double fantasy- macklin celebrini

chapter eighteen- macklin

Will answers and I don't bother with hello.

"I think I messed up."

"With?" he asks.

"Quinn."

There's a beat. Then a grin in his voice. "Oh no. Did you finally realize she's hot?"

"Shut up."

"I'm serious. What'd you do. Hold hands? Accidentally brush knees? Macklin Celebrini discovers physical contact."

"I'm not kidding."

"Okay," he laughs. "Did you forget how to function around a girl? Because historically that has not been your issue."

I exhale hard.

"I went to her room. We went for a walk. Normal. Then she couldn't get the bobby pins out of her hair and I helped and I just—"

"You helped your best friend take pins out of her hair," he says flatly. "Arrest him."

"I started massaging her."

There's a pause. Then: "Oh my God."

"What."

"You gave her a massage," he fake gasps, reminding me that I have the most sarcastic best friend ever.

"It wasn't like that."

"What was it like."

I run a hand through my hair.

"I couldn't breathe."

He laughs again. "From what. Exertion?"

"I'm serious."

"That's dramatic."

"I'm not being dramatic."

"You're telling me you've played in NHL games in front of twenty thousand people and a head massage is what takes you out."

"It's not the massage," I snap.

He keeps going. "You've never had trouble touching a girl. Ever. And now you're panicking because you... touched one?"

"It's not just 'one.'"

"Ah," he says. "There it is."

"What are you talking about?"

He exhales like he's been waiting for me to catch up.

"Mack. We've talked every single day since you got to Milan."

"Okay."

"And we have not had one conversation that didn't circle back to her."

I don't respond.

"You're at the Olympics," he continues. "You're playing hockey with Sidney fucking Crosby. You scored in your first game. And somehow you still can't get through a call without bringing up Quinn."

"That's not—"

"It is," he cuts in. "I've never even met her and I feel like I've known her for years because of how you talk about her."

I go quiet.

"You analyze everything," he says. "What she said. What she wore. How she looked at you. Whether she sounded tired. Whether she sounded fine but not actually fine."

I swallow.

"And now you touch her even remotely intimately and you're short-circuiting?" he adds. "Of course she's not just 'one.'"

I sit down on the edge of the bed.

"You don't react like this to 'just one,'" Will says calmly now. "You don't lose your breath. You don't freak out about ruining 'us.'"