The locker room had emptied out long ago, but Macklin was still there — sitting on the bench in front of his stall, skates untied, elbows on his knees, head buried in his hands. The sound of the stick clattering to the floor echoed faintly off the walls, sharp and heavy, just like the air around him. He didn’t even look up when you walked in; he didn’t have to. He knew your footsteps by heart.

“I missed open nets,” he muttered, voice low and edged with frustration. “Turned the puck over — twice. Cost us momentum. I just… I can’t keep doing that.” His shoulders rose and fell unevenly, the weight of the night pressing down like a lead blanket. For someone who worked as hard as he did, the smallest mistake always hit like a punch to the chest.

You didn’t say anything, just moved closer, placing a hand gently on his back. That was all it took for the tension in him to shift — a breath catching in his throat before he exhaled, leaning into your touch without even thinking. “It’s stupid, I know,” Macklin said, voice cracking slightly. “It’s just— I hate letting everyone down. The guys, the fans… you.”

You wrapped your arms around him from behind, your cheek brushing against his shoulder. For a moment, he sat frozen — and then he turned, burying his face against your chest like he’d been holding back for hours. His voice came muffled. “You always know how to calm me down, y’know that?”

He finally lifted his head, eyes glassy but softer now. “You’re right. I’m still learning,” he admitted quietly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Doesn’t mean it’s easy, but… it helps having you here. Helps a lot.”

When you brushed the hair from his forehead, he caught your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm — a silent promise that he’d try again tomorrow. Macklin wasn’t good at letting go, but in your arms, he didn’t have to be perfect. He just had to breathe.