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When Mitch first met Auston, the boy smiled at him like he knew. The strumming pull of their souls reverberated within them, leaving Mitch to wonder what it must feel like to possess that same security. That day, he returned the smile while biting back the swirling envy in his stomach.
He’s not your soulmate, Mitch, he chanted in his head over and over again. Not to fool himself, but to seal his own defenses.
He was wrong, of course. Because all it took was Auston Matthews shattering the glass with a one-timer to make it feel like they could actually try. He’d seen himself in that shattered pane, like it was a reflection of his own. He finally allowed Auston to pry into the smallest crack of his life.
The change happened in quiet spaces. It was the crisp, early morning air when Auston would pull up outside Mitch’s place before practice. He’d hand over a cup of Timmies fixed exactly how Mitch liked it, a sleepy but soft grin on his face. Getting into that car felt like stepping out of the cold and into a space where Mitch didn’t have to guard his heart.
On the ice, it was no different; the intangible pull became tangible magic. Almost every time the arena blurred into roaring crowds and blinding lights, Auston would bury a slick feed from him right into the back of the net. He would skate full speed toward Mitch, patting his head and lifting him in a tight embrace. “You’re magic, Mitchy.” Mitch would only press himself harder into the hug.
At night, the world shrank to just the two of them, lying together in Auston’s bed. Auston had asked him to move in at the mark of their third anniversary, and Mitch immediately agreed—leaving behind his own place, which had barely seen him anyway since they made things official. Curled up in the middle of the mattress, Auston tucked Mitch against his side, a large hand resting gently on his back, tracing slow circles. Mitch was certain he felt Auston drawing a heart there, right before he drifted off to dreamland.
But then the slump hit. The steady world they built didn’t shatter all at once; it eroded, loudly and publicly, under the scrutiny of the media lights.
A string of scoreless games and playoff losses was all it took for the narrative to flip. The town he loved started to bare its teeth, picking his confidence apart until there was nothing left but raw nerves. Every night, Mitch sat in front of his locker as the weight of the cameras pressed into him, suffocating him. The magic Auston always talked about was replaced by constant second-guessing.
Through it all, Auston was silent. In the post-game press conferences, when reporters practically begged for a statement—one that would feed engagement and turn the internet around, Auston just stared ahead. He gave a textbook, empty answers. No defense of Mitch. No protection. It wasn't that Mitch expected him to, because he knew he had to be accountable for his own play.
But it burned when the whole town was tearing him apart, and the only person he loved did nothing to glue his pages back together.
Auston was not like his father.
Paul Marner was cruel with his words; Auston Matthews was cruel with his silence. There was an unsettling, vast difference in that; one that made Mitch want to shed his own skin and replace it with something new. Something thick enough to endure the present, and fresh enough to leave the past behind. His father had a way of cutting him down with the venom of his voice; Auston never spoke—not literally, which made him feel even smaller.
He vaguely remembered being a child, curled up in bed with his mom just hours after his father's angry voice had finally subdued into silence.
He had whispered, “Mom, can your soulmate ever change?”
His mom gave him a sad look. “No. No, baby, they don’t. There’s only one person for you, and your soul acknowledges that,” she said, kissing his forehead.
The pained look in his mother’s eyes was enough to convince him that his soul was not the dictator of his life—not when an intangible bond can result in a hurt you had to hold onto forever. He wasn’t about to be caged just because his soul decided someone was what he wanted, without verifying if it was what he actually needed.
Mitchell Marner was never a believer as a child. He wondered what went wrong for him to cling so tightly to something he didn't even believe in.
So when his trade was made public, he packed his cases, and Auston just watched. Mitch wished it would be loud; in that case, he could just cry it off and let it pass. He was practiced in that—he could take the noise and bury it. But the silence only added to the hollowness, and he could not even cry as he stepped foot into his new apartment in Vegas.
The change from Toronto to Las Vegas was brutal. But the locker room was more than happy to welcome him; they left no room for ghosts. He was glad to have some familiar faces around him—particularly Jack, with whom he shared the same draft class. They had never spoken that much, and if anything, Jack and Auston were more acquainted with each other. Despite that, the sense of familiarity brought ease to his heart. Over time they drifted closer, talked more, and did walk-ins together.
By the time they were battling through the playoffs, the noise of his past grew louder. It was the same noise all over again, but this time, it wasn’t accompanied by the same silence.
The true shift, however, happened under the harsh lights of the media room. Under the power of reporters eager to drag the old narrative out west, asking Jack questions about Mitch, pressing like they always do. Mitch hesitated to even review the clip Dorofeyev sent him randomly, not wanting to associate himself with hurt anymore. But he was curious why his teammate would send it to him, so he pressed play and waited.
Mitch braced himself for the textbook silence. He braced for the hollow, empty answers he had memorized. But instead, all he could hear was Jack’s voice: “Do I think he was unfairly treated? Of course I do. I think the world of Mitch as a person and as a player.”
He thought back to that quiet, dark bedroom from his childhood, to his mother's sad voice telling him that one’s soulmate never change—you can’t change which person your soul chooses for you.
He laughed at the idea of silly little old him trying to ask his mother that question. He’d always say that he wasn’t a believer. Yet he chose to believe his mother, himself, and Auston. The truth is he was a desperate believer. This time, he realizes his mother was wrong. Soulmates weren't an immutable noise you had to endure. They weren't a lifetime of silence.
Your soul recognizes the change when you decided you deserved to be defended, held, and loved out loud.