That's What Therapy is For

by lapoubella

Summary:

If you’d asked Kent which he’d rather do - go apartment hunting in some fuckhole desert he’s never been to before, right before his debut season on a national team, or billet with a veteran like he’s done time and time again - he’d pick the latter. But if you’d asked Kent which he’d rather do - quite literally live as a homeless boy on the Las Vegas Strip, sleeping on public benches included, or billet with Bill "Carly" Carlson, Kent would be gathering up all his camping equipment.

Unfortunately, no one asks Kent anything.

~the one where Jeff & Kent live together their rookie year, and Jeff has a degree in dental hygiene~

Chapter 1: Floating in the Back Seat

Notes:

It's finally happening, after two years of sitting in my drafts! This is already complete, I'm just working through the editing process, so don't worry about being left hanging dears! Sorry for being misleading... During my editing process I started to doubt the quality of plot and characterization, so I simply discontinued this work...

If you’d asked Kent which he’d rather do - go apartment hunting in some fuckhole desert he’s never been to before, right before his debut season on a national team, or billet with a veteran like he’s done time and time again - he’d pick the latter. But if you’d asked Kent which he’d rather do - quite literally live as a homeless boy on the Las Vegas Strip, sleeping on public benches included, or billet with Bill “Hazing is Still Hip And Cool” Carlson, Kent would be gathering up all his camping equipment. 

Unfortunately, no one asks Kent anything. He’s a little too valuable to be going bench surfing, or worrying about his own meals and laundry. And Carl’s the only one on the team with the space. From the short briefing the GM’s gave him on the plane, Kent’s gathered that the dude’s a recent divorcee. Kent can’t figure if Carl has the extra rooms because he’s an asshole, or if Carl’s loneliness/rejection/general shitty situation turned him into one. 

Their first conversation unleashes all the judgement Kent was willing to withhold. It’s late August and he’s floating in the backseat of a flaming red SUV (a Mercedes, his brain supplies), clutching his duffle full of personal effects to his chest. His hockey gear was stowed in the back when Carl came to pick him up from the airport, although Carl’s assured him more than once how they’ll “need to replace all of it” with a wink and a nod - “only the best for our star player, you know.” The time and energy Kent spent saving up for his equipment begged to differ.

Kent, in his own way, is relieved for the jetlag: it makes it that much easier to tone out Carl’s rambling about practice and calisthenics and initiation -- initiation? Fuck -- and something about clubbing or house parties or... Kent isn’t sure. The word booze was thrown around, though, and Carl seemed happy enough about it.

When Carl stops suddenly, Kent realizes a question has just been asked. ”So, what about you boys?” It’s the first time Carl deigns to acknowledge Troy, the other new guy the Aces managed to pick up, in the past, what, ten minutes they’ve been driving? A glance to the other side of the cabin confirms that Troy wasn’t asked about his housing preferences either. Troy’s lanky and brunet and soft-spoken; the idea of housing with Jack-Lite makes Kent want to pop open the car door and damn the consequences.

“Ah. You know. Back with the Eagles, we had a few get-togethers. I can handle my liquor,” Troy offers, trying to say just enough to stave off any more questions. The world is filled with little mercies: at least Troy’s American and he has brown eyes. Kent keeps the car door closed. 

“Colorado? How the hell did you get in the draft, then?”

Troy smiles like he’s been asked this before, even though he placed well enough in the draft that he shouldn’t have to. And nothing taught Kent repeat himself like sitting next to Zimmermann, so his expression sours because Troy’s can’t. He gets it.  “They didn’t sign me, and I’m still 20. So. Draft for me.” 

Carl’s eyes flicker to Kent’s in the rearview. “And you?”

“I can handle myself,” he says. He’s not lying: he’s had enough beer to know what to expect - and sampled enough vodka with Jack to know he’s better off avoiding it. 

Carl just laughs. Kent probably wouldn’t believe himself either, to be fair, but he bristles all the same. “Just came here to play hockey, Carlson,” he bites out with a false lightness in his voice. The shuttered look on Carl’s face and the glance Troy sends him makes him think he didn’t do a good job of masking it, however. 

Kent scrambles to make it up. “My sister plays professionally. And skating while hung-over’s a bitch. Don’t wanna fuck up, you know?” 

Carl’s back to laughing. Hard. For the life of him, Kent can’t fathom why, but he’s not quite brave enough to straight up ask. Carl would probably laugh harder if he did... Thankfully, he offers up an explanation anyways, in between his breathless wheezes. 

“Your sister? A pro?” 

“Uh. Yeah.” Kent looks over to Troy again to gauge his reaction - What’s the big deal? - Troy just shrugs and refuses to throw him a line. Fucker. Kent turns back to face the front of the car, and the back of Carl’s head; buzzcuts never fail to put those lovely little neck wrinkles on display, and the slight upward tilt of Carl’s head as eyes keep darting to the rearview to gauge Kent’s expression only add to the effect. “She’s been playing with the Boston Blades for a few years,” Kent says.

Carl shakes his head - apparently that’s not what he was looking for clarification on. “You sure it’s hockey she’s playing?”

Kent fights to keep a scowl off his face. “She’s better than me.” He’s not lying, either. 

Carl laughs once more - a sudden bark of one. “Oh, yeah? She gets checked?”

“Well, no - “

“Then it’s not hockey, kid. Looks like she’s a figure skater with a stick.” Carl’s grinning, like he’s just revealed the secrets of the universe to some deaf and dumb peasant, pleased as ever. When he glances up in the rearview and doesn’t find the impressed look that he expects on Kent’s face, he pushes on. “What do they pay her with? Food stamps?”

Kent’s stomach falls. “Uh, man, I don’t know - “

“See? Not pro either.” And Carl’s left it at that - conversation closed. Kent, very decidedly, hates him. But he won’t bring Katie up again, either: money, as Carlson mentioned, is unfortunately a deciding factor, as well as the hockey he wants to play - and he’s not sure he’d be allowed back in the League if he had to put up with another conversation like this. 

Kent’s face jerks up at a nudge. Troy’s reached out one long leg across the cabin to poke at Kent’s and offer him a sympathetic look, but Kent only shrinks back. (No, that’s not happening again, no sir.)

Every hall has a fake plant; side tables have doilies; there are fucking accent walls. Carl’s house is disgustingly domestic and large and Kent thinks it must be rented because, accent walls? Carl’s no-longer-wife must have done it. 

Kent and Troy take up residence on the first floor in a pair of two guest rooms that look better intended for storage. Because that asshole would hang half off of a twin, Kent lets Troy claim the room with the queen size mattress. Which was all well and good, but Troy seemed to get the impression that Kent liked him? Kent didn’t do favors. Well, he used to, but he’s in Vegas now and that’s just --

“Really, thanks.” Troy’s smile is so uncertain, Kent hates to crush it. At least the fucker doesn’t try the whole friendly shoulder-pat thing. Instead, he holds out a hand -- to shake? “I’m Jeff, by the way.” 

Troy -- Jeff -- Jeff Troy’s smile is understated and handsome. Kent has to look away, frown, wave a modest hand and reject the offer to shake. “Hey, if you can make use of it, I’ll be surprised.” This is an insult, not a chirp - his no-nonsense tone makes that much clear. (Though honestly, by default Troy’s got a better shot out of the both of them at bringing someone home. Not that Troy knows it. Or ever will.) “Just don’t drive a hole in the wall with the bed frame. They’re thin.” And Kent turns off into his own room at the end of the hall before he can see Troy’s half happy expression falter.

And that’s the rub, isn’t it? Excuse the pun, but they share one long, thin drywall. Kent’s bed is pushed right against it, and judging by the dust, it’s been there for a while; Troy’s headboard’s in the same situation. (If he moved his bed, he’d look weird, right?) And both rooms look across at the one bathroom they’re supposed to share. (And if he traversed Carl’s sprawling palace of suburbia for another place to shower and release some stress, that’d be weird. Like, he’d have to drag a towel and clothes and shampoo with him -- it’d be almost as weird as another guy walking in --)

Kent throws himself onto the bed.

He probably can’t listen to Britney Spears in here either. 

(He wishes that sometimes “boys will be boys” applied to him.)

~

The air back in New York didn’t cut the way Vegas’ does. Even cool Vegas air has a crispness to it Kent can’t seem to duck away from. The sun in Vegas is unforgiving, too; at night, the city can hide behind smoke and mirrors, but during the day everything looks scorched and wind-worn and older than it should. Only cruel, stubborn things can live in the desert, Kent thinks - Las Vegas is just one big cactus, made of steel and glass. (Kent thinks, if Jack was always meant to go first in the draft, he would have ended up here with Carl and Troy. Kent thinks it’s a good thing he didn’t - silver linings and all that.) 

Kent belongs in the north east. The air was soft there - you could just sink into it - and the sun illuminated all the best things and it rained. Lakeside, during the summers he would spend back home, he had all his bases covered. 

Sure, he’s a damn good hockey player - excluding Jack, he’s the fucking best - his groove really should be in one rink or another. But Kent isn’t like Jack. Kent didn’t grow up in Canada, in a valley of snow where they eat pucks and breathe ice. Hockey was never meant to be ‘it’ for Kent.

Kent grew up in a little lake town where everything booms during the summer, thanks to the influx of tourists, and the rest of the time you tuck yourself away. Fishermen and ferry boat captains and landscapers become snow plows and taxi drivers and retail workers. Young, bright tour guides go back to class. Kent made a damn good lifeguard and tour guide himself, when he was away from hockey and Q and Jack. Kent was always meant to be sun-kissed and blue collar.

Kent only ever got into hockey because of his total inability to let things like snow and industry slow him down. When he and his sister couldn’t compete in the water -- who can do more laps? Who can hold their breath longer? -- they were absolutely insufferable. Their dad pushed them onto frozen ponds for his own sanity’s sake. Two pairs of skates became two sticks and two bike helmets and knee pads and repurposed lacrosse nets.

Their dad told them about a time when his knees were better, but his wealth was just about the same. He was good on ice, too, but it didn’t work out for him. For them, though? 

Neither Katie or Kent were used to being the best at something; their particularly Parson brand of showboating and stubbornness and friendly competition is the only reason they’ve made it to their respective careers.

~

Truth be told, Kent’s first paycheck scares him. The only thing he buys with it are a pair of headphones, which Troy chirps him for, since “there’s no point to them if everyone can hear you anyway, Parse.” 

Kent tells him to fuck off and Fergie goes back to singing about how clumsy she is -- quietly, this time. 

 

~

 

Preseason practices are a fickle thing: some players will get switched out, sent down to the AHL or farther; Alternates haven’t yet been doled out; and any on-ice chemistry is thus far unheard of. They ask Kent about Zimmermann, but they only need to try it once to find out it’s a bad idea. 

Carl just laughs - “I don’t know what you boys expected. I told you, I already asked. Nada.”

He looks for Troy to confirm, but Troy, Kent and the rest of the team will find, has a knack for dodging into the Trainer’s office when things get tense. (He’s like a fucking canary, and conflict avoidance is his sixth sense.) (Kent almost wants to take notes.)

When PR asks, the team will explain that they call him Swoops because he’s pro at swiping the puck from under your nose; if someone’s feeling cheeky, they’ll say it’s because of the dumb way his bangs lift from his face. The team has a third, private reason for it -- their second-line left-winger ducks out of conversations like a pro. Swoop! -- just like that. 

(Only a handful of people give Kent his own nickname -- Parse. Most of them probably think Parson is short enough.) 

All the same, Kent tells Carl to fuck off. 

The rest of the time, nothing gells: the team loves him because he basically lives at the clubhouse, but his teammates hate him for it. Kent refuses to go out to celebrate - he’s not even sure if some of the night clubs in the west will even let his baby face through the door. Something about being nicknamed Sin City makes it harder for bouncers to let things slide. (All eyes on Vegas, type thing. Kent thinks he could relate.)

They ask Kent to show off, they clock him at one of his top speeds, and he never hears them talk about Zimmermann with envy again -- only pity. Which pisses him off, still, but at least it doesn’t demand a challenge. Pity lends to contempt pretty quick, before the whole fiasco is all but forgotten. Kent’s reminded again how little space there is to fuck up. 

The GMs have expressly banned him from getting too physical on ice (“let Carly and the boys do the enforcing, alright champ?”) and after that, the rest of the team becomes too chickenshit to check him during practice. 

It takes a couple of weeks and a particularly venomous “How the fuck are you the sperm that won!?” from Kent before they stop treating him like glass.

“Parson,” Castle tells him. “You make a great pest, and you’re fast, I’ll give you that.” The boys agree. Messy thinks this could be used in a play, but management bans it the second they catch wind. 

But as everyone else filters out from the dressing room, Castle takes him by the arm. “But if you ever talk about my girl like that again, I’ll do more than hip check you, alright?”

Kent nods. He doesn’t see a point in apologizing, though. After all, it pays off. Kent gets used to playing against a good defense, the boys stop holding back - they sweep all their preseason matches. 

Even if it wasn’t originally meant for him, Kent feels like he’s earned the A on his sweater by the time they give it to him. 

 

~

 

He’s not sure his teammates agree, though. Call it a hunch, but walking into a dead silent locker room bodes well for no one, and Troy trying to pat him on the back and revive a conversation doesn’t help their case either. 

What’s more damning is the snatches of conversation he’d heard before he and Carlson walked in. (Listen, okay, it’s not that weird to eavesdrop a little before each practice so he can get a feel for whatever topic they’re on. They’re a tough crowd.) 

“I can’t believe they didn’t even have us vote on it! What is this, Soviet Russia? - No offense, Poppy.”

“Russian’s do not like Soviet Russia either. It fine.” 

“Our Captain is good -- yeah, we love ya, Castle -- that’s all that matters.”

“Yeah, but shouldn’t we have some say about who they hand A’s out to?”

“It’s not all bad -”

“No no no -”

“-- Okay, one pick was pretty fuckin’ bad --”

“Like, I can’t just walk up to a ref and start talking. But he gets to? That asshole gets listened to? Makes absolutely no sense.”

“The refs don’t listen to him either, Alby.”

“He has a point though. The guy is kind of a douche.”

“The rest of the League will laugh their asses off thinking we gave him the A.” 

Kent hears a nervous laugh cut through the crowd of voices. Troy, Kent’s mind supplies. “Hey, you know guys, I’m gonna go check to see if they’re here -” 

Troy stumbles out of the dressing room, right into Kent. Behind him, Kent can see the team’s eyes follow the moment; there’s shock and guilt on their faces before they turn away and go back to suiting up. Behind Kent, Carl is making his way down the hall, duffle on one shoulder.

“Sorry that took so long, boys, the back hatch is going, I think,” Carl says.

Kent replies on auto-pilot. “How? She’s a Benz.”

“Not that old, either,” Troy adds. 

Carl just shrugs, unapologetic. “I’m not the best on upkeep. Still, wouldn’t hurt to get a new one.” At their lost looks, he smiles. “Well, shall we?” 

Troy leads them in, a hand on Kent’s back. The room is quiet. 

The entire sad and stilted situation sure as hell doesn’t make Kent nostalgic, it doesn’t remind him of the Oceanic or the last time he’d played left wing or his old captain -

~

 

SENT: 12:54 AM

I miss you.

 

Kent still texts Jack from his old Nokia, even if the GMs forced a blackberry on him weeks ago. (He never gets a reply, not from Jack or from the phone company, telling him this number's been disconnected, so would you stop trying, please? So, he figures, what's the harm?)

The blackberry has the Las Vegas area code and never drops calls and texting is so much easier, but it doesn’t have the same weight in his hands, or his contacts.

The phone isn’t the only new acquisition of his - and it wasn’t the only thing he took reluctantly. His new skates are gorgeous, but that didn’t make it any less awkward when he retired the old pair. Or that sponsorship deal the PR team recommended he take (because, could their star player really be seen in Target brand everything for the duration of his career?) They’d scored some Adidas sweats and shoes on the hopes that the paps would catch Kent wearing them. (They do. His golden hair is a mess. He’s chirped about it for days -- “Sunflower”, Poppy calls him, probably happy to no longer be the only flower on the team -- but his twitter account bumps up a couple thou, so there’s that.) 

He swears he must spend more time with management than everyone else combined - not even Castle, their Captain, spends as much time in Vanessa’s office. (Which really is a good thing. You only ever have to speak with the admins when there’s an issue.) 

It started with a discussion regarding Zimmermann. “It’s a precarious situation,” Vanessa had said, “Bob is a big name, so is his son. The media will quiet down once the season starts and there’s more to report on, but I expect they’ll go back to hounding you once things quiet down.”

Which then turned into hours worth of media training. “You’re a natural!” Vanessa had said. Kent’s trick is to imagine he’s talking to his dad on the phone: keep it informational, hockey-focused, and don’t hand out extra details unless they’re grin worthy. One stray opinion piece described him as having “the kind of looks that belong in LA or on the back of a motorcycle, but a light demeanor that you’d want to bring home to your parents” - so it must be working. 

(He seriously considers getting himself a leather jacket before he realizes he may not survive the chirping that would come with it.) (It also occurs to him that that opinion piece contains possibly the nicest things that anyone has ever said about Kent.)

Then she jumped right back to the worst kinds of questions. “Who do you think is to blame for that tough loss? What was said to start that scrum? Is there any truth to the rumors about you and Jack Zimmermann?”

Kent doesn’t bat an eyelash at any of it. The meetings are annoying as all get out, but it helps in more ways than one. Not even getting cornered by Carl can get him to give anything away, he’s just that good. 

There are exceptions to every rule, of course. 

“So, Kent, your teammates call you Parse?” One bubbly reporter asks him after a game, mic a respectable distance away.

Kent keeps the ‘duh’ off his face. “That’s right, always have.” Or at least, most of them do, at this point. It’s nice.

The reporter nods her head to the side, sheepish and self deprecating, seeing his ‘duh’ there anyways. “And Ryan Castello is Castle.” The change in her tone is almost imperceptible. She’s lured him into a false sense of security with easy questions and an inexperienced facade. Here’s where she’ll strike; she’ll get video confirmation of a headline Sportsnet has been struggling to nab for years. “What’s Lucas Magnum’s nickname?” 

Kent doesn’t see the trap there, of course. He’s meant to say ‘Candy, you know, like those ice cream bars?’ but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even think of it. No one has really gotten around to telling him - it’s meant to be an understood thing.

Instead, he spills the Aces long kept secret.

“Dong.” There’s no hesitation or inflection in his voice. The reporter thrills. Kent sits - vacant, patient.

“Dong? And why is that?”

Kent’s eyes widen. He’s starting to see his mistake, but there’s no going back. He braves it. “Well, ma’am. His last name is Magnum.”

It’s a dirty little in-joke he’s just ruined. His embarrassed little smirk is gif’d and reshared half a million times over; he becomes the biggest social media presence on the team within the week. It’s not worth it though - he feels like he’s just sold his soul and no one on the team will accept his apologies. 

 

~

 

Like with most things, Kent knows better - and yet he does it anyways. At the very least, drunk Kent is conducive to team bonding in a way that homesick-and-tight-lipped sober Kent isn’t: they appear to be enjoying him very much, actually. Who turns down vodka shots courtesy of the host, even if the host is a dick, anyways? 

“Wait, so you’re saying, you’d like to be a cat?” One guy, Castle, asks with a gesture of his beer bottle. He’s built with dark tan skin and some kind of brotherly air and Kent’s hopeful that maybe he isn’t being nice just because they’re lineys. Castle kind of reminds him of his sister’s friends. 

Kent’s perched on the arm of a leather sofa, host to a dozen or so eyes. They’re gearing up for the start of the season, Kent thinks that’s why they’ve extended the invite to wives and girlfriends of the team and elected to have it at Carl’s place. (It also means Kent quite literally has nowhere else to sneak off to. How convenient.) The slow chatter and mellow atmosphere of the room has Kent convinced he’s on another planet, being so used to the harsh stadium lighting and oppressive quiet of the rink. Either that or he’s getting into woozy-drunk territory that comes with mixing vodka and beer. 

“I said I should be a cat,” Kent corrects him.

“Furry!” Messy shouts from across the room. (If Kent weren’t such an asshole, he’d be in real danger of this becoming his new nickname.) 

“Florida sucks!” Another guy yells. (The Panthers do suck and he’s got enthusiasm, so Kent doesn’t chirp him for not following the conversation.) (Kent’s so out of it, he’s not even sure he could give him shit.) 

From where Castle’s straddling a high backed chair, he reaches back to the island behind him to pop open a second beer. But he hasn’t finished his first one? passes through Kent’s mind. Maybe Kent’s so exhausting that he has to fuel up before trying to continue whatever conversation they’re having. Castle hands him the Coors instead, and the cool skin of the bottle bring Kent’s attention back to where Castle’s sat, on the boundary of the kitchen. 

Castle’s “what the fuck” is said with a grin, meant more to cajole Kent into jumping to his own defense. Kent doesn’t even mind how obviously he’s going about fishing for details. 

“Think about it though.” Kent starts, interrupting himself by taking a deep drink from the bottle - he can’t really shotgun this, damn. “Heights are cool.”

Castle quirks one brow. “Has Carly ever taken you guys to the High Roller? It’s on the strip.”

Kent aims for a neutral shake of his head and busies his mouth with the beer bottle. Drunk Kent is too expressive for his own good, though, and Carlson’s name instinctively makes him grimace. Too late to hide his unhappy look, of course -- it's already broadcasted. 

Castle’s conciliatory look is first directed to a point a little ways about Kent’s head, where Swoops has slid into the conversation. Then it slides to Kent himself. Kent’s thrown; he glances around the handful of guys within earshot -- each one avoids his eyes. Stevens, one of their defensemen, gives an apologetic smirk -- the others look just plain guilty. 

“Wait, so you guys knew? And still?” Kent asks, incredulous. He looks up at Troy -- too drunk and betrayed to mind that he’s being used as an armrest -- in order to confirm that he’s not misunderstanding things. Troy’s small frown confirms it. 

“Well, I mean --“ Castle clearly doesn’t know what to do with his hands. One hand reaches up behind his head to scratch at his neck; the other wiggles a mostly empty bottle. He can’t handle the disappointed looks of two boys either, so his eyes skitter away. “He has the space! Too much of it, honestly -- the guy can’t stand being alone.” He peers back up, looking for agreement. 

Kent can feel Troy’s arm jostle when he nods. It’s true. Carl has the insufferable habit of checking in almost every hour, and he’s only ever satisfied when someone else is in the room with him watching ESPN or some shit. 

Castle’s emboldened by this. “And, no offense guys, no one likes taking in rookies. So when he offered, we figured he could be the one to put up with you. It’d be funny.”

Kent rolls his eyes. It sure was funny the third time Carl wanted to know about Zimms’ “coke habit”. It’s downright hilarious every time he tunes into a basketball and calls the refs slurs and Kent can hear him from his room.

“Honestly, I don’t know why he has the A.” Castle shakes his head and keeps his voice low. “Enforcers are getting pretty obsolete. Also, the lack of teeth? Doesn’t screen test well. Off putting.” He shrugs, before adding, “Like you, Parse? You make sense. You get the points and you deal with interviews pretty well.”

Kent’s confusion is almost angry; the movement of the instinctual shake of his head is almost enough to displace Troy’s arm. First they hate him, now this? 

Castle takes one look at Kent and he does something with his face. Like, his eyebrows and lips turn down? It’s some weird little frown that Kent can’t place, but he keeps his voice soft and factual. “I never told you? Good fucking job getting Alternate. We’re lucky to have you repping us on and off the ice.”

Troy hums in agreement. (He looks sad too. What the fuck?) But one downward glance to Kent and he backs out of the turn the conversation just took. “I think he got the A because he’s been around awhile. Right? Seniority looks good.” Troy says. 

Castle just shakes his head again. “He’s been around the League a while but the Aces are still pretty new. He’s one of the originals from the expansion draft; the most seniority you can have on this team is a couple of years,” he scoffs, before his expression turns conspiratorial. “The Aeros wanted him gone for a reason. You know why we have Parse here? Because Carl knows how to tank a team. He brings in the ratings, rakes up the penalty minutes, and keeps us a man down. Carl handed us first draft pick on a platter. Seeing that guy with the A on his sweater is tough, but it doesn’t help that he’s also an obnoxious asshat.”

Troy nods, slow and sage and impressed. His elbow digs in where it’s on Kent’s head - thank god he’s thrown on a hat or his hair would be fucked beyond saving. Drunk Kent’s priorities seem all kinds of out of order, and he positively glows from where he’s sat, a wolf’s grin spreading on his face. 

It might be their fault that Kent’s stuck with such a shitshow of a human being but at least they can agree that he’s a shitshow of a human being. Kent is all too happy to know he isn’t the only one -- excluding Troy, of course, because Troy doesn’t count -- that isn’t Carlson’s number one fan. Hating the same people counts as team bonding, too right? An ‘us vs them’ thing? And if everyone on the team hates Carl, Kent doesn’t look so disappointing in comparison, he just has to play it up. He can use this. 

His voice is loud with opportunity. “So you were allll too happy to dump us - “

The second he spots Carl out of the corner of his eye, crossing the living room  - “Did I hear my name, boys!?” - he panics. Kent can tell Troy does too by the way his arm tenses. (He’s about to dodge away, isn’t he?) But Carl sounds happy enough, and they have no idea what he could have heard. But that fucker also has pretty amazing hearing. And shit talking one teammate when he can’t even defend himself doesn’t look good for any of them, but it looks the worst for Kent if he gets them caught. 

Kent doesn’t know how to play this. 

He shoves his beer bottle back in his mouth to take a mighty gulp. But that probably won’t be enough to mask his guilt and cover his face - Carl’s stupid but he has some emotional intelligence. No, you know what? Kent can chug this. A bottle is a can is a solo cup - he’s done this before.

But his throat can’t keep up - Kent knows everything gets slower when you’re drunk but he can’t even swallow the right way? What the fuck? - and by the time Carl reaches them he’s choking, he’s choking - 

Troy tips him forward (- not choking anymore, thank god -) and plucks the bottle from Kent’s hand. To his credit, Kent stumbles forward from the couch arm and lands solidly on his feet (like a cat, see?) and he wastes no time protesting - “Hey, fucker, I was drinking that!” 

Carl’s been guffawing the entire time. Kent thinks he knows how to wipe the smile off his face. 

“Not anymore. You’ve had enough.” Troy’s already trying to slink back into the crowd and toward the kitchen sink, Kent’s half drunk beer held by the neck of the bottle and away, like it’s some biomedical hazard. Truly, it’s an amazing excuse to leave the conversation. (Could they make this into an on-ice play?) 

Troy might have an actual point, though, unrelated to his motivations to escape awkward encounters. Kent has no trouble standing, but trying to chase after him and dodge around Castle is a real challenge -- and it shows. 

Castle reaches up and grabs him by the elbow as he hobbles by, “No, no, you sit back down,” and pushes him back towards his perch. He calls over his shoulder, “Hey Troy, you think you could get him some water? I didn’t know he was this bad off.” 

Troy’s dumping the contents of the bottle into the kitchen sink -- glug, glug -- and yells back from across the island. “You really shouldn’t have given him another beer. What number is this one, even?” 

Kent settles his ass back down on the arm of the sofa. The second he moves from leaning to sitting -- or trying to, anyways -- he careens to the side and almost knocks into Carl. At least he didn’t go backwards and fall into Stevey’s lap, though when Carl reaches out to brace him, he half-wishes he did. 

“Maybe he better sleep it off instead.” Carl says to no one in particular. Kent jerks back from his hands. 

“You know, I’m not even that drunk, and I can hear you.” He doesn’t like all this talking-in-the-third-person thing. “Like, you can’t just send me to my room. That's... That’s fucked up.”

Carl lights upon that idea. “That’s a solid idea, Parson!” Kent can’t really imagine the dude being a dad, even though he is; he probably only went for it so he could boss his kids around. Carl grins. “Go to your room.”

Kent’s extra not doing that, just because Carl said it. “You’re not my dad.” 

“Nope, but you are in my house. And you look like you might puke on my carpet.” Carl says, good naturedly. “Your room is hardwood.” 

“He kinda has a point,” Castle chimes in.

“Who cares? What are you, Mr. HGTV home design? Fuck you.” 

Troy’s back, hovering beside Kent. “I’ll take him.” He starts to hoist Kent off of the couch by his armpits. 

“Fuck you too, Swoops! I can walk!” Once he’s lifted out of his seat, he tries to squirm away. 

“Parse, you almost choked yourself to death with a beer bottle. I’m not even sure your brain remembers how to swallow right now.” Troy’s hold on his shoulders won’t budge. 

“That’s right!” Carl calls out. Did that fucker just wink? Is he trying to be Troy fucking Bolton right now? “Sorry Swoops, you can’t have too much fun with him.” 

The second Kent catches up with the innuendo he feels sick. Troy’s laugh is distant but loud. “Drunk people can’t consent, Carly. I would never!” He thinks he hears Castle call him a total gentleman -- maybe Carl tells him to shut up. At this point, Kent’s only focus is getting out of there, which means remembering how to walk in a straight line and helping Troy push him down the correct hallways. 

Before Kent passes out, unceremoniously heaped onto his single, he asks, “Wait, so who was everyone bitching about?” 

Troy stops on his way out of Kent’s room. His hesitation makes Kent think he’s just confused about the sudden new topic. “About the A, in the dressing room,” he adds. He sounds like he’s playing Clue but he can’t really bring himself to care.

When Troy turns around properly, he realizes that he knew exactly what Kent was talking about in the first place and was only sorting out his words. He’s got that sad look on his face again, like Kent even asking is pitiful. 

Kent turns on his side and stares up at the ceiling instead. His head spins with the fast movement. “Nah, you know what? Forget it.”

Kent can hear Troy take one step back into the room. “They weren’t talking about you. Castle meant what he said, about you making a good Alternate.” So they were talking about... Kent’s mind slips to the only other person with an A, Carlson. Oh. The last thing Kent remembers is the soft sound of Troy shutting the door behind him.

 

~

 

When he wakes up, there’s water and aspirin by his bed. Troy’s doing. Kent really has to nip this in the bud before it becomes a problem -- this shit always starts with locker room jokes like Carlson’s and then it gets awkward and everything goes downhill quick. 

Notes:

I really hope you guys enjoyed! And, don't deny it, Kent totally has that Hot & Polite Lifeguard You Had a Crush on During Summer Camp and/or Vacation (TM) energy.

I'm @iwatchedhockeyonce on tumblr if you wanna say hi or yell about how much you love Kent or, well, whatever! I love making friends! As said above, everything is already complete and outlined, I just have to finish up editing and sprucing up a few scenes. I don't have an update schedule, because time means nothing to me currently, but trust me, updates will be forthcoming and speedy!

Chapter 2: Interlude: The High Roller

Notes:

Interludes are basically what I'm calling "fun scenes that don't necessarily fit into a chronological order within the story, but, I liked them and wanted to include them". Think of them as inter-chapter blurbs.

(Originally I thought of them as fanfiction-within-fanfiction and then realized that didn't make any damn sense.)

Also, in this chapter the boys do -- jokingly -- refer to one of their teammates as, well, female genitalia? The context isn't aggressive, it's just meant to be a playful mock-up of semi-hockey-bro talk. But, I know some people aren't a huge fan of that kind of language, so, I figured I'd letcha know up here! Expect the next installment in a few days <3

“This thing goes up five hundred and fifty feet. How’d you like that, Parson?” Frenchie asks.

Kent marvels. Being on the strip as the sun sets and the lights come on, mingling with the tourists, Las Vegas looks like a never-ending amusement park. And the view at the top is probably going to be even more mind-boggling, entrancing. Kent likes it very much. 

Swoops does not. At hearing the real number, the actual height of the behemoth, his eyes widen -- he looks like he’s forgotten a pen somewhere. “Oh guys, I can’t be on this thing,” he says.

“Dude, what the fuck. We already paid.”

“Yeah. It’s starting, like, right now.”

“It’s just a ferris wheel, what’s the big deal?”

“I, uh.” Troy thinks for a moment. Smooths back his swoop of hair. “I have hemorrhoids. Can’t be sitting down for this long.” Like that, Troy hops out of the car the second it starts lifting off the ground. He doesn’t bother with things like gates, he simply vaults over the side. Lanky fucker.

“Sir!” the woman who closed the gate and took their money calls, but Troy’s long gone. Still, she holds out hope for spotting his slendermen looking ass in the crowd, her hand a stiff salute above her forehead to block out the last of the blinding Vegas sun. “Sir!” 

The rest of his line looks on, expressions caught between apathetic ‘what can you do’s and mortified ‘I don’t know him’s. When she looks back up at the steadily ascending cart, shocked and indignant, Kent’s the only one unfortunate enough to lock eyes with her. He has to offer some kind of explanation. 

“Uhm, Troy’s kind of a pussy!?” Kent yells, “And he has hemorrhoids, I guess!”

Kent looks to his teammates for their assent. 

“I mean. Yeah, he kind of is a pussy,” Castle concedes.

“Don’t you guys play hockey!?” She yells back, her confusion growing with time and her figure shrinking with distance. 

Oh shit, she knows who they are. Will this end up on twitter?

“He’s not a pussy on the ice!” Frenchie shouts down.

Notes:

Again, I'm @iwatchedhockeyonce on tumblr! Come round and say hey!

Chapter 3: Ouroboros of Shit

Notes:

I'm sorry this update took so long -- I thought I had my online classes under control, and then they got loose again. This chapter we're meeting some OCs! I hope you enjoy them because they kind of took shape themselves, personality and all. To be fair, we know so little about Kent and the Aces', OCs are kind of a must. (Also, tags have updated! Slight TW, a character discusses losing a loved one to suicide -- it's not graphic or in depth, but it is there.)

In the days since Carly’s house-party, Troy has started acting like he and Kent are friends.

Maybe he’s always acted like he and Kent are friends; they have lived together for more than two months now, and Kent supposes it's similar to what having a suitemate is like, if he’d ever gone to college. But just because you share a space doesn’t mean you’re friends. Like, really, who just assumes that? Who the fuck touches people’s shoulders this much? Who the fuck can’t just say ‘excuse me’ instead of sliding past -- every -- single -- time? Maybe Troy’s always been like that -- a nudge to move someone out of the way, tactile -- but Kent’s now actually, really noticed. And Kent needs space. Not on a personal level, but if Carlson’s jokes actually catch on, then he and Troy really won’t be friends. If you knew the fate of the Titanic, wouldn’t you try to stop its launch? Really, it’s Kent’s job to put an end to it.

Or maybe Troy’s friendly overtures have increased since preseason ended. Maybe Troy’s under the false assumption that since there’s someone people on the team hate more than Kent, Kent will soften and start baring his soul. Getting drunk, once, to celebrate the end of the preseason does not signal integration, or -- whatever it is. Kent knows his place. They only want him around for the points that he can score, the media attention he brings. And he knows that preseason means nothing -- not now, when it actually counts. That includes any of the camaraderie, the shit Castle said to butter him up; if he fucks up here, now, then he’s fucked. The Aces want their investment to pay off, they want their first draft pick to perform. (It is Vegas, after all -- a city populated with performers, with people who want to be entertained.)

Their first game had gone easy. The team didn’t put up much of a fight, the refs were fair, and so was the presser afterwards. Kent was so focused, it was almost as if it flew past him.

This game wasn’t quite like that. The other team must’ve had someone from Q on it, with the shit they were saying. It’s not the dirty play that pushes him over, it’s the slur that accompanies it. And the refs aren’t helping any, that’s for damn sure.

And it’s fine! He’s got it under control. He’s being a pest, like Castle said; a quick barb back at #45 and he’ll skate off. But clearly Troy didn’t think Parse was so self-contained; no, a gloved hand skates up behind him and goes to rest on his shoulder. It just has to. And if every stupid casual touch hadn’t been getting on his nerves before, the literal spotlights, the cameras on them both makes Kent lose it. He snaps. Kent needs, needs him to -- “Back the fuck off!”

Kent’s pushed away in order to lock furious eyes with a mid-sentence Troy -- he’d been saying something, half conjoling, half placating. Kent didn’t hear. “I’m not fucking kidding this time, Troy.” -- and, see, you never used Troy’s actual name unless you really meant it -- “You keep pretending that you know me -- you don’t. Back -- the fuck -- off.” Kent’s jerky, clumsy, angry hands underline his bark. They’re on the jumbotron. The announcers are most definitely speculating on what one of the Aces’ alternates is scolding the second line winger for, on-ice.

Troy looks like he wants to argue it -- not that Troy argues. Troy either leaves or says the exact right thing that makes you not want to argue it anymore, and Troy doesn’t look like he’s leaving.

It’s the end of second period, and Troy follows Kent in, close behind, waiting to talk to Kent once they’re through the tunnel and noise dies down. Kent tries to breathe, to get it together, to calm down. He takes off his helmet. He smooths his hands through his hair. It’s all anxious movement. The grey walls, made of solid concrete blocks, the dressing room, the relative quiet -- it should calm him. It doesn’t.

He’s tired of this; he’s furious; he wants Troy -- everyone -- to stop.

Troy does not stop. Troy puts a hand on Kent’s bicep, to force him to look, to have the conversation, to explain -- “What happened?” Troy asks.

And Kent does turn to face him, he does reply. “Let me ask you this, Troy-- why the hell is a nobody from Grand Rapids with the messiest right-cut I’ve ever fucking seen on our second line?” -- Kent couldn’t help himself, couldn’t sleep; he’d read Troy’s first interview; he wondered if Troy missed Lake Michigan the way Kent missed Lake Ontario -- “No fucking wonder Colorado never signed you. You don’t know when the fuck to stop --”

A strong hand reaches and grabs Kent by the shoulder - hard. “Parson,” the voice is strong, too - Castle’s. “Sit down and stop talking. You’ve said more than enough.”

Kent wants to scream. Kent wants to leave. Kent wants to get back on the ice and take it out on the other team.

Kent takes a breath, sits down, and waits. He can’t hear them over the hustle of the room, but Troy looks deflated, now; Castle’s hand on his shoulder looks conciliatory. ”Don’t listen to him,” he imagines Castle saying. It would be good advice, even Kent can admit.

When Castle gets to him, it’s nearly time to get back out on the ice. “I think it’s best if you sit out this period and cool down,” is the first thing he says, jaw square with don’t try me.

Kent’s protests are written all over his face. Castle waves a dismissive hand. “Yeah, it’s the last period. Don’t care.”

“But if we lose -”

“Contrary to what you might think, Parson, you're not the only point-scorer on this team. Far from it. Troy, for example,” Castle’s eyes glint, “is a very good player.”

Kent looks away. He can’t think of a reply.

Castle leans down so he’s closer to eye-level with Kent. “You’re still a rookie. We can get on fine without you - you need to know that. I need you to know that.” He stands back up, straight, and moves to fit his helmet back on. “It might seem harsh, but it’s better to burst your bubble now rather than later. Get cleaned up.” Castle fits his mouth guard in and goes out to the tunnel, where everyone else now is.

So Kent showers, and he pulls on sweats and a black muscle tee - Adidas, another new acquisition - and he sits and he thinks, and he sits and he thinks. He thinks about the shuttered look on Troy’s face, and he thinks about what Katie would say about this. What his dad would say, if he saw Kent acting like that. He thinks about how an ice hockey team doesn’t belong in the middle of a desert, and what he’ll say if - when - the reporters ask him about it all.

He thinks about the terrible things he’d said to Jack the last time he’d seen him. He thinks about how Jack was really doing him a favor all those years, playing center, acting as captain - absorbing all of that tension, that stress. Kent’s only has an A on his sweater and it’s already too much.

But mostly he thinks about home, where an ice hockey team does - should - belong. Kent invited Jack down once, for a week, during the height of all his summery festivities. “You’ve spent winter breaks with me, it’s only fair that I visit you for the summer, eh?” He’d said, and that was that.

Normally, Kent would work all summer. The flood of tourists matched with his easy smile and American opportunism: it only made sense that a young man like Kent would work because money had always been tight. But with Jack, he took the time off. (God, his supervisor was mad - Jack came down to New York during one of their busiest weeks.)

Jack didn’t make sense in a lake town. His blue eyes looked out of place with a sunlit great lake and a clear sky at his back. (Well, really, it was because he was too pale and soft to be local, but had too much muscle to be a tourist. He looked young and uneasy, but lacked an overbearing family full of sun visors and fanny packs.) Kent still thrilled at the sight of a lost and dethroned Jack Zimmermann. It felt like for once, he had something Zimms didn’t.

Turns out, Kent could do a whole lot of things Jack couldn’t: haggle prices, navigate, tie a bolsa knot, wear boat shoes without looking like a total douche. Unimportant things, but they felt monumental. Kent rode high on his native superiority until Jack asked to see his family’s boat.

“Didn’t you just say you could navigate?” Jack asked with a self satisfied little grin. “What, didn’t think I’d call you on your bluff?”

Kent could. It’s just - “Fine, I’ll ask my dad.”

And that’s how Kent and Jack ended up crammed onto an over crowded ferry. The seats inside the cabin had been reupholstered at least twice and the wood detailing had a cracking finish. Really, it was a glorified motorboat that looked like it would smell like sweaty feet and mildew, if the freshwater scent surrounding it wasn’t so overpowering.

Returning tourists loved riding the Parse This! because it was cheap and stopped on request and that one young man with the messy blonde hair didn’t yell over the water - he only talked to the over eager people who wanted to hear all the minutiae of the islands. Now, that young man was at the front of the ship, starting up the engine, steering, while his father and a couple old women looked on with pride.

Kent doesn’t know what Jack looked like. Kent didn’t want to know. He felt poor.

Worse was docking for the night. The bay was like a seven layer cake - every dozen yards steadily depreciated in value the further you were from the mouth of the bay. First came the sailboats and the cruisers, the party boats, airboats, motor boats and jetskis. In the back, the docks became uneven and stained with age. Bright paint on nearby sheds didn’t hide their inherent grit and decay.

Kent hopped off. His father tossed him a rope, and he tied up their tiny ferry beside a rusted U-Boat. He thinks he heard his dad tell him “You did a real fine job, son,” but whenever Kent remembers this week, he never looks for his dad’s praise.

He remembers one thing with absolute acurity, though; when he finally did sneak a peek up at Jack, Jack looked soft. He was still unsure here, yes, but pride and awe won out. Kent couldn’t find any pity or disgust. Kent remembers, in the midst of his bitterness and shame, how his cheeks heated and his stomach lifted. With that look alone, Jack didn’t look so out of place anymore.

Kent wonders, now, if the trick to slotting into place is rounding out your own edges. He’s arrived now, so isn’t any reason to insist on being a square peg when the only available space is a round hole. He’s got nothing to fight for anymore, so he can relax, right? But Kent doesn’t know how - how can he go about that without getting himself torn to shreds.

 

~

 

When the reporters do ask him “So what caused that disagreement after second period, with you and Jeff Troy?” Kent still hasn’t figured out the best way to answer. Honestly - that might be a start.

Kent gives a sheepish smile. “I, uh, well -- nothing. I lost my cool,” he rubs his hands together, “Half of playing is the skill, the talent. The other half is the mentality, and that, well, that’s something I need to work on.” And he could stop talking there-- he’s answered the question, as unstatisfying as it may be. It’s not as if hockey players are known for their verbosity. But he continues, unbidden. “Swoops -- Troy -- is a really fantastic player. And, y’know, I’m really lucky to get the chance to practice and play alongside him. He’s just -- y’know -- a really great guy.”

The reporter thanks him for his time. He heads back alone while the rest of the team goes out, like usual. It feels like how it should be.

 

~

 

Troy keeps his distance, after that. It makes roadies awkward - they pair Kent off with a different rookie, Poppy - but Kent’s grateful. He feels like an exposed nerve; he needs time to heal, to tuck himself away again. And Poppy’s easy to talk to and pleasantly oblivious; his light brown mop of tight curls gives him the air of a teddy bear.

What little conversation they do have is mainly Poppy teaching him Russian swears and hockey words.

“Yes - you only want to use when you want to really upset Russian player.” Poppy explains. Compared to the first day he met him, Kent thinks that his English is really improving.

“Oh, and -- how do you say that again?”

“Mmm, pi-do-ras. Makes Russians very unhappy.”

“And what does it mean?” Kent had asked Poppy for the curse word that would upset a Russian player the most, after all.

Poppy’s explanation makes Kent’s stomach turn, but he tucks the information away for later. Being a pest, and all that --

 

~

 

At some point, the team starts calling Troy “College Boy.” Apparently someone discovered that Jeff has some kind of degree. Kent doesn’t know much more than that, he just smiles, politely, when they talk about it. He changes his routine and starts getting up an hour earlier so he hardly ever runs into Troy anymore -- except, of course, at practice. They’re cordial. Things are quiet.

 

~

 

It’s midseason and Stevey gets injured -- a shot to the ankle. It’s not good.

Normally, Kent would stick to his routine. And, for a home-game, that would mean showering quick and making his goodbyes quicker. But it's one thing to beg off going out when everyone is in good spirits, after they’ve won or a good loss -- no losses are good, but, well, some games are more fulfilling than others.

Games that land one of their best defensemen in the trainers office are not fulfilling. So, it’s one thing to beg off after a regular game -- but to say no when everyone’s mood is already in the shitter? That’ll stick. And it’s one thing for Kent to be generally disliked -- hell, he likes it that way. It’s better that way. But he doesn’t particularly want to be hated.

At the club, Kent can’t decide whether he likes the neon lights shtick. I mean, he can appreciate Vegas sticking to a theme -- that’s a level of coordination he has to respect. But it’s bright and dark all at once, and somehow, he’s nervous. He can’t tell if this loss will make the guys rowdy or subdued.

Carlson slaps a hand down onto Kent’s shoulder. “Relax, Parson. You’re an Ace.”

The guys stay in the same general area, but break off into smaller groups. Carlson, even Poppy, know what drinks to order, and it occurs to Kent that this is probably where the team goes after every game. He doesn’t think he was missing out on much, but at least his nerves let up a bit when he gets a Jack and Coke into his system.

Then Carlson asks him if anyone’s caught his eye yet. Oh, so that’s what tonight will be like -- what the team will be like. To his credit, Carl asks Poppy the same thing. It’s a good opportunity for a chirp, so Kent takes it.

“Fixated on the rookies because you know you won’t have much luck?”

Carlson scoffs out a laugh. “Hey, I’m just trying to be a good teammate. Would you --” Carly cracks a smile, “--happen to know much about that?”

And, okay -- “Fair,” Kent allows, and starts on his second drink.

From where Kent sits, he can see Jeff go off with some pretty blonde. Kent doesn’t really have any exact reason for thinking so -- all he can see are the gestures of her hands, the way her hair swings as she talks, animated -- but he can tell that she's loud and argumentative. If that’s how Troy likes them, far be it from Kent to judge.

“No, but, really --” Carlson’s still trying. “I don’t know much about you. What’s your type, even? I know Poppy’s --”

Poppy interjects, “Sweet girl. Thoughtful. Cute freckles.”

“Yeah, yeah -- it’s sickeningly sweet. And really specific--” Carl turns back towards Poppy and the good naturedness he emanates. “Poppy, I don’t think you’re going to find a girl like that here--”

“Is ok. Don’t want to find girl here in place like this anyway -- I’m with team, and that make me happy.” Poppy lifts his glass off the table, towards Kent and Carlson.

Kent lifts his drink -- fuck it. “I’ll cheers to that, bro.” The rims of their glasses clink.

Carlson rolls his eyes and decidedly does not cheers to that. “You didn’t even want to come out tonight, Parse.” His eyes scan the club. “What about her?” He gestures -- Kent only vaguely follows his line of sight. “Pretty, prolly ‘bout your age. I don’t think she’d mind if you bought her a drink.” He tilts his head towards Kent, conspiratorially.

“No thanks, I can --” Kent puts up air-quotes, “‘pick’ -- for myself.” Its easy to forget just how much he dislikes Carlson when he can go a month or two talking -- blessedly -- only hockey with the guy.

“Hmm,” Carlson looks unimpressed. “Alright, but if you don’t end up picking, I’ll pick for you. You’ve gotta at least try to chat someone up -- god knows this will probably be the only time you come out with us this season.” Carlson leans in again, just by a fraction. “Make it memorable.”

Kent tries not to make a face. “Alright, alright --” It’s easier to placate than argue. Maybe the sooner he gets this out of the way, the sooner he can sack out in his sad, empty room. Carlson’s probably only this determined to socialize with Kent because Carl thinks of him as his ‘charge’.

Besides, he’s just drunk enough to think of it like a game: pick the person who looks most likely to tell him off immediately... then he can say he tried, go back to fulfill his mandatory club night, and not have to hear anymore of it.

His eyes land on an Amazonian goddess in a black mini dress -- short dark hair, cool brown skin, dark makeup -- there’s no way she’ll take any of Kent’s shit. He probably won’t even get past a ‘hello’ -- it’s a perfect choice. He adjusts the baseball cap on his head -- backwards -- and channels every bit of frat guy that he isn’t. (Wow, acting confident gets really easy when you let all of your male entitlement run free; maybe that’s how Carlson does it?)

She looks like she’s in a pretty sizable group of women -- not a whole NHL team, but easily half -- which, in his eyes, only increases the speed in which he’ll be rejected. Things are looking good for Kent. He walks over.

“Hi.” She turns to look at him. Black bangs cover most of her forehead, which he actually has to tilt his head to see. Damn, she’s tall. He continues. “Can I buy you a drink?”

She smiles, not unkindly. “No, thank you.”

Yes! Now he can back off, tell her to have a good night--

She makes a curious face, eyebrows drawn together. She must see his excitement, because Kent’s face, unlike his sober counterpart, is an open fucking book when he’s drunk. “What’s your name?” She asks.

“Oh, uhh --” Shit, shit, shit, “Kent.”

She makes another face at that. “Well, I’m Mandy --”

One of her friends, the short brunette, pulls back from her conversation with the others. “Excuse me, sweetie, did you say your name was Kent? God, please tell me that isn’t short for Kenneth --”

Oh -- he makes a face at that too. “Ew, no. It’s just Kent. My mother didn’t hate me that much.”

The short brunette laughs. She’s curvy, tan, and clearly already very drunk. She latches onto Mandy’s arm, “Oh my god, he is cute. Did that poor thing come up to you? Just look at his baby face--!”

Mandy pats the top of her head. “Says the woman who just turned twenty one and still looks fifteen.”

“Oh, shit -- “ Kent stops. “-- if I’m butting in on your birthday, I can totally go, I’m so sorry --” Kent’s shoulders inch upwards, towards his neck, and he holds his hands out, a universal ‘I mean no harm.’

Cara doesn’t seem to notice from where she’s still hanging off of Mandy. “Nooo, it’s totally fine.” She deattaches to put a flamboyant finger on Kent’s chest, arm outstretched and keeping him at arm's length. “You’re cute, you stay!”

Kent laughs, quick and short, and resists the urge to take a step back. This plan is going all wrong. “No, really --”

Cara wags her finger in his face. “Nope. I’m the birthday girl, I get to choose. Besides, your friends back there look like they suck.” And, since it was decided, she maneuvers back to her seat at the bar.

Kent learns that they’re college students -- they go to CSN. (His confusion earns some looks -- “College of Southern Nevada?” Mandy offers. He must be a new transfer, or go to a different university, or something.) And while the short one, Cara, is technically old enough to drink, Mandy is not. She got in the same way Kent did -- through a bouncer that didn’t care. And when Kesha comes on and starts talking about brushing her teeth with brandy, they invite him to dance. He doesn’t get too involved, but he does sing along, and... it’s -- nice.

And when they ask him about himself, he says he plays hockey, and they just assume the college kind. Las Vegas isn’t a hockey town, he remembers.

“You any good?” A girl from their group, here for the birthday celebrations, pokes.

“Ah, you know, I’m alright.” This answer clearly doesn’t interest her. And the conversation goes on, like water.

When they start gathering up their things -- purses, little jackets -- he realizes how much time has passed. Mandy bends down to talk to him with a smirk, poking fun at their little height difference. “For the record,” she says, handing him a napkin, “I’m only giving you my number because you can sing all the lyrics to Hollaback Girl perfectly, even when piss-drunk. Ok?” Her brown eyes twinkle in a decidedly -- surprisingly -- platonic way. Or, he thinks so --

The PR smile on his face must be corrupted by apprehension. She laughs. “I don’t swing that way either, don’t worry.”

The smile on his face warps for a completely different reason, then.

 

~

 

“So how was the girl from last night?”

“She must’ve been at least 5’10” -- you like ‘em tall, Parse?”

There are wolf-whistles. Kent laughs it off. Or, rather, he tries to. Kent does like them tall, but not in the way Frenchie thinks. But he guesses that a sheepish, embarrassed look on a rookie’s face after getting his balls busted for his preferences in women is to be expected.

They’re just chirps, so Kent doesn’t need to reply, to correct their assumptions. He just needs to give them a little shit back. “Ooh, that’s funny -- I didn’t see you hit it off with anybody last night.”

“Hey! Not every night’s a winner -- what can I say?”

And it’s not like the assumption is bad, right? It’s better than the opposite. (Right?)

 

~

 

Kent sits, sometimes, when he can’t sleep, with his old Nokia in hand. The dense weight makes him think of a stone; it gives him the illusion of meditation. He won’t do anything with it, usually. He’ll think about texting Katie, or maybe Jack. Maybe calling his dad, sometime in the morning. And the moonlight that streams in through his sheer as shit curtains, from the one window in the room, is blue, and he’ll think of the empty desert out there.

Kent Parson knows he went from being a little shit to being a piece of shit a long time ago. He thinks, maybe sometime during Q. Or, maybe, he always kind of was. He knows for certain he was a piece of shit the last time he spoke to Jack, and he knows he was a piece of shit the last time he and Jeff had said more than three words to each other, and he’s been kind of shit since.

People need to keep their distance from Kent because he’s a piece of shit. But he has to show people what an actual piece of shit he is to get them to go away. Really, it's an ouroboros of shit.

Sometimes, when he can’t sleep, Kent will think things like this and laugh. The laugh is empty.

 

~

 

They say that misery loves company, so it only makes sense that one day, much closer to the end of the season (-- a playoff run isn’t in the cards, this year, though the Aces had done decently well this season, at least compared to last --) Kent tries his hand at comforting Castle. Which, well. Might be making too much of it. Castle seems down during practice, quieter than normal. Everyone else is too chickenshit to press the guy with a C on his sweater. So Kent asks him what’s wrong as practice wraps up and the guys file out.

He doesn’t expect Castle to actually say much. Or, really, anything. Probably end-of-season blues -- maybe some guilt for not leading his team closer to the cup.

So you can imagine Kent’s surprise when Castle explains, and it doesn’t have anything to do with hockey. “Oh, today was my little brother’s birthday,” Castle says. “Normally, I’d celebrate with him - but I... I can’t.” Maybe the rest of the team knew not to bother him, and Kent just didn’t get the memo.

Kent stares, for a second. “Oh. Well. That does really suck.” There’s a pause; Castle looks lost, vulnerable. Kent can’t quite grasp the weight of it, so he figures - yes, talking, that’s what he should keep doing. “I mean, I have an older sister, and we’re pretty close. It’d be pretty devastating if I missed a fourth of July with her. I --” Kent pauses, shrugs, “I get it. Kind of.”

Castle stops to look at Kent -- really look at Kent -- for a moment, brown eyes all-knowing. “You know, Parse, you remind me of him sometimes. Do you want to hang out after practice? Spare you from one of Carly’s frozen dinners?” Castle asks the question in what Kent’s sure was meant to be a light-hearted way, but his serious eyes belay something else. Not wanting to be alone -- that’s definitely something Kent gets. How could he say no?

Still, he tries to match the banter. A huge smile covers Kent’s face. “Ugh, only if you take that back -- saying I remind you of a Taurus. Cancer’s where it's at.” Because it’s mid-May and Kent knows about things like the Zodiac, and he thinks -- hopes -- that this is one situation where he won’t be chirped to hell and back for it.

Castle, for his part, doesn’t know anything about the Zodiac, aside from what he’s picked up from his girlfriend via osmosis, but it’s enough to think of a retort that might sting. “Really? I had you pinned for a Gemini --“

“Ouch!” - and -- yeah, it did.

On the way down, in Castle's modest, black sedan -- well, if you can call a brand-new Mazda 'modest' -- they make small talk. Kent learns that Castle got onto the Aces three years prior; no, he doesn’t mind Vegas much - it’s an upgrade from Seattle; yeah, he has a kid - she’s almost two, now; no, he hasn’t tied the knot yet, but he’s planning on proposing to his long-time girlfriend in the summer, on a cruise.

Kent doesn’t have much to add. He realizes Castle’s only ten years older, but Kent hasn’t lived half as much. He feels young.

And they end up at a diner -- a little 24 hour place with bright red leather booths, vying to seem retro an all-american, out in the desert. It’s quaint enough to feel strange in Vegas, but kitschy enough to fit right in.

No one seems to pay them any mind. (Not a hockey-town, Kent’s brain reminds him -- he really doesn’t get out enough, does he?) For his part, the silence that falls is a bit awkward, but Castle seems too in his own head to mind. Castle already seems to know exactly what he wants -- the standard burgers and fries affair, topped with a strawberry milkshake -- so Kent follows suit with the same.

Frankly, their nutritionist would encourage tanking up on the calories; over the course of the season, they’ve worn themselves thin. Like bears preparing for winter, it’s time to put some fat back on.

Maybe Castle also had a similar thought -- it would explain the wistful smile on his face. It’s odd, almost. Not that Castle is a stranger to smiling -- the guy definitely isn’t -- but big, blocky grins are more his style. He usually shows off his pearly whites; he doesn’t hide them. (Ambiguous smirks and half-smiles -- now that’s more Kent’s MO.)

When the food arrives, Kent clears his throat. “So, your brother. How old is he?”

Castle glances at Kent, suddenly serious. “He’d be turning 22 today.”

Kent’s nod is slow, confused. The question is written all over his face.

Castle sighs. “He killed himself four years ago ago.”

Time suspends itself. Kent stops breathing, but his heart rate picks back up. “Oh,” escapes his lips, the ‘I’m so sorry’ soon to follow. Castle cuts him off before the words can make themselves known, however.

“It’s... He was depressed.” Castle’s bottom lip pulls back - a sad, remorseful grimace. “He was depressed and no one really saw it. He had a good PR face -- any guy in the league would be jealous of it.” Castle’s eyes briefly meet Kent’s own, wily and knowing, somehow, before they dart away, again; Castle’s hands clasped in front of him like he’s delivering bad news, which, Kent supposes, he is. “He did something stupid. He didn’t see how much the people around him loved him, wanted him around. I’m not sure he really wanted to. He could be impulsive, sometimes.” Castle’s smile is loving, his eyes directed towards a stain on the table, distant, lost in an old memory.

Kent tries to swallow. It’s hard. For the first time in weeks, he thinks of Jack -- he thinks of the hospital bed, of ‘I can’t say it wasn’t on purpose.’ There’s no longing to it; Jack’s face doesn’t summon the same wistfulness it usually does. This memory is just heavy.

Castle reaches out one big, sure, dark tan hand and grabs hold of Kent’s elbow from its resting spot on the diner table. “The team likes you, Kent.” -- If it were anyone else, if it were a month or two earlier, if anything else had preceded it, Kent would’ve told him to fuck off. Instead, he flattens his lips in acknowledgement -- a non-committal, non-smile. Maybe it eggs Castle on, because the guy continues. “ “Don’t worry about Swoops, you guys will patch up one of these days. You know, if you actually take the time to -- well, communicate, and act like an adult...” Castle’s hand goes back to his ridiculous strawberry milkshake, and Kent can see he’s smiling.

“Wh-” Kent starts, confused. That was a turn. “Um.” Words feel slippery in his mouth. “You think, you think Troy --” He’s spluttering, now. “Was this just a --”

“No,” Castle says, firm but not unkind. His smile disappears again, changes back to something more serious. “That was me being genuine. I am being genuine -- I wouldn’t joke about any of that.” And he takes a thoughtful pause. Takes a thoughtful drink. “But -- I mean, a guy’s allowed to show concern. I honestly can’t tell what’s just teen angst with you. It stresses me the fuck out, Parse.”

Kent can’t think of a way to reply. His voice rises, uncomfortably, in pitch -- he did not give it permission to do that -- “I -- I’m not --!” that bad! “I don’t --!” think about -- doing -- He settles on “I don’t have teen angst!”

“Spoken like a teenager without angst.” Castle fixes Kent with a level look, one eyebrow raised -- appraising -- and something about the reddening in Kent’s face makes him break out into laughter.

Kent’s at a total loss. And, frankly, he doesn’t know how to feel about the emotional rollercoaster this whole outing has gone on. He doesn’t feel like he can get offended, and he can’t tell Castle to fuck off, and he can’t exactly chirp the guy. And those are the only three reactions Kent knows how to give anyone on the team. So. Kent’s out of moves.

He stuffs his burger in his mouth. And he must look petulant about it, because Castle starts in on a second wave of laughter.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says with a joyful swipe at his eyes. “I don’t -” He laughs again, just once, “I don’t know all of Troy’s shit, I don’t have to live with him. I also don’t know all of - hell, any of your shit either, not really. As you love to point out. Maybe that whole thing with him is what’s been up your ass all season -- hell if I know!” Castle goes to finish off his milkshake, but pulls back, laughing - again.

Kent rolls his eyes and tries not to squirm. He has to say something to that, he has to. “Oh you’re -- you’re an asshole.” He shoves more fries in his face, just for something to do with his hands. “Fucking --I have teen angst? Me? Jesus, I can’t believe --”

Castle can’t stop laughing -- “Sue a guy for having eyes!”

“-- trying to pull some, some school counselor shit on me --” And Kent’s laughing too.

And when it all dies out, some minutes later, Castle wraps his knuckles lightly on the table. “No, but --” That wistful smile has found its way back on his face. “Thanks.” And he looks at Kent. “For --” His free hand motions to the plates between the two of them, and his smile turns into a more familiar lopsided grin. Still, it’s -- small, in a way. Open and vulnerable. A beat passes, and Castle shrugs and looks off, out the diner window. “You know, I think management made me captain because I’m a worrier. Like --” He looks back over to Kent. “They can just tell.”

Kent tips his head thoughtfully. “Team dad,” he supplies. His brows furrow -- Or big brother? He doesn’t know.

Castle nods. “And I’ve never seen two guys take so long to bury the hatchet --” The eye contact he makes with Kent is not without meaning -- “So. I worry. And I mean it when I say that I worry.”

Notes:

As I was thinking of Mandy's character, Kamilah Al-Jamil from The Good Place sprung into mind -- funky make-up and alternative clothing style included. Of course, with Jameela Jamil's height. (She is a goddess.) So if she came to mind for you as well, you get bonus points!

The slang that Poppy teaches Kent is basically a nice little homophobic insult. (Nice in the sarcastic sense, of course.) I kind of meant it's inclusion to be more a recognition that many Russian players would take offense to it, not so much a reflection of Poppy's personal values. And, you know, ~story themes~. But, he's also an OC and a fairly minor character, and far be it from me to tell people how to interpret fiction, ya know?

Anyways, tomorrow's my birthday -- ain't that wild? (Happy birthday to ME, I'm turning nineTEEN.) Comments always make my day, so if you like something I wrote, feel free to give me some validation -- if you didn't, happy birthday is nice too! (I joke, I joke!) If it's obvious that I am a sweet hermit child and that I have never been to a club, I do apologize -- I was born kind of lame.

As always, I'm @iwatchedhockeyonce on tumblr if you want to visit my omg!cp blog there and say hey! I'm a fan of everything Kent (which, I am sure, is NO surprise.)

Chapter 4: Interlude: Katie on the Roof

Notes:

Oh, crap! Is this... symbolism? Do I spy a blonde haired Parson whose gotten themselves stuck? (Pshhh, what are parallels, even?)

Katie shifts in her sleep. This new angle invites the sun to shine properly on her face and what feels like supersized Braille to dig into her back. She’s not sure which of these two things wakes her up first, but when she does, she realizes quite suddenly she’s on the roof of a house she doesn’t recognize. Looking over at the neighbors and their normal fucking choice of shingles, she’s a little pissed off that she had to pick the house with the mediterranean roof to pass out on. She’s also not sure how she got up here.

It’s fine, though. Easier down than up, right?

Geary’s head appears over the edge of the roof - she must be leaning out the second floor window, way up on her tippy toes, to see up here. “Kay-tee Par-son!” She calls, her voice scolding but face relieved. She looks more Mom than Katie’s mom ever did.

“Oh god, please don’t yell, I’m too hungover for this,” Katie says from where she’s perched. “Also my ass hurts so much from laying up here all night.”

Geary might be rolling her eyes, but Katie can’t really tell. “Hey, you’re the one who got yourself up here. Were you trying to show off how many pull-ups you can do again?”

“Does it look like I would remember that?”

“Yeah, that wouldn’t make sense, would it.” Geary deadpans, “My bad. It’s probably all the parkour shit you’ve been talking about.”

Katie does roll her eyes at this (and regrets immediately the headache it brings on.) “Please shut up and get out of the window so I can come back down.”

“Oh no you don’t. You’ll fall and break something, and honestly, it’s mid-season, we can’t be having that.” Geary’s face disappears for a moment, before she pops back up. “We’re getting you a ladder.”

“We? Shit.”

“And never letting you near Tequila again.”

All that’s left is for Katie to lay back and wait. At least climbing up here in itself is fairly impressive.

“Nevermind, Katie! We called the fire department!”

“What!? No!”

Chapter 5: Place in Summerlin

Summary:

The chapter where many people in Kent's life force him to stop being so damn emotionally constipated and he learns about the wonderful world of home ownership.

”Wish you weren’t so fucking awkward, bud.”

Katie had, on more than one occasion, slapped Kent on the shoulder while she said this -- her pity was never without love. Kent’s sure if his sister were here, it would be less a clap on the shoulder and more a smack to the back of his head.

The thing is, Kent wants to take Castle’s advice -- he does. And it shouldn’t be so hard to strike up a conversation with a guy that you live with -- they share a fucking bathroom, kitchen, a whole ass wall. And, honestly, Kent’s done more than enough to bother the guy -- his better instincts tell him that leaving Jeff Troy the fuck alone is the best thing he could possibly do. But it’s not something Kent should do.

He can feel the phantom pain of Katie giving him a well-deserved smack and the very real shame following.

If the next words in a conversation weren’t obvious, easy, pre-determined -- for Kent, at least -- then he would say too much, overstep his bounds. Which, admittedly, was awkward -- the cause for Katie’s catchphrase. Pre-teen Kent was gawkish -- the social equivalent to a newly hatched chick waddling, too soon, outside of the protection of its shell -- and, as ever, an embarrassment to his older sister.

Kent knew he would do this. His solution, then, in those situations, was to not say anything at all. PR says that Kent’s deflection is an art -- the way he manages, in the worst of times, to open his mouth and somehow say nothing at all, is a talent.

In truth, it’s not so hard. When you’ve never bothered befriending someone outside of hockey, it’s so easy to defer to a mutual obsession with the same sport when things get sticky. And Kent isn’t unique in this, either -- Jack and the Oceanic were the same. And Kent has so much of his failings, of the sickly sweet feelings he’d had stuck on his tongue and left unexpressed, to blame on settling for silence. (Maybe if he’d ran his mouth and overstepped his bounds sooner, he’d have known it all meant nothing to Jack sooner. Maybe, that way, the whole thing would be easier to forget about.)

Maybe, if someone were a bit braver, they would’ve noticed something was terribly wrong with Jack before his overdose.

Kent recognizes that this is wishful thinking. But, aside from these few tragedies -- ones that passed by, unnoticed until the damage was done, like sleeper agents -- silence seemed okay. Kent had almost convinced himself everyone did this.

But Castle didn’t deflect, and Castle wasn’t quiet, and Castle made it startlingly obvious just how awkward silence could be. Not in a better way, just in a different way; maybe -- probably -- in a worse way.

So he and Troy have a silent truce and Kent doesn’t know how to go about upsetting that balance. And he doesn’t have much time to figure it out, either, with the season drawing to a close; he’s got to start acting like an adult and get the elephant out of the room and get Castle to stop looking at him like that before summer.

But he can’t.

For better or for worse, a few days after his conversation with Castle, the problem is taken out of Kent’s hands entirely. Swoops, of all people, approaches him first. (Just because Kent is incapable doesn’t mean that Swoops is.)

-- which, for many reasons, makes Kent feel like an even bigger dick. Like, it was Kent who decided to be an asshole in the first place, and to offer up the cold shoulder for the following four months. So Kent should be the one to try to undo it. Kent has to be the one to prove -- that he isn’t a dick? A child? (That’s the thing about being kind of a piece of shit -- it’s really hard to prove that you aren’t.)

The whole thing makes Kent want to tear his hair out.

So -- for better -- Swoops approaches Kent first. And it’s the most nonchalant thing Kent has ever fucking seen. They’re practicing for tomorrow night’s game against the Schooners and Swoops skates close by and stops next to Kent where he’s stood by the sideboards; Swoops slides off his helmet in one smooth motion and says, so practiced that Kent almost doesn’t catch it, “Oh, by the way, I’m on your line now.”

Which -- “Why didn’t the GMs tell me?” Having Troy deliver the news is, well, fucking weird.

Troy, for his part, just shrugs and starts fiddling with the helmet in his hands. Instead of dodging out of the conversation, he’s just avoiding eye contact. “I dunno, I think they’re just trying out new line-ups since it’s the end of the season.” His eyes drift over to the vicinity of Kent’s face. “Want to see what works, what doesn’t. Not such a big deal.”

Kent huffs out a breath and grits his teeth at that. “Well. Cool.”

And a strange look crosses Troy’s face. “I mean...” Troy starts, and his eyes narrow, just a bit. “Is there -- is there something wrong with me being your left wing?”

Kent tries to keep the confused irritation out of his voice. Light, cordial -- Kent can do that. “I just don’t understand why they’re putting me on second-line.”

Troy’s reply is flat. “I’m moving up to first.”

“ -- What?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Troy sighs, and he’s suddenly all movement. He pushes back, away from Kent; the helmet in his hands is now getting worked back onto his head, over that swoop of brown hair. Kent’s fucked up. (Again.) “I don’t want to fight with you but -- really? That’s so surprising?” And Troy’s fitting the chin straps back on and shaking his head. “Jesus christ.”

Kent’s stomach drops to his feet. “Oh, no, I just -- I meant --” His gloved hands throw themselves outward, as if he’s trying to stop an oncoming train crash a little too late. Troy, for his part, doesn’t want to hear it -- what ‘it’ is, Kent couldn’t say himself.

“Whatever, Parse.”

“I.” Kent swallows and stills and hangs his head. “Okay.”

Troy sighs, again -- this time, probably out of pity -- and fixes Kent with a look. Kent, for his part, doesn't let his eyes skitter away when they lock with Troy's brown ones; after all, breaking eye-contact is the type of thing 'Swoops' is supposed to do. “So I’m going to be your left-winger next game.” Troy's tone invites no debate.

And Kent nods, and though he tries not to seem too eager -- desperate -- with it, he ends up looking like a goddamn bobble-head anyways. Kent can recognize a second -- third -- chance when he sees it, an olive branch. He wouldn’t argue it even if he wanted to.

“And we’re going to be friends.”

“I. Yeah.” Kent nods once more and tries to fight the weird, confused way the corners of his mouth turn up. Why Troy would volunteer to subject himself to Kent anymore than he already has is a mystery, but, between Castle’s disappointed looks and Troy’s tone, Kent, again, isn’t in a position to question their judgement. He just has to be the guy who doesn’t fuck it up. “Of course. Yeah.” Silence isn’t an option anymore, and neither is debate; apology it is. “Sorry.”

Another beat passes and the smile on Troy’s face is both deeply unimpressed and somehow affectionate. “How’s your sister?”

“Oh, uh --” Kent fidgets. Now he has to practice not fucking up, he has to stumble through his words, drag them out of his mouth like a car with a stalled engine. Troy didn’t really give him an easy starter question. “She’s -- good. We haven’t -- talked, much. The season’s have been really busy for us.”

Another beat passes and Kent looks back up. The conversation, apparently, still isn’t over; he supposes it’s now his turn.

“So what did you go to college for?”

“Oh." Troy’s expression morphs into an embarrassed half-smile, half-grimace. "Dental hygiene?” He says it like it’s a question and Kent has to fight back a startled laugh.

“Uhm?” he settles for instead.

“Guys get high-sticked in the face a lot? So I always kind of thought...” Troy’s face pulls even further into a grimace. “Teeth were... cooool?”

Kent thinks on that for a moment -- then he narrows his eyes and leans forward a bit. It’s probably the only time that Kent would let himself openly stare at another man’s mouth -- particularly, especially, surrounded by hockey players.

Troy gets the hint; he pulls back his lips and opens his mouth, so Kent can actually see some of his teeth. Kent pulls back, impressed -- “Oh, wow.” They are really fucking clean.

Troy closes his mouth and shrugs. “Yeah.”

“It’s paid off,” Kent adds.

“I mean,” Troy slides off his glove and reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. “I mostly did it in case I wasn’t able to re-enter the draft. Colorado wouldn’t sign, and if I were a free agent I probably -- wouldn’t have done so well.”

Kent’s eyebrows raise. “Wait, so --”

Troy’s laugh is easy and light. “Yeah, it was just a two year program. Mostly classes over the summer.”

“So, the college-boy thing -- is bullshit.” Kent concludes, a wry look on his face.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Troy wags a finger. “I have the certificate. I am fully qualified to clean teeth and make people’s gums bleed.”

 

~

 

And it’s almost kind of like Kent and Troy hadn’t stopped talking in the first place, and the discomfort of the season is superseded by two easy-going bookends. When practice ends, it’s clear to the rest of the Aces’ that Troy and Parson have finally stopped being so fucking weird and exhausting. The dressing room seems to explode with relief.

“Thank fucking Christ -- that shit was getting real fucking awkward,” Alby says with a slap on Kent’s back.

“Honestly, dude?” Frenchie tilts his head towards Troy in commiseration from where they are across the dressing room. “If I had to live with Parse, I don’t think I could put up with him at all --”

He meets eyes with Kent, fully aware that he can hear and fully intending for it to be a chirp. “I bet he spends like, an hour in the bathroom just to fuck around with his hair.”

Which is an erroneous claim -- “Jokes on you, fucker. Swoops spends more time in there than I do. I’m a fucking delight.”

Kent wonders, for a moment, if Troy joining his line pushed Castle into talking to him, but the approving hand Castle lays on his shoulder banishes the thought. Castle doesn’t quite operate that way -- and even if he did, could Kent be mad? It turns out next game, Swoops makes a really fucking fantastic left-wing to Kent’s center.

It’s a shame, almost; no matter how well they played, the Aces’ season was over. At least Kent closes out his first season with a win. (He thinks that if the Aces’ haven’t signed Troy yet, he’s going to stare down management until they do.)

He’d forgotten what it was like to play with on-ice chemistry like that -- it easily makes his favorite game twice as good. And then the season ends.

 

~

 

“Rise and shine, Kenny! Get your fat ass up!”

Lest Kent think complying with Katie’s demands is optional, her words are accompanied by a pillow to the face. He’d be angrier if he weren’t currently staying with her in Boston, laid out on her (surprisingly comfortable?) futon.

As it is, he grabs the offending weapon and buries his face into it -- his voice comes out as a muffled plea. “Please, Kates, summer is for hibernation.”

“You say that like you’re the only one recovering from a hockey season.”

He groans. “And jet lag.”

He can hear how much she doesn’t care. “It’s almost eleven. You’re eating brunch with me, you fucker.” Not a second later, he feels his world begin to tilt -- she’s lifting up the mattress.

Wait, fuck -- she’s lifting up the mattress.

He tumbles to the carpeted floor of her living room. “Fuck,” He says, soft but full of feeling. “I can’t believe I forgot how much of a bitch you are.”

He’s sitting up, now; his eyes cracked open to look up at her domineering figure -- her honey blonde hair, only a shade darker than Kent’s, is pulled into the typical high pony-tail with a few cowlicky strands left to frame her face. The hands on her hips and the scrunch of her Parson-certified button nose tell him that she’s far from being truly upset.

“That’s what you get for not calling me all season. Hmm, maybe my memory is bad but --” she cups her own chin, deep in thought, “I seem to remember a certain blonde-haired skank promising that he’d call me more than once --”

“I’m sorry, I’ve told you I’m sorry --”

“Yeah, only at the awards ceremony -- which you had to have me and dad fly over for or you know you’d really be dead.” She sighs and a bit of the fire drops out of her voice. “Come on, Kenny, grace me with your presence for one meal. I’ll even make the eggs you like -- I know you burn everything you touch.”

That has his attention, and soon enough he’s piling the covers back onto the futon and pulling himself up on a stool by the counter. “I can make toast okay -- also, I think you qualify more for the title of ‘blonde-haired skank’.”

She grunts out some kind of non-commital sound from where she’s cracking eggs into a bowl, back to Kent.

He snorts out a laugh. “Ooh, that bad, huh?”

“We are not talking about that,” she says with a look tossed over her shoulder. She’s still every bit his older sister -- hell, he’s sure that he’s seen her wear that exact tank-top before -- but it’s weird, thinking of adult-her picking him up from the airport, making the two of them food, and the younger-her, chasing little-him with screaming cicadas and dragging him through all sorts of shit. The smell of cooking bacon fills the room and joins the eggs cooking on the stovetop.

He looks at his own hands, at the heavy freckles now splattering his forearms -- because, fuck, Las Vegas is nothing if not sunny -- and he thinks of how he’s changed, of what parts of him are the same. It feels immense and distant, and, not for the first time, he thinks of Jack, of his mother; he thinks of space and silence and secret points of no-return.

He opens his mouth to ask something, anything, but she beats him to it and shoves a hearty plate of fat and protein under his nose.

“You gonna tell me why you didn’t reach out?” And she settles on the stool next to him, chewing on a strip of bacon with an expectant stare his way. “You’ve apologized, but you haven’t explained.”

“Oh, it -- “ He feels his shoulders start inching towards his neck. “It was just so busy, and both of our seasons are at the same time, and --”

“Kent, I know that’s bullshit.”

“I --” He huffs out a breath. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

Inexplicably, she starts to laugh. “You didn’t say much at the awards ceremony either, but I figured it was because it hadn’t sunk in yet.”

And he hears the implicit question there, too. “I mean, it was a great -- an amazing season. There just isn’t a lot to say.”

She makes a face. “That’s bullshit too. On both counts. You know it’s okay to talk about the Calder around me, right? I won’t bite you.”

And he’s felt the tension from that, too, since last summer. Because Katie had hockey first and she does hockey better, but she’ll never have the platform and the fame and the multi-million dollar deals Kent does -- “They moved me in with a vet named Carlson. He’s a misogynist and a nosy fucker and just -- he’s fucking awful. So I didn’t call, because I didn’t want him saying anything about you. To you.” Kent shovels more egg into his mouth. When she doesn’t say anything, it spurs him on further. “And the Calder -- it’s whatever. It’s a thing. I mean, it’s amazing, but --” He cuts off his own incoming word-vomit.

It seems to please her, though, if her smile is anything to go by. “Okay. What about the rest of the team?”

He perks up immediately -- this, this he can talk about. “Pretty decent. I think if they pull up their contracts right, we could have a real shot at the play-offs next season.”

“Ooh, boy, I saw some of those games. Better hope they finesse some good trades,” she spears a piece of egg. “I’m not ESPN. I wanna know about your friends,” and this comes with a teasing raise of her eyebrow.

“Well.” And the way he has to wrack his brain for this -- it’s almost embarrassing. “There’s Poppy.” He starts, haltingly. “And there’s Frenchie and -- Castle, our captain, is pretty cool. He got me a strawberry milkshake once and --” Kent thinks back to Castle’s confession that no one wanted to take in rookies, despite knowing what Carlson is like, and his many little attempts at meddling. He hadn’t said anything after he and Troy made up, but Kent’s sure that he wanted to. “Like, I’m pretty sure he should irritate me but he... doesn’t. Uhm --”

Katie snorts. “Glowing praise!”

“Hey, not everyone can pull off the team dad thing! That’s all I’m saying!”

Katie laughs ever harder -- “Yes, of course, that was communicated -- wonderfully --”

He rolls his eyes and pushes through. “And -- I guess I’m friends with Troy now? Oh. And I met these cool lesbians at a bar -- Mandy and Cara. Well, I don’t know about Cara, but Mandy made it pretty clear when she gave me her number that she wasn’t interested -- for a very specific reason.”

“Ooh, now you’re speaking my language.”

Now it’s his turn to laugh. Yeah, some things never change.

A beat passes. “Well?” She says.

“...Well, what?”

“Well, do you hang out with them?”

Oh. “Uh, I mean, we texted a few times --”

“Kent Parson, you massive idiot. When you get back in Vegas, you are going to socialize like a normal fucking human being.”

“Ugh,” and there’s no food left to busy his mouth with, so he settles on “You really do act like a mom sometimes.”

And Katie fixes him with a wide grin that’s only slightly feral. “Oh, it’s just a symptom of eldest daughter syndrome. And, you know, being related to a dumb-ass.”

“I missed you, too, Kates.”

 

 

~

 

 

Kent does two things when he gets back in from couch surfing between Katie’s and his dad’s place. (And, it’s weird to think of it as coming ‘back’, considering that Kent never thought there was much to return to.)

First, he sets up to meet with Cara and Mandy at a well rated cafe in Vegas. Since its near the end of August, they're back in town for school as well. The cafe turns out... More feminine than he was counting on, and not exactly the kind of place he'd want to be caught out, in public, with two random women. But Cara wanted to eat al fresco, whatever the fuck that means.

(Apparently it means outdoors, which means it’s hot as balls and, literally, out in the open. Not a hockey town, Kent has to remind himself.)

It might be sad to some that is much easier for Kent to be honest with Mandy than it is for him to talk to his team, or the GMs, or, really, at this point, his family. It would be sad to Kent too, if it weren’t for the fact that having someone he can be honest with floods him relief. And if he feels more comfortable talking to women, that’s only because his best friend growing up was his older sister -- and he refuses to feel bad about that.

Honesty with Mandy and Cara, of course, really has to start with him coming out as an NHL player. Which, to Mandy’s derisive stare, is harder than it sounds like.

“So you’re telling me --” Her eyes narrow, “Not that I’m surprised, by the way --”

“It’s all the brand name shit,” Cara supplies, putting another forkful of strawberry into her mouth.

“That you aren’t a broke college student like you had us believe?” Mandy finishes. Kent wonders, vaguely, how she isn’t absolutely fucking baking wearing all black like she is.

Kent waffles, but indignancy wins out. “I didn’t lie!”

“Lies of omission are still lies,” Cara says.

Mandy nods wisely. “Lies of omission are still lies.”

Kent huffs. “Lies of omission aren’t lie-lies, though.”

Cara ‘hmmm’s thoughtfully. “He has a point.”

“But you --!”

Mouth half-full, Cara’s reply is muffled. She holds her hands out in an irritated ’what do you want from me? shrug. “I’m agreeing with you --”

Mandy holds up a silencing hand. “Quiet, children.” The speed at which Cara’s words die out tell Kent that this isn’t an unusual request. Not an instant later, however, Cara is raising her hand, dark brown curls bouncing with the eager movement, as if to be called on. “Yes, Cara?”

“Kenneth, dear.” Cara turns back to look at Kent, fruit cup daintly in hand. “Does this mean next time we hang out, we can go to your big ass house?”

“Well, the thing is --” He shrinks, slightly. “I don’t have one? Yet?”

“Wait, then where have you been staying?” Mandy asks.

Kent makes a face and tugs his black ball-cap down lower to cover more of his face. “I can tell you later." You’d think with how much he hated living with Carlson, Kent would be out of that place in a heartbeat -- not that the idea of living alone was exactly enticing; if anything, staying with his family reminded him of how lonely the past year had been

But, unless it was about hockey, it was hard to get Kent off his ass to do anything.

(Also, he’d only just turned nineteen and knew fuck-all about signing leases and owning property.)

Cara makes a disappointed noise. “Well, are you at least going to pay for our meal?”

Mandy makes an affronted noise. “Cara, he is not an ATM. What is wrong with you?” -- judging by the lack of fire behind her words, and Cara’s lack of response, Kent could also guess that this exchange wasn’t exactly new, either.

“No, no -- I was planning to anyway. I mean, like -- I did invite you guys out here, and stuff.”

“And we’re not worth millions of dollars,” Cara adds with a gesture of her spoon. Kent could swear that she also sticks her tongue out at Mandy, in a ‘I’m not wrong’ sort of way, but the gesture is so quick he barely catches it.

“Well, it’s not a huge deal anyways,” Mandy says with a roll of her eyes. “Cara and I are roommates this year.”

“Apartment edition,” Cara’s free end changes into a finger gun, and her grin stays cheeky.

Which -- almost sounds like an invitation (Katie would be kicking him viciously under the table right now) but he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on that. “Wait -- I have a question. Two, actually.”

Mandy hums in response, pulling her mouth away from her coffee. “Yeah?”

“Are you guys -- together?” He lets the question pop off of his tongue before he can overthink it, his finger pointing between the two of them. “Dating?”

In unison, the two women answer. “No.”

After that, their replies overlap.

Mandy says “She’d send me to the psych ward.”

Cara says “I don’t shit where I eat.”

Somehow, Kent doesn’t doubt the truth in either statement. Still, there’s a pause where both he and Mandy stop to look at Cara. Unbidden, the two’s words overlap again.

Mandy’s expression is unimpressed. “We’re better as friends.”

“Galpals,” Cara’s is unapologetic as she offers up a one-word explanation. “What else were you wondering?”

The beginnings of Kent’s laughter halt at that. “Oh, yeah.” He frowns into his too-sweet latte. “I was also wondering...” And he hazards a glance up, “How’d you guys get an apartment?”

“Oh my god,” Mandy buries her head in her hands and Kent thinks, with a grin, that he sees all too much of his sister in her. “Men are useless.”

Cara snickers. “Why don’t you ask your manly man teammates to help you out? I think they --” And she snorts. Again. “-- might have a better handle on the bloated ass budget you’re working with.”

"Oh! Speaking of manly man teammates --" Kent points his drink at Cara and the barely-there freckles high up on her cheeks. "Third question: what's your opinion on guys with Russian accents?"

Kent doesn’t end up with any good housing advice, but he does walk away with the promise that both of them would be invited to the eventual housewarming party he didn’t know he’d be having. All in all, a pretty good time.

 

 

~

 

 

Number two on Kent’s list actually spans the course of several months and ends with Castle being the one to bring the last of Kent’s belongings across the perimeter. Which -- given that Kent was used to packing light and billeting in other’s homes -- wasn’t a whole lot.

To say that Kent loved his new digs would be stretching it. It’s further in suburbia than anyone expected, but the Aces’ management and a few of Troy’s innocuous comments helped him pick it out. Besides, there was something comforting about having young couples and PTA moms for neighbors -- something about having a tree out front and a yard out back reminded him of home, even if that yard was more pebble than ground cover and the tree was funky and bristled and short.

It was comforting to think that, even in the middle of the desert things like Joshua trees could thrive. (-- and, if we’re being honest, Kent picked the house for that tree alone.) The move happened in record time, and the drive from Carly’s townhouse by The Lakes to Kent’s place in Summerlin slipped by quicker than any car-ride had since Carly first picked him up from the airport little more than a year ago.

(-- and it really figures that Carly would be a big-enough douchebag to buy lake-front property in the middle of the desert and not even offer to help Kent pack his shit.)

Neither Castle or Troy had really offered their help so much had given it anyways. And Kent wasn’t one to refuse, if only because it’s a whole lot easier to do adult things, like hire a real estate agent or unpack dishes, when you accept help.

And they stay, for a beer and a dumb movie, slouched on a newly assembled IKEA couch -- Fast & Furious is almost flashy enough for Kent to see the appeal. As is, though? Wouldn’t be jumping at a chance to rewatch it.

And -- it’s nice, to have friends. Just friends. It’s nice to have the reminder, the evidence that people, guys, would want to be around him when he doesn’t have anything special to offer -- points for the team or any other type of benefits. A healthy male friendship -- who woulda thunk it?

Notes:

Hey all, sorry for the wait. Things have been weird. Online classes were... bad.... Yeah. ANYWAYS.

Jeff as a dental hygienist was actually a major plot bunny that started this whole thing?? I'll be uploading an interlude soon playing more on that.

Like Kent, I too am baby. So if I knew more about actually buying a house / renting an apartment / literally anything beyond dorm applications, this chapter would be longer and probably clownier. As is? EHHHH. (The devil is in the details! Argh!) Still, I hope you enjoy the image of Kent looking over multiple potential contracts and Jeff casually looking over his shoulder and making comments... because he's Just Like That (TM).

Also here to say that I have never been to the American Southwest although I fantasize about visiting daily... A lot of my info comes from google images, google maps, wikipedia, and the odd Las Vegas vlogger. If I get anything outrageously wrong, just let me know and I'll update it lickity split! (I come from a place of love for LV!!!)

The funky lil' dude outside of Kent's house is called a Joshua Tree, though they're technically just really weird shrubs. And they ONLY grow in the American Southwest. Ain't that the coolest shit!?!?

Also, a lot of my writing, especially for omg!cp is the challenge of trying to make as many plot-relevant female characters as possible. Mandy is totes plot relevant, especially next chapter, and Cara is a cutie with a tiny side plot so don't you guys worry about them! (I can hear you asking "What plot??" and I'm here to tell you to please let me live.) I love their kind of Bert & Ernie dynamic and I live to see young women be chaotic so that's that.

As always, my omg!cp sideblog is on tumblr @iwatchedhockey once. I hope everyone's doing alright with everything going on <3

Chapter 6: To Take Your Advice...

Summary:

Kent hangs out at Mandy and Cara's apartment. Cara does Kent's makeup. Kent tells them a bit about his ex. You know -- girl stuff.

Notes:

Hey all! This is where I plug the preceding work in this series, "The Rise and Fall of the Parson/Zimmerman Duo", because it might help give a better view of what Kent isn't really sharing in this chapter. It's not absolutely necessary to read in order to understand what's going on, of course!

Also, I made a minor addition/edit to last chapter, towards the end of Kent's cafe conversation with The Dynamic Duo.

“It started off like... Very Aly & AJ. Like, their music,” He tells Mandy. She might -- she is the first person to hear about Jack. From him, that is. 

 

Cara might count, as well, but Kent’s pretty sure that she’s more tuned into giving him winged eyeliner than she is on their conversation. The only words she’s spoken in the past half hour have been admonishments towards Kent for moving too much. He’d agreed to be her doll for the time being because, direct quote, “Mandy never lets me do her makeup, she’s always doing that goth shit, and I never get to practice on someone else” -- and it turns out that Cara can be a whiny brat when she wants to be. A straighter man would be distracted by Cara’s dark tan skin, the laser focus she had on him, and the proximity of her chest-- but to a tipsy-tired Kent, she may as well blend into the couch.

 

It’s easy to tell Mandy-- especially like this, with a beer curled in his hands and his lips loose. He hums the hook -- when ya gonna take me ooout? “Then it got pretty Lana del Rey. Doomed from the start, hot-but-really-sad type thing.” 

 

He hasn’t been coming over often. At the very start of the season, back when Kent was still in limbo between living with Carly and Troy and finding a place where he could live separate from Carly and Swoops, he hadn’t had reams of spare time.  And it’s just as well, Carlson and Troy would always act weird whenever he mentions he’s going out -- even if it’s to meet up with Mandy and Cara at a cafe, or to bum out on Mandy’s couch for a few hours to watch air-head reality TV without feeling judged. For her part, Mandy’s been drowned with pre-med everything because that’s just how put-together, ambitious people are -- busy. He can’t quite figure out why she or Cara (or anyone, for that matter) want him around or even make time for it, but he’s not about to complain. 

 

Their place feels like something out of a Miyazaki film. Which is to say, it’s kind of cramped and cluttered but in a really fucking whimiscal way. Mismatched furniture you can sink into, hanging baskets filled with flowers and tiny pots filled with succulents, inexplicable crystals and unlit candles lying around. Dirty clothes and empty bottles, too, because it wasn’t a Miyazaki film. And, of course, a sleek black cat watching the proceedings from her perch in the corner. Kent swears, those wide green eyes can see things normal mortals should not. Her name is Luna Luna and Kent falls in love on sight; Luna Luna doesn’t feel the same way but Cara tells him that’s to be expected, it’s okay.)

 

“So -- you win probably the best award in hockey --” She waves off that start of Kent’s protest from where she is across from them, splayed out on a hot-pink beanbag --  “Yeah, yeah, the Stanley Cup, I know. But the best individual award in hockey,” the Calder Memorial trophy, his brain supplies, “and you think about your ex? Like, you don’t even let yourself enjoy being the best new guy in the NHL. Just...” She waves an incredulous hand, “straight to your ex.” 

 

At his silence, Mandy raises two expectant eyebrows. It’s almost rude, since they both know damn well that he won’t correct her. 

 

And she’s not wrong - Kent can’t correct her. Like, how does he say that the entire month of June reminds him of Jack, now? In Q, they’d won the Memorial Cup together in June, too; that they’d had their falling out in June; that Jack had overdosed in June -- and Kent, well, even that Kent can’t talk about yet. 

 

How does he tell someone about getting up on that stage, after being drafted, and being certain, all the way down to his bones, that the jersey they’d handed Kent had Jack’s last name stitched onto it first? That every point he scores feels like one less than what Jack would’ve gotten, in his place?

 

June might just always remind Kent of Jack Zimmerman. (And with that, awards season.)

 

Cara clucks her tongue and leans back onto her haunches to survey her work -- which probably consists of ridiculous highlights on his cheekbones. After a while, makeup and brushes become just that -- makeup and brushes. (The same probably goes for talk about exes.)

 

“Yeah, I don’t get it.” She says, and sweeps a wave of heavy, brown curls behind her shoulders. “It’s been a hot ass minute since you last -- whatever -- with him. Grace period is looong over.”

 

He hums out a distressed sound at the reminder. “He changed his number this summer. My texts started bouncing --”

 

“Whoa, you’re still texting him?” Mandy asks at the same time Cara lets out a “Yikes.”

 

What Kent wants to say is that if his texts started bouncing, then that means Jack’s changed his number, which means he’s out of rehab which means -- well, Kent doesn’t really know what it means. That it’s been long enough, he thinks. That maybe they’re ready to talk again. But Mandy and Cara only know about his ex, not about Jack Zimmerman, and he’s not in any real rush to explain just how terribly his past fucklationship with hockey royalty ended.

 

He feels a hand on his shoulder. Cara’s cute, round face fills his field of vision. “Okay. Ken. Kenneth Paltrow. You gotta ask yourself why you’re still hung up over him, okay?” His skin on his face prickles with embarrassment, but she’s right -- “I mean, I don’t think anyone’s worth losing your dignity over.”

 

And at that, he has to bellow out a harsh laugh. There’s not as much humor in his tone as he would like. “You are slathering clown makeup on me as we speak -- I don’t think I had much of that to begin with.”

 

Cara bats away the hand he didn’t realize he’d been lifting to his face. “You’ll smudge it -- and, okay, Kenny, my guy. There’s a difference between highlighting these cheekbones and clown makeup. Which,” and she says this next bit with only a hint of threat in her voice, “I could do instead, if you wanted.” She pulls back, her brush hovering somewhere off to the side while she inspects her work. “But really, I think there’s something behind that sad Lana del Rey shit you’re not sharing with the class.”

 

Mandy hums, wiggling her drink in front of her thoughtfully. “Yeah. I mean, assuming he and this guy broke up before he -- whatever the hockey word is for moving to the Aces --”

 

“Got drafted --”

 

“Then it’s been like, almost a year and a half? Woof,” Mandy takes a pull from her cup. “That’s not fantastic, Kent.” 

 

Before he can even cringe at the statement (and at the passing of time, generally), Cara is twisting around to gesture to Mandy. “See, what I was thinking about where he’d even meet this guy.”

 

And, yeah, this is just starting to get annoying. “-- Hello? I’m right in front of --”

 

“I mean he has, like, no life outside of hockey -- and no offense, Kenny, but it’s pretty obvious --” 

 

“I literally play professionally --”

 

“So like. This ex -- wait, hey --” And Cara finally turns to address Kent directly and poke him in the shoulder. “You never gave us a name. I can’t keep saying ‘your ex’ when I’m theorizing.”

 

“No, I’m -- I’m not doing that. I don’t like where this theorizing is going.” He assumes that Cara mistakes his frown for playful because she just continues barreling on.

 

“I’m just saying the chances of you meeting and boning someone who doesn’t also play hockey is like, slim to none.” And she starts to waggle her brows at him, completely undeterred by his mounting horror. “Plus, those hockey bods? That locker room must get steamy --”

 

“I play hockey because I like hockey. Because I’m good at it.” When Cara catches the hard expression on his face, she truly stops trying to talk. Mandy, for her part, manages to hide a grimace. “There is no, and I mean <i>no</i> other reason for why I play. I don’t --” He breathes out, hard, through his nose, nostrils flaring. “I don’t know what kind of things you think I do, but I don’t <i>look</i> at my teammates that way. I respect their privacy. I’m not a fucking creep.”

And wow, he didn’t realize how angry that made him, how much her teasing reminded him of Yorke and his comments that Kent better keep his eyes to himself. Kent takes another steadying breath this time, decidedly less aggressive, and moves to get up and nudge Cara away. “I should probably go. Thanks for the beer.”

 

Cara clambers away to sit back beside Kent on the couch, “No, wait -- I’m sorry,” she says, hands clasped in her lap. “I really didn’t mean to, well, imply anything like that. I know you aren’t like that.” There’s a moment before she looks away and starts packing away her cosmetics. “I was just trying to say that maybe it’s time to try dating. Like, branch out from your job.” And there’s a ziiip, when her color pallets are put back together, segmented and clean once more into a black pouch. “Even if it doesn’t go well, it’s still nice to meet new people. I mean -- “ and she chances a look back up at him, and, judging that his expression has sufficiently softened, she reaches for a compact mirror and lifts it to Kent’s face. “You wouldn’t have any trouble getting a first date, at least.” 

 

Kent does look good, in an unreal sort of way -- almost like the stars on the trashy reality TV they have going in the background. Or, maybe something classier, like the influencers he sees on Twitter; his cheekbones do glow.

 

But it doesn’t look like him. Kent Parson doesn’t date -- that doesn’t feel like something he gets to do. 

 

Instead of saying this, he laughs.

 

And Mandy joins in, probably half in relief that the mood has returned to mellow and easy. “Easy for you to say, Cara. I’ve never seen someone turn an NHL housewarming party into a speed dating challenge before.”

 

Cara shuts the compact mirror with an eye roll. “Blondie wanted to set me up with the Russian teddy bear.” 

 

“Mmm, which is a good thing -- I think he’s probably one of the only ones you didn’t scare off first thing.” The black and silver bracelets on Mandy’s wrist jangle with her full body laugh, and it infects the room. It’s easy to move on from the awkwardness of the moment, from remembering Q, when Mandy laughs like that, when they’re more important, funnier things to remember. 

 

And remember he does, recalling the house-warming he did eventually have with a weary shake of his head. Well, house-warming might be too strong a word for it -- really, it was more a pre-season house party and an excuse to get a little drunk; his still mostly empty, still bare house made a perfect venue for rowdy hockey players and their plus ones. Still, he’d been shocked at how full the place could get -- he didn’t get that big of a place because he didn’t have a family to account for, and knew that he wouldn’t; and yet, one plus one became plus a few, and now all the assorted wives and girlfriends and kids were filling out what little patio Kent could offer. 

 

Embarrassment tugs at the memory of how Cara marched in and started interrogating his teammates on whether or not they were homophobic -- operating under the assumption that, well, all NHL players were. Kent had led her away before she could get to Carly, of course, but he’d been pleasantly shocked at the geniality, or, at least, the reserve of his team. He supposes that pretty girls at parties can get away with almost anything.

 

Swoops had, for some reason, fucked off somewhere shortly after Mandy arrived and pushed a wicker basket filled with weird Wiccan shit into his hands, so Kent led the pair, instead, toward Frenchie and Poppy.

 

Frenchie -- who had, apparently, engaged Cara and Mandy in a thorough decision on gender and sexuality in the music industry and how it compared to professional sports. The similarities between the two being, of course, the relative fame of both fields and the focus on public image; the differences boiling down to, in Frenchie’s opinion -- “Being gay probably made Freddie Mercury and Elton John’s music better, but it doesn’t have shit to do with how well you can hit a puck.” Poppy, for his part, had expressed his avid approval of the NHL’s You Can Play initiative, which had been in the works ever since Brendan Burke came out and broke international headlines.

 

Then -- per Mandy’s later retelling -- the conversation broke apart as everyone had one more beer after another and ended with Poppy and Cara bonding over the challenges of learning a second language and gleefully taking the piss out of a party full of monolinguals. 

 

(Kent, personally, wouldn’t know what was said; he’d been too busy googling what the fuck amethyst crystals and sage were for, why Mandy would put them in a house-warming gift, and making sure newcomers didn’t block in his neighbors driveway. He really should send Gene and Sally from next door a nice thank-you/apology fruit basket for putting up with all that tomfuckery.) 

 

Cara sticks out her tongue in reply. “Well, maybe that’s because he’s smart. I mean, I only had to go from Spanish to this shit you guys call English, which was hard enough. But Russian? There are like no similarities --”

 

Kent expertly cuts her off, knowing it’s the start to a rant he’s already heard. With a point towards Mandy, he says, “Poppy said he liked sweet girls with cute freckles, and he didn’t seem to not like her, so --” Kent empties out the last of his beer with a flourish, “I’m a fantastic match-maker.”

 

Mandy only laughs harder. “So your mind immediately goes to her --” she points to Cara (who had glommed onto the fact that no one was listening) with the same hand her drink is in, and her bracelets jangle again. “Who has fuck-all freckles and who’s maybe... hmmm,” and Mandy squints up to Cara, seemingly in deep, complicated thought, “not a total asshole.”

 

“Hey, I said I was sorry!” Cara waves her bags full of makeup defensively.

 

“She’s right, Mandy -- that’s not fair.” Kent grins. “She has at least -- five freckles.”

 

“I won’t stand for this slander.” Cara huffs and gathers up her things before fixing the two of them with a look. “I’m going to go deal with the mail -- you know. Do something sweet.”

 

Mandy jeers at her as she leaves the room, throwing a pair of discarded shorts at her as she goes. “And maybe you’ll do your own laundry later, too!” 

 

A beat passes, she shakes her head and takes a drink from her bottle. Kent didn’t know someone could look so self-righteous after having missed a throw by a good foot. “You know,” Mandy says, “I think you should take Castle’s advice. Start going to therapy.” 

 

Kent straightens from where he’s started to slouch, her words jostling him. “What?” He’s lost. “When did he say that?”

 

Mandy flips her jet black hair over her shoulder. “Dude, he sat you down and told you that you reminded him of his suicidally-depressed brother. And he said he was worried about you. I --” She sighs, takes another drink, “I literally don’t know how else he would tell you that he thinks you should go to therapy. I mean, other than --” She straightens her back, squares her back; the voice that comes out of her mouth is at least an octave lower, and it sounds like it’s got a cold. “‘Kent. Therapy. Go.’” 

 

He rolls his eyes. “See, if you’d gotten a chance to meet him at the party you wouldn’t be saying that.” 

 

Mandy has to nod in agreement at that. “True. All the sane people were hiding out on your patio, so he can’t be all bad.”

 

“I wonder what that says about you two that you were inside the whole time.” Kent scoffs out a laugh. “That’s probably where Troy fucked off to, also. I kind of wish you guys got to meet.” 

 

“Oh, the tall guy with the dumb hair? He saw me talking to you and just -- left.” She shrugs with her hands. 

 

“Weird.” Kent’s brows furrow as he tilts his head to the side, considering. “We must’ve scared him off, somehow.” 

 

He hears Mandy stifle a giggle. 

 

“What?”

 

The question just makes her want to laugh harder. “Oh, it’s -- it’s nothing.” 

 

Kent sighs, “Ugh, really -- what? What is it?”

 

“I just, I mean --” she finally lets out a snort. “You always talk about him like he’s a cat? It’s hilarious.” 

 

Kent throws his head back to scowl at the ceiling. He spares a dejected look down to his empty bottle. “Tell me why I’m always just a little drunk whenever I hang out with you?” 

 

She laughs, again, at the question and wipes at her eyes. “Hmm, maybe it’s because you’re more fun that way. Or --” She raises a brow, more likely than not thinking back to his defensive outburst. “Probably because you need therapy.”

 

Kent’s about to protest when an urgent “Mahasweta!” comes from the kitchen. 

 

She gives him an apologetic shrug as she gets up to answer her roommate's call. 

 

“Hey, therapy’s for everyone. We all have stuff we can work on,” and with that, she disappears into the next room. 

 

Not a minute later he hears a shrill “What? That’s at least fifty bucks more than it was last month! And the month before that he jacked up the price by twenty!” There’s a bang, probably a frustrated fist on kitchen table. “Utilities, my ass!” He see’s Mandy rush back in to grab at her purse -- pitch black, like everything else she owns, made of fake snake-skin -- and her bangs swish with the quick movement.

 

“I -” Kent feels like he’s intruding, somehow, but. He hears money-talk. And Kent has money. “I mean, I could help?”

 

Mandy doesn’t even dignify that with a look from where she’s kneeled on the other end of the sofa, rummaging through her bag for any loose bills. She does, however, spare a hand to wave dismissively at him like a fly. 

 

Kent pauses before he tries again, because it doesn’t look like she’s having any luck. “No, really -- I have like. More money than I know what to do with? I --” 

 

“Yeah, yeah, and I’m very proud.” She fixes him with an unimpressed look and holds it, dumping out the entirety of her bag while keeping eye contact. It’s not-<i>not</i> intimidating, to tell you the truth. “What a shame.” 

 

Kent waves his hands -- “I don’t like having this much money! It’s weird. I have poor brain. Really, you’d be doing me a favor --”

 

“Oh, boohoo. What to do? I have my dream-job and it pays ridiculously well --” and yeah, she sounds almost creepily like Katie, before a lightbulb goes off in his mind. 

 

“Wait. What does a therapy session usually cost?”

 

That stops her, annoyance written all over her face. “Depends on how good of a therapist you got. And insurance -- stupid fucking insurance --” She shakes her head, running a hand through the pile of miscellaneous now on her sofa cushion, spreading out all of her crap in order to get a better look. At this point, finding even loose change would be a god-send. 

 

“Well, let’s say I have a really good therapist. And kind of eh insurance. How much, then?” 

 

She looks like she’s being quizzed. Which is to say, she takes the question seriously. “Uh, sixty--?”

 

“Ok. That’s what I owe you, then.” Kent raises his beer as if to clink glasses with someone, cheeky as ever. “Oh, and how much do I owe you for beer?”

 

Mandy falls back on her heels, sitting now with her feet curled under her. Yes, there’s an eye roll and an irritated huff, but it looks like she’s about to agree so -- “Fine. Fine. I’m only agreeing because --”

 

“Because I know all the lyrics to Gwen Stefani <i>and</i> Britney Spears’ hits? Yeah --”

 

“No, because being your therapist is <i>really</i> fucking annoying.” She corrects him with a vicious little grin. 

 

It reminds him of -- “Damn. I really miss my sister.”

 

Mandy’s “UGH!” can be heard two doors down. He really does make her work for her paycheck, it's true.

Notes:

oh homies. oh, my homies. I probably edited this chapter six ways from Sunday -- honestly, the only areas that I didn't end up switching up are the opening lines and the ending few paragraphs. And to think that this was one of the first plot bunnies / scenes that popped into my head when writing this fic! Picking a title for this chapter was kind of a head scratcher because I've had it in my documents as "Mandy Therapy Convo" for... actual months. Hope you enjoyed!

Anyways, a few other things! Brendan Burke is a real, really cool dude. I just read his wikipedia page but man, the love his family and team showed him? Made me tear up a bit. It's just...so sweet.

And yeah, Mandy is that cool goth chick who runs a Witches Against the Patriarchy blog on Tumblr and will not hesitate to curse your ass. I also happened to write her as an Indian-American, so I hope having her be Wiccan isn't offensive. My conception of her character was, quite literally, picking the best of feminist stereotypes. *insert: "I just think she's neat" image.) On that same track, I imagine Cara is Afro-Latina, probably with a bit of Native heritage too (If you've never seen John Leguizamo's Latin History for Morons, it's on Netflix. He will lovingly, and hilariously, tell you all about how Latin & Native history go hand in hand. You will laugh, you will cry, you will admire his sick dance moves.)

Sorry that this is a shorter chapter (usually I do around 6k per pop but this clocks in around 3.5k), tacking on another scene just didn't agree with the pacing/flow. I will be seeing you next time with "Jeff Troy Presents: Fucked Up Teeth Facts"! (initially I planned that to be a little bit of filler, but it's grown into plot relevance. Aah, we love the writing process.)

Catch you on the flip side!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Not Everything's a Competition