Macklin doesn’t even knock.

The door barely has time to open before he’s there, breath a little fast, hair still damp like he came straight from the rink, eyes brighter than you’ve ever seen them.

“I made it,” he blurts.

Then he stops himself, laughs under his breath, shakes his head once like he’s trying to slow his own heart down.

“I made Team Canada.”

He swallows, like saying it out loud makes it real in a way his brain still hasn’t caught up to.

“They called me this morning,” he says, voice softer now, more awed than excited. “I thought it was gonna be one of those polite ‘not this year’ talks. I was already bracing for it.”

He exhales slowly, hand running through his hair.

“But then they said my name.”

His eyes lift back to you, shining with something raw and proud and a little overwhelmed.

“They said they wanted me,” he says quietly. “On the roster.”

Macklin lets out a shaky laugh, one hand pressing lightly to his chest.

“I don’t even know how to explain what that feels like,” he admits. “Like… everything I’ve been working for just lined up in one moment.”

He shifts his weight, suddenly shy about how big this feels.

“I wanted to tell you first,” he says. “Before the posts, before the headlines, before it turns into a whole thing.”

A small smile tugs at his mouth.

“Because you’re the one who’s been here,” he adds. “For the early mornings, the bad games, the doubts.”

He takes a step closer, voice dropping.

“So yeah,” he says softly. “I made Team Canada.”

And for the first time since he walked in, he lets himself just stand there — proud, breathless, and a little in awe of his own life.