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Kent Parson is pissed off.

He’s pissed off at NHL Hockey Operations for not selecting him for All-Stars for the first time in his career. Sure, this season hasn’t exactly been record-breaking, but he’s still Kent Fucking Parson, and that should count for something. He deserves a seat at the table after all these years.

He’s pissed off at Zimms for suggesting he spend the All-Stars break in some kind of mountain resort in the middle-of-nowhere, Quebec when he should’ve been sitting on a beach getting blasted on Mai Tais. The website described it as “Victorian elegance with modern amenities.” Right. It’ll probably be some shitty log cabin with a wrought-iron stove and no insulation. Or worse, no Wi-Fi.

He’s pissed off at whatever crappy weather conditions brought on this damn blizzard. It’s been snowing non-stop since he pulled his rental SUV out of the Montreal airport lot, and visibility is practically zero now. Damn it, he hates Canadian winters.

But mostly, Kent Parson is pissed off at himself. He may be north of thirty, but Gretzky was still playing All-Stars well into his late thirties, so age is no excuse for this shit season. Hell, Zimms is the same age as him, and he’s down in Houston playing in the All-Stars.

He and Zimms were supposed to do everything together forever. It took him far too long to get over that romantic fantasy, but he gets it, he’s over it, okay? He had graciously agreed to call a truce in the Twitter war he and Zimms’ little Georgia peach had going a few years back (even though Bittle was clearly the main aggressor), and he even went to their cheesy-ass wedding.

But even if they weren’t supposed to be together, at least they were supposed to be on the same page. And now Zimms is married, living in a McMansion in the suburbs with his adoring husband and two little chubby-cheeked kids, playing in the All-Stars and set to captain the Canadian Olympic ice hockey team again next month. And here Kent is, spending the All-Stars break in some godawful cabin in the middle of nowhere. Alone.

And Kent really should have known better than to take Zimms’ vacation advice. Zimms’ idea of fun is jogging through snow at five o’clock in the morning. Kent can only blame himself for not thinking this through before making the reservation. He just hopes that little husband of Zimms’ talked him out of anything too rustic.

But the worst part of it all is that the one piece of advice he didn’t take from Zimms turned out to actually be good advice. Zimms told him not to take a late flight in to Montreal. He told him to spend the first night downtown if he was going to insist on flying in late. But oh no, Kent Parson doesn’t take good advice, does he? Kent Parson takes shitty advice but is too proud to take good advice. Kent Parson thought it was a great idea to take an evening flight out of Vegas even though it would mean landing in Montreal after midnight. Kent Parson wouldn’t dream of staying in the city if he could drive over an hour through a blizzard instead. Kent Parson never met a bad idea that he didn’t like.

Kent shakes his head. Fuck it. He’s made it this far, he’ll be at the cabin soon, and this’ll all make a pretty funny story when he gets back to Vegas. He’s already made it all the way from the airport to the main lodge. He can handle a short drive to his cabin.

He double-checks the map that the woman behind the check-in counter had handed to him. He just has to take a right at the third dirt road off the main drive, and then his cabin will be the third cabin on the left. Cabin nine. Easy enough to remember. He’s just not totally sure whether he’s already passed one or two turn-offs.

Fuck it. Kent takes a right at the next road. If it’s the wrong road, he’ll just make a three-point turn at the end and try the next one.

He drives past two dark driveways and peers at the sign post at the end of the third. To his great relief, a metal 9 hangs off of the bottom of the sign. He notes with irritation that one of his neighbors parallel parked their truck a little too close to his driveway, but whatever. He can deal with that tomorrow.

Kent parks the car in the driveway and lumbers up the steps to the cabin. It’s cute, he guesses. Kind of a log cabin feel, if that’s what you’re into. At least the snow should be good for skiing tomorrow.

As Kent approaches the door, he’s surprised to find that it’s open a crack. Hmpf. He’ll have to have a stern talk with the front desk staff tomorrow about housekeeping’s carelessness. He kicks the door shut behind him and drops his bags and coat just inside the front door. He’s fucking exhausted and freezing and he just needs to crash. He’ll deal with the mess in the morning.

He sheds his gloves, hat and scarf as he heads toward where he thinks he remembers the bathroom being from the layout he’d reviewed on the resort’s website. He reaches down to loosen his laces, then pulls off both boots as he walks. He swears he can hear the knuckles of all ten toes crack.

He hits the head and then stumbles into the adjoining bedroom. He doesn’t even bother with turning the lights on, let alone changing into pajamas before he flops onto the bed.

What a fuckin’ night. This place had better be worth it. He’s bone-tired and just about to pass out when a heavy arm drapes over him.

“What the fuck?” Kent scrambles out of bed and switches on the bedside lamp. He takes in the sight of the massive Russian pushing up from the pillows to his right.

“Parson?” Mashkov rubs at his eyes with both fists. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Houston?”

Kent just glares at Mashkov.

“…Oh.” Mashkov straightens up.

“Mashkov, what the fuck are you doing in my bed?”

“Is my bed,” Mashkov reasons. “Was empty when I went to sleep. What are you doing here?”

Kent’s too tired to make any kind of sense of this. “The fuck are you talking about? It’s my bed. My room. My cabin. Cabin nine. They gave me the keys at the main office.”

“No…” Mashkov furrows his brow. “Is cabin six.”

“Look man, I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with your eyesight, but the sign out front definitely said cabin nine when I drove in here.”

“I think is… what you call, mix-up at front desk? They give you wrong keys?” Mashkov asks.

“Maybe they fucking gave you the wrong keys,” Kent retorts. “I know what I saw out there, and it’s cabin nine, just like the nine on my key ring.”

“What time is it?” Mashkov asks blearily.

“Too fucking late to be calling up the front desk,” Kent sighs. “Look, I’ve had a shithole of a day, and I’m exhausted and cold. Can you just find a couch somewhere to sleep on?”

“Me?” Mashkov asks. “Is my–” But something must change his mind, because a moment later he sighs heavily and gathers up his pillows. “Fine,” he concedes, “but I’m taking one of the blankets.” He lifts the comforter off the bed, despite Kent’s protests. “We sort this out in the morning.” He trudges out the door.

As soon as the door latches behind Mashkov, Kent scrambles onto the bed and pulls the remaining blanket up to his chin. At least it’s wool; between the blanket and his sweater he should be warm enough without the comforter.

This whole situation is un-fucking-believable. It’s like the universe is trying to fuck with Kent. First he has the worst season of his career and he doesn’t get picked for All-Stars, then he gets hit with a blizzard on the drive up here, and now he’s stuck in a cabin in the woods with Mashkov of all people?

The guy’s been nothing but a total dick to Kent since Mashkov’s rookie year. At first it was just a rivalry thing, and he gets that. Kent doesn’t take that stuff personally; he’s a professional. Mashkov has talked a lot of shit over the years about the Aces’ playing style, but whatever, man. Different strokes for different folks and all that shit. It’s not cool how often he brings it to the press, but Mashkov always did seem to have a problem with keeping his mouth shut.

But when Bittle started his passive-aggressive little Twitter feud with Kent, Mashkov was all too eager to join in and clearly played sides, even though it was obviously none of his damn business. He even kept it up for a couple of weeks after Bittle and Kent had reached their truce, subtweeting about so-called dirty players and little rats in big cities.

Who the fuck even does that? It’s nice that Mashkov is friends with Zimms’ little Georgia peach, Kent supposes, but whatever he thought he knew about Kent was second-hand knowledge at best. And if it came from Bittle at the height of their feud, then it was biased information at that. No matter what Mashkov might’ve thought of Kent, he should’ve kept himself out of it.

To be fair, he’s cooled it down over the last few years. He just tweets lots of eyeless smiley faces, Falcs promotion and food pics. But he still gives Kent the hairy eyeball any time they meet on ice.

Kent rolls over and punches his pillow. Whatever, man. All of this stewing is not going to help him sleep. He’ll get Mashkov out of his hair tomorrow, and then he’ll have peace and quiet for the rest of the break.

_X_

Kent counts the exposed beams in the ceiling twice over before he gets out of bed the next morning. His back feels sore in the way it always does his first night sleeping in a foreign bed these days. You’d think it would have gotten better rather than worse after all of these years of away games, but like the rest of him, Kent’s body is too stubborn to be reasonable.

He’s really not looking forward to facing Mashkov and whatever snarky remarks he may have up his sleeve. He’d love to sleep for at least another two hours, but the filmy white curtains on the window do nothing to keep out the morning sun. Kent’s used to sleeping with blackout curtains at home.

Kent scrubs his hand over his face and drags himself out of bed. He absentmindedly massages circles over his left hip, willing the stiffness away. That mind-over-matter bullshit never worked for him, but Kent’s willing to try anything if there’s a chance it might work. A few minutes later, he drags himself out of the bedroom to the cabin’s living room, still in yesterday’s clothes.

“Good morning, sleepy head! Finally awake!” Mashkov shouts out, far too cheerily and much too loudly, from a round table situated near the back door. “Come!” Mashkov waves to him. “I make kasha this morning. Come and eat!”

Yeah, no. Breakfast with Mashkov? That sounds like an experience Kent has zero interest in trying.

“You brought food?” Kent asks.

“Of course!” Mashkov booms. “Didn’t you? B pack me enough food to last whole stay.”

Kent shrugs. “I just planned on eating all my meals in the main lodge.”

“Plenty of kasha to share,” Mashkov offers again.

Kent ignores the invitation and pulls out his phone to check his feed. “What’s the Wi-Fi password at this place?”

“Wi-Fi down,” Mashkov responds.

“Fucking backwater.” Kent shoves the phone in his back pocket and wanders into the kitchen. Huh. It’s surprisingly modern and well-appointed. He wonders idly whether it meets “B”’s evidently high standards. He pokes his head into the fridge and cupboards and finds various pastries plus ingredients for recipes that are no doubt too complicated for Kent to attempt on this little sleep.

“Any coffee?” he asks.

“Only hot chocolate.”

The cartoon bunny smiling at Kent from the hot cocoa carton seems a bit out of place amid the rest of the fancy-schmancy ingredients, but hey, Kent can understand having cheap tastes despite having a kitchen stocked with gourmet items.

Kent grabs a spoon and pokes at some kind of oatmeal cooling on the stove, then sighs. Oatmeal it is. He’ll make up for it with a liquid lunch on the ski slopes and a five-star dinner at the lodge tonight.

“Do you have any brown sugar for this?” Kent asks.

“No!” Mashkov looks downright offended. “Is perfect the way it is. Just the way babushka used to make. Try. You like.”

Kent settles into an armchair next to the fireplace with his bowl and spoon. It helps that the armchair is turned away from Mashkov.

“Is room at the table,” Mashkov offers.

“I’m fine here.” Kent glances about the cabin, now that there’s enough light and time to take it in. It’s okay, he guesses. Cute. Rustic but not obnoxiously so. Whoever designed it leaned in hard on the log cabin theme. All wooden paneling and exposed beams. A leather couch sits next to Kent’s armchair, facing the fireplace. It’s obviously where Mashkov slept last night. Two pillows are settled on top of the neatly-folded comforter, draped over one armrest. And next to the front door…

“I’m tidy up your mess!” Mashkov announces. Damn, does this guy have only one volume? “Your things are all ready for when you leave this morning!”

Kent sets his oatmeal down on the end table and turns to face Mashkov. “I think you mean when you leave. Thanks for the breakfast – it was not bad, after all – but now that you’re done eating you can pack up your food and your things and head to cabin six.”

Mashkov hums. “Am in cabin six. Is time for you to go to cabin nine.”

“Ha, ha.” Kent remarks dryly. “This has been fun and all, but no matter how tired I may have been when I drove in last night, I am positive the sign next to the driveway said cabin nine!”

“Hm. Is funny. My key ring say ‘cabin six,’ but it open this door, no problem,” Mashkov reasons. “Your key open front door too?”

“That’s… not relevant,” Kent hedges. “Maybe they put the cabin nine key on the cabin six key ring.”

“Maybe so, maybe not.” Mashkov persists. “Did your key work when you get in?”

“Ugh, fine!” Kent groans. “You left the front door open, which was really careless and could have gotten one of the housekeeping staff in trouble. Any stranger could have walked right in!”

“Exactly,” Mashkov nods.

“Or a wild animal,” Kent continues.

“Or Goldilocks, come in to sleep in my bed and sit in my chair and eat my porridge,” Mashkov grins. And seriously, Kent would love to wipe that smug look off of his face right about now.

“Also, you let out the hot air and wasted energy,” Kent finishes weakly.

“Yes, is true,” Mashkov agrees. “I do all of those things. Very thoughtless. But let’s see if your cabin nine key works on this door.”

“Ugh, fine!” Kent jumps up from his seat, pulling the key out of his pants pocket. “I guess you’re so used to losing to me that you even have to make up an excuse for a competition during the break.” Mashkov pushes out his lower lip in a fake pout. “You’re just going to lose again!” Kent points furiously at Mashkov as he strides to the front door of the cabin. “Get ready to watch me effortlessly unlock this door!”

Kent swings the front door open.

Piles of snow tumble in, burying Kent’s feet to his ankles.

“What the fuck?” Kent stumbles backwards, shaking out his feet. “There wasn’t that much snow when I came in last night!”

Mashkov bounds across the room like an over-excited puppy. “Must be three feet of snow! Must have snowed all night!”

Kent peers down the driveway. His SUV is buried nearly to the tops of his tires. Although the snow seems to have stopped falling, the dirt road hasn’t been plowed, let alone the driveway. Wonderful. Another awesome twist to this nightmare trip. “Help me get this door shut,” he asks Mashkov wearily.

The two of them (all right, mostly Mashkov) shoulder the door shut against the snow.

“Well, that settles that.” Kent shoves the keys firmly back in his pocket and then pulls off both wet socks. He opens his suitcase and pulls out the first pair of socks he can grab: a black-and-white pair of Aces crew socks, with the team logo on the sides and the team name spelled out in non-slip pads on the soles. Not the warmest pair he owns, but they’ll do in a pinch.

“What settles what?” Mashkov is still standing by the door, looking as though he’s still putting two and two together.

“We’re snowed in.” Kent settles on the couch and pulls on his socks. “It doesn’t matter which cabin we’re in or whose key works, because we’re both going to be stuck here together until they plow the street and the driveway.”

“Is not settled.” Mashkov shakes his head. “One of us still in right cabin and one of us still in wrong cabin. One of us have key that works–” he holds up his own key ring, “and one key have never been tried.”

“It doesn’t matter, though,” Kent protests. “It doesn’t matter who’s in the wrong cabin, because neither one of us is leaving this cabin until we get plowed out.”

“But we can still know which one in wrong cabin,” Mashkov argues.

“Doesn’t. Matter,” Kent insists.

Mashkov narrows his eyes at Kent. “I’m thinking you only say doesn’t matter because you know in wrong cabin. Don’t want to try key in lock because you know it not fit.”

“Yeah, well,” Kent leans back against the couch, his fingers twined behind his head. “I don’t need to try my key in that lock until however long it takes for someone to plow the road and the driveway. So until then, I’m just going to chillax. You do you, and I’ll do me.”

“In my cabin,” Mashkov growls.

“If you want to tell yourself that it’s your cabin, then you have fun with that.” Kent shrugs.

“Fine.” Mashkov opens a closet that Kent hadn’t even realized was there and pulls out a heavy pair of boots. “I’m drive to cabin six, and if I find it, I take all my things and move in there.” He steps into the boots and laces them up. “But if I not find cabin six – because we in cabin six now – I’m find cabin nine and prove you in wrong cabin.”

“How exactly are you planning to drive to cabin six?” Kent rolls his eyes. “With what?”

“With my truck!” Mashkov shrugs on his coat and opens the door, letting even more snow in, then gestures down the driveway.

Kent clambers off the couch and cranes his neck out the door. Sure enough, Mashkov is pointing at the truck Kent had seen last night. “That’s your truck? I thought it was the neighbors’. Why the hell didn’t you just park in the driveway?”

“I’m liking parallel park.” Mashkov pulls on ski mittens and a furry hat with earflaps.

“It’ll take you forty-five minutes to even walk down the driveway!” Kent reasons.

“You grow soft in desert. I walk through snow in five minute, maybe three.” Mashkov heads out determinedly into the snow, lifting his knees high and pumping his arms. He doesn’t show any signs of stopping nor of being slowed by the effort. Kent may be stubborn (okay, Kent is definitely stubborn), but he wouldn’t have made it more than two or three steps before making a big show of quitting.

“I don’t care what kind of engine or all-weather tires you’ve got on that thing, you can’t possibly drive all the way to cabin six in this snow!” Kent shouts after him.

“I’m keep shovel in truck bed. Will dig myself out. And is no trouble drive to cabin six since we in cabin six. I’m drive to cabin nine!” Mashkov yells back without breaking his stride.

“What, are you going to stop every few feet to personally shovel out the road? There’s three feet of snow out there!”

Mashkov only waves him off, now already halfway down the driveway.

Fine. Enough. Kent knows better than to try to argue with stubborn bastards. He pushes the door shut and stands for a moment glancing about the cabin. Damnit, it’s cold. He really shouldn’t have stood so close to the open door without his coat and gloves. His eyes wander over to the carton sitting on the kitchen counter. Hot cocoa sounds pretty appealing right about now.

A few minutes later, milk is simmering on the stove and he’s searching the cabinets for marshmallows. He settles for whipped cream, grateful that Mashkov brought it in the can instead of bringing ingredients to make it himself. He feels a pang of guilt as he mixes the milk and hot cocoa – Mashkov’s milk and hot cocoa, really – in a mug – Mashkov’s mug – and tops it with Mashkov’s whipped cream.

Ugh. Fine.

Kent bundles up in his coat, hat, gloves and boots this time before he opens the door. “Hey asshole, you’ve made your point, now come on in.”

Mashkov pointedly ignores him. From the looks of it, he’s making slow work at digging out his truck despite his earlier bravado.

“Stop freezing your ass off out there. I’ve made hot cocoa.”

Mashkov stops to glare at Kent. “My hot chocolate.”

Seriously, this guy? Kent rolls his eyes so hard that his mother would have warned them that they would stick that way if she’d been here to see it. “Yeah, yeah, I made you your hot cocoa, with the cute bunny and whipped cream on top. Now stop being so stubborn and come inside.”

Mashkov seems to weigh the pros and cons of the situation. “You admit you wrong?”

“I’ll admit…” Kent pauses. “That there is an outside possibility that you could be right.”

Mashkov shakes his head and goes back to shoveling.

“All right, already!” Kent allows. “It could be possible that I might be wrong. Maybe.”

Mashkov’s shoulders droop and he stares at the snow at his feet for a beat or two, but then tosses the shovel in the bed of his truck and hauls his way back up the driveway.

“But it’s unlikely,” Kent finishes with a smirk as he hands Mashkov the hot cocoa, now slightly cooler but still hot enough to warm Mashkov up from the inside.

Mashkov rolls his eyes. From up close, it’s clear now that Mashkov is shivering and his teeth are chattering. His fingers fumble with his zipper even after dropping his mittens.

“I got it,” Kent offers. Mashkov eyes him warily. “I mean, obviously you could do it yourself if you wanted to, but you’ve got your hands full with that mug of hot cocoa.” After Mashkov cautiously nods his assent, Kent unzips his coat and eases first Mashkov’s left arm out of the coat and then, after helping Mashkov transfer the mug to his left hand with minimal spillage, his right. Mashkov’s fingers are scary pale and way too cold, but Kent notes with relief that at least they aren’t blue.

“The knots on those boots look pretty tight,” Kent interjects as Mashkov begins to lean down. “Let me handle it. You’ve gotta drink that hot cocoa. Anyway I’ve got years of experience unknotting my baby sister’s sneakers.”

“Am not little girl,” Mashkov mutters as he steps out of the boots.

“Nah, but you’ve been digging your truck out from three feet of snow while I’ve been sitting on my ass in a warm cabin,” Kent argues. “You’ve got to give me a chance to do something or I’m just going to feel useless. Now go sit on the couch and warm up.”

As Mashkov settles on the couch in front of the fireplace, Kent pulls the comforter out from under the pillows and drapes it over him. He would tuck the comforter in around Mashkov, but he’s not sure Mashkov would accept that level of pampering and he can’t think up an excuse for it, so he throws another log on the fire instead. “I’ll be right back, I’m going to make myself a hot cocoa,” he notifies him.

“Helping self to more of my food?” Mashkov mutters.

“Yeah, well, it’s the only food we’ve got until they plow us out. You’d rather I starved? …Don’t answer that,” Kent preemptively interrupts before Mashkov can get a word in edgewise.

A few minutes later, Kent settles on the couch to the left of Mashkov with his own mug of hot cocoa. “How ya doing, big guy?” he asks. “Still cold?”

“Is… better,” Mashkov replies, but he still has a telltale shiver.

Kent sighs. “All right, snuggle up.” He lifts the nearest edge of the comforter and scooches next to Mashkov.

“What? No!” Mashkov complains. “Find own blanket.”

“Look, I don’t like this any better than you do, but you’re cold and I’m warmer. I’ll get out from under this blanket when your hands aren’t icicles anymore,” Kent insists.

Kent has seen movies about this exact scenario, and he’s pretty sure he ought to be swooning right about now. But unlike the movies, it just feels awkward. He stares straight ahead at the fire, sipping his hot cocoa and trying desperately to think of something to say or some way to pass the time.

He squirms in his seat as the seconds tick by without any brilliant conversation starter or distraction. Finally, he settles for his old fall-back: open mouth and say whatever, as long as it breaks the silence.

“You like to parallel park?”

“Huh? Oh.” Mashkov grunts. “Yeah.”

“Bullshit.” Kent declares. “Nobody likes to parallel park.”

Mashkov sighs and scrubs his hand down his face. “Is long driveway. Uphill. Time to go, would have to drive downhill backwards. In snow.”

“So?”

“So, I’m not liking drive backwards,” Mashkov explains matter-of-factly.

“Wait, wait, wait, let me get this straight.” Kent leans forward gleefully. “You’d rather parallel park than drive backwards?”

“Is what I’m saying.” Mashkov shrugs as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Well, what about your driveway?” Kent asks. “Don’t you have a driveway at your house? How do you back out of it?”

“I’m have U-shape driveway. Never need to drive backwards.”

“Uh-huh.” Kent nods his head. It’s not funny. Really, it’s not. He is the last person to laugh at anyone’s anxiety. But the thought of this giant man in his giant truck, afraid to drive backwards down a short driveway, it’s just… too much. He bites the inside of his cheek to hold back a giggle and takes a deep breath in through his nose. “So, did you have your realtor do a special search for all houses for sale in your price range with U-shaped driveways, or…”

“No,” Mashkov explains. “Had it custom built.”

All right. That’s it. Kent can’t hold it in anymore. The laughter he’s been trying to suppress escapes all at once like a balloon deflating. He quickly sets his mug on the ground and then falls sideways over the armrest, shaking with giggles.

“What? Is practical! And lots of room for guests!” Mashkov insists.

After a minute or two of uncontrollable peals of laughter, Kent finally pulls himself together. He gives his head a shake and straightens up. “You’re right, you’re right, big guy. It is a good idea. And it probably raised your property value. I’m just…” He rubs at one eye with the back of his hand. “I’m probably over-tired and too silly this morning. Ignore me.”

To his surprise, Mashkov starts giggling beside him.

“What? …What?” Kent asks.

“Nothing, is nothing,” Mashkov wheezes out between giggles.

“Come on, throw me a line here,” Kent begs. “Don’t make me sit here while you laugh at me!”

“Like you do to me?” But Mashkov doesn’t look offended. To the contrary, he wipes a tear off his cheek, his shoulders shaking so hard that his half-drunk mug of hot cocoa is very much in danger of spilling all over the comforter. But at least he’s shaking from laughter now instead of the cold, so that’s something. “Just never have thought I’m be talking property values snuggled up on couch with little Aces captain.”

“Hey, I’m not a total asshole, despite my reputation.” Kent nudges Mashkov with his shoulder. “And I’m not ‘little’, I’m average height. It’s not my fault you’re a giant.”

“Is okay, little Aces captain.” Mashkov ruffles Kent’s hair, then quickly tucks his hand back under the comforter. “Next career you work with all short people, feel very tall.”

And. That comment probably meant absolutely nothing aside from a dig at Kent’s height, but it still stings. Because the last thing Kent needs to be reminded of is that his current career won’t last forever. Might not even last very much longer. He angles himself a bit away from Mashkov and fidgets, his foot tapping out an arrhythmic beat on the hardwood floor.

They both drink their hot cocoa in awkward silence for another few minutes before Mashkov speaks again. “I’m not in All-Stars either.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Kent snarks. He swipes at his cocoa-and-whipped cream mustache with his sleeve and sets his mug on the end table, then crosses his arms and pulls his feet up under him.

“I’m not All-Star for many years. Not hurt as much anymore, but hurt a lot first year,” Mashkov continues. “Even for me, and I’m not big star like Kent Parson. I’m… how you…” he mutters a word in Russian that Kent doesn’t recognize. “Silly person, make children laugh, white paint on face?”

“A clown?” Kent asks. “You’re not a clown!” He glances over his shoulder at Mashkov, looking for signs of… Kent isn’t sure what. Anger? Pain? Whatever he expects to see, he doesn’t find. If anything, Mashkov looks worried about Kent.

“No, is okay. Everybody like Alexei. Put Alexei on Falcs TV, he talk funny, tell jokes and play games! Was used to be funny and strong d-man, but since knee surgery, not so many starting lines. Not so many great saves. Now Alexei mostly just for funny.” Mashkov shrugs.

“Mash- Alexei, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Kent scoots around to face Mashkov. Alexei. Whatever. And doesn’t Kent feel like shit now for kicking him out of his bed (the cabin’s bed? Possibly Mashkov’s bed) and making him sleep on the couch, for being such a fucking stubborn prick that Mashkov had to storm out of the cabin, and for guilt-tripping this confession out of him.

“Is okay,” Alexei repeats himself. “I’m always know I’m no Zimmermann. Or even Snowden. Was maybe not how I wanted to be. But is okay. Am happy am still on team, still get to play. And ‘Mashkov’ is fine. Or ‘Alexei.’ Or ‘Tater,’ whatever you want call me.” He nudges Kent.

“Well damn.” Kent picks at a loose thread on the comforter. “Now I feel like an asshole for being pissy over not being selected for All-Stars this year.”

“No, is not what I’m saying. I’m understand. Is very hard, and I’m not big star. You are big star.”

How the hell is this guy so nice? This is not what Kent was expecting at all. Not that Kent’s spent much time thinking about him, aside from idle shower thoughts. Kent’s kind of having a hard time looking at him at the moment.

“I’ve got arthritis in my left hip.” Kent wasn’t planning on saying it, but there it is. Anyway, if the team trainer could tell he was favoring his right side before Kent had even shared his diagnosis, then it might be bad enough now for others to have noticed. “Like some kind of old man, but I’m thirty-one. I’m too young for this shit. Degenerative arthritis, from too many checks into the boards and too many years of playing through the pain. And now I’m favoring my right hip, which is only going to cause arthritis of the right hip in time.”

“I’m sorry.” Alexei drops an arm over Kent’s shoulders. Ordinarily Kent would shake off any attempts at sympathy, but he doesn’t totally mind it this time. It’s nice talking with someone who has some idea of what he’s going through.

“It’s just… this wasn’t what it was supposed to be like, you know?” Kent peers up at Alexei’s face. When Alexei nods silently, Kent continues, grateful not to have to defend his own feelings. “I gave my whole life to hockey. And it’s destroying my body as thanks. I thought I would play hockey, one way or another, for the rest of my life. Not, like, less than half of it.”

“Can still play more years,” Alexei asserts. “Everyone know Kent Parson. Even if hip problem, even if slower than use to be–”

“Hey, who said anything about being slower?” Kent interrupts.

“Is only example.” Alexei waves him off. “They still start you, even if.”

“Yeah, so long as I keep bringing in the crowds.” Kent pulls the comforter tighter around himself even though he’s not particularly cold anymore. “But the day I stop being relevant…”

“Then you find new team,” Alexei finishes confidently. “Still many teams want Kent Parson.”

Kent scoffs. “And get traded until I’m basically a mascot? I’ll retire the day the Aces even think about trading me. This blood runs black and white.”

Alexei furrows his brow in confusion.

“It’s an, um, an expression-thingy. It means…” Kent breaks off with a yawn. Last night is starting to catch up to him. “Fuck, I used to pull regular all-nighters. When did this happen?”

“I’m not as fast as I used to be,” Alexei confesses. “You say you not getting slower. Is good. But I’m getting slower. And my knee lock up sometime.”

“My hip pops like rice cereal when I get out of bed in the morning,” Kent admits.

“I’m liking that cereal, especially the chocolate kind!” Alexei guffaws.

Kent cackles, leaning against Alexei’s side. Alexei’s skin doesn’t feel as cold as it did earlier. Well, that’s good. At least Kent did something right. “We’re getting old. How the hell did that happen? We’re getting old without even being old, damn it!”

“Thirties is not old,” Alexei agrees. “Is only little old for hockey.”

“Half the team from my rookie year are retired now,” Kent laments. “No, wait… more than half. Fuck! Swoops is even talking about retiring in another season or two, and that’s bullshit! He signed two years after me!”

“Everyone should stay young forever.” Alexei nods, his chin brushing against Kent’s hair. When did Kent’s head end up on Alexei’s shoulder? He’d thought he was upright, but now that he’s here, it’s actually kind of cozy. He’ll just stay here for a couple of minutes longer and then he’ll move back over to the other side of the couch, maybe grab a pillow or something.

“Yeah, except maybe not as dumb?” Kent yawns again. “Like, same body, but not so many dumb mistakes? That would be nice. Or is that just me?” He shifts his legs about until he finds a comfortable position. Nice. He’ll totally get up in a few minutes, the fire just feels really nice and the couch is so comfy and…

“Feeling sleepy? Is not even lunch time!” Alexei kinda sounds like he’s making fun of Kent, but Kent can’t bring himself to care at the moment. Wait, when did he start calling him Alexei? Kent can’t put his finger on it, but it seems to suit him.

“Mm-hmm.” Kent tries to nod but he’s not really sure whether he moves his head at all. Whatever, Alexei will figure it out. “Got in late. Didn’t sleep so good. Bed too soft.”

“If I know you’re liking couch better than bed, I’m offer you couch last night!” Alexei is definitely chirping Kent now. Kent mutters something that he’s pretty sure is a brilliant comeback. The last thing he hears as he drifts off is Alexei chuckling.

_X_

When Kent wakes up, he’s stretched across the couch with the pillows nestled under his head and the comforter draped over him. The fire’s burning a bit lower now, and Kent has no real sense of what time it is nor how long he slept. He rubs at his eyes and considers lying back down again for a few minutes more. Hell, isn’t this what vacations are for?

He’s just settled his head back on the pillows when he hears an excited yell from outside the cabin.

“Kent, Kent!” Alexei yells. “Good news! Come quick!”

Kent sits up and rubs the sleep out of his eyes. “What is it?” he calls out. “Did they finally plow us out?”

“No, better!” Alexei shouts. “Come see! Out back!”

Kent scrambles off the couch and heads to the back door to see what Alexei’s so excited about. He wraps his arms about himself as he pokes his head out the door, instantly regretting, for the second time that day, not having first thrown on a coat.

A short path has been cleared out from the back door to a strange round building. It looks like someone set a giant wooden barrel on its side and built a door into one end. There’s a round window in the door, and from what he can tell the inside is full of steam. Alexei leans proudly against a shovel next to the building. His face lights up when he spots Kent.

“The sauna works!” he announces.

“That thing is a sauna?” Kent asks dubiously.

“Yes, is perfect!” Alexei rushes into the cabin, talking all the while. “Perfect way to warm up on cold day.” He pulls off his boots and sets them neatly next to the back door, then drapes his coat on a kitchen chair and sets his hat and gloves on the table. He continues talking as he heads into the bathroom. “Is good for relax, help sore muscles and bones.” He bursts out of the bathroom a minute or two later with only a towel wrapped around his waist and tosses a second towel to Kent. “Coming?”

Kent shakes his head in disbelief. “No way. Are you crazy? I’m not going to walk barefoot through snow in a motherfucking towel just to sit in a tiny deathtrap.”

Alexei claps Kent on the back, nearly knocking him over. “Is good for you! Wake you up; bring energy!” He waves his hands in the air as if simulating the flow of imaginary energy.

“Yeah, no.” Kent crosses his arms across his chest. “I’ll get my energy from the warm fire and maybe a snack.”

Alexei smirks. “Too soft!” He pokes Kent in the belly for emphasis as he pads out the door.

Oh hell no. Kent is not soft.

He sheds his clothes in a hurry, not bothering to pick them up off the ground let alone fold them, wraps the towel around his waist, and runs to the sauna. Alexei is holding the sauna door open for him from the inside, and smiling a little too knowingly for Kent’s taste.

Kent has to duck his head as he steps through the door; he has no idea how Alexei fit inside. He place feels even smaller on the inside than it had looked from the outside. He seriously questions whether it was meant to hold two grown-ass men, particularly one Alexei’s size.

There’s no real room to stand, so he sits on the bench built into the wall to his right. Alexei sits on the bench across from him, his towel draped across his lap. There’s barely enough room for the small stove, piled with rocks, in between them. Their feet nearly touch.

All of which gives him ample opportunity to admire Alexei’s body. I mean, it’s not like there’s anywhere else for him to look, right? He’s only human.

It’s funny how when Kent was younger, he went for guys who were lean and smooth-cheeked with flawless bodies. For the longest time, he couldn’t have imagined being attracted to anyone over twenty-five. But now the rookies just look like kids to him, and Alexei looks like a statue of a god. His shoulders are impossibly wide; his pecs and abs look like they were carved out of stone. This isn’t some teenaged boy built for speed; this is a man built for power.

Even the scar cutting across his left eyebrow and the larger one over his right kneecap are intriguing. Battle scars. Although Kent has seen plenty of scars in his day, some part of him wants to run his fingers along their edges. He assumes the one on his knee must be from the knee surgery Alexei had mentioned, but he wonders whether they know each other well enough for him to ask about the one over his eye.

Kent tries not to stare. He’s had a lifetime of experience averting his eyes from half-naked teammates, but this particular half-naked guy is sitting right across from him, practically within reaching distance, and looking like he could pick Kent up with one hand and…

“Zimmboni recommend this to you?”

“Huh? What now?” Kent hopes he’s not blushing. It’s not a good look on a guy his age. But if he is, he could always blame the heat.

“Jack recommend this resort?” Alexei asks mildly, apparently oblivious to Kent’s awkwardness. “Assuming you didn’t take advice from B.”

“Oh.” Kent snorts. “Yeah, no. I shudder to think of what kind of place Bittle would recommend to me. Although actually, he’s made it plenty clear over the years exactly where he wants me to go.”

Alexei presses his lips into a thin line, shaking his head disapprovingly. “B is good guy. You should give him a chance.”

“Oh please.” Kent folds his arms across his chest. “He’s the one you should be lecturing about giving chances. I’m trying, already! I’ve been trying. I don’t want to be that guy, fighting with his ex’s new man.”

Alexei blinks repeatedly. “You and… Oh.”

Kent is taken aback. “You knew that, didn’t you? They must have told you, right?” There had been enough rumors over the years that Kent had assumed it was an open secret. With the way that Alexei pals around with Bittle and Zimms, it hadn’t even occurred to him to imagine that Alexei might not know about his and Zimms’ past.

“Uh… no.” Alexei shakes his head. “But few thing make more sense now.”

“Wait.” Kent holds his hands up. “Why did you think Bittle hated me?”

Alexei shrugs. “You play very dirty, especially few years ago. B is very protective of Zimmboni and the Falcs.”

Kent sputters. “You actually thought he went out of his way to subtweet and shade me for, like, two years straight because he didn’t like my playing style?”

“Is good reason.” Alexei pulls a face. “Dirty plays, yech.”

And there’s something so funny and infuriating and oddly endearing about that that Kent can’t even pull together a good comeback.

They sit in silence for a good thirty seconds or more. It’s just starting to stretch on past companionable silence into the kind of awkward silence that Kent invariably feels compelled to break when Alexei, thankfully, speaks up.

“Your whole team know?”

Kent starts. “About me and Zi– Jack? Um, I don’t know. It’s not something I go out of my way to talk about, but there were a lot of rumors back in the day, so maybe?”

Alexei shakes his head. “No, that you’re not straight.”

“Oh.” Kent shrugs. “Yeah. They know.”

“Ah. Is good.” Alexei nods his head, and then keeps on nodding longer than strictly necessary. He stares at his fingers for a few seconds, and then takes a deep breath before speaking up. “Falcs not know. About me. Only Zimmboni, B, few others.” He keeps looking down at his hands, avoiding eye contact.

Kent wrinkles his brow. What is he… “Oh. Oh! Um. Thanks for telling me.”

Alexei smiles gratefully over at him. “Probably no reason not to tell the Falcs. They all very supportive of Zimmboni and B. But I’ve never really had a reason to.”

Kent chuckles. “I barely even had to tell my team. I was… uh… in a bad place my first couple of years with the Aces. I guess you could say I ran wild through Vegas. I definitely kept the PR team busy. Between nineteen-year-old me hooking up with every willing guy I could find and the rumors about me and Jack, I’ve basically been out to my team since day one. But they’ve been cool.” He shrugs. “I guess I’m lucky. Not everybody can say that about their teams. …You look surprised again.” He narrows his eyes at the look on Alexei’s face.

“I… sorry.” Alexei rubs a hand across the back of his neck and laughs self-consciously. “I’m thinking maybe I judge Aces too harshly. Still dirty plays,” he holds up a finger, “but maybe good people.”

“They’re not mutually exclusive, you know,” Kent protests. “The Aces are my family, and I’d never want to play anywhere else. And by the way, we play smart, not dirty.”

“Eh,” Alexei waggles his hand in the air. “Falcs play smart and clean.”

Kent could keep arguing, but he doesn’t see much of a point to it at the moment. The guy’s been complaining about the Aces’ playing style for like seven years now. Kent’s not going to convert him into an Aces fan in a couple of minutes of conversation. Anyway, Alexei looks like he’s feeling guilty, so Kent decides to let him off the hook. “So, uh, this conversation got awkward.”

Alexei laughs. “Yes, but I stop you complaining about sauna, so big win for me.”

“Oh, was that your secret plan all along?” Kent teases.

Alexei leans forward and claps him on the shoulder. “You get fresh air, good sweat, big sauna fan now. Tell all your friends in Vegas.”

“Yeah, no,” Kent laughs. “The next time I feel like using a sauna, I’m going to the gym like a normal person, not a giant barrel in the middle of a snow bank!”

“You see,” Alexei shakes a finger at him, grinning. “Next time you go to boring sauna in boring gym, you wish you in snow barrel!” Kent guffaws at this. “Now come. Enough time for sauna. We go in, get change, eat dinner.”

Alexei stands up, wrapping the towel back around himself and gripping the ends in his right hand. As Kent had suspected, Alexei has to stoop over significantly in order to stand inside the sauna. A bracing wave of cold air rushes into the sauna as Alexei opens the door. He runs back to the cabin, Kent close on his heels.

As Kent shuts and latches the cabin’s back door, Alexei clucks his tongue at Kent’s clothes once again strewn haphazardly on the floor. “Messy.” Kent only rolls his eyes.

Alexei nods at Kent. “I’m unpack last night, so I’m changing in bedroom, you change in bathroom. Is okay?”

“Sure.” Kent shrugs. He tries not to stare too hard at Alexei’s back as he walks away.

_X_

Kent changes into a new sweater and jeans. He’d almost forgotten how long he’d been wearing yesterday’s clothes. He wouldn’t admit it to Alexei, but he does feel remarkably refreshed after the sauna.

Alexei is busying himself in the kitchen when Kent comes out of the bathroom. He’s changed into a new pair of jeans and a long-sleeved thermal Henley that stretches appealingly across his pecs, although he’s regrettably tying on a “Kiss the Cook” apron.

“So what are we making?” Kent pushes up his sweater sleeves.

“Pasta dinner,” Alexei replies.

“Good! Pasta’s good. I can make pasta,” Kent remarks.

“Hmm,” Alexei hums doubtfully. “You can make pasta from box and sauce from jar or make from scratch?”

“Okay wiseguy, you’re telling me you’ve got a pasta maker hidden away here somewhere?” Kent snarks.

Alexei laughs. “No, is pasta from box too,” he admits. “But sauce from scratch. Best recipe.”

“How can I help?” Kent offers.

Alexei points Kent to a wooden cutting board laid out on the kitchen island and hands him a green bell pepper and an onion. “You chop vegetables.”

“Knife?” Kent asks.

Alexei gingerly places a chef’s knife on the cutting board, with the handle facing toward Kent. “Be careful you don’t cut a finger off,” he cautions.

“Wo-o-o-o-w,” Kent holds both hands up in the air in self-defense. “You really think I’m that incompetent with a knife in my hands?”

Alexei considers this. “Just getting to know you, but, hmm, probably.” He ruffles Kent’s hair as he walks to the opposite counter.

The thing is, Alexei doesn’t need to know that Kent hasn’t chopped vegetables since his days in Juniors. He doesn’t like cooking for himself, and these days he doesn’t have to cook for himself, so he doesn’t. There’s nothing shameful or embarrassing about that, but for some dumb reason Kent kind of wants to impress Alexei. So he sets about chopping the pepper with gusto, raising and lowering the knife with great twacks while Alexei slices and grates the tomatoes on the other side of the kitchen.

When Alexei returns to Kent’s side a few minutes later, he gasps in mock horror at the lopsided pile of pepper bits. “What is this? Is crime scene!” he exclaims.

“Oh come on, don’t be so dramatic,” Kent gesticulates with the knife before thinking the better of it and setting it down on the cutting board. He even lifts his empty hands up in the air the way he’s seen chefs do on reality TV cooking shows.

“The pepper is already dead, Kent!” Alexei teases. “Don’t need to kill it a second time!”

“Okay, geez, enough already!” Kent protests. “We can still cook with it.”

“Eh, we can,” Alexei allows, “But I’m thinking you need chopping lessons.”

Alexei grabs a bowl from one of the cabinets and scrapes the chopped pepper into it using the blade of the knife. He sets the bowl aside and then positions himself behind Kent.

Kent glances about cautiously. He’s not really sure whether he’s supposed to step out of Alexei’s way or stay where he is, but Alexei is standing directly behind him, radiating body heat against Kent’s back.

Alexei centers the onion on the cutting board with the root facing left. “Come on,” he gestures to Kent to pick up the knife.

Kent grasps the knife by the handle, and Alexei places his hand over Kent’s. Oh. “Slicing, not chopping,” Alexei instructs. “Don’t need to…” he lifts Kent’s hand, and the knife with it, and chops at the air mimicking Kent’s earlier motions.

“Uh-huh.” Kent nods. Alexei grasps the onion with his left hand. It’s a bit difficult to concentrate on cooking lessons when both of Alexei’s arms are wrapped around him and his chest is brushing up against Kent’s back.

Alexei guides Kent’s hand and smoothly cuts off the end of the onion, and then slices through the onion lengthwise, from root to end. He turns Kent’s hand so that the knife lies on its side and brings it down to the cutting board. Kent follows Alexei’s lead and releases the knife.

Alexei hands Kent one half of the onion and takes the other in his own hands. “Now we just…” he smoothly peels the outer peel off the onion and sets the onion cut side down, tossing the peel in the garbage can. Kent does the same with his own half.

Alexei centers his half of the onion on the cutting board once again. “Now you hold the onion,” he prompts Kent.

Kent grabs it like a baseball in his left hand.

“No,” Alexei clucks. “Curl fingers so you don’t cut them.” He demonstrates, curling the fingers of his left hand into a claw and placing just the tips of three fingers on top of the onion. “Now you.” He lets go of the onion.

Kent curls his hand like Alexei’s and holds the onion in the same way that Alexei had demonstrated.

“Good. Better.” Alexei rests his own left hand gently on top of Kent’s. “And knife again.” He nods toward the knife.

Kent picks up the knife again with his right hand. This time he is prepared for Alexei to put his hand on Kent’s own.

“Is rocking motion.” Alexei holds the knife so that the sharp edge of the blade touches the empty part of the cutting board and moves the blade in quick rocking motions.

“Now, before we cut,” Alexei ducks his head down toward Kent’s. When Kent turns to meet his gaze, Alexei’s face is barely inches from his own. “Want nice, narrow strokes, and don’t cut all the way through the root.”

“Okay,” Kent nods, his heart pounding.

Alexei guides Kent’s hands through several slices of the onion, first lengthwise from the end to just short of the root, then a few slices parallel to the cutting board, again stopping just before the root so that all of the pieces remain attached to the root. Finally Alexei turns the knife and leads Kent through chopping the onion into neat cubes.

Alexei smells really good, in a musky way that Kent can’t quite put his fingers on. He vaguely wonders whether Alexei had splashed on some aftershave or if this is just his natural scent after a sweat.

“You see?” Alexei drops Kent’s hands and gestures at the onion. “Nice even strokes, and no tears if chop fast.” He tosses the root in the garbage can then steps away for a moment.

Kent suddenly and acutely misses Alexei’s breath on his neck and the warmth of his body behind him.

Alexei returns moments later with a second bowl and scrapes the chopped onion into it with the blade of the knife. “See? Beautiful.”

Kent spins around to face Alexei and leans back against the island, his elbows resting against the counter. “You know, this hasn’t been awful.”

“Wow.” Alexei grins. “Is just what every man want to hear. Can’t wait to text B when Wi-Fi back, tell him I’m not awful.”

“You know what I mean.” Kent ducks his head, running his hand across the back of his neck. “I came here to ski and drink, not to nap half the day away on the couch, sit in a tiny sauna in the middle of the snow, and cook my own dinner.”

“Oh no, it’s still being my dinner, you just help with prep,” Alexei quips. He takes a step closer and lowers his head nearer to Kent’s.

Kent fiddles with the hem of his sleeve. “But it’s been nice, actually.” Fuck, he’s not blushing, is he? Please don’t let him be blushing. Ah shit, he’s blushing.

“Nice,” Alexei agrees, raising his right hand to cradle Kent’s head. His fingers play with the hairs at the back of Kent’s neck.

Kent pushes up on tiptoes – he so rarely has to do that. When they meet in the middle, the kiss is electric. It feels like everything is happening all at once and yet somehow still not moving fast enough. Kent’s finally got his hands on the shoulders he’s been thinking about all day and he just wants to touch and be touched everywhere. Kent’s been with buff guys before, but Alexei is next level.

Alexei’s hands slide down Kent’s back and grasp him by the hips. His right thumb rubs lazily at the skin just above Kent’s waistband.

Kent shivers and pulls Alexei in tighter. He needs chest to chest, skin to skin.

Abruptly, Alexei lifts Kent by the hips and seats him on the counter. Kent breaks the kiss with a gasp.

“Is okay?” Alexei asks shyly. As if there were any question.

“Oh hell yes.” Kent hooks his ankles around Alexei’s waist, reeling him in.

Alexei eagerly settles between Kent’s thighs. He lifts his hand to Kent’s jaw, stroking his cheek gently, even reverently. Which could be something Kent might like another time, under different circumstances, but really isn’t the mood he’s going for at the moment. He wants more, and now.

Kent pulls at Alexei’s hair, pushing forward for a dirty kiss. He rocks his hips against Alexei, gratified to feel Alexei’s growing hardness in return.

He’s vaguely aware of a knocking sound. Perhaps one or the other of them is accidentally kicking the cabinets under the counter. Or maybe it’s the wind. He’s all-too-eager to ignore it until a distinctly feminine voice calls out “Mr. Mashkov? It’s Courtney from the resort grounds crew, just checking in.”

Alexei abruptly pulls away, breaking the kiss. Fuck. “Is okay!” he shouts in the direction of the front door. Kent pulls at the hem of Alexei’s shirt, but Alexei shakes his head, holding up two fingers.

There’s a moment of silence. Just when Kent is sure she must have gone away, the woman speaks up again. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Mashkov, but my manager insisted I do a visual check on all of the guests in the cabins. Are you, um, decent?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Kent mutters under his breath. He bites back the urge to tell her to kindly fuck off because they’re about to get indecent. It would be in vain anyway. Alexei’s already adjusting himself and walking to the door. Kent swears once again and then hops down off the counter.

Kent’s halfway to the door when Alexei opens the front door and a young woman, bundled up in a purple puffy coat, a black thermal headband, a multicolored scarf and gloves, pokes her head in. “Is fine, you see?” Alexei gestures to the interior of the cabin. “Everything okay.”

The young woman – Courtney, apparently – glances about, and starts when she spots Kent. “Oh! You have a guest! That wasn’t on the roster they gave me.” She pulls a folded-up piece of notepaper out of her right pocket and frowns at it.

“Uh, last minute change of plans.” Alexei leans against the open door and smiles winningly at her.

“Okay…” She nods uncertainly. “If you could let them know at the front desk when you get a chance?”

“Okay, will do.” Alexei starts to close the door, but she sticks out a foot.

“Sorry, Mr. Mashkov,” she apologizes. “I know you’re a busy man. But I just need to ask you a few questions. Now where is that…” she searches both coat pockets and her pants pockets before pulling a golf pencil out of her back pocket. “Ah-hah! Okay. Have you lost your electricity?”

“No.” Alexei shakes his head.

“Good! Your heat?”

“No.”

“Excellent, excellent!” She beams. “How about your Wi-Fi?”

“Yeah, we haven’t had Wi-Fi all day.” Kent barrels up to the door. “Any idea when it’ll be connected again?”

She frowns apologetically. “I’m so sorry. It’s out across the whole resort. Even in town. We’re not sure how long it’ll take to get it up and running again.”

“Shit.” Kent spins on his heel.

“Is okay, Kent, we find other ways to entertain ourselves,” Alexei laughs. Kent’s heart races all over again.

“Okay, great!” Courtney stuffs the notepaper and pencil back in her coat pocket. “I’ve plowed out the street and your driveway, and we’re hosting an open bar at the main lodge tonight to thank all of our guests for bearing with us through this storm. Welcome to Canada!” She laughs. “Any time you feel like it, feel free to come on down to the main lodge. And the weather should be perfect for skiing tomorrow.” She squints her eyes, appearing to check a mental list before nodding her head. “I think that’s everything! Have a great night!”

“Good night!” Alexei pushes the door shut.

“Oh! One more thing!” She shouts out just before Alexei gets the door closed.

Alexei sighs and opens it once more. “Yes?”

“I’m so sorry about the broken sign. The top screw must have fallen off of the ‘6’ and the whole number flipped upside down. Just imagine if a guest had seen it! They might have thought they were in cabin nine!” She giggles.

Alexei snorts. And then guffaws. Honestly? It’s not that funny.

Kent flushes. “Yes, well, if somebody had thought it was cabin nine, it would have been an honest mistake. With the number hanging upside down, it basically was a nine. So, in a sense, he would have been right if he thought it was cabin nine.”

Courtney looks quizzically from Kent to Alexei and back again. “I… suppose that’s true. Anyway, either I or another member of the grounds crew will be back in the morning to fix it.”

“Thank you.” Alexei claps the young woman on the shoulder. She stumbles a bit at the force of it. “Is best thing I’ve heard all day.”

“Really.” Kent screws up his face. “The best thing. Really?”

“Absolutely.” Alexei grins from ear to ear. He’s going to be insufferable, isn’t he?

“Oh… kay.” Courtney looks back and forth between them once again. “Well, I’ve gotta go, so. Have a nice night!”

Alexei finally shuts the door and strides to Kent. “What cabin did she say we in again? Not sure I remember.”

Kent crosses his arms over his chest. “You heard her.”

Alexei gasps in mock surprise. “Oh right, is cabin six! Not cabin nine?”

Kent rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right, I’m wrong, I get it already.”

Just before Alexei reaches Kent, he stops walking. He drags his toe across the floorboards, suddenly shy. “So. Now we know, um. If you’re wanting to go to your cabin…”

“Oh. Oh!” Kent blinks. “I. Um. Do you want me to go?”

“Um.” Alexei peeks at Kent through the bangs falling over his eyes. “If you’re wanting to, you could stay for dinner, or… whatever…”

Kent grins and closes the distance between them. “‘Whatever’ sounds pretty good right about now.” He wraps his arms around Alexei’s neck. Their lips are milliseconds away from touching when they’re interrupted – again! – by a pounding at the door.

“Is she fucking serious right now?” Kent growls.

Alexei reaches the door in two long strides and swings it open. “Yes?” he asks expectantly.

“Mr. Mashkov, I’m so sorry!” Courtney twists her headband in her hands. Her cheeks are pink – far pinker than they were moments earlier. “I didn’t know! I didn’t see!”

Alexei sighs deeply and scrubs a hand across his face. “What is it?”

“Your truck!” She points to the road behind her. “I didn’t know you’d parallel parked! I… I…”

Kent rushes to the doorway and stands on tiptoes so he can peek over Alexei’s shoulders. At the bottom of the driveway, the cab of Alexei’s truck pokes out from a deep snow bank.

Kent practically falls over Alexei, laughing so hard he has to clutch at his stomach. It was worth it to come to the door without a coat or gloves this time. So worth it.

“My truck,” Alexei cries weakly.

“Someone will come first thing in the morning to dig it out.” The poor kid looks miserable. “And… and... I’ll talk to my manager about comping last night. Maybe tonight too!” Her eyes fill with tears. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Mashkov!”

“My truck,” Alexei repeats.

“It’s fine. He’ll be fine,” Kent reassures her. “I’ll still give the resort a good review on Yelp. Hell, I’ll even ‘gram it. Just dig him out before he checks out. He’s not going anywhere for a while.” He pushes Alexei back from the door. “And please, for the sake of whatever you find holy, don’t come back until morning!” He slams and locks the door.

“My truck. Is best truck.” Alexei looks lost.

“And they’ll dig it out in a day or two, and it’ll still work as good as ever,” Kent reassures him. He grabs Alexei’s hand and pulls him toward the couch. “Now come on. I believe I was promised ‘whatever.’”