Chapter Text

March 9, 2010 

When Jack was eighteen, his world was hockey, kissing Kent Parson in the backseat of his BMW, and abusing his anxiety medication.

To be honest, it was largely a great way to live life, until the draft came along and Jack got fucked up enough about it that he had like, a mental breakdown slash accidental suicide attempt. Okay, maybe it was deliberate. Whatever. 

So Jack stopped taking meds and got sober and quit hockey for a while and even quit Kent Parson. That majorly sucked ass. The quitting. And the rehab. And the therapy. And not being able to go anywhere without hearing Kent’s name because somehow, while Jack was getting the kid gloves treatment, Kent was playing hockey like someone had staked his life on his performance. 

But Jack persevered as best he could. He let his parents baby him and let his therapist therapize him and even dedicated himself to some self-reflection. It was in one of those times when Jack realized that maybe Kent himself hadn’t been one of Jack's (many) problems. 

Jack was, of course, an idiot. In the immediate aftermath of the overdose, he’d cut out everything and everyone from his life before. Juniors teammates, school acquaintances, his billet family in Rimouski, trainers, coaches, his agent, his old psychologist— Jack quite literally begged his parents for a fresh start. And he got it. 

He liked to pretend that everything from before the overdose sucked and was bad for him and that he’d had to suffer through it all, except for the fact that even Jack knew that was bullshit, because he also remembered how it felt to lift the Memorial Cup, to get off with Kent in a hotel room while laughing breathlessly, to skate on fresh ice in a deserted rink. So, in one of the times that he’d let himself think in nuance, he decided to look at his life through a lens that his new therapist had suggested: What if the enemy had been his anxiety and the addiction? 

Jack didn’t really like that narrative very much. As a student of history, Jack knew that the past looked very different depending on if you were the loser or the victor. Jack as the lone wolf who suffered through everything that had happened to him because he was in a toxic situation with nothing good except hockey, but hockey was killing him too— that was a much better story than Jack, overwhelmed by anxiety and the crushing expectations of his father and the media and the whole world, who struggled his whole life trying to prove he wasn’t a failure only to, well, fail. And almost kill himself in the process. That narrative blew. It was shit. And it had the unfortunate quirk of being probably true, too. 

So if his anxiety and the addiction were the problems, what had been good? 

The hockey, obviously. His mom, sometimes. His dad, even more sometimes. And, well. Kent. Kent had pushed him, made him better, bullied his way into being Jack’s friend when the rest of the team had hated his guts, and then Kent had somehow made all of them like him too. It was like, instead of being That Asshole, Jack became Their Asshole due to his association with Kent. And the winning helped, of course, but Kent had laid the groundwork in a way that the winning only bolstered it instead of the other way around. 

This was so large of a revelation for Jack that he got out his phone and started to listen to the voicemails that Kent had been leaving on his phone for the past nine months. 

Fuck, Jack I hope you’re okay—

Vegas is hot as balls. Think I’m going to melt into a puddle—

I miss you—

Training in the heat here is a killer! Hope you’re not suffering through anything like that. Wherever you are—

I wish you were here; the show isn’t the same without you—

Do you remember that one time when we were on the bus to Halifax and Redsy threw up on Wranger? God that was funny, I swear he was so pissed—

I keep looking for you on the ice. Nobody here gets me like you did, like you do—

Please call me—

I had chicken tenders today. Was thinking of you the whole time—

Please call me back—

Had to get new skates and I’ve got like ten blisters! Wish I had that moleskin you always put in your backpack—

Please Zimms, I miss you—

Redsy called today and said the Avs are treating him well. He asked about you, you know. I didn’t know what to say—

I love you, fuck! I love you, you asshole, fuck you—

I hope you’re getting better. I just wish you’d talk to me—

The words all blur together. The sentiment is wild against Jack’s skin: Kent wants him there. The latest voicemail is from two days ago. 

Hi Zimms. He sounds defeated, tinny and small. We lost again. Getting real close to playoffs and I know we clinched our spot already but losing this close feels like a bad omen. A pause. Fuck, I don’t even know why I’m calling you anymore. Not like you’ve ever picked up or anything since I got here. Last time Bob did he said you were doing fine. Starting to skate again. That’s good, I’m glad that you are. Hopefully your edges are still sharp enough for those fancy little three turns. A sigh. I miss you. I know I always say it, but fuck if it isn’t true. I— I just… A sniffle. I still love you. I miss you every day it’s like an ache in my chest. Like I left my heart with you or something and I don’t— fuck. This was a bad idea. I shouldn’t be doing this again. Sorry. I’ll hang up now. 

And wow does all of that make Jack feel like shit. Of course, when he was selfishly pretending that everything ante-overdose was toxic, Jack put absolutely no thought into what the experience of his own ignoring would feel like on the other side.

No shit it was absolutely fucking awful for Kent to be ignored and forgotten like that. Jack just… Well, to be honest he hadn’t thought about it that way. He’d thought that everything from before had been bad for him and he’d been bad for it and it would be better if they parted ways because it was simpler and a cleaner break and so Jack could prioritize himself. 

And yeah, apparently he had fucking prioritized himself— to the point of being a huge asshole. Genuinely, what a dick move. Even if he and Kent hadn’t been fooling around, Kent was still his best friend. Cutting him off like that had been cold. It’d probably felt like a punishment.

But if Jack’s anxiety wasn’t his own fault, then it wasn’t Kent’s either. If Jack’s addiction wasn’t his fault, then obviously it wasn’t Kent’s either. If Jack hadn’t really known what he was doing— or what to do— then Kent hadn’t really known any of that shit either. So why was Jack blaming Kent for anything, really? 

Kent had given Jack icepacks when he was bruised. He’d woken up early and stayed up late to train and to talk, to play video games and to study, to eat food and to make out and to get off and to just fucking skate laps with Jack in an otherwise empty rink. He’d been there, with his shitty, beat up off-brand high tops that didn’t fit the snow and the ice against his name brand, cared for skates. A chip on his shoulder with none of the legacy that loomed over Jack. He was funny and driven and a flashy asshole and so fucking kind. 

And before, through the daze of everything, Jack had signed them off for a Juniors convenience thing. They’d had an end date, he told himself. They’d be halfway across the country from each other in a few months, he told himself. 

Then, between the Memer and the draft, it’d been like a vacation. Like a honeymoon, sweet and soft— the snatches of it that Jack could remember through the haze of the alcohol and medication he’d been guzzling, anyway. 

Jack tried not to think about those days, he really did, because the way he remembered them— the alternating between floating and the numbing, crushing weight of everything on his chest— made him want to reach for another pill, even now. But, though he liked to forget it, there had been good times with Kent. There had been golden moments of kissing and laughing and talking about what it would be like to be in the NHL. There had been fights too, of course. Of course there were fights. But there would have been fights regardless. He and Kent always fought a little bit. They’d always run hot and they’d been on deadline and battling for first overall. 

Jack had been in the middle of everything. He'd convinced himself that Kent didn’t matter. 

But he did. He did. And he does.

Jack feels bright and enlightened. Kent hasn’t heard from him in so long that it feels wrong to call. But Jack has his address. 

He gets out his laptop and buys tickets for the next day. He knows that the Aces are about to have a homestand for the next six days, yes off the top of his head and no it doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t matter how much the tickets cost, but they’re tickets to Vegas. They’re not that expensive. 

Jack feels like gambling. He tells no one, and he goes to Vegas. 

--

March 10, 2010 

Kent looks like he can’t believe his eyes when he answers the door. It had been a surprise when Jack had given his name at the lobby of the apartment building and the receptionist had said he was cleared, but a welcome one. 

“Hey,” Jack says. Weirdly enough, he feels calm. Steady. There’s nothing about this that’s phasing him right now. 

Kent blinks like twenty times. “Hey?” He says. He rubs his eyes. “Sorry, just— Jack?” 

Jack grins. “Yeah, hi. It’s me. Sorry I’ve been an asshole for the past nine months. Thought apologizing in person might go a long way, eh?” 

Kent laughs incredulously. 

“You gonna let me in?” 

“I mean, yeah. Of course, yeah.” Kent moves aside and Jack brushes past him. The apartment looks clean, expensive. It’s blander than Jack thought it would be, but he figures Kent just hasn’t had the time to really start living here, considering it’s only been a few months and he’s in the middle of his rookie season. 

Of course, it’s a little baffling that they even let Kent move out to his own place, but Kenny always has done what he wants, at the end of the day. 

Jack spins on his heel to look back at Kent, who is coming out of the kitchen with two glasses full of water that he just poured. 

“Um, here,” he says, shoving Jack’s glass at him—three ice cubes, just the way Jack likes it, which, of course. Kenny still knows him, just like Jack still knows him too, knows the shape of his face and the tremble of his voice and the nervous way he bites the inside of his mouth like he’s doing right now. 

Jack takes the glass and sips at his water. He hasn’t had the chance to do it in so long, so Jack looks at Kent; studies him and all the ways he’s different now than he was before the draft. He might actually be a bit taller, Jack thinks a touch hysterically, while categorizing his hair, longer than Jack’s ever seen it but still wildly messy and untamed; his t-shirt just a little loose and cheekbones a little more hollowed out than they should be at this point in the season. He doesn’t need to shave, but Kent probably still needs a few years before he’ll have any luck at growing facial hair. There are bags under his eyes and a raggedness to his edges. 

He still feels like Kenny. The realization is reassuring as it arrives; though Jack hadn’t been worried, it’s still settling to have the knowledge hit. 

He must have been staring blatantly enough that Kent has found free reign to do the same. When Jack looks at his face again, Kent’s expression is weird in a way that makes Jack nervous. 

But what can he do? He’s the one who disappeared. Kent’s bound to have some weird feelings about it.

When Kent locks eyes with him a moment later, Jack just raises his eyebrows, holding his gaze. 

Kent is the first to fold after only a minute, blushing and looking away. “You look good, Jack,” he says into his water glass. 

Jack can’t lie. “You look like you’re not eating enough to be ready for the playoffs.” 

Kent is startled into a laugh. “Fuck I forgot how blunt you are. No fuckin’ finesse sometimes, Zimms. But you’re not wrong, I guess. Trainers keep telling me I’m too damn skinny.” 

“Well, there’s an easy solution to that,” Jack says. “Let’s go eat something. Something good, none of whatever meal prep bullshit you’re ordering.” 

Kent’s leaning in. He pushes a hand through his hair and tips back, laughing again with something disbelieving in the sound. His head tilts so far back that he speaks to the ceiling when he replies, “Sure. Fuck it, why not?” 

--

They go wandering on the strip, seeing as Kent lives on it. “Sometimes people will know who I am, but mostly nobody cares,” Kent assures him, wearing a pair of cheap sunglasses and a plainer snapback than he normally does. He’s been babbling like this ever since they started out, like he’s trying to sell Jack on Las Vegas. It’s kind of cute, actually. Jack always did think Kent was cute, when he was acting shy off the ice, when he was unsure of himself but not in a totally self-deprecating, pitiful way. On the ice, all determined and shit, when he was a cocky asshole? That’s when Kent was hot. 

“That’s cool,” Jack says, just to say something. But it doesn’t really matter, because Kent continues rambling on and likely would have even if Jack hadn’t said anything.

“So yeah, Vegas is pretty nice. It hasn’t been too hot recently, but that’ll probably change soon and it’s gonna be like eighty. Or uhhh sorry, like… 25 degrees I think, since you refuse to learn the superior method of temperature which is designed for humans and not water. But whatever.” 

Jack rolls his eyes, and Kent continues onward, running his mouth in a way that isn’t really familiar, but it’s a really nice change of pace from rehab, where Jack had to be the one to talk all the fucking time about everything. 

“I would have us eat at like Canaletto or some shit, but there’s a difference between tempting fate and being careful, you know? So instead there’s this place that has like the best meatball subs ever and I was thinking we could go there, it’s only around the corner of the next block anyway.” 

“Okay, Kenny,” Jack says. 

Kent opens his mouth like he’s ready to go on another tangent, but a man coming from the opposite direction stumbles and knocks shoulders with Jack, causing him to lean into Kent’s space. 

The guy smells like he’s been living it up, which is his right, being in Vegas and all, but Jack hasn’t had a whiff of alcohol in almost nine months— his parents stopped drinking in solidarity when he’d gotten out of rehab, and before that, well. It’s not like the staff were going to be handing anyone a drink while he was in rehab. It sends a jolt through Jack’s system, taking a second too long to reboot. 

“Sorry,” the guy slurs. 

“Watch where you’re going,” Jack snaps, before turning back to Kent. “Sorry about that.” 

Kent blinks up at him for a second before offering a tentative smile. “All good.” But he stops rambling after that, so Jack isn’t really sure if he’s telling the truth. 

That’s fine. They’ll be able to talk over food. Jack has some ground to make up, still; he expected as much, but he knows Kent will come around.

--

Jack stares up at the menu boards, standing next to Kent and his mind far away from what he’s going to order. 

Now that Jack’s here, he knows what he needs to do: reassure Kent that he still wants him in his life, firstly. Start to make up for being an asshole, certainly. And, well, even Jack has been wavering on the point number three, because he and Kent never really defined anything before, but the more Jack thinks about it, about how the teasing and the pushing and the wrestling turned into pinning down and making out and getting off followed by looking at each other and just talking for hours and hours about everything, the way Kent used to trace lines over his arms and hands and Jack let him do it; that all says something. It means something. 

And if Jack isn’t a little bitch— and he’s not— then he’ll get his shit together and tell that to Kent. Maybe not here and now, but like, he’ll work up to it. 

Kent pulls him out of his head with a shoulder nudge. “Oh, if you don’t want a sub, they also have pretty good chicken strips.”

Jack turns to him, mind immediately returning to his panicked back-to-back listen of Kent’s rambling in his inbox. “Oh, are these the ones you mentioned in that voicemail?”

Kent mirrors his position, eyes going wild. “Wait, what? You actually listened to those?” 

Jack bristles. Obviously he listened to them if he mentioned the stupid chicken strips. But then he thinks about the nine months he spent ignoring Kent and relaxes, shrugging his shoulders. “I mean. Yeah. Took me a bit to work up to it, but I did. That's why I'm here,” he finished lamely.

Kent looks hopeful. “To… catch up?”

“Well, yeah.” Jack affirms. He wipes his palms on his pants; whatever Kent was saying about the weather, it’s definitely a little warmer here than he was expecting. He steadies himself before continuing, “But also to say… look. I was being a self-pitying idiot. It was stupid that I cut you off after everything. That was shitty of me.”

His eyes stay trained on Kent’s face, watching him absorb the words, the flash of surprise that morphs into a tired sort of bitterness. “I mean… I didn’t say it. But I can't say I disagree. Because, seriously, Jack—”

Okay, but he doesn’t want Kent to start to berate him right now. Jack needs to get him to see that he’s serious. He means something to Jack. “You… you were my best friend,” he tries desperately. He didn’t come all this way to be a coward, but he can’t exactly call them boyfriends, because that just isn’t true. And something about the word just doesn’t sit right in his mouth, despite everything. 

“Best friend?” Kent scoffs. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

It’s not the time for this discussion right now, but Jack can't fight his urge to look around the restaurant, raising both eyebrows. “We’re not doing this here.” But they can’t just up and leave either. Jack’s getting hungry, and Kent really does look too skinny for this point of the season. Jack recalls the way he’d sounded in that last voicemail, similar to how he sounds right now, and revises his plan. “But if we are, let’s at least order first.”

Kent scowls and makes a show of looking around too, just as obviously. “Nobody’s listening. But whatever, sure.”

“Great. You first,” Jack tells him. 

Kent orders his meatball sub with efficiency, rattling the order off like he’s done it hundreds times, which, maybe he has. Before he can pull out his wallet to pay, Jack steps up smoothly behind him. 

“And the chicken strips, please,” he says, then hands over his card. 

“Really?” Kent asks, unimpressed. 

Jack just shrugs, but he feels like he’s won something anyway.

It only takes a few minutes for their food to be up at the counter, which they spend in silence, watching the chefs behind the counter cook. It’s weird, but it’s not bad, or at least Jack doesn’t think it’s bad. Which probably means that everything is fine, so it’s good. 

They snag a booth in the back upon Kent’s recommendation, and when Jack begins eating, he gives Kent a pleased nod— the chicken tenders are good. 

Jack knows they have more to talk about, but he doesn’t really feel like fighting over a meal, so instead he asks another question that’s been bothering him. 

“Why’d you move out so soon? Thought you were gonna billet longer than just preseason.” 

Kent makes a face and sets down his meatball sub. “Yeah no. Carl is an asshole, there is no fucking way I was staying at that guy’s house any longer than I had to. I want to actually be able to chill at home, you know?” 

Jack doesn’t think he’s ever been an expert at chilling, so he really can’t say, but he understands where Kent’s coming from. “Is he still annoying you now that you’ve moved out?” 

“I’m fine, Zimms. Jesus Christ, you know I know how to handle myself.” He picks back up the sandwich, readying to take a bite after he finishes, “And living by myself is a huge upgrade.”

“Yeah? That’s good.” Jack thinks about it for a minute, and he can’t really imagine Kent living by himself if he’s honest. “But you’re not like, overwhelmed by the silence?” He asks, remembering the things he used to say late at night and the excuses he’d fling to come over to Jack’s place. 

Kent blinks like he didn’t expect Jack to say that, but then settles, swallowing his bite of food and then shrugging. “I mean, I’ve thought about getting a cat or something, but it’s fine for now.” 

Seriously, Jack nods. He can see Kent with a cat; one of those independent ones that only like five people maximum and eat human-grade food because Kent’s a sucker. It would be cute, Jack thinks. Kent’s cat would like him, though. He’d bribe it with treats until it did, and Kent would laugh at him and… Jack’s getting ahead of himself. Tabernak. 

He lets them eat for a bit, trying to make sure Kent has actually had enough protein and carbs, pushing over his fries when Kent finishes half his sandwich because he knows Kent likes them, taking pleasure in the way Kent fights a smile at the gesture, like he’s still trying to be mad at Jack but losing. 

It’s just more reassurance that he’s making the right choice to be here, to come back to Kent in his shitty, neon-bright city, and make things up to him. 

Jack has had a lot of practice in the last few months doing the hard, thankless work even— and especially— when he doesn’t want to. 

He finds that this with Kent is multitudes easier than all of that. So, he gathers his thoughts and then brings them back to where they were, the pause in their conversation adding enough space so that it doesn’t feel out of the blue.

“Listen, Kenny. Yeah, you were my best friend. But also… more. You… I…” Jack doesn’t know how to finish the sentence, so he swallows it back and tries again. “You matter. To me. And I don’t know what we were doing, I wasn't planning for the future because somewhere in the back of my mind I was planning to be dead, but I didn't mean for things to—” 

He cuts himself off again. He doesn’t want to say that he didn’t mean for things to end like they did, because they haven’t really ended, have they? At least, not if Jack is here, willing to try. 

Kent huffs. “Okay. So, like… What do you want from me now?” He still sounds so tired.

“I was being stupid,” Jack reiterates, because it’s his focal point. “I wanted to say that in person, so you knew I meant it. And I wanted to make sure it didn’t happen again.” 

“Aww, are you trying to say you missed me?” Kent is such a fucking asshole. Lucky for him, Jack likes that about him. And, now that he’s confronted with the reality of Kent, here and sparkling in front of him, Jack remembers the nights in a hospital gown drowning in shame and anger and fear. 

He’d pushed away Kent. Blamed him. Punished him. 

And then Jack had been alone. And when he’d been alone, wallowing in his own pain and failure, he had been lonely and misunderstood and achingly raw. He had never let himself think the words, but the sensation had been with him regardless. 

“Yeah, I guess I am. I mean, rehab fucking sucks regardless, but. I was by myself. That was shit.”

Kent quirks one side of his mouth and then shrugs. “I know how that feels.” 

And Jack’s the one who made him feel that way, he doesn’t say, but Jack knows he means it. Jack feels like he’s taking up too much space in this dumb restaurant. His eyes dart away. Is anybody looking at them? They should have waited til they were back in Kent’s apartment. But if they were in Kent’s apartment, he would have probably just kissed Kent as soon as things got hard and then they wouldn’t be talking at all. Not that Jack would have minded that, but—

“But hey, big whoop, we both know how shitty it is to be by ourselves. Yay.” Kent snorts, and then his tone turns mischievous. “At least I can say with confidence that only one of us knows how to eat shit though. Don’t you remember when you—”

Immediately, Jack knows what he’s talking about and cuts Kent off, barely holding back the urge to kick him under the table. “We don’t talk about that. I told you, we don’t talk about—”

“When you ate shit on the black ice outside Sun Life? And— and split your fucking forehead open?” Now, Kent’s laughing, and Jack feels exactly the right size again.

Jack groans, but he’s smiling too. “Crisse, Kenny. I don’t think Redsy shut the fuck up about that for two months afterwards. It was awful.”

Laughing with Kent again, Jack is hit with how much he likes this. How much he wants to do this more, do it again, do it all the time. When they sober, Kent looking and Jack and Jack looking at Kent, the air shifts. 

Solemnly, Jack takes his time looking at Kent’s eyes— baby blue, today— bright and boyish and real. Right in front of him. Jack wishes he could touch him. In fact, he flew all the way across the continent to touch him, and not doing it is excruciating. Jack has felt like this before. Right before, in fact, the first time they kissed, laying on Kent's bed in his billet house late, late at night after talking for hours and hours. 

Jack remembers Kent's tired yet content face, his messy hair and his lips, always chapped and raw from the cold and the way he bit them all the time. He was magnetic. He was bigger than the sun. And now? He's that boy still, but bigger. Better. More important. While Jack folded like a house of cards under all the pressure, Kent went through that same hell with the added bonus of losing Jack and persisted. He took his shit ass team full of expansion draftees, old timers and disillusioned free agents, banded them together, and made something beautiful to get them into the playoffs. To give them a chance. 

He gave Jack a chance, and look what Jack did with it. He rounds on his disgust at himself, at the way he compared the narratives of his life to come to the stunning conclusion that he’d fucked up. 

So Jack says it again. Maybe if he tells Kent enough times, he’ll believe it. “Kenny, you are important to me. And I don't want to ever forget that again.”

Kent’s right there, eyes wide and mouth parted and his lips still chapped as fuck— he guesses that doesn’t change with the weather or time. He still looks as kissable as he did at sixteen. And Jack still wants to be the one to kiss him. Now. Always.

He feels insane. Maybe he is insane. But he feels ready. He feels like this is what he needs to have happen. And so Jack goes for it, words falling out with temperate softness.

“Marry me.” 

Kent blinks at him. “Um. What?”

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?” Jack feels his conviction in his argument building. “I can’t forget about how important you are if you’re my husband. If I’m being stupid, you can just call me out and I’ll have to listen, because I committed to you. And it’s a great way to prove to you that I’m serious.” 

“No, I think that you’re serious, but I’m just— truly, I’m doubting your sanity.” Kent leans in over the table, hissing lowly, “Jack, we haven’t talked in nine months. You show up out of the blue at my place, we talk for an hour and now you want to get married? You broke up with me by fucking cutting me out of your life after you almost died! I left probably like a hundred voicemails in increasing levels of hysteria and you didn’t reply to any of them but you listened to them all? Like back to back? And then you flew here? I have no idea what’s going on. What you want. I barely understand why you’re here. So you cannot just throw getting married at me and expect me to agree. Besides, what about,” he waves his arms around, which Jack takes to mean as the hockey of it all. 

Jack has been doing a good job, up to this point, of ignoring the hockey of it all, and he really doesn’t want to start thinking about it right now, so he doesn’t. 

Instead, as calmly and rationally as he can, Jack addresses the rest of Kent’s fears. “I am not insane, nor am I under the influence of any known substances,” he starts with, because that seems like the most important one. 

“I regret cutting you off like that. It was a shitty thing to do, I’ve said that already. I— eugh— I don’t know how to explain everything else, but it’s like…” Jack sighs. There are no words to explain the bright sensation, the feeling of surety, of rightness at this decision. He doesn’t know how to get across the fact that this story, the one of Jack overcoming his fears and taking the leap and getting back his best friend, that’s so much better than the narrative Jack currently believes about himself.  

Jack can still be the victor. And on top of that, he can be happy. 

“We know each other. Obviously. We’ve seen each other at our worst. We can’t go down from here, practically.” 

“Well you’re off to a great start, here, Zimms,” Kent slashes, but Jack cuts him off before he can do any real damage. 

“So there’s only up to go,” Jack says, weighing every word. “You were the best thing in my life, besides hockey. I’ve missed you. I don’t even know how to describe it, when I was reeling from everything and going through fucking withdrawl, that one of the reasons I felt so shitty was because you weren’t there. And I know that was my own fault. I do. But that didn’t make it suck any less. 

“So I’m here because I want to try again. And I want to stick it out this time. I want to prove I’m serious.” Jack smiles in a way that he hopes doesn’t look too nervous, before adding, “Nothing more serious than getting married, eh Kenny?” 

Jack thinks that Kent’s going to argue with him some more. He’s ready to spend time hashing it out over the remnants of their food and committing to the idea until Kent’s had his chance to interrogate every weak spot of Jack’s argument, but to his surprise, he doesn’t. 

There’s still marinara sauce on Kent’s fingers and his chin, but all of the fight that was so present in him has vanished. There’s a gentleness to the way he’s holding himself, wrists braced against the table and leaning forward. 

“Yeah,” Kent breathes, slumping like his strings have been cut. “I mean… This is your idea, not mine. You came all the way here for this. To ask me this. After you realized you were wrong. Listened to all my voicemails— and remembered them.” Kent sounds like he’s convincing himself, now, and Jack is not going to stop him. 

“You’re serious. About me. You missed me. You…” he glances around furtively, then whispers, “you love me.”

Jack didn’t say that. He knows he didn’t. But the statement doesn’t feel untrue, so Jack just smiles. 

Kent takes his silence for agreement, and— oh. He transforms. 

It’s not like Kent was ugly before or anything, but he was tired and anxious and bewildered. A little pissed off, a little nervous, a little rattled. But when Jack smiles, when Jack— even tacitly— agrees that he does love Kent, he wakes up. He smiles, big and wide and crooked, his eyes all crinkled in the way they get when he’s unrestrained in his happiness. His cheeks color, his chin drives out, and he looks on top of the world, sitting there with sauce on his chin in a shitty booth of a random Vegas hole-in-the-wall. He looks like the boy that pounced on Jack after making what would be the winning goal in OT of game six— because they didn’t need seven to win, they never did— against the Spitfires, fresh off Jack’s assist, just knowing that all they had to do was finish the last two minutes and then the Memorial Cup would be theirs. 

Jack can’t help himself. He reaches across the table and takes Kent’s hand, sauce and all. It makes the whole thing real, to touch him. 

“So what do you say?” Jack asks again.

Kent squeezes his hand, eyes sparkling. “What else is there to say? Zimms, I motherfucking do.”

--

They hash out conditions on a diner napkin and a borrowed pen from the basket at the register. 

It doesn’t take too long, Jack’s only requirement being that they don’t get married by an Elvis impersonator and Kent’s being that they write their own vows. 

In the middle, the conversation gets serious. 

“Jack. If we do this… this is it. You know that, right? We’re not getting divorced.” 

Kent’s the one writing the list even though his handwriting is shittier than Jack’s. His fingers are white-knuckled around the pen and his eyes look like they have LEDs behind them with how intense they are. 

“Of course we’re not getting divorced,” Jack agrees. He knows that nobody in Kent’s family is divorced; not even his horrible aunt and uncle that hate each other and live in separate houses. He only has a stepfather because his own dad is dead. It’s the same story for Jack’s family: the couples all stay together. 

Marriage is serious. It isn’t like Jack was fucking around, even if it had been a little bit of a whim of a thought. He means it. The spark of clarity he’d gotten still shines, bright and intense, in the back of his mind. There’s a part of him that’s scared he’s going to forget it or lose it before he can sign his name on the documents. 

“Then promise me,” Kent goads. “Swear to me, like a blood fucking oath. We will not get divorced.” 

Jack is as serious as he knows how to be when he stares into Kent’s soul and promises: “I promise. I will never divorce you, Kent Parson.” 

Kent’s breath comes out a little shaky, but he parrots back, “Me too. Obviously. No fucking divorce on my side of things ever. You’re stuck with me for the rest of your life, Zimms.” 

“You know full well that’s not actually my name.” 

And Jack means to just be teasing, but Kent somehow reads the play like he always does— knows that Jack wants, subconsciously, for him to say it for real— and he doubles down.

“Fine, fine. I promise. I will never, ever if I can fucking help it, divorce you, Jack Laurent Zimmermann.” 

And so they get up, throw away their trash, and go to find a cheesy marriage chapel to commit themselves in.

--

The wedding is faster than anything Jack had imagined. There’s a bored clerk that doesn’t look twice at them in their plain, casual clothes and an officiant that smiles at them when they say their vows that they’d taken ten minutes to write in the waiting room while the couple in line in front of them took their turn. 

They sign a document. Kent looks determined and Jack’s hand is steady as his name is flourished onto the paper. He uses his fancy signature, just like Kent does, the ones they’d practiced together in Kent’s notebook during boring biology classes, knowing that they’d need them for their careers ahead. 

They don’t have rings, but they agree to buy them later. When their witness sign and the paper is fully filled in, something catches in Jack’s chest. He looks at Kent, and remembers how alive he felt lifting the Memorial Cup next to him, the way that he curled into Kent on couches during parties in that blurry hazy way that was dimmed by medication and alcohol, making out in Jack’s car during freezing days along back roads, lifting weights and eating their weight in food and watching tape and drilling shots and practicing media and dialling in and in and in with the person who knew him best in the world. 

Jack was right when he said they have already seen the worst parts of each other. Jack knows Kent snappy and mean and tired. He knows him after a blowout loss, angry at himself and his team; knows him bitter after screaming phone calls with his mother. He knows him dirt poor and with a chip on his shoulder, knows him drunk and throwing up and hungover and even high that one time Kent gave in and did a line of coke with Redsy. 

And Kent knows Jack like that too. He knows Jack hating himself with an intensity like no other, knows him in the midst of panic attacks and mean streaks. He’s seen Jack lashing out and casting blame, Jack at his parents’ dinner table being talked over and corrected, Jack breaking sticks and screaming in the locker room after a loss in the shootout. Kent’s seen him laying on the bathroom floor, choking on his own vomit, overdosing. 

Jack doesn't like to admit it, but that night hadn’t been an accident. He hadn’t thought it would be Kent to find him; hadn’t thought about much of anything except the panic that had shot over him in waves and the overwhelming dread that was so cloying it caused him to detach himself from his body. He remembers how scared he was, how big the draft felt, and how inevitable disappointing everyone seemed. 

Jack doesn’t feel like that now. He feels steady and in control of himself. His therapist at rehab had begged him to look into the future and find something for himself there, and before Jack had refused. There was nothing he’d looked forward to, nothing he was sure of when he was alone and isolated. But right now he can actually picture something that he wants: himself and Kent, old and retired, a cat winding itself around their ankles while they laugh in each other’s arms. Happy. Together. He waits, eagerly, for their moment to come to seal the deal for that future. 

Kent’s successful and talented and fucking hot. He’s Jack’s best friend, his first kiss, first everything basically. He’s the best hockey player Jack’s ever had on his line. And, maybe Jack is stupid to think it, but he can’t imagine himself finding anyone else he’d do this for. Who’d also do it for him.

He’d fucked up a good thing. 

Jack intends to never fuck it up that badly again. 

Kent catches him staring. He blushes and smiles and looks incandescently happy that he has caught Jack, and Jack can feel a mirroring smile take over his own face. 

When they are pronounced married, Jack doesn’t hesitate in the kiss he gives Kent. It’s been nine months and Kent still kisses the exact same; with a little too much teeth and all the passion in the world. Jack gives as good as he gets, almost getting carried away before he remembers where he is. 

Kent laughs breathlessly. “Love you too, husband,” he chirps, and wow. He is Jack’s husband. 

A rush of heat floods through him at the thought, and Jack has the need to get him home immediately. 

They bumble through the rest of the formalities, then they’re on their way to exactly where Jack wants to be, clutching at each other for all they’re worth.

“We’re practically a walking cliché, Zimms,” Kent whispers, giddy and giggly. 

“Hmm?” Jack inquires.

Kent stuffs his face into Jack’s shoulder. “D’you know how many hockey players marry their high school sweethearts?” 

Jack laughs. He’s never though of them like that before, but Kent’s not exactly wrong. It’s not much longer before they’re back at Kent’s apartment building, pushing each other in the elevator because Jack wants his hands on Kent but doesn’t want to start anything until they’re behind closed doors. 

When Kent’s apartment door finally shuts behind them, Kent looks at him through his lashes. “So,” he says, teasing, his eyes bright. “What do you want to do now?” 

Jack smirks and leans forward. He can play this game if Kent wants to. “Well that depends. What can I have, Kenny?" 

Kent smirks back. His eyes flash. “Only whatever you can handle.” 

“I can handle all of you.” 

“Oh, can you? Are you sure about that?” 

And Jack’s so sure that he ends up showing Kent exactly what he means.

--

March 11, 2010

Jack wakes up the next morning with heavy limbs, delicious aches and a clear head. He’s not confused at all to wake up in Kent’s bed, in Kent’s apartment, next to Kent. He knows they’re married, and the knowledge sends a smug wave of contentment through his limbs. Jack is winning again, and after losing for so long, it feels fucking good.

He looks down at their bare hands and wishes that they had bought up the cheap, gold rings they’d had for sale at the chapel, but Jack knows they can do better than that, and intends to. Kent deserves like, diamonds and shit. Thankfully, the paper is the most important part, and they do have that. 

Normally, Jack would get up, but he doesn’t want to disturb Kent’s sleep. He needs more of it, if the slight bags under his eyes say anything. Jack looks closer at his form, the way his eyelashes fan over his skin and his open mouth drools onto the pillow beneath him. He is soft in sleep, and he looks only the barest bit older than the boy Jack used to kiss in his backseat until they were breathless. 

Every time Jack’s heard his name since the draft, Kent Parson has been heralded as the Aces’ franchise savior. He’s been lighting it up on the ice, already having hit 40 goals for his rookie season and they’ve only just passed the trade deadline. 

Before, Jack was equal parts jealous and spitting mad, with a little bit of lust thrown on top of it all. He was going through the most isolated, terrible part of his entire life and Kent was living the dream in the show. 

Jack knows he was wrong about that, now. Kent had been playing hockey like his life was staked on it because it had been. Jack listened to those voicemails. He sees the way Kent looks in front of him: perfect but porcelain, leaner and skinnier and tireder than he should be. He’s still holding tension in his body even though he’s dead asleep. 

It’s as sobering as the literal sobering of clawing himself out of withdrawal had been. 

No easy street. Not for either of them. 

So Jack will enjoy the moment that he does have while he’s still in it. Content, Jack just lies there, letting the time pass as it may and the room brightening with the sun. It reflects off Kent’s hair, glinting golden. 

When Kent finally stirs, fluttering his eyes and smacking his lips, he lets out a breathy, “Zimms,” into the late morning air. His eyes are a soft green, calling Jack to kiss him. He follows the order reaching over with one hand to pull him in, uncaring of morning breath because this is his husband, and only retreats when he has need of air. 

“Good morning,” Kent breathes, easy as anything. His hair is mussed, cowlick sticking up and a sleepy smile on his lips. He’s gorgeous, and Jack is swept up in it, how golden and tired and worn but perfect he looks. 

Jack trails his hand down the side of Kent’s face, brushing Kent’s cheek with his thumb. “Look at you,” he breathes, and Kent turns into his hand, shy and blushing. 

He mumbles something into Jack’s palm, low and intelligible, before biting Jack’s hand lightly to make him let go.

They take the morning slow enough that it feels like a dream of domesticity, bickering over Jack’s herbal tea versus Kent’s overwhelming caffeine addiction which has only gotten worse now that he’s in the NHL. 

Jack could imagine mornings like this for a long time, for every day they wake up together… until Kent throws a brink into it.

“So, since I skipped optional skate yesterday, I have to go this afternoon,” Kent says, faux-casual. “And I have a game tonight. Do you want to maybe come watch it? I could probably still swing you tickets.” 

Jack freezes. The thing is… technically, nobody knows that Jack is here besides Kent. He’d bought a ticket for early in the morning and left around the time he usually takes a run. His parents, he thinks, are probably freaking out. If Jack were less of an asshole, he might care about that more, but he’d taken the battery out of his phone at the airport, so he doesn’t really care. However, they cannot discover that Jack has come all the way to Las Vegas via the T-Mobile Arena Jumbotron. They’d probably send him right back into psychiatric care if they do. 

“I can’t,” he says, not explaining any of that.

Kent scowls, setting down his coffee mug with a loud clink. “Why not?” 

“Because my parents don’t know I’m here,” Jack grits out, “and I don’t want them to find out via the Aces/Oilers broadcast.” 

“Your parents don’t— ugh. Of course your parents don’t know that you’re here,” Kent says derisively. “Well can’t you just call them or something, then?” 

Jack doesn’t want to call his parents. They’re going to absolutely shit themselves to learn about his latest stunt and they’ve been so overprotective that he just knows they’re going to order him to come home immediately. And if he doesn’t, then his mom will probably just fly out here herself to collect him and drag him home.

“I don’t want to deal with them right now,” Jack explains, trying to keep the rising irritation out of his voice. “So no.” 

Kent’s jaw sets. “So my own husband doesn’t even want to come to my game?” 

What the fuck. “What the fuck, Kenny?”

“God, I’m so fucking stupid,” Kent says, low and fast, hands reaching up to his hair before pulling back down to his sides quickly. He looks to Jack again, asking, “What does this marriage even mean to you?” 

They literally went over this yesterday. Why is Kent being so annoying about this. “It’s a commitment,” Jack answers blandly, like he’s in media, just to piss Kent off. 

Kent throws up his hands. “What the fuck does that mean to you, though? You know my whole life is hockey; my team is going to be in the playoffs this year, Zimms. Are you just going to be my stay at home husband?” Kent says the last question like the words themselves bewilder him, and then shakes his head. “You’re going to come back and play with me. Right? You have to. I can talk to our GM, maybe if the playoffs go really well I’ll have more pull and I can—” 

How dare Kent act like he can make all of Jack’s decisions for him now that they’re married. How dare he barge in with a cute little solution that will tie up a neat bow on the problems of Jack’s life just like that and then in a year or less he’ll be right back where he started: with Kent on his line, hating his life, and folding to his anxieties like a wet paper bag. He’s been in enough psych appointments and done enough soul searching to know that much, at least.

“When did I say I wanted to play hockey again?” Jack cuts Kent off viciously.

Silence. 

“What?” 

“Maybe,” Jack says, precise and cruel, “I don’t want to step on the ice ever again. What then?” 

“Oh fuck you. You can’t stay away forever. The NHL is your dream! You’re not quitting. And even then, I’m not asking you to get back on the ice. I just fucking want you to be there at my game. That’s it. Not in the WAG section. Not as my husband. Just like, as my fucking friend, Zimms!”

“Yeah, well, that sounds nice and all, but I can’t, okay? Not this time.” Jack’s done arguing about this. He snatches his half-empty mug of tea, downs it in a single chug, and stomps past Kent to toss it none-too-gently into the sink before stalking into the bedroom, throwing the door shut behind him. Jack throws himself onto the bed, crossing his arms and staring up at the ceiling. 

Kent doesn’t get it. Before this trip, Jack hasn’t left Montreal since they went to his family’s lake house together before the draft. He’s been cooped up in rehab and then in his parents’ house, constantly under supervision and hidden away from the world. The past few times Jack had put his skates back on, his father had taken him to the rink after hours so he could be alone. 

And Jack hadn’t minded. At the time, he’d chosen it, encouraged it, wanted more isolation and history documentaries and old books. A little bit of ice time, a shit ton of running. And thinking, thinking, thinking. 

Jack thought he was above it all, above everything. He thought he deserved to be left alone in his chosen isolation, supposedly of healing and recovery. But he’d been miserable and lonely and sad. That was part of the reason why he’d come— he’d missed Kent and his company. 

But he’s not ready to launch himself into the full scrutiny of the media. He’s not ready to play hockey again at an elite level. He wants to— after all, Kent wasn’t wrong when he said it’s his dream. However, Jack and his therapist have both agreed that he needs time. He’s been rolling around the idea of getting back on the ice in some official capacity to ease him back in, but he figured he could make a decision on that in a few months. 

He doesn’t want Kent to start making any decisions for him when he’s not even sure of all his options. Also, saying he could pull strings with the Aces’ GM? Jack clenches his jaw. He doesn’t want to cheat his way into the NHL. He wants, and has always wanted, to be accepted on his own fucking merit. 

If Kent can’t respect that, respect his autonomy as a person within the bounds of their marriage, then there will be drastic measures taken. 

“I’m leaving for practice,” Kent calls out mockingly. “Just wanted you to know. And because I’m not a baby who runs away from everything, I will be back for my pre-game nap at 3:00. Asshole!” 

Jack can barely hear the door slam behind him on the way out through Kent’s thick walls. 

Fuck him.

--

Jack gets bored in Kent’s apartment in less than half an hour. Kent’s never been a reader, so his selection of books sucks, he has no puzzles to his name, and there’s nothing good playing on TV when Jack turns that on either. The place is as sparsely decorated as Jack had thought at first glance, too; the guest bedroom has literally only a bed in plain gray sheets and an empty dresser in it, nothing else. 

By the time that Jack is staring out the window aimlessly, his mind has drifted back to Kent. He’s less actively pissed off, but the feeling still sits under his skin, buzzing. He hopes that Kent’s still pissed off too, but he’s aware that the fight has likely lit a fire under his ass and he’s channeling everything into his skating. 

Jack wishes he could be at the rink to watch him for a moment before banishing the thought, instead returning to their argument in his mind. Kent really was on some bullshit. Jack didn’t run away because he always runs away; he ran because there was no point in arguing anymore and Kent's a stubborn piece of shit who never lets anything go.

He just knows that when Kent comes back they’re going to argue about this all over again, and he really doesn’t want to do that. Eyes roving over the Vegas skyline, Jack wonders if there’s anything he can do to prevent that, to make sure that he wins the argument. 

He muses over a few ideas before sitting up straight when the perfect idea comes to him. He knows just the thing to do.

--

Jack’s adventure starts with breaking into Kent’s laptop for research and leads to contemplating putting his battery back in his phone to call a cab, realizing that Kent left the keys for a very expensive sports car on a hook by the door, and Jack resigning himself to looking like a flashy douchebag to run his errand once he gets down to the complex’s garage and sees the cherry red Porsche 911 staring back at him. 

Jesus Christ, he’s going to look like such a prick. It’s a good thing Kent’s hitting his bonuses this year like mad. Whatever. 

Jack’s glad to be good at directions, because he almost drives right past the place he’s going. It’s light work to park and walk in before Jack starts to second guess himself just a little bit. 

“Um, hi?” He says to the woman at the desk, who is staring at him with polite curiosity. “I’d like to adopt a cat.” 

--

They have a section of animals named after athletes. 

Jack laughs for five minutes at the Maine Coon named Kit Purrson, but he can’t imagine getting any other cat when she spends the entire time looking at him with disdain. He can just tell that Kent’s going to love her.

“Billie will be so sad she missed the adoption of Miss Kit!” The employee says good-naturedly as Jack’s checking out. “The athlete animals are her project, and she just adores that hockey team.” 

Jack, on the other hand, thanks his lucky stars that Billie did not come in today. The employee hands him a sheet with way too many instructions and a coupon for a pet store across the street as he readies the cat’s carrier. 

Well. He hopes the 911 has enough room in the frunk for all this shit he’s going to need. 

--

When three o’clock rolls around, Jack’s forearms are covered in scratches, Kit’s hiding under the couch, and there’s ten cat toys littered around the floor. He’s been trying for the past fifteen minutes to get her to come out so that he can like, hold her when Kent walks in, but she’s not cooperating at all because she hates Jack. 

He doesn’t have time to get off the floor before the front door opens and Kent walks in. 

“Jack,” he says immediately, and Jack panics, scrambling to his feet.

“Surprise! I got you a cat.” 

Kent sets down his bag and exhales slowly. “Jack,” he says again, no less dangerously. 

“You’re going to love her, she hates me,” he says, as if nothing is wrong. 

Instead of replying, Kent surveys the changes to his apartment’s living room: the scattering of toys Jack had tried to use to tempt Kit out from under the couch, the open bag of treats he’d been trying to bribe her with, her carrier in the corner, open and abandoned, the running water fountain in the corner, and two bags of miscellaneous shit Jack hasn’t dealt with yet. He mentally pats himself on the back for putting the litter box in the guest bedroom. 

When the silence stretches on too long, Jack continues. “She’s under the couch right now, sorry about that. But you said you were thinking about getting one, so…” he shrugs, trying to show how much he’s being a good husband through his thoughtfulness while also hoping he’s doing psychic damage to Kent at the same time. 

Kent looks up at the ceiling before speaking slowly, as if to a child. “I am mad at you. I was mad at you before about earlier and I’m still mad at you for that. Now,” his tone sharpens and he levels Jack with a flat stare, “I’m also mad at you for adopting a pet for me without asking first.” 

“You were going to do it eventually anyway,” Jack protests. “Why does it matter?” 

“Because I do not have time for a cat right now with playoffs just around the corner. And you can’t just say you’re sorry without actually saying you’re fucking sorry, Jack!” He shakes his head, then picks up his bag, throwing it in the closet in the hall. 

“I should have known,” Kent continues, his back to Jack. “You always do this. You always buy me shit when I’ve told you a million times that I don’t need anything.” 

Jack, who has done a remarkable job of keeping his cool so far, loses it. 

He remembers Kent, new in Rimouski and delivered like a perfect package to be his winger, and the way his clothes were threadbare but his hockey stuff was top of the line. Jack remembers quietly getting his parents to buy shoes and jackets and toques and gloves and passing them off to Kent surreptitiously. He remembers buying Kent the very same laptop he still owns for Christmas in 2008, and the way that Kent had at first refused the gift until Jack showed him the disk drive and told him they could use it to watch movies together on roadies. He remembers stuffing hand warmers into Kent’s hands on the coldest days, remembers taking him skiing, taking him to the lake house, taking him to dinners with his parents at fancy restaurants. It was never about pity.

“Well, my fucking bad for wanting to take care of you. I don't know why you're being so difficult!” 

Kent turns around, stalks over to Jack and pushes his shoulders. “I’m being difficult? Uh, no.” 

Jack pushes back. “What do you call this behavior, then? I did something nice for you.” 

It doesn’t take long for Kent to get back in his space, fisting one hand in his shirt. “You have such a shit way of showing you care.” 

Jack lifts one hand and runs his fingertips down the back of Kent’s fist on his chest. “You’re just pissed because I got you something you wanted but weren’t going to let yourself have.” 

Kent shivers. Jack looks down at his lips, gaze heavy, and then looks back up. His eyes are flint gray, hot and melting and alive. Jack loves him like this. 

“Oh, you—” Kent’s saying, but Jack cuts him off with a kiss. He brings up his unoccupied hand to the back of Kent’s head, knocking off his backwards snapback to fist at his hair and pull him where Jack wants him. 

Kent fights back, biting Jack’s lip and pulling him farther down with the hand in his shirt. Jack’s so stupidly into it that all coherency slips out of his brain for a static want. 

They break apart when Kent pushes him back. “This isn’t any better, Zimms,” he tries to chastise, but Jack knows he’s won when Kent uses his nickname instead of calling him Jack again.

To celebrate his victory, Jack drops to his knees. “Then let me show you better.” 

Kent finally shuts up, after that.

And if the cat finally runs out from under the couch to hide in the guest bedroom and Jack feels a little bit vindicated by running the creature off, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

--

“It’s named after you,” Jack murmurs, later, when they’re in bed.

“What?” 

Jack snorts, his eyes closed. “The cat. She’s a Maine Coon named Kit Purrson. I couldn’t just leave her there.” 

“Oh my god,” Kent says faintly, and when Jack opens his eyes, Kent’s smiling. “You’re the fucking worst.” 

But the fondness is apparent. Jack knows he doesn’t mean it.

--

Kent’s nap is probably a little shorter than he would have wanted, but Jack hears no more complaints when Kent wakes up to his alarm. He even gets a kiss on Kent’s way out.

Jack needs to be the best husband. 

It’s still a struggle, though, when Jack goes to turn on the TV and find Kent’s game to watch. It’s not that he doesn’t want to support Kent, but Jack quit hockey for the last nine months. He hasn’t interacted with anything related to it as much as he can get away with, though he hasn’t been able to avoid everything. 

Jack’s chest feels a little tight as he brings up the broadcast, still on the pregame talk show. Immediately, Jack mutes the sound so he doesn’t have to hear what they’re saying. It doesn’t matter, but at the same time his heart races on the inside at the thought of them mentioning his own name, making some stupid comparison between himself and Kent. 

Jack squeezes his eyes shut and tries the patterned breathing his therapist recommended to him, but it doesn’t feel like it’s working. He gets up, crossing the room over to the kitchen, and opening the freezer so he can stick his head inside for a minute. 

Brainfreeze, he thinks. If his mind is frozen, then the thoughts can’t spin out so quickly. He stays there, and after a minute, the breathing pattern comes easier. His chest eases enough that he pulls his head back, letting the door to the freezer thunk shut before leaning to rest his forehead on it, breathing still. 

Jack stays there, counting and still and slow slow slow until something brushes against his leg and he jumps, waving his arms wildly and letting out a startled yelp. 

He looks down and… oh. It’s Kit. 

“Hi,” he says to her, feeling a bit stupid. 

“Mrreow,” she calls back to him, and her tail swishes from side to side. 

Somehow, this feels like a good opportunity to get on her good side, so Jack looks for the bag of treats on the kitchen counter and grabs them, then kneels down to the floor. 

He knows some people talk to pets in a baby voice, but to him that always seemed kind of ridiculous. So instead, he speaks his normal register, but at a lower volume.

“Kit. Uh, I have some treats here.” He shakes the bag. “Would you like one?” 

She blinks at him, which Jack takes to mean in the affirmative. 

“Okay.” He opens the bag and takes one out before hesitating. How should he…? Well, he knows how much she claws by experience. Jack takes the little square and slides it across the laminate floor to her. “There you go.”

Warily, she keeps her eyes on him as her face lowers, her nose twitching to sniff the treat. It seems to pass her inspection, because shortly thereafter she picks it up and chews it in a decisive crunch. It’s small, but after getting mauled earlier Jack feels a great sense of accomplishment for getting her to take something he’s offered. 

Looking to replicate the feeling, he takes out another treat, sliding it over to her the same way. This one falls a little short though, and Kit trains her eyes on him, seemingly daring him to move for several long seconds before she decides it’s worth it and steps forward to eat the treat. 

Jack repeats the pattern with Kit three more times before he realizes he’s smiling. She’s close enough to touch, but Jack doesn’t want to ruin it, so he just blinks at her and gets up slowly, re-sealing the bag and putting it back on the counter. 

“Thanks, Kit,” he tells her, then turns to go back to the couch. He’s definitely missed puck drop by now, but Jack isn’t too worried about it. 

When he gets back to the TV, Jack decides that he doesn’t need to hear the audio anyway and leaves it off. He’s watched more than enough games, he doesn’t need anybody to tell him what’s going on. 

At first, it’s weird. Seeing Kent in an Aces jersey and not in Rimouski blue, not being out there with him. Looking at the numbers of the guys on the team and not recognizing them, and realizing that he knows very little about Kent and the hockey he’s played this year beyond the numbers that he was unable to ignore checking on NHL.com when he cracked one night a few months ago.

Probably the weirdest part though is that the Aces have made him a center. Kent was always right winger when he played Jack’s line, and though the two of them spent more time practicing together than anyone else on the team, he’d certainly never had any of their coaches suggest that Kent should try swapping with him. Of course, looking at the Aces’ roster, it makes sense that they’d swap Kent over, and it makes sense that he’d be good at it since Jack knows he’s always had an incredible eye for the game, but seeing it in action is something else.

Kent plays well. There’s no doubt about it, and Jack even knows it from the few clips and highlights he couldn’t make himself look away from. Kent’s skating like he’s on fire. He darts around players like they aren’t even there, deftly navigates the puck in and out of traffic and his passes and shots are more fast and accurate than they’ve ever been. 

He looks fucking amazing. 

At the first intermission, Jack is so jealous that he almost turns the broadcast off. It’s unfair, to a comical degree, that Kent is out there making the Oilers look like absolute fools, and Jack is sitting here on his Vegas apartment couch. He feels like a puck bunny just a little bit, like some girl that Kent’s going to come back to and ask, how did you like the game sweetheart? And Jack will have to fumble through an answer he can’t quite articulate because the Jack in this scenario doesn’t know enough about the game to put together a coherent thought beyond nice goal. 

Jack was supposed to go first in the draft. This was supposed to be his team, his ice time, his everything. 

But it’s not. Because Jack fucked it all up. 

The jealousy burns out quickly, leaving in its place hollow blame and bitter ash. He did fuck it up and it is his fault, or like the fault of his addiction which basically just means his fault with a little of the guilt outsourced. 

But Jack breathes through the commercials and calms down. He can’t do anything about that shit that happened because it already happened. And sure, he’s jealous, but Jack’s not dead. He’s already put skates back on and his legs were never broken. He can still go forward. And if he wants it that badly, then there are at least three different paths he can take to get to the NHL— without Kent’s help. 

Jack just isn’t quite sure, despite everything, that he does want it, and it sparks an odd dissonance down his spine. If he’s not a hockey player, who is he? 

It's a question Jack has spent months trying to answer, and only now is it slowly becoming clearer. If he’s not a hockey player, then he’s still Jack Zimmermann, husband to Kent Parson. Technically, it’s his name on the papers of ownership for one Kit Purrson. He likes history and puzzles and reading biographies and running. Most people think he’s boring with no personality whatsoever, but Jack likes to think he has some kind of sarcasm, even if it’s dry enough that some people don’t notice that it exists at all. He’s serious, he can be an asshole, and he has a tendency to only think about himself which he’s trying to change. 

So maybe it’s okay that he doesn’t know how he feels about all of this, about watching Kent’s team destroy the Oilers. But he’s still going to watch it, because Jack is determined to be a good husband, and because Kenny really just is that good that it’s a worthwhile game to see.

The intermission ends and Jack leans back and focuses. He tries to watch with his eyes and brain and not feel with his heart. 

It feels like a reward when Kit hops up on the opposite end of the couch as him and curls in the corner. He smiles at her for a brief moment, then goes back to watching the game, not wanting to miss when Kent’s line takes their next shift on the ice. 

Jack gets through the rest of the game and even the rest of the night with good progress on his goal of showing up in a way Kent can’t complain about. He buys nothing more, heats up two nutritionist-approved meals from Kent’s fridge, and greets him when he comes home. They eat, Jack makes conversation with him about the game, and he gives Kent a celebratory handjob on his goal and assist contributing to the win. He even feeds Kit her gross canned food and cleans the litterbox before they go to sleep.

So there, Jack thinks as his eyes drift shut. Maybe it’s a bit petty, but he doesn’t really care. Sometimes, as any good hockey player can attest, spite can be the best motivator of them all.

--

March 12, 2010

Unlike her uneasy truce with Jack, Kit Purrson loves Kent immediately. After they wake up and get ready for the day, it only takes five minutes for Kent to coax her out and get her to accept a treat out of his fingers with a delicate nibble. When he guides her to the couch, she curls up in Kent’s lap without pause. Kent looks up at Jack with glee and awe as he pets her, and Jack feels assured that he’d made the right decision to get her yet again. 

Even if Kent had complained about it, he’s killing this husband shit.

“She’s so soft,” Kent breathes. “And so beautiful, oh my god? Kit, you’re perfect. Darling. Angel. Light of my life.” 

Jack swears she looks smug, sitting there. She’s mocking him for sure.

“You didn’t even want her yesterday,” Jack complains, but it’s not serious. He’s just happy that Kent doesn't want to fight again and will happily take the reprieve. Besides, they do look cute together like that.

Kent pretends to cover her ears and sends a light glare his way. “Shhhh, don’t listen to him, sweetheart. Slander and lies.” 

Jack just rolls his eyes and goes to prep them breakfast. 

--

Okay, so even though Kent does love her, maybe he’d had a point about Jack being a little premature on getting a cat, because he starts freaking out only ten minutes after they finish eating.

“I only have a couple more days until my next road trip. Who’s gonna look after her? And I don’t have a vet. Wait, is she spayed? Is she healthy? Zimms, where’s the paperwork?” 

Jack groans and retrieves it. If not for this stupid cat they could be taking advantage of Kent’s off day and having more sex. But no, because he just had to win their argument and be all thoughtful and shit. Horrible. 

“Okay, okay good,” Kent says as he skims through it. “She’s spayed. She’s a year old. She’s fine. They have options for vets right here! Oh, that’s awesome. And a checklist, these guys are thorough. Zimms, come here! I need to check that you got all the right stuff for Kit!” 

Jesus. 

“I’m here, I’m here. And yeah, I got all the stuff it said to.” 

Kent raises an eyebrow. “All of it?”  

Scratching the back of his neck, Jack looks over the list again. He got the type of food they’d said she liked, a shit ton of toys, a water fountain, litter, a litter box, treats, some scratching cardboard things, a brush set, and she’d come with a kennel. That’s everything, right? 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“Hmm,” Kent says, perusing it himself. “Where’s her second litter box?” 

Second litter box? “I just got her the one,” Jack said, gesturing to the guest bedroom. “There’s only one of her, she doesn’t need two.” 

“Dipshit,” Kent scoffs. “The rule for cats is always to have the same amount of litterboxes as cats plus one. We need two; it specifically says on the list to get two!” As if what Kent’s saying is common knowledge. Sue Jack for not being allowed to have pets when he was a kid.

Jack looks at him incredulously. “Kenny, I was in the 911. There was no way I was gonna fit two litter boxes plus everything else in there.”

“You took my Porsche 911 to adopt a cat?” Kent screeches. 

“How else do you think I would have gotten her?” Jack protests. “I flew here and took a cab, I don’t have a vehicle!” 

“Oh my god.” Kent looks vaguely horrified at the concept, but shakes it off with a defeated sigh. “Well, we have to go get her a second litter box.” 

“Now?” Jack doesn’t think this is that big of an issue. Kit used litterbox number one just fine, in his opinion, and Kent’s apartment really isn’t that big.

“Yes now!” Kent insists, and goes to grab his wallet and keys. “Do you want to clean up shit off the floor?”  

Jack grimaces at the thought. The litterbox was bad enough, but the floor would be worse.

Catching his expression, Kent continues, “Yeah. That’s what I thought. Now c’mon Zimms. And this time we’re taking my regular car.” 

---

It’s fun to hang out with Kent. 

Jack knows that. He’s had fun most of the time he’s been in Vegas and they haven’t been fighting. But just going out to do an errand with him and dicking around is something that they haven’t done since Juniors, and it makes Jack feel sixteen again to stifle his laughter with Kent in the isles, pick up stupid items off the shelves and make faces at each other, and push at each other’s shoulders like the assholes they are. 

They’ve gotten glares from at least two store employees, but Jack’s having a good enough time where he doesn’t care. He always feels more self-conscious in public when he’s alone, and Kent has never really cared much about people judging the way he expresses himself when he’s out. It’s a trait that he’s been able to leech off of Kent’s presence the longer they’ve known each other, and Jack finds that his progress hasn’t changed over their period of no contact. It surprises him, but in a way that makes his heart feel like mush. 

They’ve also thrown way too much shit into the basket, having only taken five minutes to find the second litterbox and grab another type of litter— “Just so she can try it out, Zimms, what if she likes this kind better than the other kind?” And now, they have several pieces of cat furniture, a very large cat tree, and a myriad of other shit— toys, dress up items, catnip, and anything that made them laugh— making the cart heavy enough that it’s a pain to push it around.

When it’s time to check out, they have so much stuff that the employee at the register does a double take. Kent swipes his card without even looking at the total, and Jack doesn’t even try to pay. 

When they get back to Kent’s apartment, they have to lug everything up the elevator in two trips, even with both of them carrying as many bags as they possibly can, but it’s worth it to finally make the place look a bit more lived in, even if all the shit is Kit’s. 

They have a chill afternoon, since Kent has the day off for once, eating a lazy lunch, setting up the second litterbox, playing with Kit and spending some time watching the trashy television that Kent loves and Jack tolerates because Kent likes it. 

He’s just about getting invested in the state of Jessica and Toby’s relationship when Kent’s cellphone rings. 

“Oh.” Kent reaches for the remote and pauses the show. “Um, it’s my agent, I have to take this.” Kent runs his finger through his hair and bites his lip before picking up the phone, standing and turning away from Jack.

“Hi John, what’s up?” He begins pacing, shoulders drawn up. 

Jack can’t hear the other end of the conversation. 

Kent stops pacing. “Um. Okay.” 

What is it? Jack mouths at him. 

Kent only glares in response, holding up one finger threateningly. 

“Is that bad?” He asks. “Because there’s—”

Frustration builds until Jack can’t sit still with it any longer, getting up to walk closer to Kent. He needs to hear what’s going on. 

“—be honest,” Kent’s agent is saying when Jack finally gets close enough. Kent looks at him with a bit of bite, but there’s something about the way his mouth is set that reminds Jack of when he used to get reamed out by the coaches for taking hits when they all knew it was a bad idea. 

Kent only takes one step away, but it isn’t enough for Jack to be out of hearing range as his agent continues, “Is it really Jack Zimmermann in the photo?” 

Every atom in Jack’s body goes still.

Kent sighs and gives Jack a look like I told you so. “Yeah, it’s him,” he says glumly into the phone. “You’re sure the photo is good enough quality for people to confirm it?” 

“Yes, Kent. I already told you it’s viral on Twitter.”

Fuck. Fuck this is bad. Jack lifts a hand and starts rubbing at his chest, right over his breastbone, breath beginning to shudder. 

“Okay, so what do you want me to do about it?” Kent says, gaze set hard out the windows.

What can they do about it? The picture is already out there, something of Jack and Kent out in Vegas… Merde, what if it's a photo of their wedding? What if it’s one where they’re staring each other down over their meals in that hole in the wall restaurant? Jack was stupid for thinking that nobody could be listening to their conversation. What the fuck was he thinking?

Kent’s agent continues, the words barely registering in Jack’s brain as his thoughts continue to take off and the pace of his breath picks up with it. “Nothing you can do,” the guy’s voice buzzes, tinny. “I’ll handle it, you should stay off social media. Just wanted to confirm and make sure you were aware. I know it sucks to have the internet make a spectacle of your time with visiting friends.” 

Kent’s head tips over to clutch his phone between his shoulder and his ear, his hands beginning to wring. “Yeah. Well, um. I have a cat now? That’s why we were out, we were shopping for my cat. Would it be helpful to post about her?” 

How is he getting his voice to sound so calm? Jack starts wringing his hands too. Maybe that will help. At least now he knows it’s of them out shopping for Kit and not getting fucking married. Fuck that would have been awful.

“Did Jack help you adopt the cat?” 

“Yeah.” 

Wringing his hands does not help. 

“Then no. Keep it under wraps for a bit and in a couple of weeks we can debut her on social media. I’ll have Cindy call you about that next week, if that works?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Okay, thanks John.” 

So Jack’s just. Freaking out. Thoughts in his brain have ceased for Ostie de crisse de tabarnak de câlisse!!!! 

“No problem. Talk to you soon. Bye, Kent.”

“Bye.” Kent turns to look at Jack and sighs. “Ugh, this is so messy. Sorry that some fuckface took a picture of us and posted… Zimms, why do you look so freaked?” 

Is Kent really…? He cannot be this oblivious.

Jack draws in a few short breaths and forces the static in his head and chest into ice, preparing like he’s going on a hockey shift. “I haven’t been—” his voice is all choked up and terrible, but Jack clears his throat and pushes through. “This is the first time. Since the draft. That I’ve—” 

“Oh.” Dawning horror washes across Kent’s face. “Well, shit. Um… at least John told me it’s not a bad picture?” 

Jack’s hand spasms at his side. 

“Do you wanna… see it?” Kent asks. 

Jack doesn’t want to fucking see it at all, but if he doesn’t he’ll just spiral about it anyway, so he nods, and Kent pulls out his phone to navigate to the picture in question. Jack’s breath and heartbeat sound loud in his ears, and it takes effort not to spiral deeper as he waits. 

Kent passes his phone to Jack. “Here.” 

Taking it, Jack prepares himself before he looks. And he’s glad he did, because the picture is fucking revealing. Jack knows how this goes. It’s not like he’s never had creeper shots of him and his family taken before. He’s even had some of him and Kent, from before, because hockey media is fucking vicious and some fans don’t have any boundaries. But this photo… Jack’s heart pounds a little faster. 

He and Kent are in the pet store with Kent pushing the cart and Jack walking next to him, hands in his pockets. Jack’s looking at Kent, who is talking expressively, one hand on the cart to steer and one hand blurred in the air, mid-gesture. Kent’s snapback is on backwards, so his face is clear and in full animated storytelling mode, while Jack’s face is the real nightmare. He looks fond and soft and fucking in love, mouth ticked up in a small smile and clear fondness radiating off of him. 

“Fuck,” Jack says. 

“It’s not that bad,” Kent protests. “At least we’re not doing anything crazy? Or like, super gay or whatever." 

Jack thrusts the phone back over at Kent. “Are you serious? Not that bad? There is nothing about that picture that screams just bros, Kenny.” 

Kent looks at the phone again and winces. “Yeah, I’m sorry I’m staring at you like that.” 

He’s— what? 

“I was talking about me, Kent,” Jack grits out, “but great, glad that you think you look super into me, too. Fuck!” And then something else occurs to Jack that freezes his blood. “Câlisse, my fucking parents.” 

“What?” 

Jack woodenly sits down and puts his head in his hands. “My fucking parents definitely saw that,” he repeats. 

“Okay? And?” Then Kent inhales. “You still didn’t tell them where you were.”

Jack doesn’t deign to reply to that one and instead fists his hands in his hair, giving it a good strong yank. He can feel his forearms trembling on the table and tries to sink into the sensation, but his thoughts only grow louder. 

Jack’s only just begun to get back on his feet; what was he thinking? That he was going to fly to Vegas on a whim, change his life, marry Kent, and figure everything out just like that? He of all people should know that’s not how life works. It’s never that clean, that perfect, that easy. He knew this was stupid because he didn’t even tell his parents, just left before they could remind him that having common sense is a thing and Jack exposing himself to the world this early is too much too soon. And now he’s here, hyperventilating at Kent’s tiny four-seater table in his Vegas highrise; married and in viral pictures and the half-owner of a cat. He’s jealous of his own husband and terrified of what other people think of him and on such shaky ground. Though Jack was winning yesterday and the day before that, now he’s back to losing again; on the brink of another failure right when it matters most. 

God, he wishes he had his anxiety medication back. He wishes he wasn’t enough of a failure, an addict, that they took it away from him and when they told him he’d snarled in his therapist’s face that he didn’t need it anyway because that was a lie and he does need it. He does. 

“Zimms?” Kent asks tentatively. “Um. Can I do anything? You’re kind of freaking me out.” 

Jack has a million problems right now, and he cannot add dealing with Kent to the pile. He finally lets go of his hair to glare up at Kent. Fuck trying to be a good husband, Jack’s whole life is falling apart. 

“No,” he says, and then goes back to staring at the grain of the fake wood. “Just leave me the fuck alone.” 

It’s genuinely a shock when the next thing Jack sees and hears is Kent’s palms slapping down onto the table across from him. Jack jerks his head back up, and Kent’s eyes are that molten gray again, sharp and cutting. 

“Y’know what?” Kent says, and his voice is heated and wavering. “I have been really cool about all of this. I have been so fucking cool, Jack. But this? This has not been easy for me! This whole entire year has been a shitshow and you being here and us doing this— this whole thing— it has been insane. Insane! And I have just gone along with your every whim, but I can’t do this. You. Being like this. Over something that, if it didn’t happen now, was going to happen eventually! And I don’t— I don’t—” 

The chair Jack’s sitting in screeches as he stands up, abrupt with force. 

“You don’t what? Are you quitting already? You want a divorce?” 

Kent snarls at him. “No! Don’t put words in my mouth. But even saying yes to this in the first place was crazy. You’re a fucking mess.” 

Oh, Kent’s one to fucking speak. Those voicemails were not the product of a perfectly functioning person. “And you’re not?” 

“We’re not talking about me right now, Jack,” Kent says, waving one hand as if to bat away his statement.  

“Yes, we are,” Jack argues, and honestly, if this table wasn’t between them he’d probably be shoving at Kent again. His hands clench themselves into fists. “If you didn’t want this, you could have just said no.” 

“Could I have?” The words are a taunt. “Really, Jack. Could I have said no.” 

“Obviously,” Jack spits. 

But Kent shakes his head, scoffing. “You would have disappeared again.” 

Jack opens his mouth to insist the opposite, but Kent continues before he can say anything. 

“You would have! Don’t lie. And—” He looks down, for the first time in their argument, licking his lips and jaw working before he continues, voice shaking as he admits, ”and I missed you. This was all I— Of course I would’ve jumped at any opportunity to keep you. No matter how crazy.”

“Keep me?” Jack questions mockingly before turning to disdain. “I’m not a thing, Kent. You don’t own me, you can’t just keep me on a shelf in your house.” 

“I know that! I know that, that’s what I’ve been saying!” Kent’s gesturing emphatically, but all it’s doing is pissing off Jack even more. “Somebody was going to see us out together eventually. And about your parents, whatever. If they didn’t matter, you’d still be freaking out about it. About people seeing us together.” 

Jack scoffs. “Of course I would be! I didn't want to be in the media. I never wanted to. I just wanted to play hockey.” 

Kent pinches the bridge of his nose. It makes him look old. “Don't you think that’s what all of us want? None of us want to deal with the media. Do you know how many times I get asked about shit I don’t want to answer? But it’s a part of the job. You know that. You’re no stranger to the media Zimms, I don’t know why you’re acting like you aren’t.” 

Kent really shouldn’t be this stupid. “Because,” Jack says, wielding the words like blade, “I can’t deal with all of it. The last time I did I almost killed myself and I would have succeeded if you hadn’t been there.” 

Kent’s shoulders slump. He looks away again and swallows. “I know.” 

“So maybe you can understand why I don’t want to be under a microscope again.” 

But Kent isn’t a coward. He rallies, jutting his chin out and bringing his gaze back to Jack. “Is that for now? Or forever?” 

Jack opens his mouth, but he doesn’t have an answer that he likes. He doesn’t have one that will fill the space between him and Kent; cross over this table that only feels like it’s growing wider with each passing second. 

“Jack. Like I said. I’ve been really cool about everything that’s happened since you showed up. But you don’t know how fucking hard it’s been for me, here. I really could have used your help any time over the past six months, especially, or even just like a singular return phone call. I thought about you every day. And having you here, it’s nice. It’s— well, I can’t lie and say I didn’t dream about it. But I don’t— What are we doing? I mean, we're married; I like that part. We have a cat now; I like that part too. But how is this going to work? How will we deal with us and our lives and hockey?” 

And Jack doesn’t really know what to say to that either, to be honest. How to explain to Kent that he doesn’t really know what he’s doing too, and he’s not sure where this takes them because Jack hasn’t planned any of this out and he’s not sure where it’s going. He only sees that picture in his head, the one of them old and retired together, but he’s not sure how they get to that future when their present looks as fucked up as it does. 

His insides twist. His palms are clammy. This is what falling feels like, the expectations weighing him down, dragging and clawing at Jack until all that’s left is a useless shell of a person. 

The interminable silence is broken with a frantic knocking at the door. 

He and Kent lock eyes, matching confusion in their gazes. The moment stretches out until the knocking repeats, furiously fast and loud, this time accompanied with words.

“Open up this door right now, or so help me God—” 

Oh fuck. Jack swallows. It’s his maman, and she sounds pissed. 

“I didn’t call her,” Kent says immediately. “I swear to God, I didn’t.” 

Yeah, Jack actually does believe that. Kent’s a lot of things, but a snitch isn’t one of them. 

But Jack does not want to open that door. Opening the door means facing consequences and he doesn't want to face any fucking consequences right now, not when he and Kent are still in the middle of whatever this argument has turned into. And, even worse, Jack realizes as he gets closer, his mother’s shouting growing louder and the knocking only upticking in its ferociousness, he doesn’t want to go back to Montreal. 

“Jack Laurent, I’m warning you—” 

But he has no other option. Jack opens the door.

His maman looks windswept, disheveled and frantic, but the real kicker is seeing his father right at her shoulder, gripping onto her hand tightly. Both of them exhale long breaths when they see him, reaching for Jack immediately. 

He turns away, instead beckoning them to enter and shutting the door behind them quickly before his parents enfold him into their arms anyway. 

“Jack, Jack oh my God,” Maman is saying all in a rush, and Jack can’t breathe, claustrophobic as his father presses up against his back, heart beating loud and static buzzing in his ears. 

“Son, I am so glad you’re okay,” Papa says in French. 

Jack pushes out of their embrace. “What are you doing here?” He asks flatly, even though he fully knows why they are here. 

“Jack, baby, what are you doing here?” Maman counters. “You told us you never wanted to see Kent again; I don’t understand—” 

Kent clears his throat, and it’s not like Maman is wrong, but Jack feels a little defensive right now, so before Kent can say anything, Jack steps in. 

“Yes, and I was being stupid. When I realized that, I had to come—” 

Maman steps closer and brushes her hand over his hair, shaking her head. “No, no. You didn’t have to come all the way here. You could have called him! But you just disappeared out of nowhere instead. No note! No call! No email, even, for your papa and I! Did you even bring your phone?” 

Jack clenches his jaw. He feels like saying he did but took the battery out is not going to appease her. 

“Your mother and I have been very worried,” Papa tries to cut in once it becomes clear that Jack is not going to answer. “We only found out you were here through—” 

“Twitter?” Kent asks tiredly. “By the way, hi. Welcome to my apartment, Zimmerparents. Nice to see you.” 

Neither Jack’s mother nor father spare a glance at Kent, talking over him like he isn’t even there. 

“Are you okay?” Papa asks in French. “Have you taken anything? Has he done anything?” 

Jack’s mouth falls open just a little bit. “You are not accusing Kent of breaking my sobriety right now,” he says dangerously. 

“I can speak French, you all know,” Kent says in his clumsy, accented and imperfect French. He’d only taken it so people couldn’t shit talk him at Rimouski without him knowing what they were saying— as it turns out, a useful application. 

Maman purses her lips. “Well we don’t know what you’ve been doing, Jack,” she says, falling back to English again. “Because you haven’t told us anything.” 

Yeah, no shit Jack didn’t tell them anything. They would have just told him not to leave at all and Jack would have continued to be miserable. “Well maybe I didn’t tell you anything because I don’t need you governing my life!” Jack yells. 

“Oh, no, I think you do,” Maman says, low and cold. “Because the last time we let you have all the freedom in the world—”

“Alicia,” Papa tries, but Jack is tired of his family walking on eggshells all the time. 

“What?” Jack shouts at his mother. “I tried to kill myself? So what? Now you’re never going to let me leave Montreal again? That house is a prison!” 

“We’re trying to keep you safe!” Maman counters.

Jack laughs. “Oh, because you’ve been doing such a good job of that. I’ve been doing horribly! I’ve been lonely and tired and bored out of my mind! I had to come here. Not only to see Kent, but to get away from you!” 

Maman finally looks like he’s wounded her, and a flash of satisfaction blooms in Jack’s brain. Good. He wants her to bleed, to stop talking around what they’ve all been talking around for months despite her hovering. Having been without the kid gloves for two days, all Jack can feel is the way she and his father have been treating him like he’s fragile, and Jack cannot go back to that. He just can’t.

“Baby,” Maman says, pitying and pleading now, “just what has Kent been saying to you?” 

What the fuck. Jack is so stunned that he has to stop and blink for a few moments at the accusation. 

Kent, finally, steps into the circle of their argument rather than staying on its fringes. “What? How is this my fault? Jack’s the one who just showed up here, I didn’t ask him to come—” 

Maman takes a half step in between Kent and Jack, shielding him with her body as if her slight model frame would stop Kent, who weighs probably one and a half times as much as she does, even shedding pounds like crazy leading up to the postseason. “Stop talking,” she demands. “Stay away from my son.” 

“Maman!” Jack snaps, stepping around her. “Don’t talk to Kenny like that.” 

She rounds on him. “I can talk to him however I like, and you are my child. You will listen to me when I tell you—” 

“Alicia—” Papa tries again.

“Absolutely not!” Jack yells. “I’m not doing this absolute bullshit with you—” 

“—you are coming home right this instant! You are clearly not thinking straight—”

Kent pushes back in. “You can’t take Jack! You can’t take him away!” 

“I don’t want to go back to Montreal!” Jack screams again. 

Papa holds out his hands beseechingly. “Alicia, boys, can we please calm down—”

“—and I will not stand for this boy corrupting you again!” Maman declares, stomping her foot.

“I didn’t fucking— I saved his life!” Kent screams, louder than everybody else. “I love him!” 

Jack’s winded, his lungs are burning, and everything stops. 

Kent’s breathing heavier than Jack is, hair ruffled up and expression pleading, eyes glassy. Maman and Papa stare at him, unsure and unsteady. Jack’s heart feels like it’s going to burst out of his chest. 

“Please,” Kent begs. “Stop. I love him. Don’t take Zimms away from me, I just got him back. He’s my—” 

Warning bells flash in Jack’s mind. His parents absolutely cannot know that they just got married or things will go right back into the fire, so Jack cuts him off. “Best friend. More. Whatever. And he hasn’t done anything to me, this was all my idea.” 

His maman and papa exchange glances. It looks like Maman still wants to bite off Kent’s head, but Papa grabs her hand and tugs her closer to him before speaking first.

“Son, we can’t leave you here.” Each word is measured and careful. Jack’s back to being glass. “This was clearly important to you, but your mother and I have been worried sick. You can stay… friends with Kent if you must, but you need to come home now.” 

“No—” Jack tries to protest, but Maman cracks her whip.

“You have two minutes to gather your things,” she says briskly. “And I won’t tell you again.” 

“Mrs. Zimmerm—” 

“Don’t,” Maman snarls at Kent. “You’ve done enough already.” 

“He didn’t do anything!” Jack defends again, but Maman raises her eyebrows and checks her watch and Jack realizes that he’s been defeated. 

“Jack,” Kent says, and to Jack’s horror, he begins to cry. “Zimms, Zimms please.” 

Jack is cleaving in two. He pulls Kent into a hug, uncaring that he’s wasting the two minutes his mother had given him. “Kenny, I’m sorry. I don’t want to go,” he murmurs, glaring at his parents over Kent’s head, which is tucked into his shoulder. 

Maman looks furious, and Papa just looks sad. Jack turns his gaze down to Kent; kisses the top of his head as his shirt begins to wet with tears. 

He holds Kent for as long as his mother will let him before he has to let go. He takes none of his things besides his passports, wallet and the two pieces of his phone, leaving the couple pairs of clothes and his backpack for Kent to do with as he desires. 

He doesn’t even get to say goodbye to Kit, who’s probably hiding in the guest room under the bed, as his parents march him out. 

Maman doesn’t look back, but Papa gives Kent a strained smile. “Good luck on the rest of the season,” he says over his shoulder. 

“I’ll text you,” Jack promises, wanting and aching to do more and say more, but knowing there’s nothing else he can say that he’s okay with his parents hearing. Instead, he subtly taps his ring finger behind his back, hoping that Kent will recognize the promise that he’s making; that even though their future is murky, Jack still intends to follow through on the commitment of being his husband.

But Kent’s still crying when the door finally closes. Jack can’t help but think he’s lost yet again.