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For a hockey player, Kent is unusually good with the media. He’s figured out the right combination of arrogance and charm that reporters and fans eat up, but equally knows when somber, serious reflection is necessary. Clips of his interviews and antics are often turned to gifs, spread around the Internet even by non-hockey fans, and he’s probably Buzzfeed’s favorite hockey player based on the amount of articles that pop up when you search his name.
Being filmed for a charity cooking show should have been a breeze. Kent’s no cook, but that’s part of the charm with these things. He’d even thought of stupid, witty jokes in advance.
(Picture it: Kent would crack an egg on the counter, the camera pointed at his hands. When it splits open, a clean crack down the very center, the camera would pan up to his face. Kent would grin, shrug, and say, “Like my head back in ‘14, when Geno checked me too hard.” Cue laughter. Cue gifs across Tumblr. Cue Buzzfeed article titled, “10 Reasons Why Kent Parson Should Have His Own Cooking Show.” Etc. Etc.)
Instead, Kent was a mess. Well, a mess by his standards, which meant sullen and angry and desperate. Too many different emotions that, when mixed together, left him awkward and fumbling with his words. The cameraman focused on him first, expecting witty jokes, but left once it became clear that Kent could only mumble unintelligible remarks while shifting his Aces hockey cap backwards, then forwards, then backwards again.
There were several reasons for his total burning wreckage of a television appearance, though he couldn’t place them in order of importance. They shifted around as the morning dragged on.
The first problem came when he’ d met the celebrity judges. Shaking hands with Bad Bob Zimmermann was two parts awkward, three parts heartbreak. He’d seen Bob around, of course, but never in such close proximity. Never with the opportunity to say “Hello” to the man he once thought of like a father. The man who wrapped Kent’s stick for him on his first game for good luck. The man who bought Kent his first suit to wear for the draft. The man who gave him advice on how to talk to girls. (And then eventually, after Kent came out to him, clumsily but endearingly amended it to, “Oh! Well. Here’s how you talk to boys. I think.”)
The man who had treated Kent like a son, until it wasn’t convenient anymore.
No-- fuck-- that wasn’t-- That wasn’t fair. Kent couldn’t think like that. Bob wasn’t his real father. He had the right to protect his own son, to put Jack’s needs first. Kent should just appreciate the time he had at all with Bob.
Except he left him when Kent needed him the most--
Fuck. Fuck! He was spiraling already.
Bob being there was bad for many reasons.
The second problem he should have expected once he saw Bob. Because Zimmermanns attracted Zimmermanns, so where there was Bob, there had to be Jack.
Jack Zimmermann had volunteered to participate in the charity cooking contest as well. He was working at a kitchen a few spots away, looking fantastic and fit and perfect and everything that Kent remembered about him, except better. But he still refused to look at Kent. He looked only at his cooking supplies or his cooking partner. (Which was fucking Seguin, which seemed unfair. Seguin and Kent had the same vibe in the hockey world, the same swagger and charm. If the producers wanted to feature the dynamic between Jack and Seguin, they could have gotten it with Kent and Jack. Plus, they had history. Why didn’t the producers pair Kent and Jack together? Unless Jack asked them not to. Which-- Fuck. There he went again.)
Except, sometimes, Jack would look one other place.
Into the audience.
At a particular face.
A blonde guy . Wearing a bowtie and a pressed button-down the same color as Jack’s eyes. Kent spent too much time watching them smile at each other, and not enough time looking at his own hands as he chopped a carrot.
Slice. Jack looked up from chopping his own onion to offer the blonde guy a small smile, one that he used to give Kent when he whispered commentary about their teammates back in juniors. Slice. The blonde guy mouthed something, too far away for Kent to read, but it made Jack turn back to his food with a blush. Slice. Suddenly, the blonde guy looked straight at Kent, caught him staring, and his gaze turned harsh. Narrowed eyes and lips twisted to the side. Slice. He didn’t even know the guy and yet Kent knew it was wrong. This was not a man designed for hate; Kent had done something to deserve his ire, which could only mean that he knew , which meant he had to be Jack’s--
“Woah! Kent Parson, no cutting finger off! We not making blood stew.”
“Huh?” Kent dropped his eyes to his knife, or, well, to the giant hand grabbing his wrist so that he couldn’t cut any more slices of carrot. The knife was taken from him and placed on the counter and it immediately struck a nerve. He wasn’t a child , he just got a little distracted. “Jesus, I’m fine.”
“Not fine. Kent Parson being stupid, make sloppy mistakes. Like Stanley Cup Final Game Four last year. You miss goal--”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”
“Ahh, look! There is Kent Parson.”
Kent shut his eyes and told himself to breathe.
This was his final problem.
His cooking partner, not by choice, was Alexei Mashkov, hulking giant and teammate of Jack. (And his new best friend if Mashkov’s Instagram was any indication. Kent was not jealous. He was not jealous. He was not fucking jealous. )
Alexei and Kent did… not exactly get along. Mashkov was known for being goofy and ridiculous off the ice, a favorite player in the NHL community, but on the ice he was a beast. You did not want to push Alexei Mashkov, literally or figuratively.
And Kent sort of pushed him, in the figurative sense. Which was probably worse than actually checking him. Mashkov could slam Subban into the boards and go out for drinks that same evening, but accidentally pick on one of Mashkov’s friends and you were scum of the Earth.
Being partnered with him should have been a disaster but so far they had made it work, primarily because Kent was so fucking checked out. They agreed to silence as one of the producers explained the rules of the contest - three courses, no rules for what they made but they only had ingredients found in the kitchen - and from there, Mashkov had started rattling instructions and ideas until he settled with, “You make salad, I make stew, we decide dessert later.”
Kent hadn’t argued. He was too busy staring at Jack and his likely boyfriend. Mashkov had been fine with this until now.
“I’m just--” Kent fumbled for an explanation for his behavior. The only father-figure I’ve ever had is judging my culinary skills, my first love is flirting with his new boyfriend ten feet to my left, and said boyfriend is looking at me like I ran over his dog. Too much. Too ridiculous. Instead, Kent settled with changing the conversation. “What are you making, anyway?”
“I make surprise dish. Rat stew. No ingredient but is okay, since you are here. Judges will be very surprised.”
Kent sucked the inside of his cheek in-between his teeth, trying not to glare when there were so many cameras present. Mashkov and his fucking rat jokes.
“Yeah, well, maybe we can make potato soup and use you.”
Mashkov patted Kent’s shoulder. “My chirp better. Your chirp embarrassing. Try harder, Kent Parson.”
Kent couldn’t help it. He felt his anger tug at his facial features, forcing his eyebrows to narrow and his lips to edge into a snarl, and he was powerless to it all. Mashkov had a way of getting under his skin like no one else. The guy wasn’t even fluent in English and yet somehow he could pick at Kent’s insecurities with a few carefully picked words.
“You know what, Mashkov--”
Like hunters finding their prey, within seconds there were two cameras in his face and the host of the cooking show - a former Olympian, some pretty gymnast - was near their table, grinning as she said, “Uh oh, trouble in paradise, boys?”
Kent faltered. Fuck the Zimmermanns for being here, fuck that stupid blonde for grinning at Kent’s misfortune, and fuck Mashkov for pissing him off in the first place.
“No trouble, just we joke,” Mashkov said, grinning easily. He swung his arm around Kent’s neck and pulled him close. “He mad we make stew, say my stew no good. I say his slap shot no good either but he try every game. Sometimes less about doing, more about trying, right Kent Parson?”
The host laughed. Mashkov laughed. Kent forced a laugh, both annoyed and relieved that Mashkov had somehow diffused the situation. “If my slap shot is so bad, how come I’m leading in points this season?”
The host cooed, “Oohhhhh,” and Kent desperately wanted her to leave. Swapping insults with Mashkov wasn’t exactly fun, but it kept his mind off Bob and Jack and Blondie. If the cameras left Kent wouldn’t have to worry about being PC with his chirps either.
“You score because goalie distracted by Kent Parson’s pretty eyes. So confusing!” Mashkov grabbed Kent’s cheeks with his hands and turned his face to the host. “You tell me: grey, green, blue?”
Kent’s mind blanked for a moment. The fuck? How did they get from chirping to talking about his eyes? And did Mashkov call them pretty? The host and Mashkov were chatting, trying to figure it all out, but Kent lost his words. People were going to talk about this. Some good things, but knowing hockey culture, mostly terrible things. Things that Kent had been purposefully avoiding and being extremely careful about for years and Mashkov just completely ruined everything--
Spinning. Stop spinning. You have to stop spinning out of control. They’d talked about this - Kent and his therapist - about how he took something small and insignificant and he blew it up and obsessed about it. He was trying to let things go but he was shit at it.
“Enough talking, must cook!” Mashkov gestured to Kent’s carrot situation. “We have no dessert, must focus, shh, shh.”
The host finally left. Mashkov went back to his stew, stirring onions and garlic and some unknown herb in a saute pan, and Kent focused back on his veggies. How had he gotten stuck with doing a salad? He wasn’t a chef, but he could do more than chop veggies.
“Not being usual Kent Parson today. Why?”
Kent’s annoyance was pulled from him once again, subdued but not forgotten. At Mashkov’s words, Kent couldn’t help but look at Jack’s boyfriend. “I’m fine.”
“Kent Parson does not seem fine. Your mouth usually hanging open all the time, talking, talking, talking, but today? So quiet.”
“Why do you always say my full name?” Kent grumbled, tossing the carrots on top of spinach he had cut earlier. “Just call me Parse. Or Parser. Or, fuck, even Kent, but not Kent Parson.”
Mashkov shrugged. “Parson is just person. Player. Kent Parson is amazing hockey player. Number one draft. That’s all I hear for months and months and months during draft. Kent Parson so good. Kent Parson number one. ”
He didn’t know what to say to that so he settled with, “Jesus.”
“Kent Parson good at hockey, but he no Jesus.”
“Ha ha.”
Mashkov tittered, apparently pleased with his own joke. Then, changing course, he took out his phone and typed a few words into it. When done, he passed it to Kent and said, “Look dessert. We have fruit.”
Kent scrolled through the results. “It’s all pie.”
“Yes, I know how make pie. B makes pie, I like pie, but he say I have no more pie. Say I eat too much pie, getting too big.” Mashkov patted his stomach and Kent snorted. As if Mashkov could get remotely heavy. He was too tall, too wide, too built with muscles from hours of skating and lifting smaller blonde players in the air by their jerseys. “So B teach me how to make pie.”
“B?”
“You know. B. Bitty.” When Kent didn’t react to the name, Mashkov frowned. His eyes moved to Blondie in the audience. “You don’t know B? You two look at each other all day. I think, must be friends. No?”
“Friends? With that kid?” Kent scoffs. “No. We aren’t looking at each other, Mashkov--”
“Call Tater. Is better.”
Kent ignored him. “The kid is glaring at me. I don’t even know him and he hates me, apparently.”
“Bitty not hate you. Unless you--” Mashkov, or Tater - God, what a ridiculous name, the Falconers had the worst hockey nicknames - stopped abruptly. His eyes shot to Jack, then back to Bitty, before landing on Kent. “Oh.”
Kent felt his stomach drop. No, no, no, he did not want fucking Mashkov to put two and two together. Apparently Jack was out with his team, or at least with Mashkov, but Kent was not ready to go down that road. Not with a guy who hated him.
But the universe was not on his side, of-fucking-course, because Mashkov fell into silence as he clearly figured out the situation. Kent, finding his anger right where he left it, kept himself busy by grabbing some strawberries and picking off the stems. He threw them into the garbage, each toss getting a bit more intense.
“Parson--”
“Just shut up, Mashkov. I don’t want to hear it.”
“Is okay that you like--”
“Oh, my fucking God, Mashkov, just shut up--” With his luck, a cameraman would pop up any second, lapping this all up.
“I not judge, is all I saying!” Mashkov dumped some meat into the pan and stirred it around, eyes darting from his work to Kent every few seconds. When his statement didn’t stop Kent from his strawberry annihilation, Mashkov added, “Kent, is okay.”
“It’s not fucking okay!” Kent hissed, eyes scanning the room for cameras. Karrlsson and Holtby had a mini fire in their kitchen, thankfully, and were taking most the attention. Hell, even Jack’s boyfriend relaxed from glaring at Kent to watch it.
Kent lowered his voice. “Jack hates me, his boyfriend hates me, and now you know about all this shit and who I am and who I... like. And let’s be real, I’m your least favorite fucking person, so pardon me for thinking it’s not all hunky dory.”
Mashkov reared his head back, eyes wide. “Woah, Kent Parson, slow down. My English good, not that good. You think I hate you?”
“We don’t need to bullshit each other--”
“I like you, Kent Parson.” When Kent shot him a dirty look, Mashkov added, “I do! You know, we not friends, I know, but you good player, funny person. Stupid on ice, but ice is not you. I know this.”
“Can we just go back to cooking?” Kent pleaded. He was trying to distract himself with the recipe on Mashkov’s phone. They needed to make the pie crust but that seemed difficult and apparently Maskov learned it from Bitty. He’d focus on the filling. He needed sugar. Where the fuck was sugar?
Mashkov, thank God, seemed content to let the topic drop. He finished his stew, muttering to himself in Russian quietly, and once it was good to simmer he started work on the pie crust. Kent, fighting the pool of fear and anger and embarrassment curdling in his stomach, took solace by focusing on Mashkov’s hands as he kneaded the pie dough. He found himself timing his breathing to the rhythm of Mashkov’s hands. Breath in. Mashkov rolled the dough in one direction. Breath out. Mashkov gathered the dough together so that he could knead it again.
Mashkov cleared his throat. “Why you do contest?”
“I don’t know. Because they asked me. And because if I say ‘No’ after they ask me, people are going to think I’m a giant douchebag.” Kent stirred the pot of strawberries and sugar on the burner, mesmerized by the simmering bubbles. “And it’s for a good cause and shit.”
Kent could see Mashkov smiling from the corner of his eye. “Kent Parson, you funny guy. I do contest because Zimmboni mad at me. Say I need learn how to cook, not wait for someone cook for me.”
“Zimmboni? Jesus Fucking Christ, I would chirp you for god-awful nickname except it’s humiliating enough on its own. Zimmboni is talking shit. You’re a famous hockey player. You’ll find a wife to cook for you. Or, fuck, if not, just pay someone to do it.”
“I think not his point.”
“Do we have to talk about Jack?”
“No. Sorry.” Mashkov grabbed a rolling pin from the cupboard below. Then, grabbing a quick handful of flour, he began to gently dust it on the top of the counter. Once the counter looked like a snow-kissed field, Mashkov threw the pie dough on top and began rolling it out. “You know, Bitty says--”
“If we’re not talking about Jack, we are definitely not talking about his boyfriend.”
Mashkov cleared his throat again, this time in a more exaggerated sense. It was a pointed, Parse, shut up kind of throat clear. “Bitty say chirping is flirting. You know what he mean?”
“I can gather.” Kent’s fingers were itching to grab the rolling pin from Mashkov’s hands and smack him with it. What the fuck part of let’s not discuss Jack’s boyfriend did Mashkov not get?
Mashkov’s large hands took the pie dough delicately, cradling it against the rolling pin, as he laid it in the pie tin. Next, he pressed the crust into the bottom of the pan carefully.
“I say I not judge. I mean it. How could I judge when I…” Mashkov trailed off. He used a fork to poke a few holes in the bottom of the dough, then gestured for Kent to hand over the strawberry filling. As he poured it inside, he said, “I don’t hate Kent Parson, okay? I like chirping Kent Parson.”
“Okay…?”
Mashkov looked up from his work, pointedly staring at Kent. “I like chirping Kent Parson. You understand?”
“Oh. Oh. ” Kent could see the cameras turning toward them. What fucking timing they had. Did Mashkov just -- So that meant he was -- And Kent --
Fuck.
Mashkov grabbed for the other pie crust he had rolled out and gently put it over the top of the pie. It was like he had eyes on the back of his head: as soon as the cameras were at his back, he said loudly, “Kent Parson, you make pie pretty. My hands too big. You have tiny hands, perfect for baking. Ha.”
Kent couldn’t come up with a witty response, too stunned from what he just learned. Instead, he just nodded, watching as Mashkov explained with hands, not words, how to crimp the edges of the pie. The end result was nothing short of a disaster, but Mashkov shooed off his concern and held the pie up to the camera.
“I call Patater Pie. Look ugly, taste great. I hope. Crust great because I make. Kent Parson make filling so probably taste like shit.”
Mashkov did his best to ensure that his revelation could not be discussed the rest of the competition. He kept the cameras trained on them, entertaining the host and the producers with jokes and stories of his team. Soon it was time for the dishes to be evaluated and the winner to be announced (it was Crosby and Benn, of-fucking-course; seems they were spectacular at fucking everything) and then, blissfully, the whole ordeal was finally complete. Mashkov made himself scarce as soon as the cameras turned off, leaving Kent alone in the studio.
Well. Not alone. There were plenty of people around, but without Mashkov there, Kent found himself feeling abandoned.
Jack was talking with his father. Kent was torn with the desire to catch their eye and to avoid them completely. Briefly, he fantasized a scenario where they both turned to him, both with the classic Zimmermann smile, and welcomed him. Bob would say, “Hey kid,” like used to, and Jack would just smile and look down - still that quiet kid, too shy to meet Kent’s gaze unless they were safe in the privacy of shitty hotels that they made feel like magic.
Instead, Jack looked at his boyfriend. Stared him straight in the eye. No hesitation, no worries.
Kent had to get out of there.
Back in his hotel, Kent scrolled through his Instagram feed. Players had posted pictures from the event, even a few videos, and he used it to distract himself from the disaster of the day. Even though he dutifully avoided Jack’s account, when he started to appear in background videos, Kent gave up.
Flirting is chirping, you know?
Kent pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t believe Mashkov. He must have been fucking with him. He had to be, right?
Kent grabbed his phone from his side. He didn’t follow Mashkov but it only took a few seconds to find his account. Mashkov had taken photos of all of their dishes, each with some comment underneath in Russian that he couldn’t read. Their pie, however, looking ugly and a little burnt but somehow still endearing, was tagged with #patater.
Kent couldn’t help it. He typed in a quick comment, stating, We were robbed!
He set his phone down. Then he tucked it under his pillow. It was all harmless. If Mashkov was joking, like Kent thought, then it was simply a small comment that the fans could enjoy. And if Mashkov wasn’t joking then--
His phone buzzed.
Kent ignored it.
He flipped through the channels, looking for a game to watch. He found a few baseball games, but after the batter fouled four times in a row, Kent threw the remote across the room. He did squats, then a set of push-ups, before he finally made his way to his phone.
He had a private message on his Instagram account, from Mashkov, of course.
I had fun today. Aces play Falconers in November. You come visit me, we make better pie.
Kent hated himself a little for writing back, Is that all we’re going to do?
Mashkov responded with his phone number, and a ))), whatever that meant . Then, a few seconds later, he added:
I like Kent Parson chirping me.