Nathan MacKinnon orders a giant hamburger and what happens next is HORRIBLE!

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The sun was setting over Edmonton, painting the sky in vivid shades of orange and red. Inside his sprawling mansion, Connor McDavid paced the length of his home office for the hundredth time that day. The sound of his bare feet against the cold marble floor echoed through the empty space.

“Mr. McDavid,” his assistant’s voice crackled through the intercom, “the board meeting starts in five minutes.”

Connor pressed the button harder than necessary. “Cancel it.”

“But sir, they’re expecting—”

“I said cancel it!” His voice cracked, and he immediately regretted shouting. “Please,” he added softly, “just cancel everything for today.”

He collapsed into his ergonomic chair, the one his trainer had insisted he buy after a particularly grueling season. His phone buzzed again—probably another crisis, another demand, another person who needed something from him. He grabbed it, then froze. It was his younger sister, Morgan.

“Connor, I saw the news. Are you okay?”

Connor stared at the message until the screen went dark. Was he okay? The question felt like a slap in the face. When was the last time someone had asked him that?

He opened Twitter, his fingers moving on autopilot. The trending topics made him wince: “McDavid Meltdown,” “Oilers Captain Crisis,” “Connor’s Conspiracy Chaos.”

“Jarvis,” he commanded his AI assistant, “pull up today’s numbers.”

“Mr. McDavid,” Jarvis replied in its calm, mechanical voice, “the Oilers’ stock is down 10.8% following your recent tweets about officiating controversies.”

Connor rubbed his temples. He didn’t need to hear it again. The media was tearing him apart after his latest online outburst. This time, he’d gone too far—3 a.m. tweets about refereeing conspiracies and thinly veiled jabs at rival players had sent the hockey world into a frenzy.

His phone rang. It was his agent. “Not now,” Connor muttered, letting it go to voicemail. The room suddenly felt too small, the walls closing in. He loosened his tie, but it didn’t help; the silk felt like it was suffocating him.

“Jarvis, what’s the temperature in here?”

“The room is maintained at 22 degrees Celsius, sir,” the AI replied.

“Then why can’t I breathe?” Connor stumbled to the window, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. Below, his security team patrolled the grounds, their black suits stark against the manicured lawn—always watching, always protecting, always trapping.

His phone buzzed again. This time it was his therapist. “Connor, I’m concerned about your recent behavior. Please call me back.”

“Delete.” Another buzz. His PR team: “We need a statement ASAP about your tweets. Media frenzy. Please respond.”

“Delete.” He threw the phone across the room, watching with satisfaction as it shattered against the wall. The pieces fell to the floor like shards of his public image.

“Sir?” Jarvis’s voice was hesitant. “Would you like me to order a new phone?”

Connor laughed, but it came out more like a sob. “No, Jarvis. For once in my life, I want silence.”

He wandered into his private bathroom and flicked on the harsh fluorescent lights. His reflection made him flinch. When had he started looking so worn? The bags under his eyes looked like bruises, and his skin had lost the glow of youth.

A knock at the door made him jump. “Mr. McDavid?” It was Rosa, his housekeeper. “Your dinner is ready.”

“Leave it,” he called out.

“Sir, you haven’t eaten all day.”

“I said leave it.” The words echoed off the bathroom tiles. There was a long pause. “Yes, sir. But my son Mateo asked about you.”

The thought made his stomach churn. Mateo, Rosa’s teenage son, idolized Connor. The kid looked at him like he was a superhero. What would Mateo think of him now?

Connor caught his reflection again. What did Mateo see when he looked at him? The great hockey player? The Oilers’ captain? Or just another overpaid athlete losing his grip on reality?

He opened his medicine cabinet and pushed aside bottles of supplements and energy boosters. His hand brushed against something soft—an old hoodie from his junior league days. It was worn and frayed, stained with sweat and ice shavings. When was the last time he felt like that kid who just loved hockey?

“Jarvis,” he whispered, “what do normal people do when they feel like this?”

“Based on available data, common coping mechanisms include talking to friends, engaging in physical activity, or seeking comfort in familiar places.”

“Familiar places?” Connor echoed. “Like what?”

“Statistical analysis shows that in times of emotional distress, many individuals seek out casual dining establishments, particularly fast food.”

Connor wiped his face, a plan forming in his mind. “Jarvis, show me the nearest fast food restaurant.”

“The nearest establishment is a McDonald’s, approximately 4.7 kilometers away.”

Connor grabbed the old hoodie and pulled it on over his dress shirt. He headed to his garage, bypassing his collection of luxury cars. In the corner, under a dust cover, sat his first car—a battered Toyota Corolla. The key was still in the ignition.

He backed out of the garage, his security detail scrambling in confusion. For the first time in years, Connor McDavid drove away from his mansion without a plan or a destination.

The McDonald’s parking lot was half full, a mix of sedans, delivery scooters, and work trucks. Connor parked the Corolla in a corner spot, far from the entrance. He pulled the hood over his face and stepped inside.

The noise hit him first: conversations blending with the beeping of fryers and the hiss of soda machines. The floor was sticky under his feet. He joined the line, trying to blend in.

When it was his turn, the cashier greeted him with a cheerful, “Welcome to McDonald’s! What can I get you?”

Connor hesitated, overwhelmed by the glowing menu board. “Uh, just a hamburger.”

“Just the sandwich?”

“Yeah, just the sandwich.”

As he waited for his order, a boy no older than ten approached him, holding a hockey puck. “Excuse me,” the boy said, wide-eyed. “Are you Connor McDavid?”

Connor froze. The restaurant went quiet, every eye on him. Then he smiled—the first real smile in days. “Yeah, buddy. I am.”

The boy beamed. “Can you sign this? You’re my hero!”

Connor crouched down to the boy’s level. “Sure thing.” As he signed the puck, something shifted inside him. For the first time in what felt like forever, he remembered why he played the game—to inspire moments like this.

When Connor left the McDonald’s, his hoodie smelled of grease, and his spirits felt lighter. Sometimes, the simplest things—a hamburger, a young fan’s admiration—were all it took to remind him of who he really was.