Work Text:
Kent spends the summer like he normally does. He takes a couple of weeks to go on a low-key bender—not enough to get him in trouble with the press, but enough to either celebrate winning a Stanley Cup or mourn losing one.
This year, unfortunately, it’s the latter.
Then he starts training again, because it’s technically his job.
Only, this summer, he’s training with Jack, splitting their time between Vegas and Montreal, which also means they’re having a hell of a lot more sex than Kent usually has in the off season.
It’s not like he’s complaining.
Jack keeps squatting some ridiculous amount of weight and chugging protein shakes and Kent eats like ten thousand calories a day and tries to gain back all the weight he loses during the season, especially after a deep playoff run, so he can start a little less like a string bean. It hurts a lot fucking more to get checked into the boards in May without all the weight he tries to put on for the preseason.
Jack also tries to make him run at the ass crack of dawn every single morning.
Kent’s very proud of his success rate at getting him to come back to bed and do something else for exercise, instead. He’s at fifty percent right now, but he’s trying to take a page from Zimms’ book, and be better.
When Jack does get him out of bed and into some running shoes, it’s always hot and humid outside, which is at least most of the reason that Kent goes running with no shirt on.
The way Jack has to stop himself from staring at Kent’s abs doesn’t hurt, either.
It’s just… Kent has spent a pretty big chunk of his life feeling inadequate around Jack Zimmermann. When they first met, Jack was rich, famous, good-looking, fucking phenomenal at hockey, and Kent was a no-name American who barely got drafted into the Q and spent half of his first season fighting for any ice time at all. Jack grew up in a series of mansions—Montreal, Pittsburgh—and played hockey with Wayne Gretzky and Mario Lemieux and saw the Stanley Cup before he could even remember it. Kent shared five-hundred square feet of space with his mother and his sister and had a few unfortunate years of borrowing other player’s pads and suiting up in old, smelly hand-me-downs, just so he could stay on the team.
Kent could never believe that Jack had wanted him back.
Jack’s bigger now than he was in Rimouski, thick with muscle, especially at the end of the summer, and Kent sometimes thinks it must not be normal, the way he’s still so viscerally attracted to him.
But sometimes, Jack looks at him in the same way, like he can barely stop from touching him right here in the middle of the street in Jack’s fancy fucking neighborhood, and Kent thinks, oh.
…
There’s a league-wide charity golf tournament in August.
Kent finds this out because his publicist calls him up in July and tells him he’s participating, and he says, “No way,” and she says, “Yes, Kent,” and proceeds to tell him exactly why, which boils down to: because I say you will, because it’s to raise money for a children’s hospital, and because the names have already been submitted and you’re playing on Team Zimmermann.
“Team Zimmermann?” Kent asks slowly.
“It’s four-man scramble,” Lauren explains, as if he would know what that is, “Bob and Alicia and Jack needed a fourth, and I already added you to their team.”
Kent groans, loudly.
Jack spent his summers growing up training with actual NHL superstars and playing golf with his father.
Kent didn’t have a father. Kent spent his summers taking classes to make up for all the school he missed for hockey and looking after his sister and trying to keep the house clean so his mom didn’t look so tired when she came home from her second job.
In the end, Kent says yes, partly because Lauren is absolutely the scariest person that he works with, even though he spends most of the year playing against men who have six inches and one hundred pounds on him and would like nothing better than to plaster him against the boards, and partly because… it’s for sick kids. Which would make it kind of a dick move to say no, because Kent is a league superstar, weird as that still is to admit sometimes.
Plus, he does actually like kids, so.
By the time he hangs up, Jack has wandered in, shirtless, drenched in sweat from whatever obscene workout routine he’s just finished.
Kent would probably want to lick him if he wasn’t so pissed off.
“So apparently we’re playing in a charity golf tournament in August,” he says, and Jack fucking lights up.
“I was hoping you’d say yes,” Jack says when he’s chugged a bottle of Gatorade and started in on a second one.
“Say yes to what? I didn’t get asked! I was just told to show up!” Kent says. Jack frowns, and Kent sighs. They’ve been trying a lot of new things in their relationship this time around, including communication and not yelling at each other when they’re actually mad about something else.
So Kent tries to communicate. “Look,” he says, “It’s just. I’m like, really bad at golf. Remember?”
Jack should, because the last time—and only time—Kent had tried to play golf was with Jack and Bob, circa 2008. Bob had ended the game three below par and Jack had sulked for the rest of the day because he’d been five above. They’d generously stopped counting for Kent after he’d taken seventeen strokes on hole three. He’d hit a birdie, and not the golf shot—an actual robin, who had twittered at him angrily.
“Hmm,” Jack says, which means he does remember but he doesn’t want to make Kent any angrier by pointing it out. So Kent’s competitive, whatever. He’s a professional athlete. It’s crucial to his career that he’s a sore loser.
“So, I’m assuming that a lot of guys are going to be there?” Kent asks.
“Yeah, my dad and Uncle Wayne and some of the guys from that era. A lot of current players, too.”
Kent groans again.
For some reason that Kent has never been able to figure out, an abnormally large percentage of NHL players really like golf. Maybe it’s a rich person thing. Kent wouldn’t know, because he’s new money, and because his idea of a good time is not putting on a polo shirt and walking miles out in the heat just to try to whack a tiny little ball into an equally tiny hole from, like, hundreds of yards away.
But Jack still seems upset that Kent’s not more excited about it, so Kent tries to do what all those relationship books recommend—yeah, he’s reading relationship advice now, and he’s pretty fucking soft, but whatever—and put himself in Jack’s (golf) shoes.
Okay. Jack likes golf, and he also likes Kent. Kent doesn’t really understand either of those things, but whatever. Jack is sad that Kent doesn’t also like golf. Maybe Jack wishes that Kent would make an effort to try the things that he likes doing. Kent kind of figured they already had that covered, because of the hockey thing and because Kent’s been watching way too many history documentaries lately for his taste, but if it’s important to Jack, then Kent can try golfing.
He draws the line at fishing, though. Fish are fucking gross.
Jack must be thinking something along the same lines, because just when Kent’s about to say he’ll go find someone who can give him golf lessons, Jack says, “Why don’t you want to go?”
“Listen,” Kent says, and then stalls out. He loves Jack, even if it’s still novel he can actually say that, but Jack can sometimes be a little oblivious about how his childhood did not exactly run parallel to most other people’s, including Kent’s. “I’m gonna do it, okay? I told Lauren I would, and I’m into the charity thing, and whatever. I’ll do it. But for you, it’s like playing a casual round with your Uncle Wayne, right?” Jack nods, slowly. “Okay. For me, it’s more like utter humiliation in front of Wayne Gretzky, the man that inspired me to be a hockey player growing up. Plus you, and your parents, and every other dude in the NHL who will chirp me ruthlessly when I finish like a thousand over par, or something.”
Jack hums again, and then says, “We’ll practice, okay? Just the two of us. And I don’t care how well you golf, okay, Kenny? I promise I’ll make it fun.”
Kent sort of doubts that, but it’s a compromise, so he figures he kind of has to take it.
(It turns out that Jack’s way of making it fun is to press right up behind him and wrap his hands around Kent’s on the golf club and say things like, “You have to adjust your grip on the shaft.”
Kent is very tuned in to the way Jack grinds into him a little every time.
It’s definitely not an orthodox way of teaching someone to golf, and Kent doubts that it’s super effective, but at least by the third trip to the driving range he’s making contact more often than not, which is a big improvement.
It doesn’t even end up mattering at the tournament, because Kent doesn’t keep score for his own sanity and Alicia kicks all of their asses anyway and he gets to wear a shirt that says “Zimmermann” on the back, which he would never do during the actual season, and at the end of the day he gets to visit all of those kids and hold someone’s baby, so that pretty much makes up for actually having to play eighteen holes of golf.)
…
Jack holds a kids camp at the rink he used to coach at, right before they both have to head back to the States for their respective preseasons.
Jack asks him to help, which he agrees to, of course, because it’s Jack and also because he thinks baby hockey player are pretty fucking cute at that age, when they’re still so little that the helmets and pads make them all clumsy and a little tubby looking and they have to waddle around the ice.
Kent’s going to be in a world of trouble if he and Jack ever keep it together long enough to discuss the whole kids thing, it turns out, because apparently his reaction to seeing his boyfriend being amazing with a few dozen small children is to want to fuck him in the locker room, afterwards.
Whatever.
He’s pretty sure Jack is having basically the same problem, considering the way he eyes Kent after Kent manages to divert a major incident after an adorable blonde kindergartner (whom Kent doubts is actually “Crosby 87,” but what does he know) takes a hard tumble after catching an edge. He mostly does this by picking her up off the ice and saying, “You’re okay!” all confidently like he actually knows and then pushing her around for a little bit until she stops crying and wants to pick her stick back up, but it works, and Jack definitely appreciates it. At least, his elevator eyes sure do.
So they can just deal with that issue together.
…
Kent’s not out to his team.
Swoops knows, but that’s mostly because Kent made the mistake of once giving him a spare key for emergencies, and apparently Swoops considers breaking into Kent’s place to try to bully him into going out after a win an emergency.
He picks the night of the Falconer’s game, of course, so by the time he’s got the door open and he’s said, “I don’t care if your cat is lonely, Parson, we’re going out,” he’s already come into the living room and seen Kent and Jack tangled up on the couch.
Kent doesn’t say anything, because he’s got Jack’s cock in his mouth, and Jack doesn’t say anything, either because he’s too shocked or because he’s about to come.
Swoops just says, “Huh,” and then leaves again, and so Kent figures he can probably go back to what he was doing, but then Jack kind of freaks out and won’t even let Kent bring him off—a first in their relationship—before he makes Kent call him up and explain.
“Parson,” Swoops says when he answers, and then, “The couch, really?” Like he thinks that’s the worst part of the whole thing—not that Kent was sucking cock, and not that said cock belongs to one Jack Zimmermann, media darling of the hockey world and the Aces’ recent opponent to boot.
“It’s my fucking couch,” Kent snaps. His voice sounds a little horse, but it’s not like he’s worried about Swoops wondering why, at this point, so he continues, “And I live alone, asshole.”
“Still,” Swoops grumbles.
“So I’m gay,” Kent says. Jack’s eyes bug out of his head, and then he closes them and leans his head back. Kent wishes he would put some clothes back on, if he isn’t going to let Kent finish what he was doing, because it’s very distracting.
“Yeah,” Swoops says drily, “Well, you had Jack Zimmermann’s dick in your mouth, so I kinda figured. And I’m in my car, so no one heard that, and you can calm down.”
“Hey, just for the record, you’re the first person I’m out to in Vegas, so maybe you can just check the attitude, Jeff.”
“Are you asking if I have a problem with this?” Swoops asks slowly, “Kent, I have, like, the opposite of a problem with this.”
“Aww, Jeffie,” Kent coos, “You’re not my type.” Jack’s eyes snap back open.
“Gross,” Swoops says, “I’ve smelled you after hockey games, Parson. But I totally support you and Jack, and I’m not going to say anything, okay?”
“Great,” Kent says, and hangs up.
“It’s cool,” he says to Jack, and then grins. “Can I finish now? Please?”
Jack rolls his eyes, but then he starts pulling at Kent’s head again, which Kent interprets as the green light to go back to what—or whom—he was doing.
If the noises he’s making are any indication, Jack would seem to agree.
…
Kent scores his first hat trick of the season in October, and by the time he’s changed and showered Jack’s already texted him, which means he was watching the game.
It makes Kent a little warm in ways he’s still getting used to.
Nice Hatty, Jack wrote, and then, That last goal was absolutely filthy.
Which basically also means it’s on.
Kent waits until he gets home before he calls, even though Swoops keeps giving him knowing looks and snickering anyway.
“So you like it when I’m filthy, huh?” He opens with, and Jack laughs sharply, like he’s surprised.
“Kent, I’m in a hotel,” he says, which pretty much kills Kent’s evening plans stone dead. Zimms absolutely refuses to have phone sex on the road. It’s very boring.
“Yeah,” Kent says, “but I got a hatty. Which earns me something special. Plus, I know my hockey gets you hot.”
“Yeah,” Jack admits, after a long moment, and Kent grins, until Jack says, “That’s pretty much the only reason I like you, after all.”
Kent knows Jack’s joking, but it’s still a little raw—after all the years they’d spent totally estranged, after their rough reunion, Kent still has to shake himself some mornings, remember Jack’s back in his life.
“And here I thought it was my stunning good looks,” Kent says weakly, only it’s a beat too late and Zimms knows him too well.
“Hey, Kenny,” Jack says earnestly, “I was joking. I’m sorry, I know it wasn’t very funny.”
“I know you were,” Kent says, but Jack pushes on.
“I don’t just like you for your hockey. Or your looks. Although both are very good.”
“Well, yeah,” Kent grumbles. “Zimms, I know you were kidding. I overreac—”
“I just like you,” Jack barrels on, picking up speed, “I don’t care about your Stanley Cups—”
“Hey, fuck you,” Kent interjects, but he’s smiling now.
“—or your gold medal, or your trophies. I don’t care that you’re Kent Parson, captain of the Las Vegas Aces. I love Kenny, my Kenny, and that’s who I want to be with.”
“Aww,” Kent teases, but his eyes are a little watery. He’s probably just got dust in his eye, or something. Maybe he’s suddenly allergic to his cat. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. You know I’m just in it for the sex.”
He can’t even keep it together long enough to finish the sentence before he’s snickering, and Jack is laughing, too.
“Kenny,” he says, impossibly fond, “You can’t fool me. I know better.”
“No, really,” Kent insists, “Although seeing as you won’t put out for a hatty, I’m suddenly reconsidering.”
“Kenny,” Jack says again. “You went golfing for me. That’s how I know it’s real.”
“Yeah, and you still owe me for that,” Kent grumbles, and they chat a little more before Jack has to sleep to prepare for his game the next day.
“Hey,” Jack says softly right before he hangs up, “I will reward you for that hatty, the next time I see you, eh?”
Kent flushes. “Looking forward to it, Zimms,” he says.
…
They both only have two days for Christmas.
Kent really loves his mother, but he does not particularly want to take a four hour commercial flight to sit in a snow drift for those two days.
Zimms really loves his parents, too, but Kent figures he currently outranks them because they see Jack almost every other week, and also because Jack still owes him for that hatty.
“Let’s meet in the middle,” he suggests, “Then we won’t have to fly so far.”
“What, in Kansas?” Jack laughs, “Merry Christmas to us.”
“Somewhere warm,” Kent suggests, “Not a hockey town.”
“I’ll book something,” Jack says. “Send you the tickets.”
“Okay,” Kent says, “I gotta go, Zimms, practice.”
“Yeah, okay. Hey, Kenny?”
“Yeah,” Kent says, distracted, pulling on shoes.
“What do you want for Christmas?”
Kent smiles. “Just you, Jack,” he says.
…
New Orleans in December is a balmy sixty-five degrees.
It is not a hockey town.
When Kent’s plane lands and he turns off airplane mode, Zimms has texted him, just landed, headed to the hotel now.
Kent gives the address Jack texted him to a cabbie and pays him in cash.
When the receptionist at the hotel asks him what his name is, he says, “Zimmermann,” and smiles when she hands him the extra key.
It’s three in the afternoon, and Zimms is already passed out in the big single bed, sleeping. He doesn’t even stir when Kent closes the door, tosses his suitcase aside, strips down to his boxers.
He climbs under the covers, runs his fingers through Jack’s hair until he bats his eyes open.
Jack smiles when he sees Kent.
“Hey Kenny,” he says, “I missed you.”