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Mack knew from the moment he woke up this morning that something was off. It was the stereotypical ‘buzz’ under your skin that most people talk about.
His body lagged a few seconds behind his mind, his coordination was off, and he felt awfully fatigued for having a full nights sleep.
Yet, as Mack does, he pushed through. If people stayed home everyday they felt ‘off’ nothing would ever get done, he told himself.
So, that morning when he ran his drills at the rink, he let himself fall into the familiar burn, and ignore the almost constant thrum under his skin.
The trainers had the music going low over the speakers. A few of the guys were chatting about their weekend plans and then got yelled at by Coach.
Everything was fine, and Macklin totally didn’t feel a knot twisting in his stomach.
Macklin lined up for a rush drill, pushing off of the ice hard, feeling the familiar burn in his legs. He swerved left, then right, keeping the puck a controlled distance behind him. He could feel eyes on him, which was a feeling he had gotten used to after being the number one draft pick.
Then, the lights above the rink flickered.
For a split second, the white overheads twisted into something too bright. They burned his retinas and nausea instantly carried up his throat.
He squinted his eyes painfully, instinctively moving to cover them with his glove, but his movements were sluggish.
His vision shimmered. The noise around him warped, tinkering off into a distant echo.
He blinked.
The puck lamely slid off his stick and into the path of shaved ice his skates were leaving.
His body was tingling, a flame traveling from his feet to his head in a matter of seconds.
His chest tightened.
“Yo, Mack?” Someone called.
His stick clattered to the ground with a hollow bang.
The world tilted.
____
Practice is loud and familiar to Will. Blades cutting ice, pucks echoing off the boards as guys fire off shots. Toff is telling a story about Cat within earshot, and Will finds himself absentmindedly chuckling along as he runs his drills.
Will is at the far blue line when it happens.
Mack’s flying through a rush drill, his head is down, hands unreal as they swivel the puck behind him, setting himself up for a goal. A few of the guys are watching, a mix of envy and pride radiating off of them. Mack pulls the puck across his body with his stick-
and then he just… drops it.
It’s not a fumble. He didn’t grab it wrong or accidentally miscalculate where to aim it.
It’s like his hands forget their purpose, and his stick clatters uselessly to the ground.
Mack stands there for a second. His shoulders are too high, and his posture is tight in a way Will has never seen it.
He blinks hard like he’s trying to focus on something that’s not there.
A few guys murmur, probably wondering what the fuck he was doing.
“Yo, Mack?” Will calls.
Mack sways.
And then he goes down.
Everything after that is in slow motion, like Will is trying to focus through a flood of water around him.
The whistle blows, the rink bursting into quiet whispers.
The trainers are already there by the time the team reaches him, sticks either discarded or being carried limply.
Mack’s flat-backed on the ice, arms tense and his body rigid.
Will feels like he’s going to puke staring at Mack’s distant face, his eyebrows knit together and muscles around his lips twitching.
One of the veteran trainers order to give him some space and everyone instantly listens, skating back a few steps to form a lazy circle around the young boy.
Then, it starts.
His legs start twitching, straining against his heavy gear. Everything about his form is unusual, and Will can feel bile rising in his throat.
The trainers move with controlled urgency, turning him gently onto his side, protecting his head. One of them is already talking into a radio.
Weirdly all Will can think about is how pissed Mack will be if- when he wakes up. Mack hates attention. He hates being the reason drills stop.
After what feels like forever, but can’t be more than a minute or two, his body stills like a puppet with its strings cut. His muscles go taut and the tension drains out of him like someone flipped a switch.
He’s unnervingly motionless, face still a little unusually tense.
Will keeps thinking, Get up. Come on. Just get the fuck up Mack.
He doesn’t. His body remains motionless. It’s such a stark contrast to the energetic puppy-like personality Will normally sees him sporting.
The same personality Mack was careful to show him the first few days after they met- like Will had to unlock it. Will almost wonders if he will never see the same personality again, but quickly cuts off that train of thought before he can spiral anymore.
The trainers are talking softly to him, “Mack? Can you hear me? We’re right here bud”.
Moments feel like hours, the rink is uncomfortably quiet and none of the men know what to do. Will doubts they’ve ever seen a seizure in person before, hell he sure hasn’t.
Then, Mack’s eyes flutter open.
Relief rushes Will so hard all he could do was sigh unbelievingly and crouch closer to Mack, reaching out to grab his hand.
The trainers help Mack sit up slowly as he looks around with glazed eyes. He looks somewhat normal. Pale, slightly pained, and confused- like he just woke up somewhere he didn’t expect to be.
Quickly, they load him off the ice in a stretched Will hadn’t even released was brought over during the initial panic.
Will tries to shake off his nerves like it was nothing, rolling his shoulders and tensing his hands a few times to loosen the joints that were being crushed into fists for the last few minutes.
The doors close behind Mack.
No one moves for a second.
Coach clears his throat. “Take ten”.
Nobody skates to the bench right away. They just kind of stand there, staring at the empty spot on the ice where Mack fell.
There’s a scuff mark, Will notices. Right where Mack’s helmet hit.
Will skates off the ice and right into the nearest bathroom, where he throws up his breakfast and possibly everything he’s ate for the last week.
_____
When Mack wakes up, the ceiling is different.
Not the high rafters of the rink, or the banners. It’s white tiles and fluorescent lighting. A medical room, he notes.
His mouth tastes grossly metallic, and his head was throbbing like he’d taken a hard hit.
He tried to sit up on his elbows but quickly falls back down when he realizes his arms feel like jello.
“Hey, hey… easy.” A hand presses gently against his shoulder, keeping him down against the strike bed. It was one of the trainers, a newer guy who he’d never gotten the chance to talk to.
“What… happened ?” Macklin’s voice came out hoarse, words slightly jumbled like his tongue is too big for his mouth. It’s a little swollen, like he accidentally bit the sides of it.
“You had a seizure,” the trainer says carefully, eyes soft and hand still warm against his shoulder, “You’re okay. We’ve got you.”
The word didn’t register at first, and then it froze his blood over.
Seizure.
It felt too clinical. Too serious. Like something that happened to other people, not him.
Not the 19 year old. Not the person who trains carefully every day, and tracks everything that goes into his body to keep it in the best possible shape. He was the future of the league.
“I don’t…” He swallowed, “Why?”
“We don’t know anything yet,” the trainer said quickly. “One seizure doesn’t mean anything definitive. We’re just going to get you checked out.”
From the doorway, Mack can suddenly see Will and Toff, who seemingly had been there since before he woke up.
Will’s still in his gear, like he rushed here after practice, and Toff’s hair is still dripping wet from a rushed shower.
Concern sat heavy in the air, suffocating Mack. He forced a small nod. “I’m fine.”
It sounded like a lie, even to his own ears.
___
The tests came over the next few days.
Hospital visits. Scans. Electrodes being taped to his scalp while machines traced the electrical waves inside his brain.
Mack tried to be optimistic but he knew this type of stuff didn’t happen to perfectly sound people.
When the neurologist finally sat him and his family down, hands folded neatly on the desk, Mack felt like he was drowning.
“You’ve experienced what we call a generalized tonic-clonic seizure,” she explained. “Based on your EEG results and your history-there were smaller episodes before, weren’t there? Moments of confusion? Visual disturbances?”
Macklin thought about the flickers of light he’d ignored over the past year. The occasional blank seconds he’d blamed on exhaustion.
He nodded slowly.
The doctor continued gently. “This is consistent with epilepsy.”
The word landed heavier this time.
Epilepsy.
He’d heard it before, of course. In health class. On television. But it had always sounded distant. Like something that existed outside locker rooms and arenas.
“Can I still play?” he asked immediately.
His mom inhaled sharply beside him, but his dad was dialed in, like that was his next question.
The neurologist didn’t hesitate. “With proper treatment and monitoring, many athletes with epilepsy continue competing at elite levels. The key is management. Medication. Sleep. Avoiding triggers.”
“But… I can play.”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “We just have to be smart with it”.
___
The hardest part wasn’t the diagnosis, it was everything that followed. Meetings with his medical team and doctors, emails, next contracts being out in place.
A week later, he stood in a quiet conference room at the practice facility. Team doctors, coaching staff, and the general manager sat around a round table with him at the forefront.
“We’re behind you,” the head coach said. “First and foremost, your health matters. We’ll adjust training if we need to. We’ll coordinate with your neurologist.”
Macklin clenched his jaw, “I don’t want special treatment.”
“This isn’t special treatment,” the manager replied, “It’s just professional accommodations. Many athletes have them”.
Logically, Mack knew that should’ve made him feel better, but it didn’t.
Mack hated the idea of being fragile, of being watched for the wrong reasons.
“What about games?” he asked.
The team doctor answered. “We’ll monitor how you respond to medication. If seizures are controlled and you’re cleared medically, there’s no league rule preventing you from playing.”
He nodded once. “Okay.”
___
The medication made him tired at first, nauseous almost all the time, and fatigued like the doctors had warned.
That was the part nobody warned him about, the exhaustion that seeped into morning practices and the fuzziness that followed him. His reaction time felt a fraction slower. Not enough for anyone else to notice, maybe. But he noticed.
Nobody pushed him, they helped him to the bench when his body felt too heavy to move after drills.
Yet, he pushed himself. He upped his reps in the gym until he physically collapsed against the wall. He stayed late after practice, running extra reps until sweat dripped into his eyes and his arms burned with each shot.
One afternoon, as he lined up pucks for yet another round of shots, a shadow appeared behind him.
“You planning to sleep here?”
He glanced up. Toff leaned against the boards, car keys in his hand, ready to leave.
“Just getting some reps,” Macklin said without looking up, turning his attention back to the puck.
Toff studied him for a second, “You don’t have to outwork something you didn’t choose.”
Macklin looked up for a second then back down, like the emotion on Toff’s face was hurting him “I just don’t want it to define me.”
“It won’t,” He said. “Unless you let it.”
Silence stretched between them, the only sound being the puck hitting the back of the net and the drag of his stick against the ice.
“Are you scared?” Toff asked finally.
Macklin hesitated.
“…Yeah.”
“Good. It means you care.”
___
The first game back after the diagnosis felt different.
The league hadn’t decided to go public with his diagnosis yet, but the team knew. Mack knew.
Every bright light above the rink felt sharper.
Every hit along the boards carried a flicker of doubt. What if it happened here? What if it happened mid-shift?
What if it came on just as suddenly as before?
He forced himself to breathe.
Focus on the puck. Focus on his skates.
Halfway through the second period, he took a pass at the blue line. A defender closed in. He cut inside, stickhandling tight through traffic.
No flicker.
No distortion.
Just instinct.
He snapped the puck up with the rear end of his stick. It soared through the air, dodging everything in its sight.
It was quick, too quick for anyone to react before the red light behind the net flashed. The crowd roared.
Mack rose his hands in the air, shouting with a smile as he skated off.
His teammates swarmed him along the boards, gloves thudding against his helmet.
For a moment, the pressure that has been weighing him down felt lifted.
___
But of course, everything wasn’t that easy. There were setbacks.
A minor seizure two months later, early in the morning after a road trip. No loss of consciousness, just brief aura and muscle stiffness.
But, emotionally, it felt like hell. It rattled him more than the first one.
He sat on the edge of his bed in the hotel room, hands shaking in frustration as he came down from it.
He texted the team doctor immediately, and then Will.
Within minutes, there was a knock on his door. Staff asking him questions about where he is and what he was doing. Adjustments were made to his medication and a generalized email was sent to staff.
No one blamed him, but he blamed himself, like somehow he could’ve stopped it by being more dedicated.
On the flight home, he stared out the window, headphones in but no music playing. He could feel his teammates giving him space, but not distance.
Eventually, Will slid in beside him.
The familiar warmth of sent of woody cologne immediately supplied an embarrassing amount of relief.
“You good?” Will asked quietly, hand reaching over to hover Mack’s knee.
Mack shrugged. “Just tired.”
“From the seizure?”
“From worrying about the next one.”
Will nodded slowly. “You know we’ve got you, you know? If something happens on the ice, we know what to do. Trainers are ready. The team is ready.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Macklin admitted quietly, “Being the guy everyone has to be ready for”.
Will nudged his shoulder, “You’re the guy who scored in his first game back. You’re the guy who stays out an extra hour shooting. Number one draft pick. That’s what we see, not the guy who we have to be ready for”.
Mack hummed and let himself ease into Will’s touch just a bit.
It didn’t erase the fear or the burden he still held close to his heart, but it made it more bearable, like he could finally see the end of this dark tunnel.
___
Over time, his epilepsy became part of the routine.
Medication alarms on his phone. Strict sleep schedule; no less than 8 hours a night, and no extra training last 9 PM. Hydration tracked obsessively.
His team carried electrolytes and spare protein bars for him in case he didn’t have time to eat properly. If he didn’t have time to sleep during busy schedules, they managed to squeeze in half an hour intervals for him to take quick naps.
He learned his triggers and adjusted his schedule accordingly. Staff kept tabs, but that was it. Nobody treated him differently.
One night, after a particularly rewarding win, the locker room buzzed with adrenaline. Music blasted, some Christmas carol Smitty put on.
Someone dumped a warm water bottle over his head, and he laughed, really laughed, for seemingly the first time since his diagnosis.
Later, when the noise died down and most of the guys filtered out, he sat at his stall unlacing his skates.
He thought about the first seizure. The sterile hospital room. The fear that hockey might be slipping out of his hands.
It hadn’t. It had just changed.
He pulled off his jersey and looked at the crest stitched across the front, a small smile tugging his lips.
___
Near the end of the season, a reporter finally asked about the early-season medical scare that had taken him out of a few games. He saw the rumors online, and everyone’s concern.
Macklin paused. He could brush it off, or he could own it.
Mack looked around. He cleared his throat and stared straight ahead, bearing what would come.
“I was diagnosed with epilepsy earlier this year,” he said calmly. “It’s something I manage with my doctors and the team. I’m grateful for the support I’ve had.”
The room went silent. Stunned gasps from a few of the newer reporters were picked up by the mics.
“Does it change how you see the game?”
He thought about it for a second. Recounted his first goal, his second seizure, their last win.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I value the game a lot more now”.
The story spread quickly. Messages poured in from fans, from parents of kids with epilepsy, and from young athletes who thought a diagnosis meant the end of their dreams.
He read responses late at night.
“You make me feel like I can still try out for my team.”
“Thank you for talking about your journey, means a lot from someone as great as you.”
“I appreciate you man, I look up to you every day.”
There were a few hate comments, saying how he didn’t deserve to play. Macklin ignored them and read the next message about how he changed someone’s life.
He couldn’t respond to all of them, but he remembered each one.
___
The next home game, during warmups, he glanced up at the crowd.
A kid near the glass held a handmade sign, “I have epilepsy too, you’re my hero!”
Macklin tapped the glass with his stick and pointed, smile cheesy and big. The kid beamed and waved his sign, looking to his mom who smiled back.
The puck dropped minutes later.
The game moved fast. Bodies colliding. Ice spraying. Sticks clashing.
Even with the chaos, he felt steady.
He chased down the loose puck in the corner, fought through a check, and sent a clean pass into the net.
Goal.
The arena erupted.
As his teammates celebrated around him, and Macklin cheered back.
He wasn’t defined by his diagnosis. He was still himself, and fuck anyone who thinks that isn’t good enough.