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Mack knows he's been lying, and that it's bad that he's been lying. It's just that admitting it out loud to anyone, to Will specifically, isn't going to make it better by any means. So he pushes through—through the Kings game, runs out on shift after shift even if they're leading because hockey makes him forget, because it's not bad enough for it to hurt anytime he moves, because the adrenaline helps.
And then it is. And then he's doing warmups in Dallas and he feels the pull when he charges ahead, right in his inner thigh towards his groin. He winds up to shoot and the pain buzzes through his leg, through his entire lower body, and he grimaces.
The trainers had warned him, too. But they'd also said he's cleared to play, and prescribed him an ibuprofen, so. Mack's been taught to know when his body gives up on him, has done hundreds of hill runs and pushed himself to extremes again and again and again, has recited what Dada has told him again and again and again. His body is his strongest and only weapon, and he has to know himself inside out.
Will is staring at him as he walks back into the locker room. Mack doesn't meet his eyes because, above all, he's afraid.
The game is a difficult watch. Mack almost wishes he'd stayed in the locker room the whole time, opened it on his phone so he could talk to the team in the intermission. He went to the physios for a while, but they can't evaluate much yet, especially since they're Dallas physios.
Mack's eyes stay on Will the entire game. He's—trying. The entire team is, Mack can tell, but there's no fire or spark. He feels like such a fucking awful captain, not even healthy enough to play the first few games of the season, not good enough to motivate the team in his absence. They're barely talking to each other, to Warso, other than when the lines are changed. He feels like he's let his guys down, badly.
The final horn rings, and Mack digs his hand into his thigh, right where it hurts. They'd given him another painkiller, so it's not that bad, and he wishes he hadn't taken it. Fuck this.
It's a blur until they get back to the hotel. Will is dead to the world beside him on the bus, barely sparing him a glance when Mack came to sat down next to him. The rest of the team are offering their condolences, asking what's wrong, and Mack goes through the motions. Mostly precautionary, we'll check tomorrow, I'm fine. He doesn't know if he actually believes it.
Will only speaks to him about it once they're in the hotel room. They have separate rooms, but Mack had thrown his bags in beside Will's, his own room two doors down in the hallway ignored, and he can't really leave now. Then, Mack thinks, why would he have to? It's true that he's a little scared of what Will is going to say, mostly because he'd caught wind of the other man's expression in the post game interviews, seen his desperate performance on ice. Mack caused that, Mack being stupid about this injury caused that.
It's when they've both taken a shower, hours later, because Mack decided to spend a while with his forehead against the cool tile, steam pillowing around him, just thinking. Replaying the warmup back again and again and again, the shot of pain up his thigh, the short call with Dada after. I'll talk to you later, Mackers. Send me the reports. Take care. He is taking care.
He avoids taking the painkiller after—mostly because Will is tracking his every movement as he steps out of the bathroom, bundled up in his blanket with the iPad laying on his lap, movie selected on Netflix.
"You don't wanna sleep?" Mack breaks the silence, voice croaky from under-use. Will hums out a dismissal. It was a long game, Will should rest. Mack should have rested, too, instead of pushing through like the idiot he is.
There's a hand on his wrist pulling him onto the bed from the nightstand, and despite the sombre mood Mack giggles quietly, settling in under the covers and picking up the iPad to place it in between them.
Halfway through the movie, neither of them have been paying attention. Mack can tell because Will always has a billion things to say or criticise or compliment, from the plot to the lighting to the dialogue. He hasn't dozed off, though, because every time Mack checks from the corner of his eye Will's eyes are trained on the screen, eyebrows furrowed, deep in thought.
Mack's in a world of his own when Will pauses the movie a few minutes later. He assumes it's for a piss break, but Will's hand lands in his lap, and then, "Mack?"
It's so quiet Mack would've missed it if he was paying any less attention, but he's been on high alert this whole time, so.
He turns and Will is—fuck. His eyes are glassy and his mouth is parted, tongue forming his next words. He's blinking rapidly, too, as if trying to hold back tears. Mack feels fucking awful, bad captain, he tells himself, like you'd chide a misbehaving dog. Bad boyfriend. If Mack can barely pay attention to his own body, how is he supposed to manage the emotions of the people around him?
"Will, I—" Mack starts.
Will is quicker, though. "Why did you feel like you couldn't tell me?"
Mack blinks, mulls over the words. The way Will says it is choked, broken off, as if he's been trying to phrase it for the better part of the hour. He probably was.
"I'm sorry, I should've told you." Mack whispers, not meeting his eyes. Will's hand on the comforter on his lap twists into a fist, and so Mack swallows the bile in his throat and looks up. Will doesn't look better than he did moments ago, somehow he looks worse, biting his lip. He's picking at his cuticles, too, on his other hand. He shakes his head, then, breaking eye contact.
Mack just. He feels awful. He knows what Will is asking, knows his answer isn't enough, and it makes him feel even worse because he feels so incompetent. Bad captain bad boyfriend bad person.
It's not 'why didn't you tell me?'. Will isn't accusing him of anything, he's just asking how Mack feels. He feels his eyes watering at the implication, that Will looks past the spiky exterior and hits the soft shell of Mack's beating heart.
He has to be brave, for once. That's what's required of him in this situation. So he nods and takes Will's hands in his, both of them, interrupting his anxious picking. "I thought it would be better if I—if I tried my best, even with it. Because that's what we all do, we all try our best." That's what you all did today, because I went and fucked it up. He can feel tears building, his eyes burning from the effort to keep them in.
"Not at the expense of your own body," Will sounds devastated, whispering, grip tightening on Mack's hands, "Mack, baby, you have to trust me. Trust us that we can do it."
"But you guys couldn't." He can't help it—it sounds awful to his own ears, too, because when he means you guys Will must think he means him, the one who had to bear the entire team on his shoulders in the game, to the press after with glassy eyes.
Will's face flashes with irritation. "That's not fair, Mack. Not just to me but to the rest of the team too. We're all adults—"
Mack cuts him off. "It's my job as captain to make you guys think you can do it—okay?" He lets go of Will's hands to rub the heels of his palms into his eyes until he's seeing stars, tears finally falling down his face. "And I didn't—I couldn't. It feels like I've been a fucking failure for all three of these games. Not just—not just in the locker room but to you, too."
The problem is that once Mack starts he just keeps going. Will called him a parrot, all that time ago, always yapping. "And like—fuck, maybe they were right, maybe I shouldn't have this stupid C. I can—I can say the fucking lineup before games, and do media, smile for the camera and shit, but I can't do this."
There's a moment of silence, then. Mack is still sobbing, hiccuping through his cries and breaths. Slowly, though, his palms are pried off his face, replaced by Will's thumbs gently brushing away his tears. "Sweetheart," he sounds too soft, too sweet right now. Mack rejects it, turning his face away, he doesn't deserve—but Will pushes his face back forward, curling closer towards him, "You can."
"Will, no—"
"You can," He interrupts, "Because you have been doing it, all this time, haven't you?"
Mack sniffles, blinking through his remaining tears. "That's not—" he takes a deep breath, "What's the point of all of that if I still keep doing stuff like this?" As much as he'd led the team over the last two years, he's spent a longer portion of time alone. Hyper-independent, Dada always praises, doesn't need to lean on anyone's shoulders. To a fault.
Will furrows his brows, sitting back against the bed, one hand still entangled with one of Mack's. His thumb rubs across Mack's knuckles soothingly. "You're allowed to make mistakes, Mackie."
"It's not just a simple mistake, though." He digs his free hand into his thigh again, to demonstrate.
A hum. "Yeah, it's not. But you won't ever make it again, and you're not a failure of a captain because of it." Will sounds so.. sure, always. Mack would envy the easiness if he didn't know how much thought went into it, how much Will thinks and thinks and thinks. That's why it's easy to rely on him, in a way, for Mack, because Will's thought it through. If he thinks nothing can go wrong then nothing will go wrong.
Mack bites his lip. "I don't like that you had to do media after." Since he's already been so honest, he might as well.
"Me either," Will huffs, "but it's good practice. Just in case they wanna give me a letter." He says it cheekily, as if it doesn't light Mack up with hope. "It was just a tough game, Mackie, we weren't very prepared. The entire locker room knows that, and we're going to be better after. Just like you always are." He's such a—leader. Mack wants him by his side all the time, wants to curl up in his chest.
A hand wipes away the rest of his tears with a tissue. Will then proceeds to toss it to the corner of the room, missing the trash basket entirely. Mack giggles, despite himself. "So, it's okay," Will starts again, "You'll take your time and heal, and we'll have our captain back soon enough. Until then, we'll manage. We have As for a reason."
Mack nods after Will stares at him for a moment or two, clearly expecting an answer. They settle in closer to each other, putting the iPad away, Mack's head curled up on Will's chest. He's a few seconds away from sleep when Will speaks up again, whispering, maybe expecting him not to hear. "What did you mean, a failure to me?"
A blink. Mack lifts his head, slightly, enough so he can look into Will's eyes. "I'm supposed to tell you—things. That's what we agreed on, after the Olympics. That we're always there for each other." It was in a position not unlike this one, with Mack fresh out of tears after sobbing for hours on end. For how hyper-independent he's touted to be, he was a mess back then. "You were left alone today."
Above all, he feels guilty for that. That Will had to take everything on, without a letter on his chest or any perceived responsibility. That he didn't know the whole time.
Will scoffs, quietly. "Baby, if anything, I've been a failure. You felt as if you couldn't tell me."
Mack shakes his head furiously, moving to sit up slightly, but he moves his leg weird, and there's the shot of pain. He winces, and Will grimaces, coaxing him back to laying down.
"I had no reason to," Mack settles back in towards his chest, "I should've, either way. Told someone before it got too bad. I mean, it's not—too bad. But I won't play in St. Louis."
"Yeah," Will hums, "'s alright. Just means I get to pamper you a little. Payback for December." As if he's not already always driving and doing things for Mack. Mack still feels out of it, like he doesn't deserve this, but it's a frequent feeling with Will. Ever since Vancouver, when they—worked it out, Mack's just felt so lucky. He's found his person.
Will continues. "They'll give me a center shot, I think." Mack can imagine the grin on his face, and he helplessly grins back.
"Mr. 71 points in college," He elbows Will's body under him, "Show 'em what you've got."
Will laughs, a little loud and open, and curls his hand tighter around Mack's body.