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.'"
The word hangs there.
"I don't want to screw it up," I say quietly.
"You can't screw up something that isn't fragile," he replies. "And if it is fragile, it's not because you gave her a head massage."
I rub my hands together, staring at the floor.
"She leaned back into me," I repeat.
"Yeah."
"And I don't know what that means."
"It means you're not twelve anymore," he says.
I stare at the carpet.
"...Okay," I say flatly. "So what do I do?"
There's no hesitation this time.
"You've got two options."
I let out a dry breath. "That sounds ominous."
"I'm serious," he says. "You either go all in. Or you back off."
"What?"
"You heard me."
"That's not helpful."
"It is," he insists. "You either admit to yourself that this isn't neutral anymore and see where it goes. Or you stop playing in the gray."
"I'm not playing anything."
"You are," he says calmly. "You're hovering."
I frown. "Hovering how."
"You're touching her. Getting close. Having these charged moments. And then you're panicking about what it means."
I open my mouth to argue and then close it.
"If you want more than friends," he continues, "then go for it. Have the uncomfortable conversation. Risk it."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you need to create space."
My head snaps up. "Space?"
"Yes."
"That's insane."
"No, what's insane is half-committing," Will says. "Because if you keep doing this— getting close, pulling back, getting close again— it gets messy."
"It's not messy."
"It will be."
I don't respond.
"You don't get to act like nothing changed while also internally combusting every time you touch her," he adds. "That's not sustainable."
I stare at the wall for a long second. Then I nod once, as if he can see it.
"Okay."
"Okay what."
"I'll back off."
There's a pause. "You're serious."
"Yeah."
"You just said you can't breathe around her."
"Exactly."
He exhales slowly. "So your solution is to... what. Pretend you don't?"
"I'm not pretending," I say. "I just won't put myself in that position."
"No more late-night massages?" he deadpans.
"Shut up."
"No more hovering hands on the lower back?"
"Will."
"I'm clarifying."
I rub my face. "I'll just keep it normal. No gray area. No confusing it."
"And you think you can do that."
"Yes."
"With her."
"Yes."
"You realize that means no more touching," he says finally. "No casual arm around the shoulders. No automatic hugging. No nothing that makes you act a fucking fool."
"I know."
"And you're cool with that."
I swallow.
"I'll live."
"You're going to hate it."
"Probably."
"And you're choosing that anyway."
"Yes."
There's a long silence. Then he sighs.
"Dude," he says, almost impressed. "I'll support you."
I don't respond.
"But you're fucking stupid."
I huff a breath despite myself.
"Thanks."
"You're about to voluntarily step away from the girl you've been orbiting for years because you're scared of feeling something."
"It's not that simple."
"It's exactly that simple."
I stare at the ceiling.
"If she doesn't feel it," I say quietly, "I'm not risking it."
"And if she does?"
I don't answer.
He exhales again.
"Fine," he says. "Back off. Be disciplined. Be mature. Whatever you want to call it."
"I will."
"But when this blows up in your face," he adds, "I'm going to remind you of this call."
"Noted."
We sit in silence for a second.
"Get some sleep," he says finally.
"Yeah."
The line goes quiet.
I set my phone down and sit there for a second, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor.
Playing it safe. That's all this is.
We've always worked because it's been simple. Easy. No weirdness. No crossed wires. No expectations sitting between us. I'm not going to be the one who complicates that because I couldn't keep my head straight for five minutes.
Back off. Keep it where it's always been.
No unnecessary touching. No lingering. No late-night moments that blur into something else. If I don't feed it, it settles. It has to.
She's focused on skating. I'm here to play hockey. We don't need to turn this into something heavier than it already is. It'll level out.
We'll go back to normal. She'll go back to Virginia. I'll go back to San Jose. Different coasts. Different schedules. Different time zones. Distance has never hurt us before. If anything, it makes everything cleaner. No hallway run-ins. No late-night walks. No touching or massages or tight hugs. Just calls. Texts. Controlled space.
I lie back and stare at the ceiling, repeating it to myself like it's already true.
Safer this way. Smarter.
It'll work out.
@olympicinsider on X: Team USA figure skater Quinn Taylor and Team Canada star forward Macklin Celebrini seen taking a late night stroll in Milan😳 Many sources claim also seeing the pair share an intimate moment after Taylor's near perfect score at today's Team Competition Free Skate. Despite weeks of speculation, neither athlete appears to be creating any distance — if anything, they seem more comfortable than ever as the rumors continue to swirl.