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Jack knows from experience that he can hear Kent over the sound of crowded ice, ten-thousand screaming fans, their coach hollering from the bench, scraping skates – knows intimately how his surprisingly deep voice cuts through it all, as clearly as if he were standing right next to Jack, asking him to pass the puck please.
He’s not surprised it still works on him, that low drawl slicing through the ambient party noise like a knife.
“Hey, Zimms. Didja miss me?”
Jack goes a little numb, a little weightless, a deer in the cool grey headlights of Kent’s eyes. He’s never ready for it. He used to feel so relaxed around Kent, and now he feels like he’s taken a Taser to the chest, every time.
“Kenny,” his mouth says.
“Nice shindig,” says Kent. “Very Animal House.”
“Not really,” Jack says.
“Well, most of my frat party experience comes from teen comedies, so that’s what I’ve got,” says Kent. “Old School? Neighbors? Pitch Perfect?”
“It’s not a frat party."
At that moment, a circle of bystanders around the beer keg start yelling, “Chug! Chug! Chug!” Someone’s jean-clad legs – God, Jack hopes it’s not Chowder – flail in the air overhead.
Kent looks over his shoulder. “Yeah,” he says, perfectly dryly. “I can tell.”
Something tight and irritated lodges itself in Jack’s chest. “Well, you wouldn’t know,” he says. “Like you said, you have no experience with college parties.”
Kent’s lips twist. “I’ve done a few keg stands in my time. As you’d know – how many of them were you holding me up for?”
Next to Jack, Bitty gapes.
“Parse, why are you even here?” Jack says. He has a feeling he knows the answer, and he genuinely doesn’t know what he’ll tell Parse when he asks. No, he wasn’t seriously considering Vegas as a possibility. It was easier to make that decision than it is to tell Parse, though.
Jack has always been bad at telling Kent no. Him and the rest of the world, he supposes.
“Here to break some tampering rules,” Kent says.
There it is. “It’s not tampering if I’m not under contract,” says Jack, feeling a little dizzy. He wasn’t prepared for this conversation, not without any time to prepare.
“Thanks, I wasn’t aware,” says Kent. “Anyway, I’m not here for you.”
Everything goes even fuzzier at that. “What?” Jack says, too loudly.
“I’m not here for you. Just wanted to say hi before I drag away your d-men to talk shop.”
“My d-men?” says Jack, incredulous.
“Oluransi and Birkholtz. You’ve met them, I hope?” Kent looks at him with that irritating, smarmy smirk, the one Jack used to roll his eyes at back in the Q. “I could always introduce you.”
“Don’t be a shithead,” says Jack. “Why are you here to talk to my d-men?”
“Do you really need to ask?” says Kent. “Dude, relax, if they happen to be interested in signing, what difference does it make to you? It’s your senior year, you’re not coming back either.”
“That’s not the point,” Jack grits out.
“Then what is?”
He doesn’t really have an answer for that.
He watches as Kent walks over and says something to Holster and Ransom. They exchange a look, then Ransom shrugs and pushes his dumb slatted glasses onto the top of his head and says something back. They go upstairs, Holster lifting the tape line stretched across the stairs to cordon it off from the rest of the party.
“Um, Jack?” Bitty says. “You look kind of…”
Jack storms outside.
On the porch, Shitty raises his eyebrows and offers Jack a cup of tub juice. “Bro.”
Jack drains half the cup and glares out into the darkness. On the lawn, some dim shapes are playing tag in the snow.
“So, Parson,” says Shitty.
Jack grunts.
“He here to woo you to Vegas?”
“No,” Jack says, trying to keep his voice even. “Ransom and Holster.”
“Wait, what?” Shitty says, visibly thrown.
“He’s here to woo Ransom and-or Holster to Vegas,” says Jack.
“Shit, good for them,” Shitty says admiringly. “My boys.”
Jack grunts again.
“Okay, so this bothers you,” Shitty says. “Do you know why or do you need help breaking it down?”
“It doesn’t bother me,” Jack lies.
“Fuck, so we’re still on that step,” Shitty says.
“Don’t be condescending.”
“Don’t be deliberately obtuse,” Shitty says.
Shitty’s sitting on the porch railing, so one easy push from Jack sends him toppling backwards into the bushes. “Not cool!” he says, laughing and spluttering through a mouthful of leaves. “Dick move, bro!”
“Get bent,” says Jack, grinning.
“Too mean,” says Shitty approvingly, hauling himself back up onto the porch.
In the old days, Jack would have gotten trashed to loosen the tightness in his chest. He doesn’t do that anymore, so this party atmosphere is terrible for his psyche and he just wants out. Shitty will have to forgive him for ditching. Really, it was Ransom and Holster who cared so much that he show up, but somehow he doubts they’ll notice if he ducks out now.
Jack starts to head upstairs, ducking under the tape line. Halfway up, Bitty clatters downstairs, wide-eyed and flushed. “Oh!” he says. “Gosh! Jack! Hi! Okay!”
Jack steadies him with a hand on his shoulder. Bitty’s trembling. “Are you okay?”
“Yes! Good! Fine! Good!” says Bitty.
“Bittle…”
“It’s nothing! It’s fine! It’s good!”
It’s been a long time since Jack’s seen Bitty spaz out like this. “You can tell me. Is something wrong?”
Bitty takes a deep breath. “No, nothing’s… nothing’s wrong. I just, um. Found out some new and surprising information. But it’s none of my business, so. So!”
Jack frowns at him.
“Really, go on down and enjoy the party, it’s nothing,” says Bitty, regaining his composure and patting Jack’s arm.
“Okay,” says Jack slowly, still suspicious. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“Great.” Jack starts to move around Bitty to get upstairs.
“Oh!” Bitty says. “You’re, um, headed that way?”
Jack shoots him a look, and Bitty immediately blushes again, red flooding his cheeks like it never left. A thought occurs to Jack. “Bittle,” he says slowly. “What did you hear?”
Bitty swallows hard and shakes his head.
“Fuck, your mouth,” Ransom is saying when Jack pauses at the base of the attic stairs, the sound filtering down clear as anything due to the weird acoustics of the Haus. Ransom and Holster usually stuff a rolled-up towel at the bottom crack in the door when they’re hooking up, but Jack suspects they didn’t really see this one coming.
Kent has that effect.
“Jesus, your fucking mouth,” says Ransom, a groan in his voice.
Kent’s voice is too low to make out, but Jack can hear the note of amusement and heat in it.
Ransom whines.
The floorboards creak overhead, like someone’s weight is shifting on them.
Jack knows that Ransom and Holster have had threesomes before – he doesn’t think anyone would be surprised by that. He knows that Holster’s casually bisexual, pretty low on the Kinsey scale but not at 0.
Theoretically, this should not be a surprise to him. But the pulse of fury and shock through him is disorienting in its intensity, a furor that he doesn’t know that he’s ever felt. His vision goes spotty at the corners, stomach locking up tight, throat closing.
He needs to get away from here before he does something he regrets. He goes to grab his running shoes.
Jack sleeps like shit that night. Even after running himself ragged in loops around the pond, he can’t get his mind to shut off, and all he can think about is what Kent was doing with his mouth to put that tone of reverence in Ransom’s voice.
No, that’s a lie. He thinks about Vegas also, and how Kent came to Samwell to tempt Ransom and Holster into signing.
He’s not sure which annoys him more.
He gives up trying around 7am, going downstairs to find the place trashed, with random strangers still passed out on all the available furniture. Most mornings he’d stick around to help with the aftermath, but he doesn’t have the energy today. He grabs his backpack and heads to the cafeteria, then the library, hunkering down in an armchair in a far back corner. It’s blessedly empty, with most of the campus already cleared out for Christmas break.
He mutes his phone.
Some hours later, he emerges from his book, rubbing the crick in his neck and checking the window outside. The sun’s glare is blinding on the snow, and he squints at his watch and sees that it’s already midafternoon, and Bitty and Shitty are going to freak out if he doesn’t make an entrance at some point today, after…
It’s been long enough that Kent’s definitely gone, though. Whatever Shitty thinks about his emotional aptitude, Jack’s self-aware enough to recognize that goal from the beginning.
Jack’s pleased to find the place clear of trash and strangers when he steps inside. There’s a blond head just peeking up from behind the fridge door when he checks the kitchen, and he says, “Hey, Bittle.”
“Wrong blond,” says Kent, closing the fridge door and straightening up with a bottle of orange juice in hand. He’s only wearing boxer briefs. There are hickeys on the sharp cut of his hips.
Jack tries and fails to formulate a response.
Kent takes a swig straight from the bottle, like an asshole.
Everything about this moment is stupid, Jack thinks. He knows that Kent’s doing it on purpose, too. Showing up at his school, having sex with his friends, wandering around in just underwear after. It’s lunatic behavior.
Jack, spitefully, refuses to engage. “What are you even doing here?” he says. “Don’t you have a game in five hours?”
“Shit, do I?” Kent looks down at his bare wrist, affecting wide-eyed shock.
Okay, dumb question. For all his faults, Kent never slacks off.
“I’m just surprised this is the kind of captain you are,” Jack says, wanting the words to sting. “Your team used to these little… outings of yours?”
“Simmer down, sparky, before you strain something falling off that high horse of yours,” says Kent. “I drove back up to Boston last night and came down after practice.”
Jack deflates a little. He looks down at Kent’s body. “Then, why…?”
Kent takes another drink from the orange juice, though it doesn’t quite mask his smirk.
Jack’s eyes narrow. “You get off fucking straight guys, Kent?”
“Which one of those two do you think is straight, Jack?” Kent says curiously.
“I guess I just didn’t realize the Aces were that desperate for blueliners,” Jack says, ignoring him. “Handy recruitment strategy.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Kent says, rolling his eyes. “You can be pissed at me for coming to poach your d-men, you don’t have to call me a slut while you do it.”
“I just don’t get it,” Jack says. It comes out too loud, and too honest. “Why – how –?”
“They’re both really hot?” Kent says, shrugging. “And funny? I like their weird psychic twin thing? I like fucking bros, they’re always really chill about it.”
“They could ruin you,” Jack says.
There’s a weird beat of silence, where Jack hears the words that just came out of his mouth. He doesn’t blame Kent for staring incredulously at him.
“Look, after this long in the league, I’m pretty well-versed in the whole Don’t Ask Don’t Tell thing,” Kent says after a minute. “Call me naïve, but I’m pretty sure your friends aren’t going to TMZ with the scoop. If I’m wrong, that’s my bad.”
Most of Kent’s sex life is probably centered around casually fucking hockey bros, Jack realizes. He himself is one in a long line.
That’s not fair, he consciously knows. Kent never treated him like that, and it’s a disservice to act like he has.
“No, you’re right,” Jack admits, albeit reluctantly. “They’re best friends, though, so… don’t make it weird for them?”
“Oh, don’t try to pretend that was their first ménage à trois,” Kent says. “Those boys are no strangers to group sex.”
Jack can feel the blood rush to his cheeks, which is deeply annoying.
Kent, laughing, turns to go back upstairs.
“Parse,” Jack says.
Kent looks back at him.
“What did they say?”
Kent presses his lips together. “They didn’t say yes.”
Jack’s whole body goes light with relief.
“But they didn’t say no, either,” Kent says, then heads upstairs.
Fuck.
At around 4:30, Kent comes downstairs again, with Ransom and Holster trailing behind him. They’re all fully dressed and annoyingly coiffed. Ransom in particular is even more of a male model than usual, with a shadow of attractive stubble and a crisp button-down shirt rolled up to the elbows.
“I will only give you the keys if you swear not to do something stupid,” Kent says patiently. “That includes drag racing, doing donuts, attempting any Dukes of Hazzard stunts –”
“Yeah, we get it,” Holster says, neatly lifting the keys from Kent’s fingers.
Ransom whoops. “Shotgun!” he says, following Holster out the front door.
“You don’t have to call shotgun if there are only two people in the car,” Holster is saying as their voices trail off.
Bitty emerges from the kitchen. He doesn’t seem surprised to find Kent still here.
The acoustics of the attic need some adjusting, Jack thinks.
“You’re sure that was a good idea?” Bitty says doubtfully. “I reckon you didn’t tell your rental company anyone else was going to be driving that car.”
“That’s not a car, it’s a penis extension,” deadpans Lardo from the living room.
Kent chuckles. “I’m ignoring both of you,” he says.
“And doing a bang-up job of it, too,” Lardo says.
“Kid, you already chirped me enough after pasting me at pong last night, go easy on me,” Kent says, leaning against the back of the couch and looking over her shoulder at the tablet in her hands. “Did you make that?”
“Yeah,” says Lardo. “I’m not really into digital art, though, I prefer acrylics. This is…” She shrugs.
“Seriously?” Kent says. “If I could do that I’d be shouting it from the rooftops, holy shit. That’s gorgeous – you must work really hard.”
Lardo goes still. “I do work really hard,” she says, her voice strange.
Jack knows, because Lardo has vented about this before, that almost everyone tells her she has a gift after seeing her art – they call her a genius, or say they wish they had her talent. They say effortless and mean it as a compliment. But they never acknowledge how hard she works, how much she practices to improve, how it’s not easy and it’s definitely not effortless.
Kent understands this better than anyone, Jack knows. Parse has heard enough compliments about his soft hands and sharp eyes, what a gift he has. These people – they don’t understand that it isn’t blind talent that wins games, it’s work. He can’t just waltz in and win every game without trying. He tries so fucking hard every time, and to have his effort brushed off as inevitable success, to have his labors be trivialized – Fuck, Jack hates that kind of condescension.
No one has ever understood Jack like Kent does.
“It shows,” Kent says. “Is this your major?”
“Visual arts,” says Lardo. “Are you an artsy type?”
Jack snorts.
Kent shoots him a smirk over his shoulder. “Mashed potato sculpture is about my upper limit, but I’m trying to seem sophisticated so I’ve got loads of art on my walls in Vegas. Mostly Rothko and Pollock derivatives, turns out big slabs of color really appeal to my lizard brain. I’ve got a real Kandinsky too.”
Even Jack knows who that is, so the way Lardo gasps doesn’t surprise him. “Are you serious?” she says, turning around on the sofa to face him. “Oh my god, that’s wicked cool, can I see?”
Kent digs out his phone and clicks around for a minute before showing her the screen.
“Oh, fuck me, I take back all my chirping,” Lardo says. “If and when I’m ever in Vegas, can I visit you?”
“Sure,” Kent says. “If you let me take you to an Aces shindig and you can be my little beer pong ringer.”
“Deal,” Lardo says, shaking his hand. Apparently Kent is making a concerted effort to coax Jack’s friends to Vegas.
The pencil breaks in Jack’s hand.
Bitty looks at Jack, and they share a strange, frozen moment of eye contact. Bitty looks between Jack and Kent, and his face does something complicated; Jack’s not sure if he’s upset or concerned.
Then Bitty clears his throat. “Kent, I feel plum awful about what a terrible host I’ve been while you’ve been here. Can I get you anything for the road? I have asiago pretzels, or I think there’s some leftover rhubarb pie in the fridge. I could make you a sandwich, I know Jack always has peanut butter and jelly before his games…?”
“Oh, that’s so nice, but – I actually don’t eat carbs,” Kent says.
Bitty recoils with an expression that Jack knows is genuine horror.
“Yeah, just brown rice and whole wheat noodles,” Kent says. “I’ve never been good at anything in moderation so I just went cold turkey on all of it. We can’t all be Ovechkin eating 8000 calories of pasta every day.”
“We could all be Ovechkin if we cared a little less about our ab definition,” Lardo says dryly.
“Tell me it’s not working,” Kent says, lifting his shirt and clapping his abs with his other hand.
“Good god,” says Bitty. Jack’s not sure if he means it about Kent’s abs, the fact that he just clapped his abs, or if he’s still reeling at the knowledge that Kent doesn’t eat carbs.
“But yeah, I appreciate the thought,” Kent says. “Next time.”
“Bullshit,” Jack says.
“Excuse me? Do I need to show you my abs again?” Kent says.
Kent does have excellent abs. “I’m just saying, you can claim cold turkey all you want, but if you’re trying to tell me you don’t cheat with Cinnabon…”
Kent’s eyes crinkle cutely at the corners. “Don’t tell the trainers.”
Kent has an excellent smile, also.
When they get back from dinner that night, Ransom immediately gravitates towards the TV and turns on Center Ice. They’re just finishing the anthem, and Kent’s on the starting line.
Holster throws himself down onto the couch. “The fact that we couldn’t tap that is a crime against humanity,” he says. “Fuck mobility.”
“Tap what?” says Chowder, settling onto the floor to stretch.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Holster says. “I guess it’s not as immediately apparent with the hockey shorts on. Motion for the NHL to transition to baseball uniforms.”
“Wait, what?” says Chowder.
“Hold up,” says Nursey. “Please tell me I’m misinterpreting this. Please tell me that Kent Parson did not overlook the most attractive and flagrantly sluttiest member of Jack’s team to bone down by deciding to bro-bone you hetero jockstraps instead.”
“Are you talking about yourself?” Ransom says.
“Obviously,” says Nursey.
“Dunno what to tell you, dude,” says Holster.
“Wait, you two – and Kent Parson?” Chowder squeaks.
“Yes, and also hell yes,” Ransom says, high-fiving Holster.
“Don’t,” says Jack.
Something about his tone makes the whole room go quiet. “Jack?” says Bitty carefully.
Jack takes a deep breath, trying to compose himself. “This is his career, do you have any idea how much damage it would do if that got out? And you’re treating it like just another meaningless hookup?”
Ransom, at least, has the grace to look ashamed, but Holster meets his gaze head-on. “Dude, you think we’d be this blasé about it if he didn’t give us the go-ahead?”
“What?”
“I mean, effectively,” Holster says. “Rans asked him how he keeps his shit locked down in the NHL given how casual he was about said bro-boning, and Parse has definitely thought it through. Basically he said he trusts us, trusts our friends, and by the time it works through enough degrees of separation to reach someone who would be willing to sell the story, no one would believe it or be willing to pay for the scoop anyway.”
“Fair,” says Nursey.
“Lardo already knew, which meant Shitty already knew,” Holster continues.
“Yep,” says Shitty.
“It was fairly obvious Bitty already knew from the way he hasn’t been able to look us in the eye without blushing all day.”
“Oh, lord,” says Bitty.
“And of anyone on the team, I trust Nursey and Chowder to keep the secret,” Holster finishes. “TL;DR… Bite me.”
Jack shifts in his seat. They’re not wrong, but… neither is he. Just because Kent’s reckless doesn’t mean they should be also. “As well as you’ve rationalized that…”
“We’ll be more careful,” Ransom says. “Last time we spill, swear on the bible. A stack of bibles.”
“Two stacks of bibles,” Holster says, nodding solemnly.
“I think anything beyond a single bible is redundant,” says Shitty.
“Fine, back to a single bible,” says Ransom.
“You don’t believe in God,” says Lardo.
“I fail to see how that’s relevant,” says Ransom.
“So, back to bro-boning Parson,” says Nursey. “Deets?”
“Little man is not shy about going for what he wants,” Holster says. “Little man has no gag reflex.”
“Yoinks,” says Chowder, eyes wide.
Jack knew about the former factoid. The second one is news.
“I’m going upstairs,” he says, turning away, knowing that his motions are tight and jerky but unable to stop it.
“Little man can do a hilariously spot-on impression of The Rock,” Ransom is saying as Jack reaches the stairs.
On the TV, the Aces score.
Fortunately, Jack gets to head home the next morning for Christmas break. Also fortunately, Jack is a practiced compartmentalizer. This skill takes him through the break without incident, though he consciously knows he’s acting colder to Ransom and Holster than normal.
To put it in their terms, they can suck it.
The subject of their ‘bro-bone’ with Parse comes up a few times in the group chat, which is aggravating, but somehow less aggravating than them not bringing up Parse’s offer for them to sign with the Aces. It drives Jack insane with curiosity. Are they actually considering it? Would one of them go without the other, or is the offer only on the table for both? Did Parse give them a deadline to decide?
He briefly considers that Kent didn’t actually offer and he was just lying to torment Jack, but he knows Kent better than that. Parse was here to bargain. He didn’t come without the Aces’ brass knowing about it.
Anyway, when they all get back to school, he catches Ransom and Holster whispering between themselves, their expressions intent and furtive. He knows what they’re talking about.
He badly wants to know. It matters so much, and he knows it shouldn’t. After this year, he’ll be gone, so it shouldn’t matter that Kent may be stealing away their two best d-men at the same time. The rest of the team would be happy for them. Jack should be happy for them.
The idea of them playing in Vegas with Kent makes him want to punch through a window.
One Thursday, he gets back from class and finds every surface in the kitchen covered in baking sheets, each of them dotted with gooey circles of macaron batter. He doesn’t think much of it until he finds Bitty sullenly flipping channels in the living room.
“Bittle?”
Bitty’s head snaps up and he pastes on an even smile. It’s unsettling how good he is at it. If Jack hadn’t seen him a second before, he wouldn’t have questioned it. “Hi, Jack,” he says. “How was class?”
“Fine,” Jack says. “Did something go wrong with your macarons?”
“Oh, well, ha ha,” Bitty says. He actually says the words ha ha. “They’re not mine, so I couldn’t say. I hope not! Ransom and Holster seem very excited for the final product.”
Oh, no.
Jack immediately knows where this is going – knows because he was there when Alicia taught Kent how to make the perfect macaron for an entire afternoon, neither of them willing to call it quits until he’d mastered it. It took somewhere in the realm of eight hours. They were very good macarons.
“So they’re…” Jack says, looking at the ceiling.
“Yep!” Bitty says.
“Great,” says Jack.
“Great,” says Bitty. “I guess he’s here because the Aces are playing Providence.”
Jack checks the NHL app on his phone. Sunday against the Islanders, Tuesday against the Rangers, Friday against Providence. “Evidently.”
“Evidently,” says Bitty. “The macarons are setting. Apparently they should rest for at least 30 minutes before baking. It’s been…” He checks his phone. “34.”
Bitty does not look thrilled with Kent showing up and commandeering his kitchen. The problem is likely exacerbated by the fact that Bitty doesn’t seem to know how to make macarons. “Right,” says Jack, who has no idea how to deal with this. “So.”
“So,” says Bitty.
Thankfully, Kent chooses that moment to thump down the stairs, taking them two at a time. “Oh, hey,” he says, heading to the kitchen. “How was class?”
“Good,” says Jack. “How was bro-boning my two best d-men?”
Kent gives a surprised laugh. “Zimmermann with the snark! Get it, son.”
“For someone who doesn’t eat carbs, you’re sure filling my house with a lot of them,” Jack says dryly, looking around at the armada of baking sheets.
“Yeah, but Juice says your boys go through a lot of them,” Kent says, putting two of the trays in the preheated oven. “I don’t want to cut off their fix.”
“Juice?”
“Oh, right, Justin. Ransom. Sorry,” Kent says. “Ransom says.”
Jack looks at him for a moment. “What do you call Holster?”
“Moose,” says Kent.
Kent, Jack knows, likes to be special. He’s not going to call them Ransom and Holster because that’s what everyone calls them; he needs his own names for them. After all, Kent was the only one who ever called him Zimms.
Jack doesn’t particularly like being grouped in the same tier of Parse intimacy as Ransom and Holster. Or Juice and Moose, apparently.
He grits his teeth. “Everyone on the team is aware of the approved diet. We’re not eating anything we shouldn’t be.”
“Did I say you were?” Kent says, calmly. “I don’t eat carbs, I never said more than that.”
Technically this is true, but Juice says your boys go through a lot of them is not entirely without judgment, Jack knows. Part of Jack wants to lift up his shirt and clap his own abs, show Kent who eats too many carbs. This part of him, he recognized, should not be enabled.
“Well, you’re definitely not helping limit their intake,” Jack says.
“Anything in moderation,” Kent says with a grin.
Jack snorts.
It snows another foot that night, on top of the four-and-change that already layer the ground. The temperature takes a dip and doesn’t go back up, and Jack blows out a stream of breath to watch it crystallize in the air as he walks back from lunch, his toque pulled low over his ears.
Kent’s sitting on the porch when he gets back, bundled up in what Jack recognizes as Holster’s parka. He’s reclining back on a chair with his feet propped up on the railing, looking out over the quad with something soft in his expression.
Jack leans against one of the support beams, unable to walk past without stopping. “You miss it?”
“You don’t even know,” Kent says. “Being in Vegas is like living in a sauna full-time. It’s bikram yoga as ambient outdoor temperature. It’s opening a preheated oven and climbing the fuck inside.”
“Very picturesque description,” says Jack dryly. “Poetic, even.”
“I know, come at me with your fancy liberal arts degree,” Kent says, grinning.
Even now, it’s so easy to make Parse smile.
“Even in January?” Jack asks.
“Nah, January averages a nice frigid 60,” Kent says. “You never get used to it, you know? At least, I haven’t.”
“Well, you’re a Northern boy at heart.”
“Always will be,” Kent says. He lolls his head and looks up at Jack. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“About that time we had a snowball fight in July in the backyard?”
Kent nods, laughing. “We ground those snowballs for what, two hours? With that shitty toddler sno-cone machine that could only fit like four ice cubes in it at a time?”
“And the fight was over in 30 seconds,” Jack finishes, laughing with Kent as he remembers.
“No regrets,” says Kent. “And then your Mom went to make iced tea that night and we’d used up all the ice in the house.”
“– I hope you boys are pleased with yourselves,” Jack mimics, sending Kent into fresh gales of laughter.
Jack grins, pleased.
Naturally, Holster chooses that moment to burst out the door. “You ready?” he says to Kent, then notices Jack. “Dude, go get ready.”
“For what?”
“K-Pop didn’t tell you? It’s prime shinny season, son,” says Holster.
Jack flicks his gaze to Kent.
“Hadn’t gotten around to it,” Kent says. “You’re in, right, Zimms?”
“Of course,” Jack says, wondering if Kent had really meant to ask.
Jack doesn’t know who tipped off the Daily, but shinny turns into this whole event, the whole team there dressed up in their full gear.
By now it’s common knowledge among the team that Parse has been hanging out at the Haus, but they all still go hushed when he shows up, wearing Shitty’s spare kit and swinging his helmet in his hands. The first thing Kent does, accordingly, is do a full body flop on the ice and start swinging his arms and legs like he’s making a snow angel. Everyone laughs, and the Daily photog takes a few pictures.
Parse has always been good at that. Reading the room, putting people at ease.
“When’s the last time you played on outdoor ice, my man?” Ransom says, tapping his stick against Kent’s shin.
“Winter Classic, 2012,” Kent says. “Before that… Montreal, I guess.”
Jack glances over at him.
Kent lets Ransom help him to his feet. “I’d sell my firstborn to live somewhere I could play shinny all winter,” he says. “So jelly, you don’t even know.”
“Would you take a few hundy-K less a year?” Holster asks.
Kent smirks at him. “A few?”
“Would you take a few mil less a year?”
“Nah,” says Kent. “My boys in black own my soul, I’m locked in.” He stretches. “Limber up, fuckers, I’m not going easy on you.”
“Oh, shit,” says Nursey, immediately putting more effort into his stretches.
“Look, Bitty, the Daily’s here!” Chowder says, pointing. “You should do a jump for the front page!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” says Bitty, gaze flicking towards Kent for just a second.
Jack thinks the chances of anyone but Parse gracing the front page is unlikely, but he just says, “Yeah, Bittle, give us some of that Johnny Weir flair.”
“Oh, alright,” says Bitty, giving in. He does a few warm up loops, then launches himself into a neat twirl that probably has a name like triple lutz or double toe-loop or sextuple salchow or whatever.
“Daaamn!”
“Chill. That air, doooe.”
Jack, smiling, taps Bitty’s fist when he skates over. “Like riding a bike, huh?”
“Oof, no, I’m totally rusty,” Bitty says, blushing.
“That was rusty?” Kent asks, drifting over. “That was a triple axel, right? Fuck me, man, that rotation was sharp, Yuzuru Hanyu couldn’t have landed it cleaner.”
“Oh! Thank you!” says Bitty, blushing harder. “Gosh, now you’ve got me all…” He flapped his hand.
“We practiced this, Parse,” Holster says, skating up and throwing an arm around his shoulders. “What do you say?”
“I’m not saying that,” Kent says patiently.
“Saying what?” Bitty asks, looking between them in confusion.
“Say it,” Ransom says, coming up on Kent’s other side and jabbing his fingers into his ribs, right where he’s the most sensitive. Kent gives the same squeak Jack remembers. “Saaay it.”
“I’m a grown-ass man, I’m not saying it,” Kent says.
“Oh, you’re a grown-ass man?” Holster says. “All grown-up, huh?” He ducks down and heaves Kent over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, skating leisurely around the ice with Kent slung over his neck like a feather boa.
“This is undignified!” Kent says. “I protest!”
“SAY IT,” Ransom says, eyes twinkling.
“Fine!” Kent says. “It was ‘swawesome! Are you fucking happy now, you grotesque behemoths?”
“Thrilled,” says Holster, setting him down.
Kent’s laughing and flushed, as happy as Jack has seen him in – fuck, years.
“All right, boys!” Jack calls over the ice. “Let’s go, three-on-three! Holster, Ransom, you’re captains.”
“Dibs on Parson!” they chime, Holster a hair behind Ransom.
“Ah, fuck,” Holster says. “Fiiine, I guess I’ll take Jack.”
Jack reminds himself that he shouldn’t slew foot the captain of his own shinny team.
Jack would be able to handle sex sounds filtering down from the attic.
The laughter is somehow worse.
Jack’s not an idiot, and he’s not entirely emotionally inept, despite what Shitty seems to think. He knows what this is about.
Kent came to Jack’s school and breezed right past Jack to invite his two inarguably worse teammates to sign with his Cup-winning NHL team. Kent knew what it was like playing alongside Jack, the chemistry that couldn’t be taught, the magnetic connection between them that Jack has never felt with anyone else before or since. And he’d asked Ransom and Holster instead.
He wanted Ransom and Holster to come to Vegas, to play on his team, to carpool to practice in the mornings and share a roll of stick tape in the locker room. Ransom and Holster were invited to take Jack’s place: his shoulder, as the pillow to sleep against on long roadies; his mouth, the receptacle for Kent’s dubious cooking experiments; his stick, to practice pass plays with.
Jack knows, academically, that Kent has played hockey with loads of people besides him. If anything, he was a one year itinerant on the ongoing parade of Kent’s illustrious hockey career. He can’t blame them, or Kent, for it.
But the idea of Ransom and Holster being the ones to do it, Jesus Christ, that cuts. They don’t deserve that privilege, not the way Jack does. They don’t work as hard as he does, and they’re not as good as he is – it’s not a criticism, it’s fact.
Jack has long since accepted that he and Kent are combative forces, that they’re bad for each other. It’s better for Jack, and for Kent, if they don’t spend too much time together – he knows intimately how much potential they have to hurt each other.
But that doesn’t make it any easier to see Ransom and Holster sliding into his spot. To think about them touching Kent the way he’d used to, playing with his cowlick while they shoot the shit in bed, tease him with heated glances across the locker room.
It’s so easy for them. It was never that easy for Jack – the sex, sure, but the feelings? Fuck. Jack has experienced extreme highs and extreme lows in his life, and now he’s aiming for something closer to the middle, where there’s not as much room to fall.
Kent Parson, say what you will of him, has never been mundane.
Jack has done enough self-reflection that he knows what’s good for him. Parse is too dangerous – simultaneously the euphoria high and the crash after. Parse has never been easy, meaningless fun for Jack, the way he clearly is for Ransom and Holster.
He knows what this is all about, but it doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.
Kent’s still there in the morning, sliding into a seat at team brunch and taking a few of the leftover macarons from the bowl at the center of the table. He absently juggles them in the air.
“Are you supposed to be doing anything hockey related while you’re on this coast?” Jack asks.
Kent smiles genially at him.
“I think K-Pop’s goal and assist against the Falcs last night counts as hockey related,” Ransom says, taking the seat next to Kent.
“Also, as totally bitchin’,” Holster adds.
“And the team doesn’t mind that you’re spending every available moment here?” Jack asks.
“The team is well aware of my location at all times,” Kent says. “But I’m sure the Aces’ admin appreciate your concern.”
Because Kent’s here on official Aces business as an envoy to bait some prospects, Jack remembers. His mood, already sour, darkens further.
“We’re flying back this afternoon, I’ll get out of your hair soon enough,” Kent says. “Relax, Zimmerface.”
It used to annoy Jack when Kent called him that, but now he’s guiltily pleased that Kent’s still trying to get a rise out of him. A Kent trying to rile him up is a Kent who isn’t as blasé about being here and seeing Jack as he’s trying to seem.
“Too bad, it’s been sick having you here,” Nursey says. “I’ve almost forgotten you’re a legit celebrity with how little swag you possess.”
“Says you,” Kent says. “I invented swag.”
“You’re okay using the word swag but you’re too old to use the word ‘swawesome?” Ransom says, shaking his head. “Cognitive dissonance, bro.”
“Yes, I’m an enigma, thank you for noticing,” Kent says, grinning. “And I’m not too old, I’m too adult. Don’t call me old or I’ll have an existential crisis and lock myself in the bathroom.”
“Don’t do that, we need that bathroom,” Holster says.
“Fine, I’ll lock myself in the attic,” Kent says. “Only you guys use that attic.”
“OMG, a fugitive in the attic!” says Chowder, clapping his hands over his face. “See, guys! Definitely better than 1,000 roaches.”
“Say what?” Kent says.
“VINDICATION,” Ransom says, banging his fists on the table.
“I didn’t realize I had the option of choosing who was hiding in the attic in the hypothetical,” Holster says. “That changes things.”
“Seriously, what?” Kent says, looking around the table.
“It was a Would You Rather on a roadie,” Holster explains. “Which would you rather find in your attic, a person or a 1,000 roaches?”
“Oh, a person, hundo-percent,” Kent says. “How is this even a question?”
Ransom high-fives him.
“Roaches,” Dex says, very calmly, “will not smother you. In your sleep!”
“You can exterminate roaches. It’s not that hard,” Holster says. “Exterminating a person is more labor-intensive and requires a lot more paperwork after.”
“Look,” Kent starts to say.
“Oh, no.” Jack bangs his head on the table.
Everyone looks at him. “What?” says Ransom.
“Parse literally never gives up on an argument,” Jack says. “I once argued with him for four hours about whether golf is a sport. It was me and three other teammates against him. He made one of them cry.”
“Golf is obviously a sport,” Ransom says. “K-Pop, tell me you realize that golf is a sport.”
Kent lifted his hand, all five fingers outspread. “I will not, as it is not. We begin with point number one. The Oxford English Dictionary defines a sport as –”
“It’s in the Olympics, it’s a sport,” Ransom says.
“I’m with Parse,” Nursey says. “It’s a hobby.”
“You use your muscles. There’s a body of authority that oversees it. Athletic people are better at it. It requires hand-eye coordination. It’s a sport,” says Dex.
“If you can perform an activity while actively smoking a cigar, it’s not a sport,” Kent says.
“That’s some arbitrary bullshit right there,” says Ransom. “Who came up with that definition?”
“Point number two,” says Kent, ignoring him. “If you can have the physique of Phil Mickelson while enjoying your hobby, it is not a sport. Point number three –”
“I blame you for this,” Bitty tells Jack in an undertone.
“That’s fair,” Jack says.
The argument is still going strong in the living room an hour later. There are PowerPoints. Somehow, Kent has procured a whiteboard. No one should ever let Kent get his hands on a whiteboard, Jack knows.
Jack leans in the entryway and watches, unbearably fond.
“Well, maybe American Ninja Warrior should be considered a sport!” Ransom is saying, throwing his arms up in the air.
“What about bowling?” Kent says. “Is bowling a sport? By your definition…”
Ransom, backed into a corner, wrinkles his nose. “I. Maybe?”
“If you consider bowling a sport, we’re having different fucking conversations, man,” Kent says. “In that I am a reasonable human and you’ve had some kind of breakdown.”
“Yo, K-Pop,” says Holster.
“Oh come on, your standards are unreasonable. I mean, by your definition, is…” Dex struggles to come up with a sufficiently ridiculous example. “Is baseball a sport?”
Jack grins, waiting for it.
“Good question!” Kent says. “It is not.”
Ransom’s voice hitches up another octave. “You don’t think baseball is a sport?”
“Parse,” says Holster, louder.
Jack checks his watch. “He has to head back to Providence?”
Holster nods. “I feel like he would actually rather miss his flight than check out now.”
“He would,” Jack agrees.
Kent gestures expansively. “What percentage of game-time do they actually spent moving versus standing still, sitting down, and/or eating fried chicken and beer?”
“That was just Boston! That’s not indicative of the sport as a whole,” says Ransom.
“Kent!” Holster says loudly. “Fuck it, I’m just going to carry him out.”
“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Jack says.
Holster, ignoring him, wades into the fray and puts his hand on Kent’s shoulder. “Dude, you gotta go,” he says, starting to push Kent towards the door.
Kent very calmly reaches up and grabs Holster’s hand, prying back his fingers so he releases with a cry. Holster shakes out his hand, wincing.
Parse doesn’t like feeling condescended to. “I tried to warn you,” Jack says, leaning on the doorjamb with his arms crossed. There’s a warm curl of vindictive pride in his chest that he knows Kent so much better than Holster, even after all this time.
“Yeah, point taken,” Holster says, relaxed and genial. He doesn’t seem to realize that Jack has won this one; either that, or he doesn’t care. “So how would you handle this, o’ Parson-whisperer?”
Jack puts two fingers to his mouth and whistles, sharp and piercing.
The room goes silent.
“Parse, it’s go-time, let’s move,” Jack says firmly – his captain voice. “You’ve got a flight to catch.”
Kent checks his watch. “Shit!” he says, rushing up the stairs to the attic to grab his things and tossing over his shoulder, “We’ll continue this next time!”
Jack doesn’t even try to hide his smugness from Holster, who just smiles broadly back.
It’s actually kind of annoying, how chill Holster is about the whole thing. Ransom, at least, has some sense of discretion, but Holster has never cared about that, or about bothering Jack –
Which he definitely knows he’s doing. He has to know, because Ransom intentionally cuts off any mention of Kent whenever Jack is around, and Holster’s just as perceptive as Ransom is but he keeps doing it anyway.
Jack literally has a nightmare one day about them facing off against him in black and white jerseys. His subconscious is not subtle.
It’s still on his mind at practice the next day, and Jack funnels his disconcertion into his skating, taking every drill like it’s a race that he means to win. By the time they get to the scrimmages, he has sweat soaking the back of his jersey and he can pleasantly feel his pulse in his fingertips. He likes that feeling.
Dex, for all he tries, can’t even hope to keep up. “Mother of –!” Dex swears when Jack blasts past him the third time, leaving his own lineys behind. He doesn’t need them; he scores easily without an assist, top shelf, Chowder getting his glove in place a second too late.
“Whoa, Jack, slow down,” Hall chuckles, but he’s clearly pleased. “Why don’t you take a breather and let the other guys have a chance?”
“I’m feeling hot today, Coach,” Jack says.
“I can tell,” Hall says. “Tell you what, why don’t you take Shitty’s pinnie and switch sides, let Justin and Adam see if they can contain you.”
Jack looks over at Holster. “Sure thing.” He takes Shitty’s pinnie and swaps spots with him, leaning over with his hand braced on his knees and meeting Holster’s gaze across the ice.
Holster smirks at him.
Wicky wins the faceoff and immediately hooks it back to Jack, and Jack swings around to the side, trying to get past Ransom on the left. Ransom skates backwards with him, playing for the puck, trying to snag it away.
Jack can see Holster coming in his peripheral vision, and he does a neat feint to squeeze between Ransom and the boards, passing off the puck to Wicky as he does and putting himself in perfect position to take the pass back. He doesn’t score on his shot attempt, but he still fist-bumps Wicky as they skate back for the face-off.
“Too dirty,” Wicky says approvingly.
“Damn, you start thinking you’re good at hockey and then this NHL-caliber dickhead…” Ransom says to Holster.
“We’re gonna need to amp up our game if we want to make it anywhere in the playoffs,” Holster says.
Jack isn’t sure if it was just in his head, or if there was actually a pause between in and the playoffs. Like Holster had meant to say something else, and stopped himself.
Jack wonders if Kent agrees with the Aces GM that they should recruit Ransom and Holster. Has Kent watched their tape – maybe noticing them when he was watching Samwell games for Jack? What does Kent think of the way they play? Does he think they’re ready to be in the NHL?
Was it Kent’s idea to recruit them?
They’re not ready, Jack knows, and it’s not just spite fueling that. They’re good players – some of the best defensemen he’s played with. But college play and pro play are totally different worlds, and some of the best college players doesn’t mean shit on NHL ice.
When Holster and Ransom discuss the offer, is that part of their consideration? Does the idea ever occur to them that they’re not good enough? After all, even Jack –
NHL play isn’t anything like college play. Jack leans in a little more, weight shifted forward on his skates, determined to prove this to them.
On the next play, Shitty wins the face-off, and a few passes later the puck lands on Holster’s stick.
Jack levels him.
It’s a check that belongs in an NHL highlight reel. It’s legal, he’s sure of it, but Holster goes flying all the same, skates leaving the ice for one second of near-levitation before he lands so hard Jack swears the rink shakes.
“Oh –” Dex says.
“Damn,” Nursey says.
“Mercy!” Bitty says, skating over and kneeling besides Holster. “Are you okay?”
“What the fuck, Jack,” Ransom says, glaring.
Jack shrugs. “Just wanted to show you both what NHL-caliber dickheads can do,” he says.
Ransom’s gaze shifts into something complicated, or maybe thoughtful.
“Jack, take a lap,” Hall says sternly. “Adam, you need the infirmary?”
“Nah, coach,” Holster says, letting Ransom and Nursey heave him to his feet, leaning heavily on Ransom for balance. “Can I take five, though?”
“Definitely, go sit down and have some water, and if you feel any twinges of sharp pain, don’t you dare think about coming back on the ice,” says Hall. “Everyone else, back to work. Jack – a word.”
Jack scowls.
He gets out of the locker room later than everyone else after getting reamed out by Hall, so he isn’t expecting to catch up with anyone. But Ransom is waiting outside Faber, leaning against the wall with one foot braced against it. He looks up from his phone when Jack opens the door.
“Hey,” Jack says. He grimaces. “Is Holster okay?”
“He’s a big boy, he can take the big hits,” Ransom says, strangely genial given how angry he had been before. “You headed to dinner? We can walk together.”
“Yeah…” Jack has a bad feeling about this walk.
Ransom, thankfully, doesn’t play coy. They make it about four steps before he coughs and says, “Hey, uh… we wouldn’t have slept with him if we knew.”
“Knew what?” Jack says. It’s a bitch move and he knows it, but he doesn’t know what else to say.
Ransom shoots him an unimpressed look.
Jack inhales slowly through his nose. “He doesn’t belong to me,” he says. He doesn’t have any right to dictate any aspects of Kent’s life. It’s annoying, but it’s true.
“Well, I mean, obvs,” Ransom says. “But that doesn’t change the fact that we wouldn’t have slept with him if we knew.”
“You should pursue whatever career you want to whatever heights you can achieve,” Jack says flatly. “If you want to sign with the Aces, do it. My opinion shouldn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Oh,” Ransom says, looking at him in some surprise. He smiles, soft and private. “…Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Jack says.
Ransom tilts his head. “But, again, that wasn’t… really my point.”
“Ransom,” Jack says.
“Right, right, you’ve said what you want to say,” Ransom says, raising his hands. “Good talk.” He rolls his eyes.
“Good talk,” Jack says.
Kent calls him that night. “I am so pissed no one caught that on video,” he opens with.
Jack closes his eyes and sits up in bed, leaning back against the wall. “Who told you?”
“Chowder,” Kent says. He snorts. “Fucking Holster, obviously.”
“Where are you?” Jack asks.
“Hotel room in beautiful, balmy Edmonton,” Kent says. He groans. “I miss snow, Zimms.”
Jack chuckles. “I know.”
“You don’t know, you’ve never lived in a desert climate.” There’s a squeak of springs as Kent throws himself on the bed. “Do you have any idea what it’s like?”
“As you just pointed out, I don’t.”
Kent grumbles wordlessly. “Just saying, whichever team you pick, factor climate into account.”
Jack doesn’t answer. Whichever team you pick.
Why hadn’t Kent asked him? All along, had Jack wanted him to?
Kent seems to notice his delayed response, and his voice sharpens. “You want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?” Jack says. Again, a bitch move. Again, he’s going with it.
“We both know this isn’t really about Ransom and Holster,” Kent says.
“Don’t you mean Moose and Juice?” Jack grumbles.
“God, are you really going to make me say it?” Kent says. “Jack. You’re jealous.”
Jack opens his eyes. In the dim light of his room, he can just make out the gleam of the mirror mounted on the back of the door.
“You have no reason to be,” Kent says, voice quiet. “I’d rather have you, you know.”
Jack has no idea how to respond to that. He’d suspected it, academically, but hearing it out loud… It hits him in the chest like – well, there are a lot of fitting hockey metaphors for it.
In the silence, he hears when a door opens on Kent’s side of the line. “Hey, where’d you run off to?” someone asks.
Mosh, Jack recognizes. One of the Aces’ alternates. Nice guy, killer slapshot.
“Had to make a call,” Kent says. “Hang on, sorry,” he adds, obviously to Jack. “I’ll be right back.” Then his voice goes fainter as he sets the phone aside. “How’d it go father figuring the rookies?”
“They’re so cute and small,” says Mosh. “Like ducklings.”
“Surge weighs roughly 60 pounds more than you do,” Kent says.
“Okay, really big ducklings,” says Mosh. “With really thick Russian accents.”
“Any progress with that mental block of Barky’s?”
“Dude, that’s a legit problem, he needs to see the psych,” says Mosh. “He’s got the yips worse than Nick Folk.”
“You know that I don’t understand that reference,” Kent says patiently.
“How am I the American football fan between us,” Mosh says, sighing.
“Because I have taste?” Kent says.
“You like NASCAR, get fucked,” Mosh says.
“Oh go fuck yourself,” Kent says. “You blow a NASCAR driver one time.”
“Still hilarious!” Mosh crows.
Hearing about Kent’s sex life with NASCAR drivers is way easier than hearing Kent and Mosh’s easy camaraderie, their light banter balancing with their effortless co-captaining. Their honed partnership is apparent from 3000 miles away. Jack had that with Kent once. He hasn’t had it with anyone since.
College teams are different, he knows. More micromanaging from the coaches and the manager, less responsibility as a captain and player. Still aggravating.
What the fuck, Zimmermann, are you going to go psycho jealous over everyone important in Kent’s life? He thinks to himself bitterly. He worries he knows what the answer is.
A minute later, Mosh disappears in the bathroom to shower and Kent picks up the phone again. “Still there?”
“I thought you were coming to ask me,” says Jack. He didn’t mean to say it, but he wouldn’t take it back even if he could.
Kent goes quiet for a long moment. Then he says, “I figured if you wanted it, I wouldn’t need to ask.” He pauses again, then adds, “Would you have said yes?”
Jack doesn’t have an answer for that.
“That’s what I thought,” says Kent quietly.
“I might have,” Jack says.
“Horseshoes and hand grenades, babes,” Kent says. “It’s okay. I can take it.”
Jack presses his fingers over his eyelids, hard. “It’s not personal,” he says.
“Oh, fuck you,” Kent says, but he sounds more tired than upset. “The fact that you think that should make me feel better…”
“Fine, then it’s not that simple,” Jack says.
Kent inhales. “That’s fair.” There’s another long beat of quiet. “It’s late there, I’ll let you go.”
“Alright,” Jack says.
On a roadie against Union, Jack comes down from his hotel room before dinner and finds a bunch of his teammates sprawled out over the furniture in the lounge area. The concierge doesn’t look pleased.
“Get your feet of the coffee table,” Jack says, walking into Shitty’s outstretched legs to knock them off. “This isn’t the Haus, you can’t sit like that.”
Nursey reluctantly shifts so his legs aren’t thrown over the arm of his loveseat.
“Thanks, Miss Manners,” Holster says absently, crammed in next to Ransom on a single loveseat, both of them peering at Ransom’s laptop screen.
“Too easy,” Shitty says, throwing a fake apple at him. Holster doesn’t notice in time, and it hits him in the face and bounces off, rolling on the floor with a clatter.
The concierge visibly twitches at his desk.
“Stop that,” Jack says, wishing either Bittle or Lardo were here to enforce some manners. Irritatingly, the team listens to them more.
“What are you two love machines even working on?” Nursey says, leaning so far to pick up the apple he nearly unbalances.
“Cost-benefit analysis report,” Ransom says absently.
“For class?”
“No,” Ransom says.
Jack looks up sharply. He can feel Shitty’s gaze on him.
Ransom is a big believer in rational analysis. It’s how he picked Samwell – if he cleaned up his college enrollment decision spreadsheet into a template, he could sell it to high school guidance counselors for thousands of dollars. He likes to crunch the numbers on big decisions.
Vegas is a big decision, Jack knows.
“So you’re thinking about it?” Jack says, keeping it vague. The rest of the team doesn’t know, as far as he’s aware, and he’d like to keep it that way.
“Eh,” Holster says. “Let’s give it 10-to-1 odds.”
“Thinking about what?” Nursey asks.
“We’re not discounting the idea offhand,” Ransom says.
“What idea?” Nursey asks.
Shitty looks between the three of them, then he says, “Yo, Nurse, let’s go grab the others and head to dinner. These fucks can catch up later.”
Nursey frowns, but he lets Shitty propel him away to the rooms. He’s still tossing the fake apple in the air, and the concierge has to call him back to return it.
Finally, once they’re alone, Holster says, “Why does that bother you so much?” His gaze is frank; he doesn’t look angry. “Does it piss you off that much that we might sign?”
“I told Ransom, it’s your business if you do, it shouldn’t have shit to do with me,” Jack says, keeping his voice level. He doesn’t want to be the one to crack, and he knows Holster won’t.
“So it does bother you,” Holster says.
“Holtzy…” Ransom says. He’s always been the more sensitive one between them – or maybe considerate is the right word. Or maybe deferential. “C’mon.”
“You can go, Rans,” Holster says. He shifts so he’s propped on the edge of his seat, no longer tucked back against Ransom. Squaring up, Jack thinks. Dropping the gloves.
When he’d first met Holster, Jack had thought Holster didn’t like him. It really used to bother him. Over time, he’d realized that Holster just wasn’t… impressed by him, and the fact that Jack had expected him to be gave him a lot to think about.
“Yeah,” Jack says. “It bothers me.”
“Why?”
Jack works his jaw.
“Because Parse should have asked you?” Holster says. “It’s not like we were ever together, you weird jealous fuck. We boned him like four times over a two month period, it’s not a thing.”
“You say that like it’s going to be some big revelation for me,” Jack says tightly. “Believe me, it’s not.” Everyone thinks he’s more stunted than he is – it’s fucking insulting.
Behind Holster, Ransom looks back and forth between them, biting his lower lip.
“So what’s the fucking problem?” Holster says. “What about us signing with the Aces is so fucking terrible to you, besides the fact that Kent asked us instead of you?”
“Since when have you ever wanted to play for the NHL?” Jack asks, leaning forward himself. “Had the thought ever crossed your mind before Parse asked you? Ransom’s going to med school, you’re an econ major. Don’t pretend this has always been your dream.”
“So?” Holster asks. “Why does that matter?”
“Because you don’t have any idea what you’re signing up for – this thing you never even wanted just fell into your lap, and –” Jack doesn’t know why this matters so much to him, but it does.
He thinks about the way Holster and Ransom fuck around during practice, coming up with dumb hockey plays and shoving each other around after the whistle. He thinks about himself at 17, popping pills and downing shots, anything to loosen the awful tight clutch of his chest. He thinks about the things Kent used to say to calm him down, sugar-spun fantasies of their lives in the NHL, how they were going to take the hockey world by storm together.
“We haven’t earned our spot, is what you’re saying,” Holster says. “We haven’t sacrificed enough for it.”
Jack grunts.
“Of course we’ve wanted it,” Ransom says unexpectedly.
Jack looks at him. Ransom’s expression is… dark.
He shuts his laptop and moves forward on his seat, a matched pair with Holster. “Of course we’ve dreamed of playing for the NHL. But some of us need to be realistic about our options. Do you think I’m going to medical school because it’s my dream, Jack?”
Jack finds himself floundering, the ground shifting underneath him.
“Just be honest,” Ransom says. “The reason it bothers you is because you don’t think we’re good enough. We’re not NHL caliber.”
Jack opens his mouth, and nothing comes out.
“Nah,” says Holster. “It’s that we’re not good enough to play alongside Kent.”
There isn’t enough air in the room. Jack’s thoughts are scattered, and he can’t pick any out to make a coherent sentence.
“It’s never been about us fucking him,” Ransom says. “It’s about us playing hockey with him.” He stands up, carrying his laptop under his arm. “I’m cutting you some slack because I know this is a whole big thing, but seriously, Jack, it’s not always about you.”
Holster puts his hand on Ransom’s lower back and leads him out.
Jack was an ass. He knows he was an ass. He knows Ransom and Holster know that he knows. He could, and should – and will – apologize, but he hasn’t found the right words yet, so he takes to spending more time in his room to avoid the awkwardness.
Holster and Ransom aren’t the problem, they’re as chill as ever around him. He’s the one who can’t keep it together.
Bitty shows up at his door two days in carrying a covered dish. Whatever’s inside smells heavenly.
“It’s not carbs,” Bitty says quickly. “I didn’t realize until Parson, um, said something that they were so off-limits for you.”
Jack shrugs. “Parse is full of it. Pro athletes get self-serious about their diets. The team isn’t eating anything that the trainers have a problem with.”
Bitty sags with relief. “But… you?”
“Yes, I, uh, prefer to avoid carbs,” Jack admits. He hates when Bitty gets the sad eyes. He never knows how to fix it. “But don’t let that stop you from doing what you love.”
“Don’t be silly, I love all kinds of cooking, not just pies,” Bitty says, offering up the dish. “It’s Mediterranean baked feta with tomatoes. If you want it.”
“Definitely,” says Jack, accepting it.
Bitty shuffles his feet. “So um, is everything okay? You seem pretty tense recently.”
“Just… making some important decisions,” Jack says. “About my future.”
“Gosh, that must be really stressful,” Bitty says. “Is there anything we can do to help?” He smiles. “I’m sure Ransom would love to help you put together a spreadsheet.”
Jack smiles back. “I’ll definitely let you know.”
“Okay,” Bitty says. He fidgets some more, like he hasn’t said everything he wants to.
Jack waits.
“It just seemed like having Parson around really unsettled you,” Bitty blurts out. “Shitty says you act, um, different when he’s around.”
“Is that what Shitty says?” Jack says dryly. “In those words?”
Bitty ducks his head. “Maybe not in those exact words,” he admits. “I just… If Ransom and Holster really knew how much it bothers you to see him, I bet they’d stop inviting him over.”
“It doesn’t bother me,” Jack says.
Bitty looks up at him. “It doesn’t?”
In the last five years, Jack has managed to suppress how much he genuinely misses Kent Parson. Well, these last few months have fucked that up completely.
“Things are complicated between me and Parse. It’s definitely easier for me not to get caught up in his whole…” Jack says. “But it doesn’t bother me to see him.”
“His whole…?” Bitty says, swallowing.
Jack shrugs. How to describe in words – Kent’s magnetic pull, like a black hole. Trying to put him in words is as difficult as pinning down the color of his eyes. “You’ve met him,” he says. “You know.”
For some reason, this makes Bitty clear his throat. He seems unhappy in a way Jack can’t entirely qualify. “I guess. Like I said, he just seems to really… get to you.”
“He definitely gets to me,” Jack says.
Really, it’s Kent in context – Kent on the Aces, Kent in Rimouski, Kent in the Haus’s attic, Kent on home ice lifting the Stanley Cup. Kent himself has never been the problem.
“Thanks for the, uh, food, Bittle,” Jack says, nodding at him.
“You’re welcome, Jack,” Bitty whispers.
On their weekly call, Jack and his father talk hockey for a half hour before the conversation starts to peter to a natural end. Bob starts to say, “Well, I guess we’ll talk –”
“Papa?” Jack says. “Can I ask you something?”
“Oh! Of course,” Bob says, and his voice goes clearer, as if he’s focusing all of his attention on Jack now while it was scattered before. Jack likes that about his father.
“When you played with Uncle Mario… What was it like playing with him?”
“Best year of my career,” Bob says, sounding nostalgic. “I’ve never played with anyone else like him. If it weren’t for Wayne, he’d be the undisputed GOAT.”
“Don’t let Bruins fans hear you say that,” Jack says, smiling.
Bob laughs. “True, true. I don’t know, there’s something about playing with someone that talented, to know you’re playing at your best because they’ve enabled you to… But you know what that’s like.”
Jack knows he’s talking about Kent. “Mm.”
“But maybe it was different for me,” Bob says. “By then I’d established myself, I didn’t have anything to prove to anyone. I don’t know what it would have been like to come into the league under his shadow.”
Jack loves his father in that moment, for seeing into the depths of Jack’s shame without judgment.
“I suppose it’s a matter of priority,” Bob says. “But I will tell you, I was pushing 40 and fighting a gut – oh, and my knees were starting to wear out – and it was still the best hockey I ever played. Winning that Cup just felt like an inevitability.”
“But you won it three times without him, also,” Jack points out. “You won the Conn Smythe without him.”
“That’s true,” Bob grants. “It could be exhausting, though, being the face of the Habs. Being the first one they look to for answers when the team isn’t playing well. Playing alongside Mario – I could just play hockey. I didn’t have to have the answers.”
Those media scrums were always Jack’s least favorite part of playing in the Q. They’d become easier after the reporters figured out Kent gave better soundbites anyway.
“Yeah,” Jack says. “I can see that.”
“Are you thinking about playing in Vegas?” Bob asks, getting right to the meat of it.
“Do you think I should?” Jack asks, in lieu of an answer.
“Only you can answer that,” Bob says. “But what are your reasons for not wanting to? Money? The fact that you’ll never be captain? Or just that you don’t want to be an -and-Zimmermann for the rest of your life?”
“I could be an -and-Zimmernann,” Jack says. “I’m not so petty that I’d rather lose alone than win as a pair.”
“Would you rather win alone than win as a pair?” Bob asks.
Jack falters. It’s a fair question.
“Parson will be your competition in this league whether you play with him or against him,” Bob says frankly. “He’s the gold standard to which you’ll always be compared.”
It’s hard to hear, but Jack is glad his father is willing to say it. For a long time, Bob had watched his words so carefully, unwilling to risk breaking the fragile calm between them.
“So it’s up to you to decide,” Bob says. “What matters most?”
Jack ponders this for some time. Then he calls his agent.
Three days later, the story drops. Shitty’s the first one to find him, throwing himself into the seat next to him in the lecture hall.
“Brah. Why’d I have to find out from NHL.com that you just signed with Vegas?”
“Oh, uh,” Jack says. “I thought I should tell a few other people first.”
“Have you?”
“No,” Jack admits in a mumble.
Shitty groans. “Your life is a series of baffling choices, my dude,” he says.
“Truer words,” Jack says. “You know I’m not really good at…”
“Call him,” Shitty says. “The longer you put it off, the harder it’s gonna be, and then the first time you talk will be at the Aces pre-season media day.”
“Oh, God,” Jack says, envisioning this.
He calls Kent as soon as he gets back to his room after class, trying not to get nervous about the fact that Kent hasn’t reached out since the news broke. It’s early enough in Vegas that Kent might genuinely not have seen it yet, he tells himself.
Kent’s voice is guarded when he answers, so that’s a bust. “Hey.”
“Did I fuck up here?” Jack says. “Rhetorical question, don’t answer. Can I just talk?”
“I would love to hear this,” Kent says.
“I figured it out,” Jack says. “I thought you were bad for me, I thought we made each other worse. But then I realized recently that I’ve made myself worse because – Because I can’t handle when other people take things that I think should be mine, and I lash out at them.”
He wouldn’t ever blame his parents for this, but he knows that growing up as the only child of Bob and Alicia Zimmermann didn’t inhibit this trait in him. Jack’s always been entitled. He likes to get what he wants.
“The first overall pick,” Kent says.
“All of it,” Jack says. The first overall, the Calder, the Cup, the life as an NHL superstar that Kent had earned while Jack lost his footing and fell behind. “I always think of things as a zero-sum game, and it’s not, and I know that.”
“Okay…” Kent says.
“And you,” Jack says.
“Me what? I’m not a zero-sum game?”
“You should be mine,” Jack says.
Kent goes very quiet.
“I don’t want Ransom and Holster playing hockey with you if I’m not there,” Jack says. “I don’t want Mosh playing hockey with you without me.”
“You’re a lunatic,” says Kent, his voice shaky in a way Jack recognizes – the good kind, he thinks.
“Is that news?” Jack says.
Kent laughs wetly.
“I want to be your center,” Jack says. “I want you to score on the passes I feed you.”
“That’s the most fucking romantic thing you’ve ever said to me,” Kent coos, regaining some of his customary edge. “During, like, the power play, when I’m playing with different lines, are you going to have some sort of caveman fit?”
“Kenny,” Jack says.
“Right, sorry, we’re having a moment,” Kent says. Jack doesn’t mind it, though – Kent defaults to insincerity when he’s vulnerable.
Jack likes that he can still make Kent feel vulnerable.
“I know it’s not a good reason, but it’s the truth,” Jack says. “So is it good enough?”
“I told you, you dumbass,” Kent says. “You’ve never had to be jealous. I’d rather have you.”
“Than Ransom and Holster,” Jack says. He knows that’s not what Kent means, but he wants to hear him say it.
“Than anyone,” Kent says.
Jack smiles.
“I just hope you realize what you’ve gotten yourself into,” Kent says. “It’s currently…” He taps something on his phone. “70 degrees in Vegas. In February.”
“Fuck,” Jack says. “Maybe I should have made you sign with Providence instead.”
Kent laughs, delighted.
Jack climbs up the attic stairs with a package between his teeth.
Ransom’s studying on the floor and Holster’s seated at the desk chair. There’s an open bag of Swedish Fish next to Ransom, and just as Jack comes up, he throws one backwards over his shoulder to Holster, who catches it in his mouth.
“Living YouTube trick shot compilations,” Jack says.
“You know it,” Ransom says.
Holster glances up when Jack tosses him the package. “Yo shit, is this a gesture? Aw, Jack, you sensitive goon.”
“Just open it,” Jack says.
Holster rips it open, pulling out the two matching custom Aces jerseys. Smiling, he throws the OLURANSI one to Ransom.
So Jack’s a cliché. Sue him.
“You should sign with Vegas,” Jack says. “Not going to lie, you’d have to develop in Reno for a while. But when you make it… If there’s anyone I trust on my blue line, it’s you two.”
“Psychic codependent twins, that’s us,” Holster says.
“We’re not signing,” Ransom says.
Jack is surprised to find himself genuinely disappointed. “You sure?”
“We’re sure for this year,” Ransom says. “We both want to graduate.”
“We know we’re not top talent like you, guaranteed huge contracts,” Holster says. “If we sign entry-level contracts and wash out, we’re going to want degrees to fall back on.”
“And I might still go to medical school,” Ransom says, shrugging. “Or I might do neither.”
“That’s fair,” Jack says. “You should definitely think about it, though.”
“Oh, for sure, Vegas is still on the spreadsheet. And hey, having you there, that’s definitely a draw,” Ransom says.
“And the fact that we’d get to keep bro-boning the hot captain,” Holster says.
Jack glares at him.
Holster grins. “Chill, man. I’m fucking with you. No one bro-bones the hot captain but you.”
“Damn straight,” says Jack.