His voice is so defensive it feels like a slap in the chest.
“What the fuck? No? Why would that be a problem?” I sputter, immediately flinching, because holy hell, did I just offend the human embodiment of reckless grin and terrible life choices?
He lets out this long, relieved breath and leans back, like he’s been anxiously waiting to see if I was about to judge him for something, and sighs, “My bad.”
I blink at him, genuinely thrown off. I swear I can feel a tiny pinch in my chest because I’ve always thought Mack and I have this weirdly solid friendship. The kind where we can yell at each other over video games, talk shit about ref calls, bury each other in goofy inside jokes, and still go skate the next day…but serious topics? Emotional vulnerability? Those aren’t exactly on our friendship menu.
“Dude, you actually think I would judge you?” I ask.
But I wouldn’t ever fucking judge him. Not for that. Not for anything.
He shrugs, still avoiding eye contact, and says, “No, I mean… maybe? I don’t know. It’s not something we talk about.”
And there it is…the realization that maybe he’s just as nervous about this conversation as I am, which now that I think about it, feels pretty obvious.
I shrug, trying, and clearly failing, to hide the tiny jab of hurt in my voice. “No, but we could talk about it.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stares at his beer like it has all the answers, and I sip mine slowly, watching him fidget with his fingers, unsure if I made him uncomfortable or if he actually wants to talk and just doesn’t know how to begin. Emotions are not exactly my forte, in fact, they’re one of the things I avoid like body checks in the neutral zone, and Mack?
Well, Mack isn’t exactly the emotional expression champion either.
“Do you, uh… do that a lot?” I ask carefully and maybe a little fucking stupidly.
He looks up at me, brown eyes narrowing, and then he smirks this weird half amused, half cautious expression like he’s not sure if he’s about to be offended or entertained and says, “Fuck dudes?”
I genuinely snort out a laugh before I even stop myself, because wow, that’s probably the most straightforward, brutally honest phrasing this topic has ever received in the history of awkward conversations.
“Yeah, man,” I say, chuckling.
Mack just shrugs at me like he’s about to launch into a discussion of practice lines or whether Coach’s new drill makes any sense when you actually break it down, and says, “I mean… not a lot. I’ve… done it a few times.”
There’s this weird pause after that and I decide to push the conversation just a tiny bit further. “Was it, um… different? Like, than with girls?”
He nods and sideeyes me like I just asked him if water is wet. “Obviously.”
I snort again and shake my head because I can’t help it. This whole thing feels like I’ve wandered into foreign territory without a compass or a map or any instinctual GPS at all. “I mean, I know it’s different, but like… is it better or weird, or…?”
He lets out a full belly, loud, real laugh.
“If it was weird,” he says between chuckles, “I probably wouldn’t continue doing it. Jesus, dude. You have something you wanna tell me?”
I immediately grimace because yes, yes I have things I want to tell someone, but my brain immediately slams on the brakes and goes,no no no do not say what you are actually thinking.
I mean, how do you even begin?
Do you just blurt out,I jerk off to the thought of our trainer?
That seems like not just personal but deeply fucked up. And it’s not that having a crush automatically makes me a creep, it’s just that my brain decided to attach itself to a guy who literally works with the hockey team. If that had been Lauren, it would’ve been mundane gossip fodder. So why does this feel like my head is actively plotting my demise?
My face probably reads like a blinking warning light.
And that’s when Mack, in a completely unexpected pivot, goes into this voice that sounds nothing like the guy who just bragged once about scoring with three cheerleaders in one weekend, but instead carries this warm, understanding tone that lowers some of the tension in my chest.
“Dude,” he says, without any teasing edge at all, “it’s cool if you’re not ready to talk about it.”
And for a second I just sit there with my lips sealed and shoulders hiking up to my ears, until finally I say, through what feels like gritted teeth and also an embarrassing lack of adult phrasing, “I just… I have this… crush or some shit.”
And wow. That sounds like a five year old trying to confess to eating the cookie jar.
