.
“Think the sunflowers survived?” he asks quietly.
Will nudges him toward the gate. “We’ll check tomorrow.”
And when Mack instinctively leans a little closer as they walk—
Will doesn’t move away.
---
One Week Later…
Will kneels in front of the coffee table, surrounded by the contents of a shadow box kit: backing board, pins, gloves, instructions that neither of them read.
“Okay,” Will says, glancing up. “We’ve got options. Dramatic center placement. Or slightly off-center for, like, artsy flair.”
Mack huffs. “It’s a medal, not an indie film poster.”
“Rude.” Will squints at him. “You are the one who almost committed dessert-related arson in Olympic housing. You don’t get to criticize my artistic vision.”
Mack rolls his eyes but comes over anyway, lowering himself beside Will. Their knees bump. He carefully lays the medal in the center.
They both stare at it.
Will adjusts it slightly. “There.”
Mack nods, swallowing. “Feels weird.”
“Good weird or bad weird?”
“Like… I don’t know. Like it belongs to that version of me. The Olympian version.” He shrugs. “Not the one who can’t remember to buy milk.”
Will snorts. “Mack, you’ve literally dreamed of this medal from the moment you could walk, training for it from the moment you got on the ice. Trust me. You’ve earned this.”
Mack smiles faintly but his gaze drifts again, softer now.
Will hesitates, then reaches behind him and grabs something from the couch. “Okay. Before we seal it up.”
Mack looks over. “What?”
Will holds up a small plastic sleeve. Inside it, pressed flat between clear sheets, are bright yellow sunflowers.
Mack blinks.
“They’re not—” Will starts quickly. “They’re fake. Obviously. The real ones…” He winces. “They did not survive the—uh—journey.”
Mack’s smile quivers.
“But,” Will continues, voice gentler now, “I ordered these when we got home. They’re pressed already. Won’t crumble. Won’t… die.”
He slides them out carefully. They’re vibrant—golden petals, dark centers. Not perfect replicas, but close enough that something in Mack’s chest tightens anyway.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Mack says quietly.
Will shrugs, suddenly shy. “Yeah, well. You didn’t have to sneak me into the Olympic Village. Or win gold.”
Mack laughs under his breath, but it wobbles.
Will nudges him. “Hey. They weren’t about the flowers surviving, okay? They were about you.”
Mack looks at him then—really looks at him.
“About what?” he asks softly.
Will meets his eyes. “About how you keep showing up. Even when you’re terrified. Even when you think you’re not enough.” He swallows. “About how I’m proud of you. Not just for this.” He taps the medal lightly. “But for everything.”
Mack’s jaw tightens. He blinks once, twice.
“You’re such a sap,” he mutters, but his voice cracks at the edges.
“Yeah,” Will says, smiling. “You like it.”
Will shakes a few flowers out from the bag. He arranges them around the medal—two on either side, one slightly tucked beneath the ribbon. Adjusts. Moves one petal.
“Okay,” Will says finally, clapping his hands once. “That’s it.”
Will secures the backing. They stand together and carry the finished shadow box to the wall above the couch. Mack hesitates before hammering the nail in, measuring twice like this matters more than it probably should.
It does.
He hangs it.
They step back.
The gold catches the afternoon light through the window. The sunflowers almost make it gleam brighter, the yellow complimenting the gold.
For a long moment, neither of them speaks.
Will shifts closer and slides an arm around Mack’s shoulders, pulling him into a side hug. Mack leans in automatically, fitting against him like he’s done it a hundred times before.
They just stand there. Smiling.
After a while, Will nudges him lightly.
“Come on,” he says.
Mack hums. “Yeah?”
“Let’s make cookies.” He pauses, then winks. “In the oven.”