Archive of Our Own

—O—

The ice smells strange tonight. Different, sharper, drier. The faint rusty smells of old blood and metal skates are evident, even though Tater usually would need to put his nose up close to detect them. The boards also smell unusually strongly of rubber and plastic. Tater can pick it up from center ice even though he usually only notices them while pushed up against the boards. 

It must be the upcoming game, Tater reasons. The whole team is on edge, gauging the atmosphere, watching the tension pull and lax, waiting for the inevitable drop, be it a big snap or low fizzle.

Tonight is the long awaited game against the Las Vegas Aces. The game where Zimmboni will have to go head to head with Kent Parson with the world is watching. Tater and everyone else is holding their breath to see what will happen. To see if the Zimmermann-Parson magic still exists; magic that sparked into dazzling fireworks once, and then blazed out into an inferno. Nobody thought that Zimmboni could rise from the ashes like a phoenix reborn, but his stats are nothing short of astounding. They would have been record-setting had the records not already been set by the other half of the legendary pair. 

Tater can feel the crowd buzzing with exceptional energy and attention. Everyone’s been waiting for tonight with equal parts apprehension and excitement.

The game starts, and it’s heavy minutes from the get-go. The Aces are a formidable team, they’ve won the Stanley twice in the last five years, after all. They did it by focusing on speed and trickery, using smart speedsters, small and sneaky bastards that steal and scuttle off. None embody this style more than the Parson-Troy duo, Captain and Alternate respectively. They’re like little raccoons, rats, rodents the lot of them. Tater doesn’t like their style, but he sees the results and understands their strategy.

Tater and Fizzy both have half a foot and 80 pounds over most of the Aces, and as improbably nimble as they are on the ice, physics is an indifferent mistress. The lithe Aces swerve and slip between the Falconers D-men too quickly to follow, and by the end of the second period Tater is exhausted, with the score 2-1 down to show for his failure to keep up.

The blood must be rushing to his head from all this exertion, because he feels heady, like he’s swimming in a dense fog. Everything has become thick, the air loaded with the extra strong scent of the arena mixed with the ongoing game, hot sweat layered over cold vapor. Tater notices the woody scent of splinters from the sticks, and it conjures up an image of the arena as an old building weathered down to its wooden skeleton that would collapse at any moment. It accentuates the suddenly claustrophobic feeling he can feel on the benches with when his teammates crowd around him. He looks out onto the ice to put more space into his vision, but the wide expanse is too sharp a contrast and only gives him vertigo instead. 

Tater is worried he might throw up, when all these sensations point to him being sick, but strangely, it’s the opposite. He feels too much energy, unable to fend off whatever is emanating the infectious buzz entering him, and despite his exhaustion, it itches under his skin, tells him to get back on the ice and keep going.

Maybe it’s from the worry, the wandering thoughts to Zimmboni, wondering if he’s going to be okay. But watching him play, it would seem as if all the worry was for naught. He’s electrifying, zipping around and evading or pre-empting Parson, like he can read Parson’s mind. There’s no hesitation, hardly any acknowledgement of Parson from Zimmboni. 

They remember how each other plays, Tater realizes. It must be a thrilling spectacle, the once undefeatable Parson-Zimmerman duo now split, heading each other off effortlessly. It’s no wonder the media had been running high in the lead-up to tonight’s game.

Tater is running ragged into the final minutes of the third period now, when Fizzy sends the puck back to Zimmboni in a beautiful pass after the latter wins a face-off. He pulls out into a breakaway, but Parson can see it happen before everyone else, apparently, because he slips in front of Zimmboni like he knows exactly where Zimmboni will end up. Before half the players even catch up to what’s happening, Zimmboni dashes off to his left by pulling some fancy footwork, something even Parson hasn’t seen before. He rushes forward and buries it in topshelf, tying up the game and summoning a deafening roar from the home crowd.

All that worrying about Zimmboni losing his cool was definitely unfounded. He’s the image of collected cool, focused on the puck and the game. Tater, on the other hand, is looking forward to hitting the showers and eating a large animal or two. But it seems so close to the end of the period that they might enter OT, and Tater almost wishes that someone would score a goal again, just to finish it all up.

The puck drops on the face-off, and Tater thinks he’s jinxed it, spoke too soon in the figurative sense, because Parson catches the puck from the face-off and pushes forward in what can only be utter recklessness to rush Snowy and net a dirty goal. Everyone chasing him after rams into a pileup, but Tater knows what he wants, and what he wants is to exterminate a rat. He shoves aside Troy and Frizzy and whichever player in his way to expose Parson at the bottom and haul him up by the jersey. 

"Ох зребаный мудак! You liking hit like that so much?? Huh?? I can hit too!" he growls at Parson, using his Russian and gruff tone and enormous size to intimidate, and it works. He can see Parson stare back with his jaw slack, his body seizing up in fear, his blue-brown eyes go wide. Those eyes which look so interesting with green blending between the rim of brown around the blue, the blond hair falling down messy around a cute cowlick —

What just happened?

"Come on, Tater Tot…" Thirdy cajoles, pulling Tater back to the present, the heady feeling from before returning again to make his ears spin. The smell is back too, the ice and metal and rubber and sweat, but also something else. Something rich like chocolate and fresh like grass, lingering in his nose and making it feel full, like he’s inhaled a cloud of the scent and it won’t go away for a while.

"Ugh!! Parson little rat rushing Snowy!" The smell is distracting, and Tater can’t keep his mind off Parson.

"Little ‘brat’."

"No! Rat! Right word!" Kent Parson is a fucking rat. 

The call on the ice stands though, it’s a goal, and with seconds to spare on the clock. 

Parson just smirks. 

Tater wants to wipe it off his face, preferably against the ice he’s standing on. 

The game ends with a 3-2 loss for the Falconers, and everyone files into the locker room angry. Or at least, it feels that way to Tater, who is fuming. He’s agitated and the damn smells just won’t go away. Where did it come from anyway? It’s mixing with the locker room smell and it is noxious. 

"Woah, locker room is smelling terrible today! Aces give us bad run, make everyone sweat so much, is stinking very bad." Tater comments loudly, throwing something out to kick up a conversation in an attempt pick up the mood.

"It’s not so bad. Actually think it’s better than usual, even after that game. The new filter is working wonders." Guy quips from next to him, who is actually reeking worse than usual. 

"Really? You not smelling yourself? You are like fish out in sun for a week, Guy. Maybe get personal filter for your locker stall, sweat so much." Tater goes for a chirp, because Guy is the inveterate heavy sweater on the team, and smells like he really needs two deep rinse cycles right now.

"I think it’s fine." Poots says. Coming from Poots, honest Midwestern-polite Poots, Tater is inclined to believe him. "What do you think, Snowy?" Except he’s been hanging around Snowy a lot and might have picked up a thing or two about sarcasm from the goalie.

"I think it’s a fucking Garden of Eden in here. Flowers and perfume all around." Yup, there it is. At least he’s not emotionally affected by the incident on the ice.

"Are you ok Snowy? Rush on ice not messing with your nose? Are you needing to go trainer’s room and get massage? Get Poots hold your hand and bring you there." Tater can’t resist throwing in a chirp or two. He’s concerned for Snowy’s physical safety, but isn’t above maybe turning the wheels on the rumor mill about the unfairly attractive man, who has seemingly bewitched Poots and Kevin the trainer into doing his bidding. 

"Fuck you, Tater." Snowy laughs it off and continues to undress. 

Tater doesn’t want to stare, and honestly how cliche would that be, the gay teammate staring at the naked bodies of his teammates. Tater’s sure that would just start trouble, and he can’t afford that kind of trouble. Not in this sport, not with his first full year with the Falcs on the line. 

He’s been bouncing between being pulled up to fill the Falcs’ roster when their D-men are out, and then sliding back down to the affiliate AHL team once he’s no longer needed. They finally brought him on officially, which is why he’s not being treated as a rookie, seeing that he’s played with the guys on and off for a few years now. But he still needs to prove he can stay, that he’s worth keeping on. He know his stats are great and he’s being valued on the ice, and having moved up the lines to play with the likes of Zimmboni has only helped bolster his stats even more. He’s on a good path, the team likes him, and he can envision staying with the Falcs for few more seasons in front of him at least.

So he averts his eyes, turns to face his stall while he changes to avoid any temptation for his gaze to stray. Except, it is absolutely reeking something awful. He can’t stand it anymore. He’s tried breathing through his mouth, to no avail. Tater’s being assaulted by a stench so strong he can’t remember what clean air is anymore. 

"Okay, is nobody really smelling this? This very very terrible smell?"

A chorus of no’s and not really’s sound out, and Tater is just confused. Snowy however, squints at Tater, and then, as if a light bulb has gone off somewhere, his face slowly lights up with a smile, his dark eyeliner making the overall effect slightly sinister. It’s a smirk-grin-thing that usually means he’s about to land a devastating chirp, though Tater is much too overwhelmed by the smell to care too much right now.

"Gentlemen. Good men of the locker room. Fellow Falconers." Snowy is dragging it out, hamming it up for the big blow. "Tater is smelling things. Fucking smelling things, guys."

A few faces light up too, here and there. Some of them get it, whatever it is. 

"Tonight, our Tater has started fucking smelling. Sniff sniff, Tater. Your soulmate is here."

Oh. 

Whoops erupt throughout the locker room, shouts of "Yeah Tater!”, "Lucky sonovabitch!”, "Go get her!" come directed at him but he’s too busy thinking back to how he was so sensitive throughout the game, his senses heightened and frazzled. Yeah, it all makes sense. 

His soulmate. He has a soulmate. Somewhere out there in the arena today was his soulmate. It’s not just that though; his soulmate would also know that he was in there. It makes him giddy, the thought that he would be able to find someone to spend his life with together. It must show, because the Falcs are chirping him for his idiot grin.

"Hey, lucky for you it’s someone who likes hockey huh? Someone who came to watch a game. Dude, she’s gonna keep coming back now! You’ve got your work cut out for you." Ghost contemplates out loud. 

"Or if Tater’s really lucky, it’s a visiting Aces fan!" Art teases.

"If is Aces fan, I will make into Falcs fan. Turn into number one Falcs fan!" Tater crows, excited about the prospect of finding his soulmate. He just hopes that they won’t pester him too much about bringing his inevitable girlfriend around. That being because he won’t have a girlfriend. 

His smile dims somewhat at the realization, that he’ll still have to hide, and it could actually get much harder now, but he’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it. Right now, he hasn’t even met the man of his dreams yet. One thing at a time.

The door opens, and Zimmboni enters, without Thirdy and Marty. They must have let him off the press early. Tater catches a whiff of that chocolate-and-grass smell again, thick and contradictory, yet strangely filling up all the right spaces in Tater to make him want to swoon. That or the stench. Someone, many someones, yell at Zimmboni excitedly, telling him about Tater’s soulmate news. He pauses to take it in, and directs a tired smile at Tater’s way, not making eye contact, and quickly ducks over to his own stall to change. He must be more affected by Parson’s presence on ice than everyone thought.

A few loud voices, almost shouting, carry in from outside the door, and then Thirdy and Marty come in, grumbling about Parson lurking about outside their locker room. They, too, get assaulted with excited Falconers updating their Alternates about “Tater Tot’s soulmate”, and end up coming over to give a few slaps on Tater’s back congratulating him.

"Maybe it’s one of the Aces fans, eh?" Marty repeats Art’s comment, and is greeted by Thirdy’s raucous laughter while Tater rolls his eyes.

"Why, you all want me to love the enemy, is it?"

—X—

It’s back. It’s back and Kent does not know how to deal with it. The smell. The ice is sharper, colder. The metallic tang of skates and the rubbery puck stains on the boards, the lingering stench of sweat. Every single scent is heightened in his nose, sensitized once more. 

The Soulmate Smell, people liked to call it. Scientifically, it was just pheromones, compatible people heightening each other’s sense of smell, to suss each other out like bloodhounds sniffing down their target. Not that scientific explanations would stop cultures from continuing with the soulmate concept that has been around since time immemorial. Besides, Soulmate Smell was much more romantic (and a goldmine for puns) than the sterile sounding Pheromatic Hyperosmia.

It’s been years, eight long years since he felt it. The last time was when he found Jack on the bathroom floor in Chicago, in a pool of his own vomit, and the sensory assault had been so overwhelming that he had immediately thrown up himself before running out to call Bob. He never saw Jack again until Samwell, and even then and after, it was gone. The smell was gone.

Now he’s in Providence at warm-ups before their game and it’s back and Kent can’t deal with this again. So many years of wanting, outright begging Jack to let him in, to come back, to be together again. 

Even when he knew it never felt right anymore. 

They’ve lost their noses, couldn’t sense each other anymore. Not even when they were crowded up against Jack’s door that night last year, when Kent held him so close and still couldn’t make out the old smell that was Jack. It was all different then, cinnamon and maple and so cloyingly sweet, when before it had always been poppy and leather. 

It never felt right, so Kent always left to lick his wounds, and cry over the ones he pried open in Jack, guilt eating at him for hurting Jack because of his own hurt over Jack’s rejection. He tried so many times to apologize but Jack just kept pushing him away, and it hurt so he ended up lashing right back at Jack. It always culminates with Kent just racking up more things to apologize for. 

Now, his nose has opened up once more, and his world has some hope again. Jack is back. Jack is ready for Kent, ready to be in each others’ arms again. But the universe is fucking unfair, because Jack is the Falconers’ new star player and no way in hell are they going to trade him away to the Aces. By the looks of how well he’s interacting with the team, actually interacting and being friendly with them rather than just Spock Captaining, Jack’s not going to be willing to leave either. 

No matter. They can talk this out after the game. After all, if Zimms is smelling him too, then maybe he’ll finally reconsider. Maybe he’ll stop pushing Kent away. Maybe all those rejections will fade away in the face of this old flame rekindled. They’ve got their spark back. 

It’s got to mean something. It’s gotta.

So Kent plays the game like he always does. No, more desperately. More recklessly. Like he has something to prove to Zimms. Look at me, look at what we were, what we could become again. 

The moves they throw out are as familiar as ever, just like back then when they were practicing against each other in the Q, the Captain and Alternate coming in early and packing up late to sharpen their skills on each other. Kent can see the tells, when Zimms is about to fake and swerve, when he’s about to gun a sprint, when he’s gearing to slap. He sees them all before they happen, and he’s there to head them off.

Except he doesn’t see as far as he used to. It used to be two moves down, three moves ahead, and he could skate around Zimms asleep, the motions ingrained into him. But now, Zimms has become more nimble, more reflexive. There’s less hesitation. He’s more sure of himself, and of Kent. They spent six years apart and Zimms can still read Kent like an open book, pre-empting his interceptions and zooming away more often than not, while pulling out new tricks and making more than taking his share of surprises. Six years, and Zimms has changed while Kent has stayed in place, waiting.

Kent isn’t one to take this revelation sitting on his haunches. Zimms wins a faceoff late in the third period and gets handed back the puck, but Kent is already on in, landing square in front of Zimms to cut off his line. Kent flicks his gaze up, searching for those icy blue eyes that he’s missed so much, but they’re already gone, slipped by him and run around to serve up a heavy slapper. Zimms lands it in topshelf, and it ties up their game, ties up Kent’s heart.

There had been no reaction, no acknowledgement that Kent had even been there. Zimms just stepped right around him like it was nothing, like Kent was nothing. How is Zimms acting like he doesn’t smell Kent at all? Like there’s nothing between them except as opponents across a puck? How is he so fucking calm?

Well, we’ll just have to show the world just where you learned that breakaway from, won’t we? 

Kent is nothing if not impulsive, and so when he’s up for the faceoff, he runs the same play. He wins the puck and takes it back up the right wing, squeezing past the two large D-men and flying fast. Faster than he should, but he just keeps picking up speed, keeps going until he’s too close. He rushes into the goalie on a hard swerve, slipping the puck under and in.

Then, it’s a crash, and another, and another, and it’s a pileup around him. But Kent hears the goal horn and knows he’s got it in.

There’s bodies above him and around him, yells threatening to turn into fights, and Kent couldn’t care less. Zimms is in the pile somewhere. He could just reach out and pound some sense into Zimms. To get Zimms to just acknowledge him, see him there, see that they could be something again.

Instead, he feels a hand grab his jersey and yank him out of the mass of bodies. He’s hauled up by the scruff of his neck to the sound of a large Russian roaring at him. He’s not entirely sure of what it is that’s being directed at him; there’s some English in there, he’s sure of it, but at the moment, he’s overwhelmed by the smell again. 

This time, there’s also a dense lavender and fresh sea salt, and Kent wonders when Zimms started smelling so different. Kent is pulled away from the thought, though, by the flex of the strong arm that is holding him up and the deep growl that is coming from the D-man, which is really sexy and turning him on and —

Wait. What?

Someone comes to talk the D-man down, and Kent is let go. Mashkov, it’s Mashkov. Mashkov who is tall and broad and strong and what is wrong with you, Kent?

The refs call the goal just then, and Kent smirks, knowing that he’s just pulled the Aces back up to 3-2 with seconds left to spare on the clock, effectively winning them the game. 

He still needs to talk to Zimms. He’s got press to do but damn if he’s gonna be held down for a second longer. Skating off the ice with his team, he pulls Swoops to linger with him, to try and get Swoops to cover press for him. All he gets is a very angry alternate captain.

"What the fuck was that, Parse? What the fuck were you thinking?" Swoops hisses. Kent has the decency to look sheepish. For about half a second.

"I got us a goal and won the game. Did what I had to do."

"The fuck you ‘had to’, we could have gone into OT and won without that fucking dangerous play." Kent gets a punch in the shoulder, and it’s not a friendly punch either. Ouch. Motherfucker actually hit him hard.

"I… Listen Swoops I gotta skip outta press, ok? I gotta go talk to Zimms." Kent rubs his shoulder where it’s sore, going for the kicked puppy look. It doesn’t work.

"Like he’d come anywhere near you after that stunt you pulled." 

"I know, ok!" Kent snaps. He doesn’t want to be this way, to be needy and moody and strung like a maniac but it’s the damn smell aright? 

"Sorry, I just… I smelled him again, Swoops." Kent’s voice is small now, begging, desperate. "The smell, it’s back. Me and Zimms…" Kent trails off, looking away at the floor, unable to hold Swoops’ gaze. He doesn’t want to be seen like this. Aching. Lonely. 

"That’s… fuck. Alright, go you idiot. I’ll cover for you. But you owe me."

Kent dashes into the locker room and strips like he's got a fire under his feet. He ignores everyone and just does a mad dash out of the room, not bothering to address the coaches, trusting Swoops to have his back. Thank God for Swoops. Kent doesn’t know how he could have made it this far if it weren't for him. 

It was an accident, really, how Kent came out to Swoops. After those first few years apart from Zimms, full of exhilarating and meteoric wins but crushing loneliness without him, Kent visited him at that college, rationalizing that the years of waiting was enough. It should be enough for Zimms to gather himself together, to show his worth on a hockey team again, to be able to jump back into the NHL draft. Maybe he’d even get picked up by the Aces and they'd be the unstoppable Parson-Zimmermann duo again. They'd be together again. 

But it wasn’t like that at all. All Zimms was able to be was bitter and jealous and he pushed Kent away. Literally shoved Kent. Said that Kent didn't get it, couldn't understand how bad it would be for him to leave college, to go back under the grueling scrutiny of the media so soon. How bad it would be for him to be with Kent. 

That last part was mumbled, but Kent heard it crystal clear. 

The worst part was, Zimms didn't have his scent anymore, then. It was a loud void, that absence. Kent had stepped up close, so close that Zimms shoved him away in a panic to avoid suspicion and wandering eyes, and Kent still couldn't smell him. It was devastating, but Kent was stubborn, and kept pushing, kept hoping for something from Zimms. He got the truth, the painful truth, that Zimms didn't feel for him anymore. 

He'd driven back to the hotel crying, managing to evade notice all the away to his room. Except — he had a roommate. Shit. 

Swoops was a light sleeper too, and woke up to a disheveled Kent with tear streaks down his cheeks. Swoops had asked are you OK man? You look like Kit died, and something in that voice, full of genuine concern Kent had been yearning for, for so long only to be rejected an hour earlier, made him break. 

He poured his heart out in Swoops' arms, telling him about Zimms and the draft and the disastrous visit. He didn't expect a comforting embrace lasting for minutes without end, and certainly not Swoops coming out to him too. Swoops also promised to have Kent's back, no matter what, and he’s lived up to his promise ever since. 

They’ve become go-to hang out buddies, bonding over pistachio ice cream and pineapple pizza while spilling their guts on their Gay Problems. Actually, it’s mostly just been Kent complaining, because Swoops has been in the most disgustingly sweet relationship with his army boyfriend even since the played together in their high school hockey team. They even stayed together through the same college, taking business finance and Navy ROTC. Kent is maybe a little jealous. 

Kent and Swoops built such good chemistry off-ice that they've moved together better on the ice too, playing on the same line and getting dubbed the new Parson duo to replace the old one. That dub hurt a little, but honestly, Kent is relieved that he still has it within him to build such a strong bond with another player, and one without the soulmate baggage to complicate matters. When they became Captain and Alternate, the media circuit couldn't stop with the parallels, especially after they brought the Aces to another Stanley win. Still, with Swoops by his side, steady and sure as the sun rising every day, Kent found the stability and a sense of security to face it all.

Kent owes Swoops so much, and he'll owe one more for tonight. He sprints down the corridors, trying to get to the Falconers' press room in time to intercept Zimms. He's lucky Ghost was traded here and gave him a tour a few years ago, that he knows approximately how to find his way in this labyrinth. He probably needs to text Ghost an apology for being a prick on the ice today, though. 

He rounds a corner and there they are: Zimms and the two other Falconer Alternates making their way towards the press room, almost at the threshold. He shouts, "Zimms!" as he runs down to them, startling the entourage. 

A woman accompanying them, probably management, steps forward and crosses her arms, managing to look the most intimidating of the group, in front of three bulky hockey players. She glares at him and gestures for them to continue moving, but Kent shouts again, "Zimms! Wait up! I want to talk." 

This earns him a glare from all of them, and the woman holds her hand palm-out, in such a stern gesture that Kent halts despite himself. 

"What are you doing here? You should be with your team. Please go back." 

It's a Captain Voice, and Kent manages to remember that he's a captain himself so he doesn't need to be intimidated by this. Doesn't mean he isn’t, though. 

"I'm here to talk to Zimms," Kent says to her, and then turning towards Zimms, he adds, "to apologize." 

Kent sees Zimms clench his fists and loosen them, again, and then again. He's trying to stay calm.

"You're not going to apologize to the rest of us?" St. Martin asks pointedly. Robinson just frowns at Kent. 

"You can talk after press," the woman says with an air of finality, her authority giving permission to the men to start making their way into the room again. 

Zimms hesitates, and both the Alternates clap Zimms on the back as they walk in. 

Finally he speaks up, "Hey George, can I skip press today? I'm not feeling good about it." 

George cocks an eyebrow and looks at him. Interestingly, Zimms doesn't shy away from the eye contact, and holds it through the lengthy pause, up till her hesitant approval. "Sure, take it easy for the night.” 

Zimms gives her a wan smile which she returns more kindly, and she turns to glare at Kent one last time before heading in to handle the press. 

Suddenly, it's just the two of them, Kent and Zimms, and Kent doesn't know what to say. He's acutely reminded of the last few times they were alone together, and none of those ended well. So he just gapes at Zimms, opening and closing his mouth but unable to form words. 

"You wanted to apologize." Zimms starts after a few moments of unbearable silence.

"Right yeah, that. Uh… I didn't mean to rush your goalie, I just… wanted your attention. Sorry for that." Kent actually does feel sorry, now that he’s facing Zimms and on the receiving end of a look of abject disapproval.

"That's not a good reason at all. And you should be apologizing to him, not me. What do you mean by 'want my attention' anyway."

"I mean... I… you don’t feel it? Didn't you feel anything out there between us?" Kent waves a hand between their chests. 

"What's there to feel, Kenny?" There's tiredness in Zimms' voice. A leaden weight of all their past arguments, fights, blame and misery. It's not what Kent was expecting. He was expecting happiness, perhaps relief, maybe even hesitation, something other than pain. 

"Don't hide away from me like this. You don’t smell it?"

"Smell what Kenny?"

And then it hits Kent that he hasn't smelled anything at all after leaving the ice. His nose has dulled, which means that he's been further apart from his soulmate all this while. But that doesn't make sense. His soulmate is standing right in front of him. He has to be able to smell Zimms. He has to. 

Kent reaches out for the lapels of Zimms’ suit, grabbing fistfuls of fabric and pulling them close together, putting his nose right up to Zimms neck, inhaling in deep, trying to get his scent, any scent. 

It's faint, and different. Not the poppy and leather that's he's familiar with. It's cinnamon and maple, just a little wisp, lingering and almost gone, just like the time at that party in the frat house. It doesn't overwhelm him, doesn't flood into Kent's nose and drown him out. He has to work to tease them out, like the smell is hiding from him. 

This is completely wrong. 

Zimms grabs Kent's wrists hard and flings them away. He looks scared, but also angry. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he whisper-shouts. "Anyone could walk out that door and see us. We're done here." 

He turns and strides away, trying to put distance between them. 

Kent feels like his world is being pulled out under his feet. This can’t be happening. 

He runs after Zimms and grabs Zimms' arm, only to be shrugged off. 

"Go back to your team Kenny." 

Zimms doesn't even look back, just continues to walk away. 

Kent is getting desperate. "But I smelled it! Out there on the ice! The feeling was back. Maybe we just had to be on the ice. Maybe the adrenaline from the game kickstarted the nose. We can try again, walk out to the rink and see. Come on Zimms, give me something.”

"Kenny, I didn't smell anything." 

"Don't lie to me!" Kent snaps. 

"I'm not! I... " Zimms runs a hand through his hair and takes a few deep breaths, each one calming him down, but only pushing Kent nearer to the edge. 

"I'm seeing someone else, ok? I've found another soulmate.” 

Kent feels as if his chest is being ripped open, by Zimms’ soft, apologetic voice. 

“He’s... He's good for me. I'm sorry Kenny. It's not me. But it seems like there's someone else out there for you too, who could be much better for you than I ever was. Let me go, Kenny. Please. Let me go." 

Zimms sounds like he had been put in a cage by Kent and has just found freedom, and damn if it doesn't make Kent feel guilty. He doesn't want to hurt Zimms, but that's all he ever does, isn’t it? 

"Okay." Kent can only meekly answer. His soulmate isn't Zimms, is someone else, and that knowledge hurts. "Ok Zimms. I'm sorry, I... " He can't complete the sentence, doesn't know how. 

Zimms just nods, turns around and pushes open doors into what appears to be the Falconers’ locker room. He steps inside without a word, without so much as a backwards glance. Like he's been emancipated to be his own man without Kent once and for all. 

Kent would be more heartbroken if it weren't for the sensory overload that hit him the moment the doors opened. 

There it is again, the lavender-and-sea-salt smell, rushing out above the sweaty stench typical of locker rooms, sending jolts down his nerves under his skin. It's a Falconer, Kent manages to keep enough of his wits to realize. It's another Falconer.

Kent doesn't know if he should laugh or cry. Fate has been cruel to him, sending him soulmates first in a teammate, then an opponent, both in one of the most scrutinized, most homophobic sports in the world. He finally gets a second chance, not that he even wanted the trauma that burned away the first love of his life, but he gets a second chance and it's even less of a possibility to work out. 

He doesn't realize how long he's been rooted to the spot, dejected and heartbroken, until the other Falconer Alternates return from press and yell at him to scram. Only then does he make his retreat, slinking away longing for both soulmates he couldn't have — can’t have. 

As the doors open and the two men step inside, Kent gets a whiff of the smell again, lavender and sea salt, and it smells like despair.

—O—

Tater has had a disappointing few months. Sure, he’s blazed through each game on the ice, playing beyond all expectations with the Falcs. They say it’s not what you do, it’s who you do it with, and Tater is sure he’s misapplying that aphorism, but playing on Zimmboni’s line with Fizzy, Marty and Thirdy is doing his stats some magic he would never have thought possible during his time at the AHL. 

So no, it's not the hockey. It's that he's not had a whiff of his soulmate since the Aces game. If he's honest with himself, he's somewhat glad for the disappearing act, because that way he can truthfully tell the guys that he's not found his soulmate yet when they ask, and he won't risk outing himself. 

Still, it makes him somewhat miffed that his soulmate might actually turn out to be an Aces fan. It’s Just his luck that his soul mate roots for another team. It just makes it harder for Tater to find the guy. 

When they hit the ice for warmups in the Aces arena in Las Vegas, though, he catches the unmistakable chocolate-and-grass scent, and a suspicion rears its little head. What if it's one of the Aces? It could be an Aces fan, but that would mean he flew out to Providence for the game that one time, or flew out here to Vegas while living out on the East Coast. Or some other even less plausible arrangement. 

But, if it was one of the Aces, it would narrow the pool down significantly. Plus, Ghost had been traded over from the Aces a few years back, he'd be able to introduce Tater to some of them. Maybe during the awards, under the pretense of being nice. He'd have to be careful not to out himself or his soulmate, but having each other in the sport together is somewhat comforting. Tater would finally have someone to confide in and share the burdens of being gay, selfish as it may be. The thought that he would get to do the same for his soulmate at the very least lessens his guilt.

Fueled by his little fantasy and heightened senses, Tater pulls off what must be the best defense the Falcs have played. Though he's certain it's also got as much to do with the Aces being under the weather tonight. Both Parson and Troy are distracted, the latter especially looking like a dead rat the cat dragged in. Their passes are so sloppy even Zimmboni looks worried, and Troy ends up being benched a lot in the last period. 

It’s odd, but Tater pushes it to the back of his mind, focusing on the game, and using the sensory boost to his advantage. He keeps the small hope burning, however, eyeing the Aces during the game and trying to sense if any of them are reacting to the soulmate stimulus.

Later that night, as the Falcs step into a club to celebrate their win, Tater's suspicion only grows, because despite the sweaty smell emanating from the mass of bodies, or maybe because of it, he feels it, that tingling feeling which has become familiar now. My soulmate is here. And since they're in the high-end VIP-namelist-only club, either his soulmate is a celebrity, or it's becoming more likely that it's one of the Aces.

He's getting excited, riding off the high of the win and the heightened senses, all too eager to dive into the club to find his soulmate. As they crowd into a group of tables and send off delegates (rookies) to the bar to get drinks, Tater scans the mass of bodies, hoping to spot where the Aces are. It doesn't take long. His eyes locks onto a shock of light blond hair, shining blue from the lights across the dance-floor, its owner staring straight back at him. 

Parson. 

Not the face Tater was most looking forward to. Well, at least he now knows for sure that the Aces are in the building. He makes excuses about being impatient and wanting to run off to the bar for drinks, then corrals Ghost into going with him, and dives off into crowd. 

The plan doesn’t work, and despite taking two long detours of "accidentally" getting lost in the crowd and separating from Ghost, he finds no hide nor tail of any of the Aces. If it isn't for the lingering sensitivity of his nose, he'd have thought that they’d all run off after finding that the Falcs had arrived at the club. 

As it is, he's still hoping to at least run into someone from the Aces, to maximize his opportunity to find his soulmate before he has to leave and risk not meeting any Aces until next season. Ghost has long since abandoned Tater to party with the Falcs, leaving him to one last round around the club before throwing in the towel. 

He's just about given up, tired and defeated, when the smell cuts through the sweat, hints of grass and followed by chocolate, and Tater feels a surge of energy swell up within him. He's close. 

Suddenly, hands slink up Tater’s chest to hang around his neck, and he looks down to see a very drunk Ace grinning up at him, body pressed up close —too close— clinging onto him. 

"Troy?"

"Mashkov! Mashkov, you could do.” Tater could smell the alcohol emanating from Troy's breath as the smaller man mouths up from under his chin. 

"I do like a big strong man who can take care of me." Troy slurs out as he noses into Tater's neck and inhaling deeply. 

"What are you doing?" Tater asks, scared. Why is Troy acting like this? If anyone catches them in this compromising position, they'll be done for. The media will eviscerate their careers, pry into any and all of their past and future interactions for any "homosexual signs" and use it as a club to batter their worth into nothing more than “The Gay Problem”. 

Before Tater has any time to react, however, Troy has detached himself from Tater and turned to grab a nearby stranger and repeat the process of plastering himself up close to nose into their neck. 

After the second person Troy has moved past, Tater gathers his wits together and reaches out to grab Troy by the shoulder, turning him around to prevent him from latching onto somebody else. Troy grins back up at Tater again, "Come back for me? I knew you'd take care of me!" Troy clambers onto Tater, wrapping his legs around Tater's waist and clinging on like a koala, nuzzling into the hair on side of Tater's head. 

"Troy, let's go get a drink, OK?" Tater tries to instruct Troy, while beginning to move towards the bar, figuring that leading him away from the crowd will at least stop him from committing any more incriminating actions. 

"Swoops! Fucking hell what have you been fucking doing?" a voice shouts from beside Tater, and Parson squeezes through the press of bodies, panic clear in his eyes. 

"Parson! Troy is very drunk, has been hugging close to boys. Is bad, need to get him away before people take pictures." Tater is slightly relieved to see Parson. He wouldn’t have imagined this scenario before, relief for Parson’s presence, but right now it’s a ray of hope for Tater to fix the situation and he’s not going to turn Parson away for being a rat on the ice. 

"I know! Shit I saw a picture blow up on fucking Instagram already. Goddammit Swoops I fucking leave you for one second — argh!" Parson runs his hand rough through his hair, nearly pulling it out. 

"Okay Swoops, let's get you home. Come on, get off." Parson pulls on Troy's arms, trying to pry him off Tater, but he only latches on tighter, squeezing with his arms and thighs.

"No! No, I have a man-kov now! I want him." Troy starts to kiss and nibble on Tater's ear, which sends Tater into a panic too. This is definitely not an image he wants to be captured and put out to the world. 

"Just carry him out back, I've called an Uber." Parson says, and heads for the exit. Tater only dumbly follows, hoping that nobody snaps a shot of them. 

Once safely outside in the back alley, Parson tries to coax Troy off Tater again, who has started to suck hard on Tater's neck, full-on making out and leaving dark bruises. 

"Come on Swoops, don't mess with Mashkov like this. You can, like, make out with me. I won't mind. Swoops, bro…”

Troy's grinding on Tater, making them both half hard, and as much as the situation is making Tater slightly uncomfortable, he's also aware of the strong chocolate-and-grass smell that has followed them out. He was too panicked to notice during the whole process of trying to evade eyewitnesses and escape, but now that they're outside and have a second to breathe, Tater is acutely feeling his senses going into overdrive. 

"I'm sorry he's doing this to you dude, um... I know it's uncomfortable for you and you might get into trouble too." Parson apologizes, not able to make eye contact with Tater. Tater hesitates, not knowing whether it's worth the risk to come out to Parson, that he could be Troy's soulmate. 

I could be Troy's soulmate. 

The full force of that realization hits him just as he forms that thought, and he staggers a bit. Luckily for him, Troy licks his jaw at the same time, and it comes off as if Tater being shocked by the action, so that he can put off giving a reply as he accidentally drops Troy.

"Shit, I'm so sorry. Swoops you gotta stop this! Come on get off Mashkov — hey our ride’s here! Let's go back and you can play with Kit, okay?”

Their saving grace in the form of an Uber arrives at that moment, and Parson manages to get Troy latched onto him instead of Tater. He successfully maneuvers them both into the car without dragging Tater in with them. 

Without so much as a thanks, the door slams shut and the Uber drives off, leaving Tater alone in the alley, chasing the taillights with his eyes, and for the first time, with his heart.

—X—

Kent gets a call from Swoops some time past ten in the morning and is greeted with violent sobs. "He fucking broke up with me, Parse. He wrote me a fucking ‘Dear Jeff’ letter and fucking mailed it, army mail and shit. Said the distance wasn't working. Said he's found someone else. Found someone else and fucking him and I can't. Parse, I can't do this.”

So Kent spends the whole morning and a lot of the afternoon trying to get Swoops to settle down, because they have a game against Providence tonight, and Swoops is a blubbering mess. He's inconsolable, crying into Kent's shirt for a full hour and later managing to eat only half a protein bar before having to be driven to the arena. 

Swoops is distracted during strategy, and Kent tries to cover for him, but it's almost impossible to stretch "personal stuff" to this level of emotional devastation without revealing any details. Worse, they can't say that he got broken up with when he hadn't ever revealed he was in a relationship in the first place, much less with another man. 

It looks shifty, and no one buys it, but with both the Alternate and Captain not willing to spill, the team lets it slide, and management holds their tongue for the moment. Kent only hopes they can repeat their win against Providence, to get the heat off his and Swoops' backs. 

The effort turns out to be even harder than expected. Swoops keeps losing pucks left and right, missing connections and fumbling passes. It gets so bad that, by the last period, Swoops ends up benched more often than not, taking a stern warning about getting his shit together. 

Kent stays busy trying to make up for the lost plays and morale, but it's exhausting and putting up a positive face for the team feels hollow when he's lying through his teeth for Swoops trying to defend him. 

Worse still is the soulmate problem, giving Kent a smell overload and making him equal parts dizzy and energized. It's hard enough for him to focus on the puck when he’s worked up from dealing with Swoops, and now his stress is compounded by the strong manly bodies of the opposing team getting him turned on from the adrenaline and testosterone. It's all the worst stereotypes manifesting in him, the horny gay in a sport unable to keep his thoughts off dicks, and it's driving him insane trying to keep himself and Swoops focused. 

They lose miserably, and the subsequent stumble through press will definitely bring Kent hell from PR tomorrow. But Kent has been feeling like shit and Swoops could use a pick-me-up, so Kent convinces him to head out to their usual club to drink their misery away. The other Aces would probably head home to lick their wounds, and if any of them see their Captain and Alternate drowning their sorrows, well, misery loves company and they can all have a pity party together. 

Kent's never the more responsible of the pair of leaders, that's Swoops' department, and he's aware on some level that this is a bad idea, but right now his impulse control is in the form of a heartbroken, guilt-ridden zombie on the verge of tears again, so he's got no one stopping him from taking them both out.

They make it to the club and start out with shots of tequila, because Kent has no self-respect and is looking to get alcohol into his system as fast as possible. Swoops goes hard, harder than Kent has ever seen him, but Kent lets him wreck himself, reasoning that he needs it to cope with all that's happened today. 

They start moving into the dance floor when the tingling in Kent's nose starts up again. No. His mind responds immediately. Why here? Why now? He looks towards the entrance, and sees surprisingly, a smiling Zimms bringing up the rear of a group of Falconers, chatting amiably with Ghost, the rest of the Falconers already making their way to the booths on the right.

Kent tries to push it out of his mind, to let the booming music take over, to dance with a girl, any girl, and quash his itch to walk right over and sniff out his soulmate. But a girl is only a girl, and not what Kent wants at all. He's Kinsey Six through and through, and he never enjoys himself as much as he wants to when going out because he has to hide, dancing with girls and puck bunnies that he only flirts with halfheartedly, never bringing anyone home. 

He finds his eyes straying to the Falconers' table, the lavender-and-sea salt smell a constant undercurrent within the perfume and sweat all around him. Once, he locks eyes with Mashkov, and feels something surge up within him, an urge to go over and press his body all up against the tall Russian’s. 

It's the soulmate smell making me crazy.

Fuck it, he decides. He'll go over, get Ghost to grease the wheels between him and the Falconers, maybe congratulate them on their win or something. At least they'll be more receptive to him, them coming fresh from a victory. He knows it'll be one of the rookies, since this is the first season that playing against Providence elicited the effect on him, so that narrows it down to only a few people. Maybe if he flirts hard enough and turns his gaydar up, he'll be lucky enough to suss out who it is tonight. His soulmate has gotta have figured it out too, right? He’s gotta be trying to find him too. 

Kent checks on Swoops, makes sure he's upright and having a good time, and reminds him to "behave while I'm gone, I'm gonna go say hi to someone for a bit." Then he weaves his way towards the Falconers, and prepares for the jump. 

Except he doesn't manage to make the leap, because right as he arrives in front of the Falconers, Zimms and another two rookies appear at his side, all with trays full of drinks. 

"What are you doing here?” Zimms asks Kent in a tone frosted with icicles, hands gripping the tray so tight the drinks are shaking and Kent is afraid that they'll spill. Luckily, someone from the table —Kent doesn’t notice who— plucks the tray away from Zimms' hands, which only frees them up to cross over his chest. 

"I... " Get it together Kent,” I wanted to congratulate you guys on your win, you know? Say hi to Ghost, haven't had a chance to catch up with him in a while.” Good save. Stick to the plan. 

Except Kent is just staring at Zimms, unable to tear himself away from the icy glare. The withering look bores into him, and he belatedly remembers his promise to leave Jack alone. Well tough luck, he reasons, I've got a soulmate to find, and it's not you, goddamn why isn't it you? He's starting to feel bitter about it again, and the urge to lash out and blame Zimms, anyone really, has to be tamped down. Kent clenches his fists to his sides, holding it in.

Zimms, for his part, takes Kent's excuse with a pillar of salt and crams himself into the booth, garnering a table of wide eyes and significant looks at them both. The goalie picks his bone with Kent by chirping out "Must be fucking nice to be an Ace, you guys go out celebrating losses too.”

Kent visibly winces at that jab. Usually he'd be more collected and quicker with a comeback, but as it is, he's 3 tequila shots, 2 mixed vodkas and a miserable day in, and has no energy to keep up his usual cool front. Plus, he does feel guilty: despite his reputation as a dirty player, he has always been careful not to seriously endanger his opponents. Snow’s the only goalie he has ever rushed. 

Another round of awkward staring ensues, until Ross mentions that Ghost isn't at the table, and left a while ago to get his own drink, to which Zimms appends "so you've got nothing to do with us here" so curtly that even the Falconers felt the cut and several visibly flinched. 

Rationally, Kent knows it's time to bail. Irrationally, he wants to yell at Zimms for being so cold. 

Instead, some Freudian part of him blurts out "we could go over plays together", which is an exceptionally odd phrase for several reasons. He's not on the Falconers, it sounds like an incredibly awkward thing an incredibly socially awkward hockey player would say to another hockey player as a pickup line, and is in fact something Zimms had said to Kent during their first months of dancing around each other's feelings. It had eventually become their go-to phrase for “let’s escape the crowd and go somewhere alone to make out”. Given Zimms' Hockey Robot Captain reputation, nobody ever doubted that they did anything other than actually go over hockey plays. 

But, yeah. Kent’s just used their old "let's go make out" code in front of Zimms' new team, when what he wants is just to get them away to ease up the tension for the poor Falconers. All they wanted was to have some fun and Kent singlehandedly ruined their night. 

Zimms’ frown deepens, and, by some wizardry, performs a stunning doublespeak. “I told you not to bother anymore.” It’s a brilliant rejection, and Kent wonders how he learned to hide meanings in words like this.

“I was thinking maybe someone else on the team, Zimms.” Please get the hint, please get the hint, please get the hint. If Kent is reading this right, and Zimms really has learned to read between the lines, and that they’re talking about what he thinks they’re talking about, then he really hopes that Zimms will allow him the grace to find his soulmate among the Falconers.

When Zimms’ eyes go wide, and looks around the booth, searching for someone. Kent is… relieved? He knows. He feels lighter, unburdened by the weight of overstepping in Zimms’ direction and crossing personal boundaries again. He had always failed to honor Zimms’ requests to stay away, but now that Zimms knows that Kent is hanging around for someone else, maybe they can heal the rift between them.

“Where’s Tater?” Zimms asks, and it’s not subtle at all. An alarm rings in Kent’s head. Does Zimms know who my soulmate is? This “Tater” person? Worse still, the Falconers have been paying very close attention to the entire conversation, and now they’re going to know something is up between Zimms, Kent and whoever this Tater is supposed to be.

“Uhh… he was the one who dragged Ghost off to the bar,” St. Martin provides. “And speak of the devil…” he adds, when Ghost materializes from the crowd, no drink in hand. 

“Parser! Hey! How you doing dude? Didja miss me too much? Kinda struggled out there today without me.” Ghost slaps Kent’s back, chirping him but hitting a little too close to home. Kent smiles through it anyway, glad to have a familiar friendly face with him.

“Where’s Tater?” Zimms cuts in, having lost all sense of the subtlety he managed to conjure for that one miraculous moment. 

“Dunno.” Ghost shrugs, raising his shoulders then flopping them down exaggeratedly. “Kept losing him in the crowd, which was kinda weird. I just gave up and came back. Figured he can go get his drink on his own.”

Ghost picks up a drink from the table, not caring whose it is, and offers it to Kent. “Here, dude! Come knock back a few drinks with us.” Either he’s oblivious to the tense mood at the booth, or trying really hard to lighten it up. “Are the other Aces around? Man I miss the guys, gotta go see Lenin or he’ll cry if he finds out I was here and he didn’t get see me, that big baby. You know what, Insta-selfie time. And I’ll go get some pics with the rest too!”

Ghost barrels on, pulling out his phone and opening the app. The first picture they see, however, knocks out his and Kent’s breaths, leaving them slack-jawed. It’s a picture of Swoops kissing up on some random guy’s neck, head tucked under the crook of his chin, bodies pressed up so close together that it’s evident that they’re making out. The caption reads “someone’s single and ready to mingle!” with several martini and kiss emojis, and it’s already at over 10k likes despite being posted only 13 minutes ago. 

Kent gives Ghost a single look of pure fear, and dashes off into the crowd in search of Swoops. 

Fuck! There’s no way to hide this. It’s all my fault for dragging him out here and leaving him alone. Now he’s done something stupid and it’s all my fault shit shit shit —

He barges his way through the throng of bodies on the dance-floor, elbowing people left and right with what is almost a sense of contempt for them. Damn people, he needs them to just disappear so that he can find Swoops and get them out of the damn place. 

Kent is frantically combing across the dance-floor, hoping Swoops hasn’t strayed far from the spot he was at when Kent left him. The sweat and heat emanating from the people coupled with the booming music and flashing lights do nothing to help Kent keep his wits about him, and to top it all off, the lavender-and-sea salt smell decides to hit him again in another wave that just throws his head into a throbbing migraine. 

Kent manages to hear through the din "Troy, let's go get a drink, OK?” from a familiar voice. 

It’s Mashkov. Swoops is with Mashkov. Kent’s gaze darts across the mob, quickly locating the tall Russian by his towering stature. He squeezes through the crowd towards them, and is greeted by the sight of Swoops clinging onto Mashkov like a fucking koala and it’s just too much. "Swoops! Fucking hell what have you been fucking doing?”

Mashkov swivels his head to see Kent and looks relieved, like he’s been stranded in a desert for days and Kent was water in an oasis. “Parson! Troy is very drunk, has been hugging close to boys. Is bad, need to get him away before people take pictures.”

"I know!” Kent bursts out. He said boys, as in plural. Shit. “I saw a picture blow up on fucking Instagram already. Goddammit Swoops I fucking leave you for one second - argh!” Kent is glad that Mashkov understands the gravity of the situation, but there’s still the problem that pictures have already been taken. Who knows how many pictures are out there.

He runs his hand through his hair, pulling slightly on it to put sensation onto his skin away from inside his throbbing skull. It helps somewhat, and Kent tries talking Swoops down again, but he’s being difficult and starts to fucking eat Mashkov’s neck and the Russian is panicking. Kent needs to get control of the situation right now. He calls an Uber on his phone, and tells Mashkov to head out back. If Swoops wants to hang onto Mashkov, at least it’ll be easy to move him out of the club.

They make it out, and Swoops is actually dry humping on Mashkov now. What. The. Actual. Fuck. Swoops is definitely not taking this breakup well, if this is the level of rebound sex he’s going for. He’d give himself to Swoops if it’d make Swoops feel better, at least he’d be close friend who’s also gay, and not a random person that got within clinging distance in a club. "Come on Swoops, don't mess with Mashkov like this. You can, like, make out with me. I won't mind. Swoops, bro…” 

Kent tries pulling Swoops down, but is suddenly struck with the smell again. Lavender, sea salt, Mashkov. Kent freezes for a second, but composes himself and it goes unnoticed. It’s him. Tater is Mashkov. Mashkov is his soulmate. And Swoops is kissing hickeys onto his soulmate.

Does Mashkov know? He’s got to know, it’s literally just the both of us here. But why hasn’t he said anything? Say something Kent, he’s probably freaking out about Swoops at the very least.

"I'm sorry he's doing this to you dude, um... I know it's uncomfortable for you and you might get into trouble too." He can’t look Mashkov in the eye, doesn’t know how he will react if he makes eye contact again. Kent recalls the feeling when he first saw Mashkov from across the dance floor and wanted to kiss him already, when he got turned on even when being threatened with bodily harm in Providence. Everything makes so much sense now.

However, Swoops will not stop and hits a good spot on Mashkov that makes him weak in the knees, almost dropping Swoops. Kent manages to catch Swoops in time and apologizes again, finally managing to transfer Swoops to his body instead. 

Their Uber arrives just at that moment, so he hurries them both in and gets the driver to step on it away from the club back to his place, without so much as a thanks or goodbye to Mashkov. Just as well, because Kent can’t be trusted not to make a fool of himself.

“Swoops, we’re in deep shit. Different kinds of shit, but really deep shit.”

“Mhhmmm… I really wanted Mashkov… But not really. Was looking for my soulmate. He didn’t smell like it. None of them did…” Swoops slurs with his head in Kent’s lap.

“Yeah… that’s cause Mashkov is my soulmate…” Kent whispers down, trying to speak past the rapidly forming lump in his throat. 

“Oh… I’m sorry for hogging him from you. But he’s so cute, such a big boy like my Nathan. I want my Nathan… Nathan….” Swoops starts crying again, and Kent pats his head, raking a hand through his dark, straight hair.

“I’m the one who should be sorry, Swoops. You’re in for a whole world of pain, and it’s all my fault. I’m so sorry.” They end up crying all the way to Kent’s place, bitter sobs of loss and fear.

—O—

Tater is a nervous mess. Despite the exciting discovery of Troy as his soulmate, and a rather intense night under his hotel sheets with his hands and a head full of eyes brown like chocolate under hair soft like grass, Tater is extremely antsy. Because he’s woken up to 13 different headlines about Troy, and Buzzfeed has pictures of Troy with 7 different men. And counting. Two more had been updated to the article by the time he’s finished breakfast. It's only a matter of time before a picture of him surfaces and his career is shredded into pieces. 

A lot of the Falcs that were in the club last night kept up the speculation all through breakfast and onto the flight back to the East Coast. Tater is having trouble holding himself together, listening to them go on like this. 

"Never took Troy to be that kinda guy. Never showed any signs." 

"I thought he might. Looked too pretty, you know?" 

“Nope. You been checking him out, Poots?" 

"N-no I mean… He’s... I'm —" Poots sputters. 

"But really, Parson took one look at the picture and ran off like he saw a ghost." Marty throws in an escape for Poots, earning groans from everyone and a smack in the arm from Ghost. 

Tater has gathered the events at the booth last night from the conversations, and knows about the standoff between Parson and the Falcs. He didn't return to the group after the alley, went straight back to the hotel after Troy and Parson left, sending a vague text to the Falcs and leaving by himself. They chirped him about finding a puck bunny so quickly that he couldn't even spare some time to drink with them, and with the hickeys Troy gave him, Tater didn't correct them, leaving them to their conclusions and saving himself from explaining anything. 

Tater checks for more articles one last time before having to switch his phone to flight mode. So far, no pictures of him have popped up, and Tater has never felt so close to praying to a deity for protection as he does now. 

"Are you OK, Tater? You look a little green." Zimmboni asks, suddenly appearing in the aisle and startling Tater. 

"Oh, yeah. I'm OK." Tater replies after he composes himself, managing only a weak smile. He knows it's not convincing, he's miles away from his usual exuberant self, but he knows Zimmboni won't bring it up, and he's somewhat grateful for the quiet understanding nature of his Alternate. 

"Alright. You mind if I take the window seat there? I want to catch some shots." Zimmboni gestures to the DSLR around his neck, and Tater gets up to let him in. 

They settle down for takeoff, and Zimmboni quietly takes some shots of the city from the air. He continues to capture the clouds and the airplane wing, occasionally stopping to adjust something. After a while, he scrolls through his pictures, and apparently satisfied with his progress, caps the lens. 

They sit in silence for a while, the unobtrusive presence of Zimmboni creating a sense of calm for Tater. It's not until the seat belt sign switches off does Zimmboni speak up, asking if Tater would like to see the pictures he took. They go through them, Zimmboni showing and explaining his compositions, while Tater marvels at the pictures and lets the lesson in photography aesthetics distract him from his worries. 

At the end of the series, Zimmboni says "If there are any pictures you don't like, you can always tell me, you know that right?" but he's saying it with the most gaze, like he's talking about something more than just his photography. 

Tater swallows. Does he know? He doesn't know how to react, doesn't know whether he can come out right now, to say anything about his impending career implosion. Before he can do anything, however, Zimmboni stands up to leave his seat, and pats Tater on the shoulder on his way out, leaving Tater to himself again, to turn over Zimmboni's offer for the rest of the flight back.

—X—

By the time they arrive at Kent's apartment, Swoops has fallen into an exhausted slumber. Kent ends up paying the Uber driver a hundred dollars to go up with them to open the doors while Kent bridal carries Swoops up to his bed. He had switched off both their phones while in the Uber, but now that Swoops is tucked in and safe, Kent downs a few glasses of water, takes a few deep breaths to prepare himself, and switches on his phone. 

Immediately, the notifications start pouring in, but he doesn't get to check them, because a call from PR comes through right away. Kent answers it on speaker, while switching to his laptop to look at some of the social media notifications and gauge the extent of the damage. 

"Parson! Where is Troy? The guys say you were with him leaving T-Mobile, and have you any idea what kind of fuckery Troy has been up to?" 

It's going to be a long night. 

Kent tells PR about what happened in the club, or at least, that he left for drinks and came back to Swoops already climbing onto random boys. He also mentioned Mashkov, and asked PR to contact Providence to make sure they are aware and can handle the situation on their end too. He doesn't want Mashkov to be dragged into this mess if he can, doesn't want to be responsible for the accidental outing of another person, especially when it's his soulmate. 

He goes through an internal debate about telling PR about Swoops' relationship, seeing as that it's plainly obvious by now that Swoops isn't straight. There's multiple pictures of Swoops with at least 4 different men that Kent can see across Twitter, Instagram and Tumblr. In the end, it's not his story to tell, and Kent only informs PR that Swoops is safe in his apartment, and he'll bring Swoops in first thing in the morning. 

After he hangs up with PR, nearly half an hour later, Kent plants his face in his hands, elbows on the kitchen counter he's sitting at. Management has always been unfriendly towards LGBT topics. Some of the higher-ups were outright hostile and homophobic, and as compassionate as the younger PR people are, they still answer to the official policy handed to them. It's going to be Swoops against the world, and Kent can only hope that he can stand by Swoops and be enough emotional support for his best friend. It's the least he can do after everything that Swoops has done for him. 

Kent gets up and shuffles into his bedroom, scratching Kit a bit as he passes by her bed pillow. He strips off his clothes, changes into his sleep shirt and sweats, and clambers into bed next to Swoops, snuggling into his friend. They've done this on numerous occasions, ending up cuddling together after particularly exhausting or emotional episodes, and it always does them good to have a physical body held close. Tonight, though, Kent guiltily goes to sleep thinking of a different man with brown curls and hazel eyes.

—O—

He resists switching his phone back on until he reaches his apartment, to delay facing the music. Tater is expecting his face to be added to any one of the many articles by now, and is dreading the moment of truth. He procrastinates by unpacking and doing his laundry. Then he takes a shower. And then he fixes up a dinner, but his appetite’s vanished, his stomach feeling full with butterflies, or more like caterpillars worming around. All the dilly-dallying only compounds his anxiety, and after 20 minutes of picking at his dinner, Tater finally switches on his phone.

True to his fears, there’s at least a few headlines about him, with the incriminating shot of Troy hanging off his shoulders with his face prominently shown. Two articles focused on speculating about Tater’s sexuality, but what catches him by surprise is that several more articles have statements from the Falcs’ PR, explaining that Tater just happened to be in the same club with the rest of the Falcs, and got caught up in the affair when trying to help get Troy home. It won’t stop the speculation, but does provide plausible deniability. It also explains the missed calls, voice mail, texts and emails from George, none of which Tater had dared to check before.

He calls George, and she picks up immediately, as if she had been waiting for the call the whole day. “Tater! How are you feeling? Did you have a chance to go through any of my messages yet?”

“I’m… I’m not sure, George. I don’t know. This all… I didn’t…” Tater suddenly finds himself tongue-tied, unable to form a coherent thought or sentence. His mind is all jumbled up. He’s immensely grateful for George, her first concern was how he was coping and he felt cared for, but his ingrained self-censure is holding him back from gushing out that he is gay, that he is scared, that he needs all the support he can get.

“Okay, okay Tater. Relax, I’ll just walk you through things for a bit, alright?”

“Okay.” Tater croaks out, starting to feel lightheaded, but he presses on to hear what George has to say.

“Alright, so we got a call this morning from the Aces, while you guys were in the air. They told us about Troy and your involvement with him during the night. We already saw some of Troy’s pictures, but were not aware it had anything to do with you before the call. After the call, we prepared a statement, and we watched out for pictures that included you. Any that we found, we  immediately reached out to offer a take-down, and if unwilling, provided our statement, and requested no speculation on your person or involvement. That held down the spread and contained a lot of damage. The voice mails and emails were sent to you during this time too, so that you could get the info. You following so far, Tater?”

“… Yes. Yes.”

“Good. So, after your flight arrived, we tried calling and texting you, but you didn’t answer. We decided to wait for you to call, as you have now. Also, Jack called us before the flight and informed us that you guys went to the same club that met the Aces last night. He mentioned the pictures about Troy, but made no specific mention about you. Still, that gave us enough information and was how we were able to create our statement. So far so good?”

Tater is stunned by Zimmboni’s actions. It’s becoming highly suspicious now, and is looking more and more likely that Zimmboni has Tater figured out, though how he had found out is a mystery to Tater. Still, he can’t voice any concerns about this, even though it’s taking up more and more of his attention, and he feels like he can’t hear anything anymore. Light is filling up in his vision, his head is spinning, and George’s voice is muffled in his ears.

“Tater, are you there? Tater? Tater!” George is almost yelling, concern clear in her voice. Tater pulls himself down and folds over, pressing his head to his knees, forces himself to focus on the pressure and on George’s voice.

“Yes, I’m here.” Tater manages after a while. His voice is hoarse and dry, but George hears him and exhales audibly, relieved.

“Are you alright? Is anything wrong?” Tater is so grateful for whatever he’s done to deserve Georgia Martin and her concern.

“I’m…” Tater hesitates again, but shoots for honesty. She deserves it. “I’m not being so good. Is very much happening.”

“Alright, Tater, I’ll let you go rest up. Take it easy for tonight, and I’ll send Jack over to check up on you tomorrow, and have him pick you up so the PR team can talk it over with you to figure out what our best next steps are. Sound good?”

“Yes, yes very good. Thank you, George. You are being very good.” Tater hopes his sincerity can be carried across. His muddled state makes him unsure of how he’s sounding, and he really wants George to know how much he appreciates her handling this situation.

“That’s perfect. Have a good sleep, and we’ll see you tomorrow. And Tater? You can tell us anything, anything you’re comfortable sharing, alright? We’ve got your back.” George’s voice is soft, almost maternal.

“Okay. See you tomorrow.” Tater replies, and hears the click of George hanging up. 

He sits there folded over for a few minutes that feel like hours, trying to process everything that has happened. 

Zimmboni knows. George might know. PR has my back. Troy is my soulmate. Who must be going through hell worse than me. 

Troy must be suffering right now, Tater realizes. Whatever happens, Tater decides, he has a soulmate who has been outed against his will. If he gets outed too, so be it. He’ll turn it around to use his position as soulmate to stand by Troy, offer up the support he’s sure Troy needs. They’ve got to have each other’s backs.

The decision releases something within Tater, and he feels relief rush into him so intensely he starts shaking. He’s laughing, he thinks, but tears are streaming down his face. He has to lower himself to the floor, curl up and take deep breaths, to wait it out and calm down. He’s afraid, still afraid, but hopeful. Tomorrow will be the start of a brand new life for him, and whatever turns it might take, he’ll have just have to face it head on. The only way out is through. 

—X—

Kent wakes up to a headache that makes him want to extinguish the sun. He didn’t even have that much to drink last night, so it must be the stress from dealing with Swoops and PR. He wants to just lie under the covers with Swoops and never emerge, both of them safe and undisturbed, but as it is, action is better than avoidance, and Swoops needs to say something before it all gets worse. 

Kent drags himself out of bed, careful not to disturb the still sleeping Swoops next to him. Swoops deserves as much peace as he can get, before he wakes up to the chaos that will be his life for the foreseeable future. After washing up in the bathroom, Kent makes them scrambled eggs and bacon, setting up coffee from the Keurig. He’s setting up plates for breakfast in bed, thinking Swoops should get a nice treat before revealing the bad news, when the taller man comes crashing into the kitchen area, face pale and bloodless, his phone clutched in his hand.

So much for the big reveal. “I made you breakfast.” Kent says anyway, not intending for his gesture to go to waste.

“What happened? What happened?” Swoops repeats, his voice thin and shaky. 

“Sit and eat, you need to eat.” Kent steers a shaking Swoops to the couch and brings the food to the coffee table. “Do you remember anything from last night?”

Swoops shakes his head slowly. “All I remember was feeling like shit all day because Nathan…” At the mention of Nathan, Swoops goes quiet for a moment, before giving his head two quick shakes, as if to clear his mind of that bastard, and continues. “We lost so we went to Sundown, and I remember shots and dancing, and then I wake up and see my face all over the internet kissing random men. Parse, what happened? What’s going to happen?”

Swoops is shaking all over, and Kent hurries to lean over and pull him into a tight hug. Swoops releases a few shuddering breaths, and Kent can feel his shirt starting to wet from Swoops’ tears. “I’m scared,” a small voice says, muffled into Kent’s chest.

“Hey, hey, shhh, you’re gonna be okay.” Kent pats Swoops’ back and runs another hand through his hair, trying to soothe him. “You were only trying to have fun. We’re gonna burn in hell anyway, might as well kiss a ton of boys before we go, right?”

Swoops chuckles at the morbid joke, and calms down somewhat, sniffling occasionally, but still holding on to Kent with his face buried in Kent’s shirt. They don’t say much after that, and Swoops doesn’t have the appetite to eat much of the breakfast, despite Kent’s insistence that he fill himself up. Still, they take their time to get ready for the long day ahead, and don’t reach the arena until late in the morning.

Upon entering the management office, Swoops gets whisked away to a meeting with upper management and PR, and Kent is left waiting on his own. He gets antsy, and asks around if anyone in the office knows what the Aces’ strategy is. None of them are sure either, since everyone is waiting for Swoops’ story first.

After more than an hour of torturous waiting, the group emerges from the meeting room, and Kent beelines for Swoops, who looks like he had cried a few times, eyes red and swollen. Upper management doesn’t even acknowledge Kent, just walks past and keep discussing in their low tones, but Kent couldn’t care less for them. He wraps an arm around Swoops’ shoulders and steers him towards the trainer’s room so that he can lie down.

Swoops stays silent for some time, gathering himself together. Kent buys them sandwiches and bottles of water from the vending machines, and after a long quiet meal, Swoops reveals that he came out in the meeting, and the decision was to have him make a public statement, then stay low and hand over social media to PR. It’s pretty standard, Kent supposes, but is Swoops okay with it? 

“There’s not much of a choice, is there?” is Swoops’ despondent reply, and Kent feels a fresh wave of guilt washing over him, for his decision to take Swoops out leading to this mess. It was his fault, but Swoops is the one feeling the heat, and it’s so unfair. What he would do, to make it all better, to take the pressure off Swoops.

“I’m so sorry Swoops, it’s all my fault. I really shouldn’t have brought you to Sundown. Now you’re suffering all this shit because of me.” Kent confesses, his eyes fixed on the bottle in his hands, unable to look at Swoops.

“I… I could come out with you. Both of us, at the press statement, that way you won’t be alone when they start hitting at you.” Kent surprises himself with his offer. It’s not something he’s considered before. He only said that as a statement of solidarity, but that is really fucking scary and serious and will change my life forever holy shit.

“It’s not you fault, Parser. You don’t have to do this for me.” Swoops comforts Kent, which is another response he doesn’t anticipate. It should be the other way around, him comforting Swoops. He doesn’t deserve any of this kindness.

“Things were gonna leak sooner or later. Don’t beat yourself up for me. There are enough people out there willing to do it. I can take it, and you can wait till you’re ready, okay?”

Kent nods, and they hug each other for a long moment, before moving on to the gym room to get ready for training later in the afternoon. They’ve cobbled up a plan for Swoops to come out to the team later that day, but before they can carry it out, management sends everyone an email memo.

“As you may have noticed, Alternate Captain Jefferson Troy has been caught in compromising photos kissing other men. We have confirmed that he is homosexual, and have plans to handle the problem accordingly. We urge all Aces to take steps to ensure not to further affect the Aces brand, and protect the Aces value to our audience.”

Kent is livid at management’s insensitivity. Coming out is Swoops’ prerogative, and even if it’s already evident from the photos, outing him in a memo is a gross disregard for his agency to decide who and how he wants to tell. 

And the word choice! Problem? Affect the brand? Protect value? So management thinks of players as nothing more than products to tote around. Kent should have expected these fucked up priorities given how they treated the players during personal crises in the past, like that time when Picasso was going through a divorce and was gonna lose his kid and they still made him play even when he was completely fucking devastated. 

Kent rants as much at Swoops, who just looks defeated. “They said the same in the meeting.” Swoops replies with a shrug.

“And you just let them?” Kent yells back, an action which he immediately regrets when Swoops flinches away from him. 

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled… I’m just… so angry that they’re doing this shit to you. You don’t deserve any of this.”

“No, but this is the world we live in, Parse. It’s not gonna change just because we’re yelling.”

“Ok. Ok, but I got your back, alright? Whenever you need me, whatever you need me for, I’m gonna be there.”

Swoops offers just a tired smile, and returns to being pensive. 

It hurts Kent to see Swoops this way, like a part of him has died and the rest is just trying to keep breathing and keep walking. 

It hurts when Kent has to watch Swoops come out to the team, and no one comes forward to promise their support until later, privately, one by one, as if they’re ashamed. 

It hurts when he has to watch Swoops go through the press conference alone and read out the horrible statement PR prepared, that sounds exactly like the memo, and Swoops has to promise to “maintain the Aces brand and value”. 

And it hurts Kent the most, when he sees Swoops getting checked harder and more often. Of course, Kent’s hurting can’t hold a candle to Swoops’ pain from suffering through all this, but the helplessness and guilt eats away at Kent, and he wonders how he’ll be punished for this round of sins.

—O—

It was big. Every sports channels, and even a few other news channels too, covered the press statement. Troy officially came out, and took no questions, entering media silence immediately after and appearing only to play games. He looks worse for wear every time Tater sees him, and it pains Tater to know that his soulmate is suffering so far away.

Tater, with the Falcs, have taken the opposite approach, vocally engaging with detractors to dismiss speculations of his sexuality and shifting the focus back to hockey. On Twitter especially, Tater has been given free reign to voice himself, and although he’s been facing some harassment, a lot more support has been pouring in and he feels accepted enough to not worry about public approval.

However, seeing Troy being unfairly attacked by the media, and then also targeted more than usual on the ice, Tater becomes angry. Tater has had all three Alternates, Ghost, Snowy, Guy, and many other teammates defend him, but the Aces have done next to nothing to protect Troy, where none of the fellow Aces players have publicly come forward in support of Troy. It feels wrong, that Tater, who is only a minor character in this debacle, gets all the positive support, while Troy himself who is the target of so much bigotry is going through it alone.

Eventually, Tater gets permission from management to engage with Troy on social media, and uses publicly stands by Troy, saying that he has no problem with Troy’s sexuality or coming on to him. Though he runs the risk of angering the anti-LGBT Russians back home, Tater figures that standing by his soulmate is more important. Besides, if it works out —it’s just a faint hope— but if this works out, Tater wants to marry and stay in the US, where he’ll be free to love a man, his man, and not be legally persecuted.

The tweet he sends sparks new conversations about his sexuality, but Tater deflects again to hockey, emphasizing that neither his nor Troy’s sexuality should affect the game. Some of the Falcs and the official Falconers Twitter account stand by him too. Even Jack breaks his usual Twitter silence to retweet the official Falconers’ statements, which reassures Tater on his place as an accepted member of the Falcs, and strengthens his resolve to continue publicly supporting Troy. 

Yet, it becomes apparent that the Aces is playing the waiting game, hoping to let the whole thing blow over. Troy’s account is quiet, and the official Aces PR is not engaging the public on the matter. Tater worries about Troy; he doesn’t know if Troy is alright or falling apart at the seams.  

What if I just talked to him personally? Tater thinks that maybe he could get in contact with Troy, on the grounds of providing support, especially since he was personally involved. And through that, he figures, they could get closer to each other. It would kill two birds with one stone, and might actually solve the awkward problem of getting to know and becoming friends with someone on a rival team. 

Armed with his brilliant plan, Tater approaches Ghost for the favor, who was traded from the Aces must surely have the contact information he needs. Tater thinks himself lucky, that he would have a quick and discreet way to get in touch with Troy, especially now that Troy isn’t likely to respond to private DMs on social media (or worse, have his messages get intercepted by the Aces PR). 

Ghost, for his part, is more than happy and eager to provide the contact information, if only he actually had them. It turns out that he was the trade that gave the Aces the draft pick to select Troy, so they’d missed each other completely. Instead, Ghost offered to call Parson to get Troy’s number, and although Tater is still wary of Parson, he’s willing to use whatever channels he has to get to his soulmate. 

In the end, the call is made and Parson reveals that Troy doesn’t want his contact information getting out, even to Tater. He needs some time off away from distractions, to get to a better place before engaging with others again. 

Tater is suspicious. Why would Troy not want to have his soulmate by his side? Maybe he’s embarrassed? Or maybe he doesn’t remember, maybe he was too drunk that night to remember having met his soulmate. 

Either way, Tater is back to square one, with no way get in touch with Troy other than through public channels. He gets Ghost to leave his number and email with Parson, so that whenever Troy is ready, he can reach out and know that he has someone out there for him. It’s better than nothing, Tater thinks, and he resigns himself to tweeting another supportive message at Troy.

—X—

So this is Kent’s punishment. Mashkov has been vocal on social media, tweeting a lot of support for Swoops, and all around taking his involvement in the incident at the club with stride. The Falconers are throwing their weight behind Mashkov too, both teammates and management stepping forward to defend Mashkov, and therefore implicitly supporting Swoops too. 

It’s ironic, and fans have noticed. The Aces are being quiet about Swoops, but Mashkov and the Falconers are standing up against bigots and homophobes. The world won’t change just from yelling at it, but it sure helps to know you’ve got people on your side. Kent is thankful, but also confused at the amount of attention Mashkov is risking, reaching out to Swoops so publicly like that. Pushing back against the speculation currently aimed at him is difficult enough, Mashkov shouldn’t be so visible or else he’s going to end up outed too. With Russia as it is, he’s sure this isn’t a wise move. 

Things click into place when he gets the call from Ghost, though. 

“Hey Parser! How’s it going over there? You doing okay?”

“Hey Ghost, yeah we’re okay. Management’s kinda a pain, but it’s alright. What’s up?”

“Management being a pain? What did they do? Anything happen to you?” Ghost worries.

“Other than having to fend off assholes who want to check my forward into next Tuesday?” Kent snorts out. “It’s nothing, management isn’t doing anything, which is the pain. I mean, you guys have your guys behind Mashkov, and it’s been great that he’s been saying good things for Swoops. But, yeah, Aces don’t give a shit about Swoops, haven’t done anything to help him out. Kinda pissing me off. Sorry, I’m venting at you, you didn’t call me about that.”

“No, no it’s good. You gotta let out some steam man. Sorry to hear that management is still being a pile of shit. God I remember hearing about Picasso, that was a hot mess.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t pretty. Well, this time it’s just Swoops dealing with haters, not losing a kid. He’s gonna be fine, don’t worry too much. Thanks though.” 

“Right. That, um. This might sound kinda weird but Tater, uh, Mashkov. He wants to get in touch with Troy? Swoops? He asked me for contacts but I didn’t have them, so, like, I though I’d ask you.”

The request temporarily stuns Kent. A suspicion, a seed planted by all the attention Mashkov has shown Swoops, bursts into bloom, ugly and fluorescent in the front of his mind.

“Um… Did he say why?” Kent asks, hoping for an answer to prove him wrong.

“Says he wants to be there for the guy? Something about personal connection, especially since Troy’s been MIA from social media, you know? I think it’s great, that he’s not affected by the whole media circus dragging him down with Troy, and wants to be there for him.”

It’s not a straight confirmation, but close enough for Kent to put the pieces together. Mashkov thinks Swoops is his soulmate. Kent feels like he might cry.

“Hey, Parser? You still there?” Ghost calls through, and Kent realizes he’s been silent for a beat too long.

“Oh, uh, yeah.” His voice is watery, and Kent coughs a few times to clear his throat. “Um, I’ll ask Swoops if he’s okay with that and get back to you?”

“Sure, yeah, that’d be great. Thanks dude. You guys take it easy, alright?”

“Yeah, thanks. Bye Ghost.”

“Bye.”

Kent is conflicted, torn between wanting to allow Swoops some form of emotional support, and wanting to keep Mashkov for himself. It’s fucking selfish, but he doesn’t want Mashkov to develop feelings for Swoops. He’ll hurt himself, with that false hope. I’m protecting him too. The rationalization doesn’t sit well with him. He’s doing his best friend a disservice to turn down a branch of support, especially one so eager to provide. 

While he fights through his emotions, Swoops walks in on him. Seeing him standing around in the middle of an empty room frowning, Swoops goes over to nudge him with his foot and asks “Hey, what’s up?”

“Oh, I… um… I was just thinking about…” Should I tell him? “About Mashkov.”

“Oh yeah, him. He’s been really active on Twitter, saying all these good things for me. It’s great. You noticed it too huh?”

“Uh… yeah. You wonder why he’s doing it?”

Kent hadn’t told Swoops about that night at Providence, when he found out that his soulmate was another Falconer. He’d just mumbled “He wouldn’t talk to me” when asked about his conversation with Zimms and left it at that. 

Kent didn’t want to admit it back then, that he had a different soulmate, that it wasn’t Zimms anymore, because it hurt to admit it, because if Kent never said it aloud, maybe the universe wouldn’t make it come true yet. Not even the morning after the incident at the club, because it wasn’t the right time to say it. Kent had since neglected to mention it to Swoops up till this point, making it such that Swoops couldn’t have guessed that Mashkov is Kent’s soulmate. 

“Not sure, no. It’s like, I don’t remember what I did with him that night but I saw the pictures, and he had me climbing him like a tree. And I would probably do the same sober too. Wooh,” Swoops whistles, “that man is hot, haha.” 

Swoops let’s out an easy laugh. He isn’t hiding any pain or ill feelings behind it, and Kent wonders if it would be easier to live with this kind of honesty. Kent has always hidden behind flippant words, putting up a mask of cheer. Swoops has always been more open, more direct. Even with a secret relationship, he never shied away from wearing his heart on his sleeve. What Kent would give to be more carefree like that.

“Wish I could thank him. Honestly, his tweets give me that little bright spot in the sea of hell, you know? Here’s thirty nobody haters, and then from there emerges a hot NHL player saying he’s okay with you having a taste of those goodies.” 

Kent chokes. “Figuratively.” Swoops cheeses a grin at a coughing Kent, trying to recover from that line.

“I must say, now that I’m out, I get to make all these super gay comments about cute boys and it’s great. Like fuck them for saying it’s inappropriate, they say worse things about girls anyway.”

“Now you’re just making me want to come out too. Gotta get on my Twitter game and be the number one trending Ace again.”

“Rude, Parse. Rude. Can’t even let a brother have his glory.”

Kent shoulder-checks into Swoops, glad for their playful banter and Swoops’ good mood. He’s glad that Swoops is doing well, much better than either of them expected actually, and he hopes it can last. They’ve had a few days without games, gearing up for the long roadie ahead, and the downtime has helped get Swoops into a better mood.

“So, yeah, maybe I’ll get PR to hand me back Twitter, DM Mashkov and thank him properly. Who knows, maybe if he’s actually secretly gay like us, I could tap that fine ass.” 

“Oh my god stop. Keep it in your pants you perv!” Kent is laughing, and maybe slightly glad that Swoops is taking the decision to connect him with Mashkov out of Kent’s hands. 

“Hey, like you said, make the most out of our sinfully gay lives before we burn for eternity.” 

Swoops waggles his eyebrows, and it’s still the most ridiculous scene Kent has seen since the last time Swoops tried to do this. It’s hilarious because he can’t actually do it; he just stretches his eyes wider in small pulses and looks like he’s glaring while smiling instead. 

A text notification chimes from Kent’s phone, and Kent sees it’s from Ghost. 

“So is Troy okay with it? Mashkov is kinda getting on my ass about it.”

Oh. Right.

Kent hesitates, suddenly not sure if he wants to go through with letting Swoops get in contact with Mashkov. They’re certainly showing interest in each other, and it’s not like non-soulmate relationships won’t work out. In fact, when they do, they end up just as good as soulmate ones. There are Lifetime movies about it. Still, Kent is scared that Swoops might take away his chance. He’s afraid that his best friend would steal away his soulmate before he builds up the courage to approach Mashkov himself. 

You’re taking away Swoops’ chance, you traitor.

But telling Swoops might crush him too, right? Telling Swoops that Mashkov isn’t really doing this all because he’s a good sport, not exactly, but because he thinks, mistakenly, that Swoops is his soulmate, won’t that break Swoops’ heart? Swoops is so happy, looking forward to Mashkov’s tweets everyday, would he fall back into his slump once he finds out that Mashkov isn’t really doing this for him? Especially if Kent talks to Mashkov and manages to work out a relationship, would it break Swoops? 

Kent is a swarm of conflicting thoughts, rationalizations for hiding the truth and telling all clashing in him, and he can’t decide. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know whether he can tell Swoops about Mashkov and the tweets, about his soulmate, about the call.

“What’s that about? You’re frowning again.”

“Oh, uh, cat-sitter for Kit.” Okay, so he’s doing this. He’s lying to his best friend. He’s protecting the man, or betraying the man whose back he promised to protect. Kent doesn’t know which, except he knows he’s lying when he’s not sure why. “Working out the schedule for the roadie.”

“Man you love that cat so much, sometimes I wonder if you’re actually married to her and just pretending to be gay.”

“Oh fuck you.” Kent says with a conflicted smile, tapping out a reply to Ghost. 

“Sorry man, he says he wanna lie low, avoid distractions. Get to a better place in his head, you know? Sorry. :(”

Kent pockets his phone before he can change his mind, or before Swoops somehow catches on. He hooks his arm around Swoops in a side hug and steers them out of the room towards the locker room for their afternoon skate. They banter a bit, and Kent’s phone buzzes in his pocket again, but he ignores it until after the afternoon skate. When he pulls it out to check later, it’s a text from Ghost, and the contact information for a “Tater”. 

“He says to give this to Troy, so that he’ll have someone for him when he wants it.”

So this is Kent’s punishment. He lies to his best friend and soulmate, and gets an open line to Mashkov but can’t use it. He has to hide this from Swoops, and if he hasn’t felt enough guilt before, Kent is drowning in it now.

—O—

Zimmboni finally brings his famed PB&J sandwiches for the team, makes them on the counter fresh and serves them up to some very hungry athletes. All the ingredients are so unique; Tater has never had bread, jam, and peanut butter —well, almond butter— that tastes so amazing, that comes together so well to create the most delicious sandwich Tater has ever consumed. So delicious, in fact, that Tater eats three, though Snowy catches him assuming it was only his second.

Snowy wants to know where Zimmboni got the bread, a miracle of flavors Tater never thought possible in a baked good. Zimmboni just casually answers “My boyfriend made it.” Like it’s the most natural thing to say. Like it’s something nobody would bat an eyelid at.

It should be, but it isn’t. Zimmboni’s coming out startles the few of them gathered at the counter, even Marty who apparently already knew. The environment around Troy’s outing has been getting ever more polarized, with support for and harassment against Troy and queer fans intensifying. The decision to come out to the team during this time either means that Zimmboni feels safe enough with the team, or that he feels unsafe and wants to know he has support for his back. Either way, Tater knows that he’ll definitely be here for Zimmboni. After all, he’ll be Tater’s very first actual gay friend.

After getting over the shock that the incredible baker girlfriend is actually an even more incredible baker boyfriend, Tater makes a big show of being unperturbed about B’s gender, shifting the focus back to the frankly amazing food. Really, Zimmboni snared a catch with someone who can make food this good, whatever gender they are. 

Tater uses the opportunity to invite himself over for dinner, a wonderful scrumptious dinner no doubt, and if he ends up getting closer to the gay couple, well, no one needs to know that it’s as much to do with finding kindred spirits as getting good food. Really really good food. Maybe he can even convince B to try making kulebyaka. 

Tater even manages to convince Zimmboni to bring B to the family skate, though Zimmboni says he already planned to, which is why he is coming out now. Same difference, Tater thinks. B is coming with pies to the family skate, and that’s all that matters. 

Turns out, B is everything Tater could want in a friend: exuberant, a hockey player and figure skater, an incredible cook. The pies B brought are all so distinctly full of character, so uniquely B. 

Tater keeps sneaking back to the table to eat more, though he knows he’ll have to work really hard to burn them all off, and the nutritionist Nate will undoubtedly give him another earful again. He also catches little B worrying about not being accepted, so Tater does the honorable thing, which is to comfort his new friend by finishing off the last slice of the splendid apple pie. 

He also shares a little of his family background, about the pressures of living up to his parents’ legacy, because he knows that Zimmboni faces even more of the same and B has only been talking non-stop about how much better Zimmboni is than what the media says. It seems to be the right move, because B immediately falls into easy chatter, thanking Tater and the Falcs for having Zimmboni’s back, and then complaining about Parson rushing Snowy, and switching to gushing about all the little children the older Falcs brought to family skate. 

Tater says the right things, affirming that he’ll watch out for Zimmboni, and that he’ll throw Parson across the ice the next time they get into a scuffle, and that yes, the children are adorable. If he plays it up a bit, it’s not dishonest, it’s just to make a fast friend.

By the end of the day, B is happy and chuckling over their shared antics. Tater taught B how to do a figure skating lift that his mamenka taught him do, and they actually made it happen, sorta. It was lots of falling over and nearly crushing little B, but it’s all fun and games. It’s even on video, Snowy caught it all on Instagram, and the FalcsTV people were more than delighted to have the footage for when Zimmboni comes out. The bonus to the whole episode was Zimmboni’s panicked reaction, which will surely end up as a golden meme for the ages. 

Before they have to part ways, Tater puts forwards the question of dinner with Zimmboni and B again, and B enthusiastically invites Tater to come over, promising to cook anything he wants. Which means, yes, B will attempt kulebyaka! 

They exchange contact information to finalize a date for dinner, follow each other on Twitter, and go their separate ways.

During the drive home, Tater’s thoughts keep drifting back to how in love and comfortable Zimmboni and B were around each other. Little B would fuss about with Zimmboni’s clothing and hair, touching an arm or elbow every now and then, and Zimmboni would just glance over at frequent moments with the most lovestruck puppy eyes. It was cute, downright adorable. Many of the other younger couples were probably just as affectionate with each other; Snowy and his girl sure were as well, not that Tater was paying particular attention.

It’s just, Zimmboni and B are both boys. And yet, they’re so happy, so uninhibited in showing their love for each other. Tater wouldn’t say he’s jealous, he’s genuinely happy for them, but it’s the first time he’s seen a gay couple behave so openly affectionate like that, and it’s prodding at his mind. Well, the first gay couple that Tater personally knows. He’s seen other couples on TV or strangers around him in parks and restaurants, but none of them seemed real, just an abstract concept somewhere in the distance. Zimmboni and B, both people he knows now, in front of him being together, the image sparks a desire in Tater so strong he’s bowled over. 

He wants to have that, to be able to be out and about and hold hands and kiss the man he loves. He’s been so lonely for so long, and now that he knows who his soulmate is, he doesn’t want to waste any more time in hiding. There’s so much he could have, and now that he’s seen it for himself, he wants it all more than ever. But how is he going to do it? He can’t just announce “Oh hey I’m gay, Troy is my soulmate, let’s go have dinner.” Even if he isn’t afraid of negative press or attacks from other players, he doesn’t want to risk making Troy into an even bigger target. And it’d be a terrible way to ask someone out anyway. 

Tater decides, after a long deliberation, that he’ll go about it like Zimmboni did. He’ll start with the team, and go from there. He’ll start with Zimmboni, in fact, at dinner, and maybe get some advice. After all, Zimmboni seems like he knows what he’s doing, and will definitely be accepting of Tater, if not his plan. If Zimmboni really does have Tater figured out, the scene on the plane ride back from Vegas flashing in Tater’s mind, then Zimmboni would be the best person to turn to first.

Plus, what better setting could there be for coming out than a dinner with home-cooked kulebyaka from B? 

—X—

The roadie does indeed get on Swoops’ nerves. The combination of travel stress, rough treatment from certain homophobic players and harassment from fans, a streak of losses, and even being put on scratch for a game made for a very despondent Swoops, and an agitated Kent. 

The voices saying how this is “more proof that homosexuality just shouldn’t be a public part of hockey, as it’s affecting the game negatively” have just multiplied, like it’s not the fucking bigots that are making the game harder for Swoops.

Swoops has basically become a caveman, grunting one word replies and moping about off the ice. Giving him space didn’t work, cajoling him into doing indulgent activities like mani-pedis didn’t work. Kent was running out of ideas, okay? One time, Kent tried tough love and Swoops burst into tears, so that was obviously a bad idea and Kent couldn’t believe he was so dense to even have thought to try it. 

Swoops had even stopped letting Kent cuddle him in bed at night. Kent was getting so desperate he almost revealed that he had Mashkov’s number and was going to hand it over so that Swoops would have someone else to connect with.

Except he couldn’t do it. Kent curses himself for being the most selfish, worst possible friend in the history of the universe. Swoops is a veritable walking zombie and Kent was afraid to share Mashkov because of what? That Swoops would possibly steal his soulmate? That he would get angry and break off their friendship? Kent would deserve that, probably, but it’s too scary to face the consequences. He’s dug himself into this hole and he just keeps digging himself deeper.

Worse still is how Mashkov’s number burns inside his mind, drawing Kent to it like a moth to a flame. He finds himself staring at it, putting his phone away just to pick it back up later and looking it up again. He’s got the number memorized by now, and it takes more and more willpower not to dial up the number and call Mashkov to spill his heart out each time he picks up his phone.

By the time they roll back into Vegas, Kent is hardly able to keep himself together, let alone care for Swoops or keep up team morale. He’s deep in his own head, trying to think up a good way to cheer up his team, especially now that their playoff standing has slipped, when he overhears Swoops’ name in a tense conversation. 

Ears pricked, Kent can make out that the argument is somewhere down the hall, and though the words are low and whispered, it’s early and quiet and the walls echo, so he hears bits and pieces. Curious, Kent silently moves closer to eavesdrop. It turns out, one of the higher ups in management is arguing with Coach Riker, and it’s apparently about Swoops.

“Troy isn’t pulling his weight, in fact he’s hurting our rankings, and you know it.”

“He isn’t no, but the whole team has been struggling lately, and it’s not all just Troy’s fault.”

“Right, they’ve been struggling because of Troy’s actions. He’s bringing bad press, he’s bringing harder attacks. He’s also been getting sloppy.”

“What do you want us to do? We don’t control the media, and you won’t let us hit back at bad press.”

“Our brand has been hit enough with this scandal —”

“Scandal?”

“ — and we don’t need to stir any more shit up with your players saying stupid things out there.”

“My players saying stupid — Sir! These are your players as much as mine, and they would want to defend their teammate —”

“Their teammate who is a homo. Who couldn’t keep it in his pants and made a spectacle of the Aces. Who is dead weight and dragging the rest of the team down, and who did all of this because some other homo broke up with him. We gave him a chance to prove himself and he failed to deliver.”

“That’s hardly fair.”

“He had his chance. The trade deadline is too damn close already and we need to trade the gay away. If we don’t solve this problem soon —”

“The fuck you mean by that?” Kent bursts out, no longer able to hold his fury in. He’s been boiling, getting closer and closer to exploding with each passing sentence from the dickbag. Thinking about how this was what Swoops had to endure in that meeting that first day, it’s no wonder he came out so resigned and defeated. Hearing that Swoops is going to be traded because he’s a “gay problem” just pushes Kent over the edge. 

“You think Swoops is a problem?”, Kent barrels on, not giving the two any space to reply. “You think being gay is a fucking problem? Well guess what motherfucker? I’m fucking gay too. You want to trade Swoops away, you lose me too. He goes, I go.”

With that declaration, Kent turns to stride away as fast as he can, barely registering where he’s going as he types out a series of tweets and sends them off. 

Kent Parson @kvparson90

Just overheard @LVAces management want to “trade the gay away” to solve the @jeffersontroy “problem” 

 

Kent Parson @kvparson90 

Well surprise fuckers, I’ve been gay all this time [rainbow emoji] [pride flag emoji] 

 

Kent Parson @kvparson90

If @jeffersontroy gets traded, either I go with him, or I quit

 

Kent Parson @kvparson90

@LVAces don’t want gays? They don’t deserve us

Kent doesn’t realize where he’s going until he realizes he’s kicking repeatedly at a wall and screaming, screaming, screaming till his throat is hoarse. He’s in the showers of the locker room, alone and in the dark, and he slides down against the wall to the cool tile floor, too fatigued to stay upright. 

It’s all too much. His impulsiveness led him to out himself to the world, and while he’s exposed management for the homophobic bag of dicks it is, he’s also put himself on the chopping block.

Go hard or go home right? The Aces isn’t somewhere he wants to be anymore anyway. At this point, all he cares about is getting Swoops a fucking break. 

Like coming out is going to do that. 

Kent feels a dam burst within him. He’s spent years hiding in fear and now he’s just come out, just like that. He’s so scared that what he’s done will ruin his future. All his worst fears about being out has already been proven true in Swoops, and he’s just thrown himself right into the fray. Sobs escape his throat, and Kent curls up in the shower, crying through his lifetime of fear. 

Nobody comes for him.

—O—

Tater arrives at Zimmboni’s apartment quite excited. He’s been tweeting and texting back and forth with B, talking about figure skating and baking and also discussing the details on kulebyaka, and he’s been thoroughly charmed by the little man. Apparently, B is majoring in baking pies! What a life he leads! 

Tater is eagerly looking forward to dinner, especially with his plan to come out to the hosts. It’s giving him some jitters, but he’s ready to take the leap. When an exhausted looking B answers the door however, Tater is slightly concerned. 

“Is everything okay, B? You looking very tired. Did kulebyaka give you too much trouble? Sorry if that happen.” Tater tries, hoping that he didn’t put B through whatever that made him look this way. The smells drifting out from the apartment are heavenly, and smell of pastries, meat, grilled vegetables and many wonderful spices that Tater has never learned to use. Tater would hate to know that he made B overwork trying to make what smelled like a supremely delicious dinner for him.

“No, no, it’s fine Tater. The kulebyaka turned out great. It’s just, um, Jack’s not feeling well today, and I hate to send you away but tonight… might not be the best for dinner. I’m mighty sorry ‘bout that.” B has his hands curled up tight together, and isn’t meeting Tater’s gaze. It’s obvious that he’s very apologetic about the situation.

“Zimmboni is not feeling ok? What happened? I’m not minding reschedule.” 

“Oh look at me, where are my manners! Come in and have a seat, I’ll pack you dinner so you can bring some home and not waste a drive over.” B says, ignoring the question and ushering Tater inside to the sofas.

Zimmboni’s apartment looks a lot homier than Tater expected, with lots of coordinated colors and decorations. Curtains, throw pillows, table covers and shelf decorations, something one wouldn’t expect from the stoic, introverted personality of his captain. It feels more like B has filled up the place with his warmth, adding touches of character to the otherwise usual Ikea-and-Target bachelor pad decor. The photos and paintings on the walls are eye-catching too, very unique and well done. 

Tater busies himself with examining the photos, noticing that a lot of them involve B, as well as their old Samwell team. He’s absorbed in a group shot, trying to make out who’s who when B appears back at his side with some tupperwares of food and the entire kulebyaka wrapped up in foil. It’s honestly more food than Tater can eat himself, and he can eat more than most. B must have packed up the entire dinner spread for him.

“Here, Tater. I’m really sorry for tonight. I promise we’ll have another dinner together someday. Tell me how the kulebyaka turned out, alright?” There’s a smile stretched across B’s face, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, which are watery and red. He’s been crying and Tater can’t help but wonder what happened to Zimmboni to make B so upset.

“It’s ok. No problem, we have time. Will Zimmboni be ok?” 

“Tater?” Zimmboni’s voice travels out from a room further into the apartment, and both B and Tater jump, startled by the unexpected sound.

Zimmboni comes plodding out of a room and asks, “When did you get here Tater? Bits, you didn’t tell me Tater was already here.”

“I was just gonna send him on his way with dinner, hun. You needed some time off and I thought dinner would wear you out.” B runs over to fuss with Zimmboni, and Tater feels the surge of envy in him rise up. Soon, he tells himself. He’ll have this tenderness for himself soon.

“You didn’t need to, but I appreciate it. I’m better now, after talking to papa.” Zimmboni gently reassures B, placing a soft kiss to the crown on B’s head. Then, he turns his gaze to Tater, suddenly intense and unreadable. “Tater, you can stay for dinner if you want.”

The change in tone doesn’t go unnoticed by B or Tater. It’s not exactly his Captain Voice, but something in the way Zimmboni said it tells Tater that he should linger for a while more. So he agrees, and Zimmboni invites him to help set up the table for dinner. As they work around the table, placing the utensils while B plates up the food for serving, Zimmboni asks a seemingly innocent question. “Have you checked Twitter today, Tater?”

Seemingly innocent, but B drops the salad bowl as soon as the question is asked, his hands shaking and his face red. At first Tater thinks the flush is B being embarrassed from his mishap, but a few moments later it becomes clear that he’s actually furious instead. He stands there glaring at the spilled salad, like it’s insulted his pies and deserves to die in pieces on the ground.

Zimmboni coolly continues, “If you haven’t, you should take a look while I help Bitty clean up. Check up on the Aces, yeah?” He pats Tater on the shoulder, and walks over to B and pulls B into a quick but tight hug, before letting go to pick up the mess.

Tater pulls out his phone, curious at the scene unfolding in the kitchen and how it relates to the Aces Twitter. It’s actually kind of a giant mess over there, even more than the now usual amount of rainbow pride emojis and hate tweets piling up around the official handle. Tater doesn’t see anything too unexpected, until he notices a supportive tweet that has the hashtags #gayaces, #saveswoops, and #saveparser.

Parser? Tater vaguely knows that Troy is nicknamed Swoops, and it’s easy to figure out that Parson is Parser, but what do they need saving for? Not from god or hell or whatever religious zealotry, it seems, since the tweet is just hearts in rainbow colors and the three hastags, so it’s from a supporter. And why is Parson’s name up in the fray with Troy?

“What am I supposed to be seeing?” Tater asks aloud, scrolling through and still not figuring out what the deal is. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t caught the news yet, seeing how much you support Troy online.” Zimmboni answers, still being vague and unhelpful.

“Is something happen to Troy?” Tater stops scrolling, looking up at Zimmboni, worry filling him slowly. Troy has had a bad streak lately. Tater has been following closely and knows that the Aces just lost a bunch of away games, and Troy was so heavily targeted that he didn’t perform as well as he usually did, getting scratched for the last game. Could something bad have happened within the hours since he checked Twitter in the morning?

“Yes… but not really. Something has happened, not necessarily bad, exactly. How about you check Kent Parson’s Twitter?” Zimmboni tries. 

It’s not reassuring in the least, and B, who has been standing there silently fuming, exclaims “Just tell him already!” The ferocity of the directive startles the two large professional hockey players with. 

When Zimmboni doesn’t do anything more than just stare at B for a few moments, B just throws his hands up and fixes his gaze on Tater.

“Tater, honey, Kent Parson just revealed to the world that the Aces management has been considering trading off Jeff Troy for being a ‘gay problem’. It’s been causing mayhem on Twitter and all over the internet. Was that so hard?” B crosses his arms and huffs at the salad on the floor, still mostly strewn about. 

Zimmboni reaches out both hands to rub up and down B’s arms, murmuring words and trying to calm and comfort B, but Tater is too completely taken aback by the news to notice. 

Troy is facing discrimination from the Aces management? Is that why they took away his social media? Why no other teammates came forward to support him? It must be awful to be in that position. No wonder Troy has been performing so badly, all that mistreatment must have gotten to him. 

Then why wouldn’t he call? Ghost gave him Tater’s contacts. Why would Troy willingly hide away from emotional support if he’s facing this kind of personal mistreatment? Why would he hide from his soulmate? 

Tater looks up from his reverie, over to the two men in the kitchen. He can hear B apologizing to Zimmboni, “I’m sorry sweetpea, I’m just… so angry that he said those mean hurtful things to you!” that is followed by Zimmboni’s reply, “It’s ok — (“No it’s not!”) — alright, it’s not, but I’m better now, a bit, and I think it’s more important to let Tater know the rest of the news. You left something out.”

“Why don’t you tell him, mister? Why am I the one doing the revealing? And why is it important to Tater that Kent is gay anyway?”

Kent Parson is gay. Somehow, that revelation throws Tater off balance, and he has to sit down on a chair at the dinner table. That would explain the #saveparser hashtag, somewhat. Is he being threatened by the Aces management too?

“Why is this important news to me?” Tater manages to reply. It seems like an ambush of some sort, like there’s some hidden information Zimmboni knows and isn’t telling him or B yet. Tater doesn’t want to believe that Zimmboni would be the type of person to corner people at dinner and spring a reveal, but his Alternate has been pretty private so far, and Tater is the very first Falconer to visit his apartment since the housewarming party last summer. For all he knows, Zimmboni could be exactly this type of person.

“Kenny found out about the trade and came out as gay on Twitter. He put his position as Captain of the Aces on the line, saying he’ll either want to be traded too or quit if Troy gets traded away.” Zimmboni is telling Tater with what seems like sympathy? Pity? Either way, it’s also laced with expectation. Tater is supposed to respond with something.

“I’m still not knowing what Kent Parson has to do about me.”

“But…” Zimmboni hesitates, clearly not willing to reveal his hand. He takes a deep breath, and makes his decision. Zimmboni continues, “Haven’t you been tweeting at Troy for a reason?”

Alright, so Zimmboni is that kind of person. No matter, it’s not an ambush if Tater was planning to come out anyway.

“Okay fine. I was waiting to tell after dinner. I’m gay, and Troy is my soulmate. That’s why I’m caring so much. What to do with Kent Parson?” Tater bites out, miffed that Zimmboni would force him to come out like that, even if he knows that Zimmboni already knew. B is clearly surprised at Tater’s words, but so is Zimmboni, which in turn surprises Tater. Did Zimmboni miscalculate? Did Tater misjudge his Alternate?

“Jack Laurent Zimmerman! You did not just corner our dinner guest into coming out! I cannot believe you did that! Did you learn nothing from Shitty?!” B goes on a rant at Zimmboni, and if Tater thought B was frightening before when he was glowering at the salad, now B is positively terrifying in his rage, jabbing a threatening finger at Zimmboni and Tater has never been more intimidated. Which is saying something, considering his profession.

“Bitty, no! I… I didn’t mean to. I thought…” Zimmboni quickly tries to appease B, and turns his gaze towards Tater. “I thought you knew. Jeff Troy isn’t your soulmate, Tater.”

“What you mean Troy is not my soulmate? Why you would know anyway?” Tater is very disoriented by the way this conversation is turning out. 

Zimmboni sighs, and B has stopped with his rant, allowing the taller man to explain himself, more due to bewilderment than any conscious decision to hold his tongue. “Kent and I, we used to be together, back in the Q. We were soulmates, but things didn’t work out, it was actually pretty bad.” 

Both Tater and B are dumbfounded at Zimmboni’s admission. This is privileged information: people have been speculating about Zimmboni’s possible relationship with Parson since their days in the Q, and here he is, just handing it out to Tater?

“He came to me after our home game against the Aces, the one where he rushed Snowy. He thought we could be together again, said he could smell it.” 

No. 

“I told him I already had another soulmate, that it wasn’t me he smelled out there.” 

This can’t be happening.

“Tater, honey? Here, have some water. Drink up. Breathe.” B is handing him a glass of water and rubbing his back comfortingly. Tater must have appeared in distress, or something. He doesn’t remember B coming over, or Zimmboni either. All he knows right now is that his mind is reeling from the implications from Zimmboni’s words. 

Kent Parson is my soulmate. Kent Parson is my soulmate.

“You knew all this time? You knew that Kent Parson was my soulmate?” Tater asks into his glass of water.

“Yes. I’m sorry for how this turned out, I thought you already knew it was him. I thought telling you about it would help, that it would make it easier for you to get in touch.” Zimmboni looks properly apologetic, and Tater feels slightly better, since it turns out that there have been misconceptions on both sides. Zimmboni isn’t the kind to intentionally open the closet door on someone else. Still, there’s a few things to clear up.

“Why easier to get in touch after he come out? I can just Tweet him, or ask Ghost for number. All this time I thought is Troy, is why I’m showing support so much.”

“Right, Ghost. He was from the Aces, he would have Kent’s number. Of course.” Zimmboni chastises himself for forgetting the detail. “I just assumed you were using your support for Troy as a hint for Kenny to realize it was you.”

“You think I would be that kind of person? That I pretend to care about Troy for attention from Parson?” But he is, isn’t he? Tater was tweeting support for Troy to get close to him, using Ghost to get Troy’s number, getting close to Zimmboni so he could make coming out to the team easier. It’s all underhanded, he’s had ulterior motives for it all from the beginning. Just because the aims aren’t what Zimmboni had assumed doesn’t mean it’s a mischaracterization.

“Tater, it’s not like that. It’s okay to ask for and pursue what you want. You just had to hide it because you were afraid of being outed. I understand how that feels. And I don’t doubt you had every intention of supporting Troy, I know we all want him to be okay through all this.”

A dark chuckle escapes Tater’s chest, as he realizes the irony of the situation. “I was going to come out on Twitter, just like Parson. Thinking if I come out and say support soulmate, maybe Troy will feel better knowing he has soulmate out there. And now Parson come out for Troy, and they are not even soulmate.”

“Are you going to come out now? For Kenny?” Zimmboni asks solemnly.

“I’m not sure. I’m not knowing what to do now.” Tater confesses, entirely too shaken up to decide on what he should do.

“The media will come after me now that Kenny’s out. The rumors were already strong back then, and the questions will be even harder to deny now.” B reaches out to clasp his hands in Zimmboni’s, who pulls them up to his lips and plants tiny soft kisses along B’s knuckles, his eyelids fluttering closed. Zimmboni is drinking in B’s presence, gaining stability from the little man. They’re good for each other, Tater realizes. They give each other strength.

“I’m not sure how to move forward myself. I came out to the team but… we’re not sure if we’re ready to be out yet.” Zimmboni confesses.

Tater wasn’t exactly ready either, but was willing to push through it and make the sacrifice if it meant getting a soulmate out of it. But now, now that it’s Parson, the rat that rushed Snowy, Tater isn’t so sure if he wants to pursue it anymore. Why didn’t Parson say anything at the club, out in the alley? It would have saved them so much time and energy. Why did he let Tater believe for so long that Troy was his soulmate? He had Tater’s number, Ghost had sent it over, why didn’t he just call?

He lied to me, Tater realizes suddenly. Turns out, he thought that one out loud, because B asks “Who lied to you, honey?”

“Parson. Little rat Parson lied to me. I asked Ghost for Troy’s number, but he didn’t have it, so he called Parson for number. Parson said Troy didn’t want to give it out. He lied! He was one who not wanting to give out number. Why? Why would he lie to soulmate? Why not call me?”

Because he doesn’t want me. He doesn’t want me in his life, anywhere near his life. He wants to find a different soulmate. 

So be it.

Tater feels his breaths becoming heavier, and he grits out “I’m not coming out for rat Parson” before his eyes betray him and tears begin to stream down his face. Tater is devastated that his first soulmate wouldn’t want him. It hurts, it hurts so bad, but he’s also angry. Angry that his soulmate would dismiss him just like that, would lie to him to put distance between them. 

Tater is going to be fine about this, if only out of spite. He’s not going to cry about this, he won’t, because it’s not worth his tears, so he forces himself to stop. He wipes his face with rough hands, stands up and leaves. He marches out the door and to his car, drives off to the docks. Walks up to the very end of a pier and screams. Screams out into the dark black ocean. Screams his pain and dashed hopes and sorrow away. Screams out his fury, screams out his remaining emotional attachment to this soulmate who doesn’t want him. 

Only when Tater is dried out, tired out, does he realize he left without dinner. It’s enough to make a man cry.

—X—

Kent wakes up to someone tapping on his shoulder. Blearily, he tries to say something but his throat feels dry and hoarse. The tapping stops and someone talking becomes louder and faster, and Kent opens his eyes to find the high school PR intern. 

“… and the PR office is like a war zone right now, Parson. You gotta say something. Actually, you probably should get outta here and not say anything, let us settle on a direction. I dunno, man. Like what are we supposed to do —”

“Kid, shut up.” Kent manages. He remembers what he’s done now: he’s come out and then cried himself to sleep in the showers. He’s far too affected to listen to this kid or care about manners.

“Sorry. Um. Sorry.” Intern Kid apologizes, sitting back on her heels.

Kent looks around, and sees that the shower lights are on, but no one else is in there with them. “Why are you here?” Kent asks.

“Mr. Atley sent out an all-hands-on-deck memo for everyone to come in for an emergency meeting, and he was probably going to talk about the tweets you sent, but there was this higher up in there arguing, at least I think he was, he wore a real nice suit, and they couldn’t agree how to respond so —”

“I meant why are you here, with me, in the showers.” Kent sits up and glowers, losing his patience with the kid’s rambling.

“Oh, sorry. Um. Coach Riker, I think? He was there too, and pulled a few of us interns aside and told us to search through the whole arena for you.” Intern Kid answers as she shrinks, chastised. 

“Great. I have a manhunt on me.” Kent covers his eyes with his forearm as he leans back against the wall. “Have you told them you found me?”

“Yeah. Told the group chat.”

“Fucking perfect.” Kent growls out, and Intern Kid flinches. 

“I’m sorry, I guess you didn’t want to be found, I mean of course, why else would you be hiding, I’m so sorry —” Intern Kid starts up again, and Kent manages to feel properly bad for his attitude.

“Look. Sorry, it’s not your fault, you were following orders. I’ll just get up and go home, and you can say I ran away and you don’t know where I went, okay?”

“Okay, thank you. Sorry. Thank you. I’ll let you go, um.”

Kent stands up and finds himself halfway to the door when Swoops bursts in, out of breath and eyes wild. 

“I told you not to come out for me!” is the first thing out of Swoops’ mouth, and Kent can feel bile coming up his throat, bitter and pungent. This is the thanks I get for defending you?

“They were going to give you the axe! I gave them a reason not to!” Kent yells back, defending his actions from the person he was trying to save them with.

“You could have just exposed them, the public backlash would have been enough to stop them. You didn’t have to come out!” Swoops is gesticulating all around, highly agitated.

Kent pales at the revelation. “Fuck, you’re right. I’m so stupid, fuck.” His knees begin to weaken, and Swoops rushes forward to hold him up in an embrace, which Kent latches onto. He feels the fear shake through him again, rattling out of his bones. Did he come out for nothing?

“Hey, hey, it’s alright. Now we get to be gay together and talk about hot boys in public, right? You get to be #1 trending Ace again.” Swoops tries to joke as he comforts Kent, stroking his back. Kent gives a small chuckle in return, but he also can’t stop his tears from falling.

“Thank you for doing this for me,” Swoops continues. “You’re the best Captain —best friend— a person could ever have. You threw yourself in front of the bus they were gonna throw me under, I couldn’t have asked for more. Thank you.”

They stand there in their embrace for a while longer, before a timid voice squeaks out, “If you, um, still want to run away from here, you gotta do it quick. The guys are coming.” 

Right, Intern Kid. 

“Oh, yeah, I asked someone and they were on their way here so I ran all the way to get here first. They’re probably like nearly here.” Swoops adds.

Kent makes a face at Swoops for not revealing that very important piece of information, and for delaying his escape. Kent makes Intern Kid promise not to reveal anything that happened in there, and then off they run. By some miracle, they manage to sneak by everyone to make it to Swoops’ car, and they head back to his place to hide out the rest of the day. (“If they see your car here, they’ll think you’re still here. And they won’t think to look at my place once they figure you’re gone.”)

They miss optional skate that day, and Swoops lies through his teeth answering all the calls about Kent. Kent himself has turned off his phone, and spends the day worrying about Kit. Swoops takes it as a form of distraction, better for Kent to focus on Kit than go off onto paranoid doomsday scenarios. Nobody arrives at Swoops’ doorstep to look for Kent, and they make a note to buy Intern Kid a pizza or something for keeping her word and not ratting them out.

Eventually, Swoops gives in and drives Kent home to feed Kit, and they order in Indian food for a very early dinner on the living room couch. After the indulgently creamy curry, Kent feels some sort of courage to turn on his phone, and Swoops holds his hand while he holds down the power button and waits.

The barrage of notifications that come in are expected, and Kent ignores them all in favor of looking at the texts, just to find the ones Swoops says are from the team supporting him. There are texts from almost everyone, and scrolling through their words of encouragement and pledges of support warms Kent up so much. Tears well up in his eyes, threatening to spill over again. 

Apparently, the same thing happened with Swoops, only fewer of the team texted back then because he wasn’t yet threatened with being traded. Still, knowing that the Aces team has each other’s backs, that they all felt concern for each other, makes Kent proud to be the Captain of this team, even if management is a bag of homophobic dicks.

Suddenly, a phone call comes through, and, unexpectedly, it’s from Zimms. Kent looks to Swoops, unsure what to do, and all Swoops does is swallow and look back at Kent with an equally uncertain expression. Kent hovers his thumb over the screen, and before he can decide otherwise, quickly swipes to answer the call. 

“Hey, Zimms.” Breathe in, breathe out. 

“Kenny. I… Bittle saw the tweet and told me. You came out. I… What if people find out about us? I can’t go through the media pressure again, you know that. ”

Kent’s breath catches in his throat, anger burning up within his chest. He’s had enough to worry about for himself, and Zimms has the gall to call and complain?

“Find out about us? You’re worried about media pressure?! What about me? You think you’re the only one under the heat? I’ve got enough to deal with on my side, Swoops getting traded, and you want me to worry about you when I’m the one who’s just outed himself!?” Kent is yelling

“I… It’s not just about me, Bittle —”

“Fucking hell it’s not about you! You were the one who called to yell at me about possibly outing you. You were the one, who wouldn’t respond to me, give me radio silence for years, push me away every time we meet, and now the first time you reach out to me is to blame me for your media trouble, for trying to save my teammate? Who almost got fired because he was gay. Who I put my own neck on the line for. I put everything down! Fuck you Zimms. Fuck you for making me think you were worth my time, that you were a good person worth fighting for.” 

Kent hangs up and slams his phone into the couch, growling out with each angry breath. He’s had it, finally had it with Zimms. There’s no reason to keep hanging onto that fucker who only keeps hurting him, who’s moved on to another soulmate and didn’t even have the decency to let him down gently, who’s selfish enough to worry about maybe facing down more reporters when he’s the one who’s just walked into hell.

A hand lands on Kent’s shoulder, making him jump and twist around, to see a very concerned Swoops, who takes his hand away immediately. Kent acutely misses the contact, craving touch to soothe his rumbling emotions. 

“Is that how it always happens when you guys talk? Jesus, no wonder you’re always a mess after.”

Kent only leans over to wrap his arms around Swoops’ back and bury his face into Swoops’ torso. It’s ironic, Kent thinks, that he would find comfort in his best friend while his soulmates hurt him. 

“I don’t know about what just went down with you and Zimms, but for what it’s worth, you’re the best person I know. You’re worth the world to me.” Swoops runs his hand through Kent’s wiry blond hair, the way he knows Kent likes the most, from behind the ears down to the nape. “Who needs him anyway? I’ll share Mashkov with you, how about that?”

Little does Swoops know that when Kent starts sobbing after that sentence, that it’s not just about Zimms.

—O—

Tater is despondent. He mopes around his apartment, hardly eating, hardly watching television, hardly doing anything at all. He doesn’t leave his apartment, not for his usual run, not to go to the arena. He takes a healthy scratch and misses a game. He turns off his phone, only emailing out his scratch request and ignoring his laptop. He hardly has the energy to get up, laying about on the couch, in his bed. He sleeps most of the time away. 

It hurts less, when he’s not awake to the wretched world.

—X—

Kent is woken up by Swoops, with a phone in his face. “He, uh, he told me to wake you. I was too scared to say no.”

Kent looks at the screen. It’s nearing 11pm, and Kent sees the name Bad Dad. Uh oh. Bob’s heard from Zimms and is gonna rip him to shreds. It’s to be expected really. After all, Bad Bob Zimmerman was famous for retaliatory checks and nasty fights on the ice to the rescue of his teammates. This was despite being a center forward, though only because he was too short to be a D-man, and too talented with the backhand to be kept in the rear.

Kent plucks his phone from Swoops’ hand and holds it to his ear gently, as if that will soften the blow from Bob when it comes. 

“Bob?”

“Kenny.” Alright, here it goes. Get ready. “You did the right thing.”

What?

“What?” Kent repeats, out loud this time.

“You did the right thing. Before I say anything else, and I have a lot to say to you, I want you to know that what you did was the stupidest, bravest thing, and it was the right thing. You put yourself down as a bargaining chip against Troy to protect him, that’s the strongest move there is, and at such great cost. I’m proud of you, son. I’m proud that you do what’s hard but what’s right for your boys.”

Kent is silent throughout, not expecting praise from Bob. He nods dumbly, forgetting that it won’t be visible over the phone, and his heart swells a bit from the display of fatherly love. No wonder Zimms is crazy about Bob’s opinion of him, Kent realizes, remembering what having a father’s approval feels like. His mother got divorced when he eight, and it’s been too long since the Q, when Kent only had sporadic moments of Bob’s approval. Those were usually shared with Zimms anyway. Kent’s hardly had anyone else he cares about (other than his mother, of course) telling him how he’s done them proud before or since.

“But you hurt my son, Kent, many times, I’ve just learned.” Bob continues without waiting for an answer, his lecture taking a more disapproving turn. “He put distance between you two, and you went out of your way to get in his face. Not only that, you hurt him, with your words, with your actions, by not respecting that he can’t face you anymore without feeling pain. Despite what must be clear signals that he doesn’t want to see you, doesn’t want to hear from you anymore, you betray him. You betray the goodwill that he gives you every time you see him, because he still let you talk to him, and you say terrible things aimed at hitting him where it hurts the most. This is not the behavior of a man who does the right thing, now is it? Disrespecting set boundaries, disregarding wishes to be let alone. You make it hard for me to proud of what you did for your teammate, when you treat my flesh and blood this way.”

Bob is furious at Kent. This was the Bad Bob that blasted the media, went on every possible platform to hit back at anyone who said anything untoward about Jack after the overdose. Having it directed at him, Kent flinches over the phone. He’s cooled down enough and has had enough space between the call and now to regret hurting Zimms, even without the reprimanding from Bob.

“Listen, I try to treat you as my own, because you were good to Jack when you were younger, and you needed a family so far away from home. And I’ve grown fond of you Kenny, watched you grow up. I’m not going to make my love conditional on anything, because I do love you like family.” Pause. “I love you like family. Do you hear me, son?”

Bob loves him like family. Kent tries to swallow back the lump in his throat, but it doesn’t work. He wants to say something, but he knows that if he opens his mouth, the floodgates will burst and he won’t be able to say anything. So he only answers with “Mhmm” as forcefully as he can.

“Good. I love you like family, so I won’t have my family hurting each other, you hear me? You are going to apologize and you are going to stop hurting my son, and if he wants nothing to do with you again, you respect that. Am I understood?”

Another “Mhmm” is all Kent can manage, and Bob sighs, long and loud and slow. 

“I’m here for you too, Kenny. Nothing’s gonna change that, okay? You put yourself out there to defend a friend, and right now more than ever, you’ll need your own friends to cover your back. I’ll be putting my name and everything I have behind you. I promise. You’ve got a tough road ahead, please don’t make things harder between you and Jack.”

Bad Bob is promising to blast the media on Kent’s behalf. Kent doesn’t feel like he deserves it, especially on the tails of being told off for hurting Zimms. 

“Alicia and I, we’re not blind, Kenny. We knew you were a couple back in the Q.” The revelation strikes Kent like lightning through his veins. His grip on his phone tightens, as if trying to pry more out of Bob, to pull out all the secrets they held between them.

“He laughed for you, Kenny. Jack did love you. He came alive around you, Alicia said he looked just like how I would around her. But after whatever happened between the two of you, during the Q, through the draft and aftermath, and especially after the way you treated him, he can’t love you the way he did, not the way you want anymore.” 

“I’m sorry it turned out this way, son. I know rejection hurts, and I know he hurt you too by shutting you out, but you have to learn to let go. It’s only hurting you both so long as you keep trying to force your way back in.” 

Kent has never heard these words said to him. He’s thought of them many times before, sure, but hearing it aloud filled him both with relief and grief. Relief that it was confirmed to him that Zimms loved him, and grief because Zimms loved him only in the past tense. 

Kent has felt that it was “Kenny and Zimms against the world” for so long that he sometimes forgets that Zimms has Bob and Alicia —and now Bittle— to care for him. And Kent, Kent has Swoops. It brings him some measure of comfort, this realization that he and Zimms can live apart from each other and be mostly fine, that they don’t need to be in each other’s lives and it’s okay.

“Jack laughs for Bittle now, please let him have this, Kenny. Please.” Bob’s voice soft, begging. The only other time Kent has heard Bob beg like this was for Zimms to wake up. 

“Okay,” Kent croaks out, and he’s proud of himself for managing to hold back the flood, for not letting the wetness of his voice show. He’s made a promise to Bob now. He’ll have to apologize, stay away from Zimms, work hard to manage his feelings and make sure that he does it right this time, if only for Bob. 

“Thank you, son.” Bob’s voice is lighter, but still soft, tired and relieved.

They come to a lull, neither speaking, recovering from the intensity of the past few minutes. Still, Kent knows that there’s more that Bob wants to say, he can feel it, so he stays on the line. He switches to his other ear, so that he’ll grow brain tumors equally on both sides. That was Zimms’ joke, that one.

Eventually, Bob picks up on his near-monologue again. “We always knew that when either of you comes out, the other is going to get questioned. This time though, Jack’s worried for the kid too. Bittle’s parents from Georgia still don’t know. He isn’t out to them yet, and you coming out means Jack might be outed, means Bitty might be outed. It’s not your fault, you can’t control the media, and you know how Jack is a worrier. He isn’t the best with words.” and there’s a chuckle from both sides. They both know exactly how infamously bad Zimms is at expressing himself.

“He didn’t explain himself well when he called you, but you blew up at him, and accused him of the most hurtful thing you could have possibly said. And you had done that multiple times, every time you went to Samwell, Bitty’s told me. Jack never told me of these visits, he didn’t even tell me what you said when I called earlier, right after he called you. I suspect it’s because he doesn’t want me to worry about him, but Bittle has no such qualms of holding back information about when my son gets hurt.” 

Kent wishes he could erase those mistakes and fix everything between him and Zimms. That was what made him go back in the first place, wasn’t it? Instead, he’s only made more mistakes. He should have learnt to leave it alone, to leave Jack alone. 

With Bob’s admonishment, however, Kent feels that he has to learn to stop for good now. Because, he realizes, he ends up hurting those around Zimms too, like Bob and Alicia. Zimms’ new soulmate Bittle too, and that’s not fair, not to Zimms and not to those Zimms loves.

“Promise me you’ll try to stay out of Jack’s hair, alright?” 

“I… I’ll try.”

“Good. I’ll hold you to it.” Bob sounds pleased, finally relaxed. “You gonna be alright, son. The media cycle will find someone else to bother, and soon you’ll be free to go after your own man. Jack has got Bittle now, and you’re gonna get Mashkov someday.” 

Kent chokes and sputters, trying to get a response back to Bob. Heartless, Bob only guffaws at Kent’s flustering.

“Oh, yes, he told me, haha. I’m glad you also already know it’s Mashkov. Why haven’t you been all up his alley? You couldn’t stay away from Jack for even a minute, I’m surprised you haven’t booked a plane down to Providence! He’s been tweeting at Troy all this time too, you should have picked him up already, he’s throwing himself at you!” 

Kent can hear Bob wink, and it’s making him want to dig himself a hole and hide in it.

“I’ll leave you now, and the next time I hear from you, it had better be only good things. Goodnight, Kenny. I love you.”

“Thanks, uh… Night, Bob.” Kent can’t say ‘I love you’ back to Bob, not yet. Not when he doesn’t feel like he deserves Bob in the first place. He does love the man who’s been a father figure to him, but he’s let Bob down, and he’s gotta earn his place back. He’ll have to apologize to Zimms first thing in the morning.

Kent hangs up and lets his hand flop down with the phone. He lets out a long breath, covering his face with his other free hand. He stays like that for a while, until he feels a nudge at his thigh, and hears Swoops saying something at him that he remembers Swoops was there the whole time.

“So, that went pretty well, I guess? You didn’t say much of anything, which can always only be a good thing.” Kent gives Swoops the middle finger, but Swoops just laughs and shoves him. 

They end up kicking each other back on forth on the couch, which devolves into a wrestling match. It’s only when Kit meows angrily from her perch, woken up by the loud commotion, do they stop, chastised. A few moments pass and they dissolve into fits of giggles, embarrassed that they’re being ruled by the cold iron paw of a cat.

Swoops picks up his phone and starts scrolling through Twitter, assessing the situation. “You know what we need right now?” He says, with the sweet innocent voice he always uses when he’s about to be a little shit,  “A nice little pick-me-up, from our ever shining star of positivity from the East Coast, the light in the sea of shit-tweets.” Please don’t let him say Mashkov. “Let’s check for sweet vibes from our manly man’s man, Mashkov.”

Ugh, Kent is just not going to get a break today is he?

A few moments of tapping later, Swoops is frowning at his screen, seemingly puzzled. “Huh, his last tweet was from this morning, before you came out. Nothing since. That’s weird, you’d think he’d be all over trying to come to your defense like he did mine. Knight in shining armor riding on a white polar bear and all that.”

“White polar bear?” Kent questions the metaphor.

“Russian.” Swoops just says, as if that explains anything.

“Riding a white polar bear.” Kent repeats.

“It’s like you haven’t seen the Golden Compass movie, God.” Swoops replies exasperated, though still not making a lick of sense.

“Wasn’t the bear the one wearing the armor in that one?” Kent did not, in fact, watch the movie, but is gladly taking any path to steer the conversation away from Mashkov. He does remember the posters though, and it seemed like it was a little British girl that was riding a bear with armor and not a hulking Russian man? Either way, it was a weird movie, which was why he didn’t watch it.

“Same difference!” Swoops exclaims, throwing his arms up. “We’re talking about Mashkov, who has not come in to swoop us off in a heroic and daring rescue with his tweets.”

So much for steering the conversation away. 

“Well maybe he needs time for their PR to decide on shit or something. Took him some time to start tweeting at you didn’t he? It’s not a big deal.” Kent decides that if he can’t shift the conversation, maybe he can try to end it.

That turns out to be the wrong thing to say, because Swoops has his eyes narrowed at Kent. “… How did you know that?”

“Know what?”

“That Mashkov didn’t start tweeting at me till a while later.”

“Like… it’s public? It’s out there for all to see. Of course I know.”

“No, but you paid attention. Specifically enough to know when he started tweeting at me.”

Oh no. Kent can feel a cold sweat coming. He’s slipped up. Swoops is going to suss him out. “Um… well… I…” Come on Kent say something, save your ass.

“Could it be, that our very own Kent Parson, upstanding citizen and good captain, has been creeping on Mashkov and thirsting for some action?” A grin is creeping across Swoops’ face, and he is doing his eyebrow-wagging-but-not-really thing again. “Nah bro, I totally get it. The way he picked you up with one arm back in Providence, man that was so hot. He can pick me up and throw me around all day.”

“You. Stop. Now.” Kent would be more relieved at narrowly escaping being found out if it weren’t for Swoops’ intense thirst for Mashkov making him equal parts embarrassed and jealously possessive.

“Admit it, you want to tap that ass, don’t you?”

Only because he’s my soulmate.

Swoops has suddenly gone silent, and is looking at Kent with his eyes so wide the whites are showing all around. 

Shit, I thought that one out loud, didn’t I?

Swoops stays silent for many excruciatingly slow beats, looking so manic Kent almost wants to run out the door. He sits and waits for the blow, for Swoops to realize he isn’t really that great of a person Swoops thought he was, to break it off between them, to punish Kent.

“Oh my god you goddamn idiot! Why didn’t you tell me?!” Swoops finally bellows, hysterical, and Kent thinks yeah that’s why, you look like you’re gonna murder me.

“Cause he actually thinks it’s you. He had Ghost call me to get your number.” Kent defends himself.

“Still doesn’t explain why you didn’t tell me. And if he got my number, why hasn’t he called me?”

“I… I didn’t give him your number. Said you didn’t want to give it out.” Kent’s voice is steadily becoming smaller. He isn’t proud of what he’s done, and admitting it aloud reminds him of his misdeeds.

“Kent Parson, that is low. Understandably possessive, but low. You still could’ve told me, I’d talk to him and clear it up for you. Like, what were you afraid of?”

“I thought you’d be like, I dunno, devastated when you find out Mashkov isn’t actually supporting you cause of his good kind heart.” Kent shrugs, trying to go for the nonchalant look, while his cold-sweating doubles up under his shirt. 

“Bro I’m actually hurt you’d think that I’d care more about myself than about you getting your fucking soulmate.” The reassurance that Swoops would have stepped away from Mashkov for Kent throws a punch to his metaphorical gut, leaving him winded. Of course Swoops would do that, why had Kent ever doubted that he wouldn’t? 

Kent feels so silly now, for all his worrying about whether Swoops would be okay with him having Mashkov as his soulmate. He would have to make it up to Swoops somehow, on top of all the things that Swoops had already done for him.

“I’m… Shit I’m so stupid, but you already know that. I’m sorry I doubted you.”

“Fucking right you’re sorry. I’m gonna make you sit through the 50 Shades movie with me.”

Kent winces, but figures he deserves it. “That’s fair.” Swoops watches it for the so-bad-its-good comedic value, he says, but Kent thinks he might just be the kind of trash that enjoys trashy mom porn. 

“Besides, wanting to get into my pants is the best kind of reason to tweet me.” Also, Swoops is apparently in constant danger of dying from dehydration, the thirsty fucker. Kent thought his occasional sexual comments about Nathan were just him missing his boyfriend who he didn’t get to see regularly, especially since Nathan went off on deployment, but turns out Swoops is just plain horny.

“Hey back the fuck off, he’s my soulmate.” Kent feigns playfully, though, he thinks to himself, he really is possessive about Mashkov. Why else would he have lied to Ghost? Lied about Ghost to Swoops?

“Pssh, I was the one who offered to share Mashkov with you, you should only feel so lucky to have so generous a friend in me. You gotta tweet him back. Make it like you’re thanking him for me, or asking for support for yourself or something.”

Kent takes a deep breath, and decides that he’s not going to keep any more secrets from Swoops, especially not about Mashkov. He’s going to rip off all the band-aids tonight. Still, the blowback from the next reveal is going to be near blow-me-to-Oz levels, so in the smallest voice he could manage, Kent confesses, “I already have his number. Ghost gave it to me when he called.” 

“KENT VICEROY PARSON YOU HAVE HIS NUMBER AND YOU HAVEN’T USED IT?!?!”

Yup, there it is. Kent shrinks under Swoops’ subsequent rant, accompanied by wild gesticulating hands, increasingly looking closer to ripping his hair out, or Kent’s face off, or both. “—and you had his number and hid that fact from me. You have your soulmate’s number and you’re not even going for it, I cannot believe —”

Only when Kit wakes up and meows —actually closer to roars— at them again, does Swoops lower his voice and cool down somewhat.

“What made you even think —” Swoops hisses with a low voice, so he won’t wake up their feline ruler. “You know what, no, I don’t want to know. Probably some other stupid shit. As long as you fix it. You are going to use that number, and you are calling your soulmate tomorrow, and you are doing that first thing in the morning before we go back to face the shithole that is Aces management.”

Kent groans, but assents with a nod, because at this point, there’s nothing left to lose. Except maybe a little more dignity.

—O—

The knocking on Tater’s door is very insistent, and keeps going for a good five minutes at least. Tater tries to ignore it, hoping it’ll go away, but it only draws out a neighbor to yell at the unexpected guest, so Tater has to open the door to appease the neighbor. The sight of Zimmboni in his doorway with armfuls of bags surprises Tater.

“Hey Tater, Bitty made you a lot of food and had me deliver them. Euh. How are you doing?” Zimmboni raises and drops his arms to gesture at the bags, and Tater can see that they’re filled with tupperwares. There’s more of them than when B was trying to pack up his dinner a couple of nights ago, and Tater wonders if B thinks this is how much he normally eats.

Mutely, without answering the question, Tater steps aside to let Zimmboni in. Thankfully, Zimmboni doesn’t comment on the state of disarray Tater has left his apartment in. Tater leads the way to his kitchen counter and hastily clears away some space for Zimmboni to place the food. 

Zimmboni begins to take out the tupperwares and hands them off to Tater to put into his fridge, rattling off what they are. A whole array of pies, of course, though they’re miniature and bite-sized. Some pasta salad, potato salad, fruit salad, “For the carbs and veggies. I told Bits that Nate would be upset if he only made pies.” 

And then there’s the whole kulebyaka, untouched, forlorn. It matches Tater’s emotionally exhausted state: he feels stale and dried out.

Instead of handing it over, however, Zimmboni unwraps the kulebyaka and asks for plates and forks, as well as something to cut it with. Tater provides the utensils, still having said not a single word, and Zimmboni busies himself with cutting out portions for them both. As he puts a plate into the microwave, Zimmboni turns to say, with a smile quirked up on his lips, “Don’t tell Bitty I didn’t use the oven, he’ll berate me about it.” 

The softness of Zimmboni and B’s familiar affection with each other warms Tater, even as pangs of envy spring up as well. Still, Tater doesn’t reply, and Zimmboni, true to this nature, does not break the silence, switching out the plates, and they wait for the other portion to be heated up together. Once done, they sit down on the stools at the kitchen counter and dig in. The kulebyaka is surprisingly close to how Tater remembers it should taste like, and he is very impressed with little B’s culinary powers. 

“This is very good,” Tater breaks his silence to tell Zimmboni, and in return receives a beaming grin from the proud boyfriend. “Is tasting very close to real thing. Some difference spices he used, but is good, is still reminding me of kulebyaka from home in Russia. B is very amazing baker.”

“Thanks, Tater. I’ll let Bitty know, he’ll be very happy to hear that. He always says that it’s a small good thing, to have the taste of home to comfort us when we’re feeling down.”

There’s an intentionality to the statement, but Tater can’t deny that it’s true. He does feel much better with the comforting taste of something familiar, and nods at Zimmboni before returning to his meal. 

Tater eats voraciously, only slowly beginning to realize how hungry he is after not eating much yesterday, sensation returning to his stomach as he wakes up to the world. Tater carves our another large portion after cleaning off his plate, and Zimmboni smiles at Tater’s lightened mood.

Only after they have finished their portions of the kulebyaka and move on to the pear mini pies (“Especially don’t tell Bitty we heated this in the microwave”), does Zimmboni breach the topic of their failed dinner.

“I’m sorry for what happened two nights ago, at dinner. I shouldn’t have assumed, and definitely should not have made you come out like that. It was wrong, and I apologize.” Earnest eyes seek forgiveness, and Tater is reminded of the flight back from Vegas, when Zimmboni was thoughtful and open. It’s almost enough for Tater to forgive him, but the hurt from discovering Parson as his soulmate stains his emotions, and Tater cannot untangle his feelings yet to absolve Zimmboni.

So Tater stays silent, and casts his eyes away to his pie, slowly setting it down. After a few beats, it becomes clear that Zimmboni is waiting for a response, and Tater can only say “Thank you for bringing food, and B for making.” It’s not the absolution Zimmboni wants, clear from the crease in his brow, and he starts sputtering explanations.

“I’m really sorry Tater, I’ll make it up to you, however you want. I didn’t tell anyone, haven’t told anyone, not even when they asked if I knew what you were up to yesterday. I swear, everyone was so worried, you weren’t answering your phone and all, but I didn’t say anything, all this while I knew. Please don’t hate me, I’m truly sorry, I —” 

“I don’t hate you.” Tater interjects, saving Zimmboni from his panic. “I’m just, still upset about Parson.”

“Okay. Tater, I’m still very sorry.”

“Okay.”

A few more beats of silence pass, this time less comfortable than in the beginning, before Zimmboni switches tracks.

“I don’t know what happened between you and Kent, you don’t have to tell me anything, but we’re all worried for you, the guys. The team doesn’t know what happened for you to disappear like that, someone even wanted to come by yesterday to check up on you, but we had the game and no one could make it. Can I tell the guys that you’re okay?”

“No.” Tater says, and quickly clarifies, “Uh, no need,” as Zimmboni’s face falls from the apparent rejection. “I will call George and coach, and go to practice today. I’m better. Food really helped, thank you.”

With that, Zimmboni takes his cue to leave. “I’ll leave you to get ready. Practice today is at two. See you, Tater.”

“See you,” is the reply Tater gives. It’s a promise, he tells himself, that he will go, and he will see Zimmboni and the team again. One day of moping is enough.

Right before he leaves, though, Zimmboni pauses at the doorway. He considers something, and then with slow measured words, says, “For what it’s worth, Kenny isn’t a bad man. We’ve hurt each other a lot, but only because we weren’t good for each other. He’s protective, fiercely so. He shielded me from a lot, helped me through a lot. He isn’t a bad man.”

“Okay.” What else can Tater say to that?

“Bye, Tater. See you later.”

“See you,” Tater repeats, and Zimmboni closes the door behind him.

Tater piles his dishes into the dishwater, gathers his strewn clothes into the laundry machine, and takes a long hot shower. Then, he makes good on his promise, and turns his phone back on to call George. The missed calls come pinging in, with some texts from each of the Alternates and the other guys as well. Snowy, Poots, Fizzy, even Ghost and Guy. Their concern reminds Tater that he has a team that deeply cares for him, and he feels so grateful to be with the Falconers.

There is, however, an unknown number that called him twice, and also sent him texts. There are texts from two unknown numbers, actually, and Tater pulls up the most recent ones, from the second number.

“Hey Mashkov, this is Troy. I know this is kinda weird but, Parse called and texted you but you didn’t answer, so I’m here to make peace I guess?”

“I know you guys are soulmates, he told me. He’s been an idiot for not contacting you, and if you’re mad at him, please don’t be.”

“If you wanna lay low now that he’s out, that’s understandable. It was really great that you stood up for me when it was my turn. Thank you, I really mean it.” 

“And sorry for dragging you into the mess in the first place.”

“Anyway, please don’t be mad at Parse? I’m mad at him already, so you don’t have to be. Just, I want him to be happy, you know?”

This is Troy? And the other number is Parson? Tater is still feeling bitter about Parson lying to him, but is curious as to what Parson has to say. Why he would reach out now, especially after coming out.

Tater checks on the other set of texts, and reads through them.

“Hey Mashkov. Parson here. Um, I’m guessing you don’t want to answer my calls, and it’s some random number you wouldn’t recognize anyway but. I’m sorry, for a lot of things.”

“I know you think Swoops is your soulmate. But, it’s actually me. I’m sorry for revealing this over text, I know it’s shitty but Swoops will kill me if I don’t clear this up.”

“It was me you were smelling that night out in the alley behind Sundown. I’m also sorry for Swoops dragging you into the whole mess, but you’ve been great with tweeting support for him. Thanks for that, really. It meant a lot to him.”

“I, uh, lied to Ghost about Swoops not wanting to give his number out. I’m sorry, I was stupid, I didn’t want to let you fall for him. It was selfish. I’m really sorry.”

“If you hate me for this, I understand. Please don’t? I want to try. I’m sorry I fucked this all up and we’re starting on the worst footing. And now I’m out too, so you’re gonna get screwed publicly associating with me.”

“You don’t have to. You can find another soulmate, it could be safer for you. But I wanna try, us together. Let me know, please? And I’m sorry, really I am.”

Tater did not expect a confessional session today. Zimmboni, Troy, and Parson, all clearing out the air with him. It’s quite a lot to deal with, and especially with Parson acknowledging and apologizing for lying, and admitting that he wants to try. He wants to try being with me.

Tater reels at the revelation, the reversal of his assumption about why Parson lied to him. There’s no reason to hold back from calling Parson immediately, to say that, yes, he wants to try too. But something stays his hand, doesn’t let him dial the number and jump right in. He can’t shake the hurt, even when he now knows it’s all a misunderstanding. Instead, he just stares at his phone, at the phrase “I wanna try”, until the laundry is done.

He handles the laundry, and calls the people he needs to. Then, he heads off to practice, to see those who care for him, and clear his head by immersing himself back into the familiar rhythms of skates and sticks. It doesn’t work, the words keep echoing inside his mind, his inner voice repeating “I wanna try” over and over and it feels as much a repetition of Parson’s words as a declaration of his own.

—X—

Kent does try calling Mashkov, but it doesn’t go through. He sends texts explaining himself, but he gets no replies. He would be more stung by the rejection, if it weren’t for the fact that he also promised Bob to apologize to Zimms, and is dreading that call. Thank god for Swoops with his insightful suggestion. “If you always fuck up every time you talk to him, why not write an email? You get to think about what you wanna say and not blurt out things you’d regret.”

Which is how he ends up sitting at his couch with his feet on the coffee table and laptop balanced on his thighs, trying to hash out his apology. It’s so goddamn difficult and Kent doesn’t know where to start. He’s groaning and moaning and being a bit petulant, much to Swoops’ annoyance. 

“Just fucking say ‘I’m sorry for being a fuck up’ and get done with it already! We’re gonna be late for practice and there’s a game tomorrow that we sure as hell can’t miss, if we’re not scratched already. Gotta show that we’re still Captain and Alternate and we’re the ones running the show.”

“It’s hard alright jeez, I don’t know how to not be a dick.”

“Wow, that’s a new one. Such self-awareness is rare from you. I should have recorded it.”

“Fuck you, why are we even friends.” Kent retaliates, flopping back against the couch and letting his head hang back. He releases another long groan, and Swoops has had enough.

“Alright, we don’t have time for this, get in the car. Write the damn apology on your phone. We gotta go now.”

So they go back to Swoops’ place to pick up his gear and clothes, while Kent types and retypes his apology. They make it to T-Mobile Arena right on time for practice and Kent bashes out his email before sending it off. He has no time to think about it anymore. He’s walking into the arena where his team is waiting for him, ready to have his back, and where management is also waiting for him with less open arms. 

Kent doesn’t care anymore, though. He’s walking in tall, and whatever they do to him, it won’t be because he’s the bad guy.

——

From: Kent Parson

To: Jack Zimmerman

Subject: I’m sorry

Hey Zimms,

I’m going to start out and say I’m sorry. I said some horrible things I’m not proud of. Not just last night, but all the times I went to your school too. I never learn to keep my mouth shut and stay away, even if it’s the best option for us. You did hurt me, by pushing me away so suddenly and moving on without me, but it wasn’t right for me to come and deliberately hurt you again and again, just because I felt hurt.

Bob called me last night, told me that you loved me. I know we never said that to each other, we were too afraid to. We were so young. I loved you too. I loved you so much. I never wanted to let you go, and I lost you the more I tried to hold on. 

You’re not a bad guy. I said you were but you’re not. I’m sorry. Don’t let me get to your head. It’s ironic that now I’m the one you need to stop listening to. I used to be the only one you would need to listen to when you get too overwhelmed by what others are saying. I hate myself for doing that to you. You are worth it, you’re worth the world to me. I would have quit the Aces to be with you if you had asked then. 

But we’re here now. You have Bittle. Bob says he’s good for you. Hopefully he’s better than I will be. I promised Bob I won’t contact you anymore, if you don’t want me to. I’m really sorry, and I’ll always love you. 

Always yours,

Kenny

—O—

Parson’s coming out goes as well as anyone can expect. He and Troy get a show of support from all the LGBT aligned groups and some commercial sponsors, while other haters drop vitriol and hatred so sharp that Tater seriously fears for their safety from the frightening threats of violence. Undeterred, the two Aces regain control of their social media accounts and take the online world by storm, interacting with supporters and taking loud stances about their sexuality. Many other Aces players have stepped up too, distancing themselves from the Aces management and coming forward en masse to stand with their Captain and Alternate. 

Interesting revelations start trickling out as well, such as the Aces management putting a stopgap on their players from publicly displaying support for Troy before. More homophobic comments from higher-ups are continually being revealed too. The public pressure for those that have been called out to be removed from their positions intensifies into very ugly Twitter wars, but of course, no one is fired. Still, the trade deadline comes and goes, and having been exposed, no other NHL team is willing to to trade with the Aces in fear of receiving the same backlash. 

Meanwhile, Tater retreats from it all, mellowing his incessant support for Troy and only retweeting the official Falconers statement of solidarity, as well as liking some other tweets to appease fans who think he’s developed a grudge against Parson. It’s not exactly untrue, since the residual hurt never cleared even after the apology and explanation from Parson. He’s still figuring out how to approach Parson, his soulmate, how to make it work, how to walk into Parson’s life while the media spotlight is trained on the Aces. He does find it slightly amusing that some people have interpreted it as him being upset at Parson clearly stealing Troy away from him, like they’re in some trashy pulp romance love-triangle, except gayer. 

That’s not to say that Tater goes through miserable times. Mostly, life goes on just the same. He works hard and the Falcs win more games than not. They go on roadies and Tater starts sitting with Zimmboni more and strikes up a warm friendship with him and B, and at one point, he even convinces Zimmboni to take him to visit Samwell! It’s a fun diversion for which Tater breaks his Instagram silence, because he finally gets to see a real American frat house, be in a frat party, play (and lose) beer pong against the most incredible little lady. Best of all, B made him extra blueberry jam as thanks for offering to drive the other jam deliveries to the rest of the Falcs. Tater relaxes and forgets about the media for a day, and he thanks Zimmboni profusely for it.

Nonetheless, as the season soldiers on, the media cycle ramps up, and the conversation and visibility around both Troy and Parson intensifies. Troy appears on Gay Vegas, Parson on Out, and they go on Ellen and even Stephen Colbert. They are tapped for You Can Play and it becomes one of their most watched videos. Rumors are circulating about a joint spread on the Body Issue, ostensibly as a couple (a detail which Tater does not appreciate). Apparently that’s the only logical explanation for Parson’s outburst and defense of Troy, and the media is milking that cow till it runs dry. 

Not all the coverage is fun and positive, however. Tabloids are also constantly after them, the paparazzi hounding them both like they’re a Brangelina breakup. The pap shots and invasion of privacy unnerves Tater, and stays his hand whenever he tries to contact Parson. He knows he should make the call, provide support to Parson like he wanted to for Troy, but self-preservation kicks in every time he recalls another incident when Parson or Troy had a run-in with tabloid reporters harassing them in public.

Worse still, Zimmboni’s predictions have come true. When he started out in the Falcs, quite a few reporters would keep asking about the past relationship between Zimmboni and Parson, but now, they are relentless, bombarding him with question after question on how he feels about Parson now, whether they were a couple in the past, whether he’s jealous of the Parson-Troy relationship. Seeing how exhausted Zimmboni used to get defending himself from his past even before Parson came out had already pushed Tater’s buttons the wrong way, and now watching Zimmboni having to navigate around even more invasive and personal questions makes him near furious but even more hesitant to step forward.

He’s not the only one who’s furious, however. Bad Bob, Zimmboni’s father, launches into the fray with a wrath unmatched, using his legendary status as leverage to pull punches against those who attack both Zimmboni and Parson. Especially as the season drags on and the media distractions start to affect the Aces’ performance and their playoff standings start to slip even further. 

Those distractions are just the salt in the wounds from the intensified rough playing against the Aces, however. It worries Tater a lot that the whole team is starting to feel the effects of the rougher playing, with more dirty checks and fights leading to increased full-five penalties and more injuries taking out Aces players for longer periods. Many fans and analysts have called for harsher penalties and stricter refereeing, while other detractors have said it’s all part of the game and bringing it up is the real distraction. Tater tries to ignore the ones who say the Aces deserve it.

It all comes to a head when Parson blows up during a post-game interview. The Aces have just lost a bitterly fought game against the Stars in Dallas, and one of the reporters asks a loaded question: “The Aces have played sub-par for a while now. Do you think your and Troy’s coming out has been the cause of the team’s distractions and poor performance?”

Immediately, Parson’s face turns the most ugly shade of red and purple, and he grabs the mic off its stand as he stands up and yells at the reporter.

“That’s so fucking rude. Are you serious? We’re not the ones who keep bringing sexuality into the game. You are. It’s not relevant, we’re just trying to play our best game. All these dirty checks and slurs thrown against us, and we just keep our head down and push on. But no, you media pundits and reporters and tabloids won’t stop talking about it. You hound us, run mics up our face when we’re trying to get Starbucks, and worse of all you go after people like Zimms, Zimmerman, who is not even involved in this. Lay the fuck off Zimmerman. Lay the fuck off all of us.”

The rant and accompanying mic-drop have become instant memes, with video and gifs circulating about like wildfire. It intensifies the debate around them, and has the opposite effect of putting more media focus onto Zimmboni. He was mentioned out of the blue in the tirade, so something must have been up between him and Parson. 

Tater recalls how Zimmboni assured him of Parson’s character, that Parson is a good person who is protective of those he cares about. That trait is becoming more apparent to Tater, with Parson coming out just to protect Troy, and defending both Troy and Zimmboni against the media at his personal cost. Tater feels a gradual shift in his appraisal of Parson, like a glacier slowly retreating as it melts, uncovering hidden depths and treasures, raw but exquisite. He sees Parson in a new light, like having Zimmboni capture better lighting with his camera and bringing out a more beautiful picture.

Still, Tater does not press send on the texts he writes to Parson. He wants to lay low and focus on the game, to avoid being another distraction to Parson. It’s a poor excuse, but fear will take any rationalization it can get. 

——

From: Jack Zimmerman

To: Kent Parson

Subject: RE: I’m sorry

Hey Kenny,

I’m sorry too. It wasn’t fair to you that I broke everything off without a word. And when you came back, I was jealous and scared, so I kept pushing you away, especially when you became vindictive. The things you said were really harmful and you know that. I don’t think I can let you back in my life again, though I’m sorry it turned out this way.

Papa told me about the talk he had with you. Back then, after the draft, I was afraid that he would love you more than me. He loved you just like a son, so much that I was afraid I wouldn’t compare up to you. It’s one of the reasons I tried to keep you away. That’s was wrong of me too, you deserve papa just as much as I did. I’m sorry I tried to prevent that. 

I think I was never brave enough to admit that I loved you. I told Bittle I didn’t. I’m still not sure, even if papa says I did. I’ve tried really hard to avoid the past, it’s too painful to go back there, which is why we can’t be around each other. 

But I do know that you were good to me. I remember you doing so much to protect me from what others said, from myself. Thank you for that. And thank you again for defending me in Dallas. You didn’t have to. I can’t tell you not to care about me, but I can thank you for everything good you have done for me.

I think it’s taken me this long to reply because I was too afraid of falling apart from your words again. I didn’t read your email until your outburst in Dallas. I’m still afraid of how we’ll be around each other. I meant it in Providence, I have Bittle and I love him, and I hope you’ll let us be. I’m sorry that it has come to this, but it’s all for the best.  

Go find your new soulmate, Kenny. He’s out there, closer than you think. I took so long to admit to Bittle that I loved him, because I was so afraid of at all falling apart like we did, but he’s been so good for me. Your new soulmate will be for you too. I know it. If it all goes well, we’ll be at each other’s weddings, eh? At least that much I can promise. Until then, goodbye Kenny.

Best wishes,

Jack.

 —X—

The Aces eventually make it to playoffs, but the combined media stress and injuries from the season have taken their toll on them, and they get pushed out in a withering 4-1 near sweep in the 2nd round against the Schooners. 

Swoops is near devastated, because they had been fighting so hard for so long, him especially, to prove that their being gay had nothing to do with playing the game well. To prove that they could be gay and still be the best team on the ice in the NHL, that it wouldn’t matter. He wanted so badly to prove them wrong. 

Some of the talking heads did take this line and run with it, but usually, they were talked over by the increasingly numerous sympathetic commentators. It doesn’t hurt that Bob had also been appearing on some of these shows to talk down any who dared speak anything untoward about any of them. Still, the loss affected Swoops severely, and Kent spends a few days with him alone to comfort him, and then drags him to a few misery-parties with the team, which does improve his mood.

Kent himself is similarly affected, but has been more occupied with the lack of response from Mashkov. He hasn’t gotten any reply at all, through text or tweet. During the season and their run in the playoffs, Kent has been preoccupied with the media and getting his team through their games, all while dealing with a semi-hostile management waging a civil war within themselves. Now that it’s all ended, and he and Swoops are safe for at least another season, his mind drifts back to Mashkov.

I must have screwed it up big time with him. He doesn’t want me, not with the media circus around me. He didn’t even tweet anything, and he did so much for Swoops. I’m probably less of a man in his eyes than Swoops is, especially if he knows about me and Zimms. 

For all his initial outrage at Kent, Swoops has largely left behind Mashkov, or Scumbag-Can-Suck-Army-Dick-For-All-I-Care Nathan, for that matter. Instead, he’s back into the role of comforting Kent for the latter’s miserable love life, for the lack of contact from Mashkov, and especially after Kent got the reply email from Zimms, which he put off reading till after the Aces have lost their run for the cup. 

Kent calls up Swoops, weakly whinnying and sniffling, and without even managing to say anything, Swoops appears at his doorstep 15 minutes later with tubs of ice cream. Kent has his snotty ugly cry into his Ben and Jerry’s that he couldn’t even properly enjoy, and Swoops actually relents to watch Shrek 2 instead of the 50 Shades movie he was threatening Kent with. 

It’s heartbreaking to learn that Zimms couldn’t admit to loving Kent still, and to receive definitive orders to not talk to each other again. Coupled with the fact that Mashkov has effectively turned him down, and Kent is left a blubbering mess. He even feels jealous that Mashkov was invited to visit Samwell with Zimms, aching with the knowledge that his soulmates are so close to each other while he’s estranged from them.

Still, life goes on, and Kent recovers slowly from his aching soul. He and Swoops spend their time acting as new faces for LGBT in sports, earning them decent deals in promotions and sponsorships. His most prized possession would be from the time he got to appear on Ellen, right in the middle of their final roadie when they were playing the LA Kings. She gave them underwear, and Swoops wears them all the time now, but Kent had his framed. 

If I knew these were the benefits of coming out, I would have done it a long time ago, he joked on Twitter, showing off his framed Ellen underwear. That accidentally sparked up a fiery discourse about pink capitalism and he had to avoid social media for a while for that conversation to cool down.

Kent also takes immense and perverse joy in the wild speculation that he and Swoops are soulmates, or at least dating. Why else would he throw himself in front of the bullet for Swoops, right? Only a True Romantic Partner would do such a thing. They spend a few nights reading fanfiction of them, and have a riotous time laughing about it, because the fans have no idea how much more complicated their stories could be, or how little sex was involved at all (none).

The speculation reaches the Aces and the team chirps them for it, though only half-jokingly. Turns out, nearly three quarters of them actually did think Kent and Swoops were a couple all this while, either from suspicions of their sexuality since before either came out, or concluding from Kent’s knight-in-shining-amor response. 

After an exasperating round of Q&A in which hardly anyone believes their denials, Swoops ends up having to tell them about Scumbag-Can-Suck-Army-Dick-For-All-I-Care Nathan and the lead up to the whole incident at Sundown, even throwing a dramatic wistful sigh for Mashkov (which Kent does not appreciate). Only then do the guys believe them, because it’s such an outlandish story, so much of it like it came straight out of a romcom, that it must be true. No one could make this up if they tried.

A few of the Aces, Lenin especially, have been enthusiastically introducing Swoops to their single gay friends since. Despite a lot of exasperated eye rolling, Swoops had hit it off pretty well with… Carlos? Cecil? Someone starting with a “C” at the last misery-party, and Kent considers it a job well done on everyone’s part. They aren’t soulmates, but Swoops doesn’t mind, preferring something casual for the time being. 

The guys have tried introducing men to Kent too, but he only kept channeling them off to Swoops, playing wingman instead. It doesn’t go unnoticed and thankfully, no one calls him out on it and they stop trying to push prospects in his direction. Although Swoops tries wingman back at Kent, he fails on account of how stubborn Kent can be. It led to some befuddled suitors, confused as to which hockey player was supposed to be wheeling them. 

Eventually, the Falconers make it to the Stanley Finals against the Schooners, and Kent has just finished watching the first game, a close loss for the Falconers at Seattle, when he gets a call. He sees the ID, Bad Dad, and gulps. He’s apologized to Zimms, and Bob’s been outwardly supportive of him, so he has nothing to worry about. Except he’s nervous that he’s let Bob down somehow, and this is the call to break the news, that by losing in the playoffs, he’s put all of Bob’s effort to waste. 

“Hello?”

“Hey Kenny. How are you doing?”

“Um, pretty good, Bob. I… uh, I’ve been okay.”

“If you say so. I know you guys worked hard and made it to the second round of playoffs. That’s reason to be proud, especially with how low you’ve been treated.”

“Thanks, Bob. You really went out there for my ass, it helped a lot.” 

“I promised I would, and they really do deserve to be fired, the lot of them. Besides, it’s good practice for when Jack comes out.” Bob chuckles, like it’s a good joke, but Kent just pales when he thinks of how affected Zimms would be by the media fracas. 

“Anyway, I heard from Jack that you emailed him. Not what I expected, but it worked out, and it sounds like you both had an understanding with each other. That’s good.”

“Right, that. Yeah, I… yeah.” The reply he got from Zimms still hurts a lot. Zimms couldn’t admit that he loved Kent. Zimms would be better off without Kent. Zimms wanted them to stay away from each other. Zimms wanted no more contact, possibly ever. Deep down, Kent knows that these had been true for years, that it was only his denial that prevented him from acknowledging the truth. 

“Look, you’re still alive and breathing, heartbreak didn’t kill you. It hurts like a motherfucker, I know, but you’ll find the right one.”

“What if they all don’t want to be found?” Kent sounds pathetic, he knows, but Bob has always had the effect of bringing Kent back to a child-like vulnerability and openness around him. 

“You know, Alicia is my third soulmate. Third. The first one got traded away to a different team and the second one I was traded away from.” A thunderbolt crashes through Kent, hearing Bob so casually reveal himself to Kent like this. Some dark part of his mind thinks like father, like son, and Kent can’t help but think that it’s inappropriate but so fitting.

“Back in the day, I felt like dying each time. For falling in love and losing it. I had to hide it, and there was no one there for me. But I’m here now, I have Alicia with me, and we love each other like crazy. She says I still give her heart eyes, and I believe it, because every morning I wake up and see her next to me and I think ‘I’ll never see anything more beautiful’. Son, you’re gonna be alright.” Bob reassures Kent, and it gives him a measure of hope that if Bob can make it out of the so much heartbreak to find a third soulmate, Kent can survive too.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll try, Bob.”

“Good, because I’m going to watch Jack at Providence for Game 3, and you’re coming for lunch with me. Just you and me. Then we can watch the game with Alicia and Bittle, how’s that sound?” 

“Wh- what? I’m going to— but Zimms, he said not to—”, Kent sputters, not sure where this request came from and whether he should assent.

“I know Jack wants to avoid you, completely understand that part. That’s why we’re having lunch, and then I’ll have dinner with Jack and Bittle and Alicia. That way, you won’t interact.”

“But why?” Kent asks bewildered, unable to see any reason for Bob to go through the trouble.

“Can’t a man want to spend time with his billet son which he loves and hasn’t seen in nearly a year?” Bob counters, and it’s not an innocent question in the least. Bob has a plan, and Kent can see the trap, he just doesn’t know what the endgame is. Still, he’s got no escape, and the only way out is through.

“Yes, yes he can.” Kent relents, knowing full well that Bob has probably bought the plane tickets and booked the restaurant before even calling him. Bad Bob gets what he wants, at least when it comes to Kent.

“Perfect! Because I’ve bought the plane ticket for you.” Yup. “And we’re booked for Pot au Feu. I’ve been meaning to go back to try other things off their excellent menu, but Alicia doesn’t like to repeat restaurants, so this is a perfect excuse to return.” Double yup. “And I got you a jersey, so you’ll blend right in at the family section.” Of course. “I’ll send you the details right away. See you this weekend! Oh, and pack some nice clothes, you’ll want to look good. Alright, bye!”

Bob hangs up immediately, not even waiting for a response from Kent. Kent is still wracking his brains trying to find a reason for Bob to want Kent at Providence, when the gets the flight and hotel details, as well as the restaurant. 

It’s not till he gets a picture of the jersey does it all click into place, and Kent literally smacks himself in the forehead for not realizing sooner. Bob doesn’t just want Kent there with him. No, he wants Kent to be there because he’s a nosy matchmaker.

The Falconers jersey doesn’t have “Zimmerman” with a 1 on the back. Not at all. Instead, it has a 23, and “Mashkov” blazing right across the top.

—O—

Even before he exits the tunnel, Tater can feel it. The smells of the arena, the dryness of the ice, the metallic tang of skates, the plastic and rubber of the boards, they assault him, and Tater knows that Parson is here. It’s a shock that fills his mind, and only muscle memory brings him onto the ice when his name is announced. The lights are too bright, the sounds too loud, the smells too strong. 

Tater doesn’t need this now, doesn’t have time to be muddled in his senses and his hesitations over Parson. The Falcs have lost their first two games against the Schooners, and they need to step up their game if they want to hold onto their chance for the cup. Tater has to be in top form, and it’s going to be difficult under this distraction.

He scans the crowds, and it doesn’t take him long to find Parson, curiously seated next to Zimmboni’s parents and a sulking B on the far side of their little group. They’re all in matching Falconers jerseys, except Bad Bob catches Tater looking and excitedly waves his whole arm, then pulls on Parson’s jersey to show that he’s actually wearing Tater’s number instead of Zimmboni’s like the rest of them. It’s a puzzling arrangement all around, especially because B clearly looks very put out, and Parson similarly looks like he wants to be anywhere else but here.

Tater skates over to Zimmboni to ask him about the situation as they gather around their home bench for the American National Anthem. “Zimmboni, why is Parson here with your parents and B? Why is he wearing my number?”

“Kent’s here?” Zimmboni asks in turn, turning around quickly to look for himself. “But why… Merde, papa.” Zimmboni sees his father waving next to Parson and quickly realizes something.

“He brought Kenny… He didn’t tell me, only said he and maman was coming to see the game and have dinner with me. If I know him, he’s the one who orchestrated getting Kent here in your jersey, and I’m pretty sure I know why…” Zimmboni trails off, hesitant to finish the thought.

“Why, Zimmboni? What he’s thinking?”

“Well, I might have… euh… told him that you and Kenny were soulmates. But this was right before when you came over for dinner!” Zimmboni adds immediately after seeing Tater’s eyes widen, scrambling to explain his actions. “Kenny had called and said some things that had me shaken up, but papa, he called me right after, as if he knew. We talked, and he asked if Kent was still my soulmate and I said no, you were his soulmate. That’s all. I’m sorry I told him, I shouldn’t have.”

“And now he is being, what is word, wingman? He is bringing Parson to bring us together?” Tater asks, incredulous at the situation at hand, not clear-headed enough to care that Zimmboni had told his father when he said he hadn’t told anyone else. 

“I believe he is playing matchmaker, yes.” Zimmboni winces admitting that, and just before Tater can continue with their hushed conversation, the Star Spangled Banner finishes, and they are gathered off to huddle and then sent onto the ice as first line. 

Despite his whirling senses, Tater plays a strong game, feeling pumped from the home crowd. By the end of the second period, though they’re still tied at nothing, the Falconers have pushed forward and held the puck in the Schooners’ zone far more than the converse. 

Tater chances a glance over to the family section, where he has pointedly avoided his gaze thus far. Immediately, he zones in on Parson, who has similarly locked his eyes to Tater, as if he has been looking at nothing else the whole time. Parson’s eyes have this opalescent quality, changing color in the lighting, and right now, under the fluorescent lights glaring off the ice, they look both light green and faint brown. Even with the distance, Parson’s eyes draw Tater in, and they can’t turn away from each other. 

A gloved hand claps on Tater’s shoulder and he is drawn back into his body. He turns and sees that Zimmboni has sat down next to him on his other side away from the family section. Tater turns back around to look at Parson again, but finds that Parson is no longer looking at him, or up at anything at all. Instead, he’s looking down into his hands, suddenly closed off into himself. Zimmboni also notices, because he’s frowning deeper than usual. 

“He’s been looking at you the whole game.” Zimmboni says aloud to Tater without looking at him, still frowning over at Parson’s ducked head.

“Yeah.” Tater acknowledges.

Zimmboni takes a few moments to breathe in slowly, even and measured, like he’s counting them in. Tater flips between watching Zimmboni for what he’s going to say next, and trying to catch Parson’s gaze again. Parson is still determinedly avoiding the benches, head down facing his lap.

“Meet me in the corridor outside the locker room after the game,” Zimmboni says, catching Tater off guard. It’s only a suggestion, and invitation, not an order, but the implications are clear. Zimmboni is offering Tater the fastest route to meeting Parson, which means that Zimmboni, in all his complicated history and past relationship with Parson that could force the latter to put his gaze away, still approves of Tater and Parson getting together.

Tater doesn’t manage to reply, only share a moment of eye contact with Zimmboni, inviting eyes meeting indecisive ones, before it’s broken as Zimmboni shuffles down to the furthest end of the bench and leaving Tater his space. 

Slowly, as if not daring to disturb the moment of stillness he has, as if moving too quickly would shatter the world around him, Tater turns back towards the family section. He pulls his torso around, leaving his head dragging, eyes trailing behind, drawing out the inevitable collision between his line of sight and Parson’s, which he knows, just knows will already be there waiting for him, head held high for Tater.

Finally, it happens all at once. The instant his gaze falls upon Parson, green-brown eyes full and dark with desire boring straight into Tater, and his world shatters anyway. Everyone else dissolves into mist, the buzzing crowd muted behind a veil in his ears. That rich smell of chocolate cut through by sharp grass, faint because of the slight distance and open space between them, still becomes ever more piercing. 

And Tater realizes that he wants. He wants to meet Zimmboni after the game, wants Bad Bob to bring Parson down the corridor, wants to finally get to stand face-to-face with Parson, wants Parson. 

He spends a lifetime with Parson, gazes locked onto each other. They live together, have difficult but fulfilling careers, buy a house, start a family, grow old. Tater can see it all, and he can’t imagine anything else but a future with Parson.

His nostalgia for their future together gets aborted, however, when Ghost knocks him on the bucket a few times to draw his attention back to the land of the living. They’re gearing up for 3rd period, and coach is doling out strategy to get the game in the bag. Ghost cheerily waves at Parson when he finds that’s who Tater had been staring at, and returns his attention to the tactics being discussed. Tater, still not fully back, still finding his mind pulled back into Parson’s orbit, finds it hard to concentrate, and has to have Ghost repeat most of coach’s words back to him.

The last period sees the Falconers pressing harder with their offensive play and managing to score two goals. They keep Snowy from needing to do his job very much, though he maintains his shutout when the puck does come his way. Throughout, Tater keeps getting distracted, his gaze periodically drawn towards Parson and always finding his eyes. However, the strong offensive lightens Tater’s role in the back, and he manages to keep his wits enough through the plays without messing them up. 

When the final buzzer rings, the Providence crowd roars on their feet for their first win in the Finals series, overjoyed that they still have a fighting chance. Tater is hugged by Poots on the benches, and they bounce with joy, but what Tater really wants is to run off into the showers and get out as quickly as he can. He can feel Parson’s gaze trained on him, feel the hairs on his neck prickle even through the sweat, and he puts in all the effort he can muster to not look back, because he doesn’t know if he can pull himself away if he catches Parson’s eyes again.

He practically sprints back into the locker room and showers in record time once they’re released to do so, changing out and packing up his gear. He takes in chirps but gives few back as the rest of the team chatters on, lifted by the high from their win. 

Not long after, Zimmboni is ready to go as well, his haste no doubt for Tater’s benefit, and leads the way out of the locker room. The team doesn’t take particular notice of their early departure, and Tater is glad to escape having to explain himself. Also, the smell in there was rank and he could definitely use that personal cubby filter he suggested while chirping Guy. That’s one side effect of meeting his soulmate Tater could live without.

Out in the corridor, with just Zimmboni and the occasional staffer entering or Falc leaving the locker room, Tater rocks on his heels, unable to stay still. Meanwhile, Zimmboni casually leans against the wall, texting on his phone. Tater’s buzzing with nervous energy, he doesn’t know what to say, either to Zimmboni or to Parson when he’ll be alone with him again. No, not ‘again’— for the first time. 

Suddenly, Tater feels unprepared. He’s not ready to meet Parson, he doesn’t know how to make everything between them okay, how to clear out all the misunderstandings and start over. Can they even start over?

Before he can spiral deeper into panic, however, a smell that is beginning to become familiar to Tater wafts in, heralding the arrival of his soulmate. He immediately fixates onto the far end of the corridor where it turns around a corver, waiting for the owner of this inexplicably alluring combination of chocolate and grass to appear. Then, footfalls sound out, growing louder and louder, until a blond head pokes out from behind the corner, and little B comes into view.

B sees Zimmboni and immediately picks up his pace, having broken out into a full run by the time he leaps into Zimmboni’s arms and is twirled around, a scene right out of a movie. Zimmboni’s parents pop out from the corner in while this is happening and take in the view of young love to wide grins and stifled giggles. 

Tater only vaguely registers any of this, his focus trained on the corner, waiting for who he knows is still hidden out of sight. Every second he waits feels like a new forever, like he’s seen the lightning and is counting for the big clash of thunder to run the shock into his bones, the anticipation rising in tension with every moment it doesn’t yet arrive. 

Until it does, and the roaring hits Tater with a jolt anyway, from the intensity of the feeling, of seeing Kent Parson again, so close, so available to Tater. 

Parson has his head down, and isn’t looking over. Tater doesn’t have to wonder who he’s trying to avoid, as B has made his distaste for Parson pretty clear since day one of Tater meeting him. Zimmboni must have picked up on this, because his banter with B dies down. He makes quick introductions for Tater to his parents and immediately makes his way to leave, saying he’s hungry. 

B hardly manages to exchange some Southern pleasantries with Tater before being dragged away hand-in-hand with Zimmboni. Full of understanding, Bad Bob and Alicia politely excuse themselves as well, though Bad Bob’s eyes were twinkling with delight. He pats Tater on the arm and says, “Take care of Kenny, will you?” before turning to go, and Alicia counters sweetly with a laugh “Don’t mind him, Tater. Have a good night.”

Zimmboni pauses at the corner, and appears to say something to Parson before turning and disappearing. Bad Bob pats him on the shoulder, while Alicia gives him a hug before also disappearing off to their dinner. 

Then it’s just them both, Tater and Parson in the corridor. A pause develops between them, neither of them sure who should make the next move, until Tater recalls how much he wants to hold Parson and breaches their stalemate.

That’s all it takes, and they’re both striding forward, eyes locked as they march towards each other. 

They stop two feet apart, hitting another invisible wall. Now what? They’re standing face to face, now what?

Now, Tater finds out the truth. Whether Parson wants Tater as much as he wants Parson. Whether the texts saying Parson wants to try were the truth, whether Parson would still want him after his radio silence all this while. So Tater begins.

“You want to try.”

—X—

Kent arrives at Boston and there’s no one in sight to greet him. Kent rents a car at the airport, feeling very exasperated that Bob would leave a child alone, running off on his own without a car or other means to get to the hotel that Bob booked for him. Not that he’s a child that needs to be minded. It’s just the lack of logistical preparedness, you know? Kent’s not spoiled.

He checks into the hotel and apparently he’s the only one booked in, for only one night. Apparently Bob and Alicia are not staying at there. They’re probably going to be at Zimms’, so he’s all on his own. Again, leaving a child alone. So much for professing to wanting to catch up with “my billet son who I love like family”. Clearly very cared for here. 

He’s only even booked for one night, with no return ticket. Kent had no idea where he’s going to stay or how he’s going back to Vegas when he first received the details. In the end, he packed some nice clothes as well as some more for a trip down to New York. He figured he might as well go drop by home for a surprise visit back once this game done with. He’s even set up Kit with a sitter for a week.

It’s deathly late in Providence, and Kent is tired enough from the flight that he falls asleep in the hotel room pretty much immediately. The next morning, he wakes up to a sun already high in the sky, as he blearily rises from his Pacific Time slumber. His phone says 10:34 AM, and Kent just shrugs at himself. 

Might as well call it a big brunch with Bob, combining late Pacific Time breakfast with early Eastern Time lunch. He calls Bob to let him know about the plan, which gets approved. Then, checks out of the hotel, packs up his luggage and drives off to the restaurant.

The lunch is really good. Bob treats him and orders way to many platters of escargot. “I don’t know why Alicia doesn’t want to come back, she loved these last time.” He also grills Kent on Mashkov and Swoops, questions to which Kent only gives non-committal grunts or sputters in embarrassment, depending on the tone and topic. (“So, have you had contact with Mashkov?” or “So, have you had ‘contact’ with Troy?”) For all of Bob’s loud defense of Kent’s privacy when he’s on air, he sure is nosier than Perez Hilton meeting Paris Hilton when it’s just the two of them.

They part ways, Kent with his seating pass in his pocket, and he drives around Providence looking for things to do to pass the time. He finds a pet store and browses the cat food selection, asking for recommendations for new things for Kit to try, because his princess deserves nothing but the best. 

After he orders online for some to be delivered to his place in Vegas, he apologizes to the salesgirl for not buying anything from the store and offers to autograph something as a sort of compensation. She declines, finally disclosing herself as a Falconers fan and saying it would be treason to accept his autograph. Kent hopes she didn’t offer him bad cat food instead, and he tweets about the entire episode. It brings in chirps from the Aces and his followers, but it entertains him for long enough.

Soon, it’s time to head to the arena for the late-afternoon game. His stomach is grumbling for lunch, since it’s still living in Pacific Time, and he buys a hot dog, devouring it all even before getting to his seat. 

Only when he arrives, though, does he realize that he was never given the jersey Bob bought for him, the one with Mashkov’s name. Instead, Bob is already sitting in the section with Kent’s jersey waiting for him on the seat next to Bob. It’s a smart move, because Kent wouldn’t have willingly worn it to the arena if Bob had just handed it to him at any point before he arrived. 

He heads over to sit next to Bob, who is chatting up some of the wives. Kent knows some of them, he’s seen them at the NHL Awards and various other events, and says hi to those he recognizes. Bob catches Kent’s voice and interrupts himself to whip around to face Kent, expectantly holding the jersey out to him and wearing the most shit-eating grin Kent has seen on any person in Bob’s age group. 

Rolling his eyes but not willing to make a fuss that will only be a sure loss anyway, Kent slips on the jersey and plops down in his seat, to the giggles some of the other family members. They may not know exactly what is happening, but they can smell a set-up and revel in the schadenfreude of seeing Kent suffer.

Kent missed warm-ups, which is just as well, because he doesn’t think he would be able to handle seeing so much of Mashkov. The tingling sensation hasn’t sprung up yet, so Kent is allowed at least a few more minutes of sanity before the pheromones steal it all away. He’s dreading what will happen to him this time around now that he’s actively pursuing Mashkov. Well, kind of. Beginning to actively pursue. Semantics.

It’s almost time for the countdown to the player introductions when Alicia and a small blond boy walks towards Kent and Bob. He’s talking animatedly to her, and has a sweet looking smile, but when he notices Kent, the smile drops immediately and ice develops in his voice. 

That must be the new soulmate.

Bob had avoided talking too much about Zimms or Bittle, so Kent did not know that he was going to have to sit through the game not only with Mashkov within close proximity, but also within strangling distance of a very understandably displeased ex-soulmate’s current-soulmate. They make formal introductions, and it must be the most awkward handshake he’s ever made. 

This is the kid outside Zimms’ door that night at the college party, Kent recalls. They’re probably already in love then, and he knows exactly how much I hurt Zimms.

Bittle takes the seat furthest from Kent, and Kent is actually grateful that Bob gave him a Mashkov jersey instead of a Zimmerman one. God, if Bittle saw him in a Zimmerman jersey, he might not make it out of this game alive. The short man looks just about ready to stab something, and Kent does not want to imagine how Bittle would be like if he suspected Kent of coming back to try to steal his man. Again. 

Alicia charms Bittle out of his cold shoulder to talk about the latest summer fashion, while Bob starts up a commentary next to Kent about his analysis of the plays he’s seen between the Schooners and Falconers so far. Kent and Bittle are both mostly quiet, just absorbing what the Zimmermann parents are saying while waiting for their soulmates to appear, as if this is the most normal group dynamic in the world.

The knot in Kent’s stomach tightens further, however, when the announcer gears up to start the countdown, because Kent can feel the tingling in his nerves starting to zip around. The players are gearing to get on the ice, lined up in the tunnels, and somewhere in there, in one of those tunnels waiting, is Mashkov. Mashkov who will no doubt be feeling the same as he is.

The announcer begins and calls in the Schooners to boos and jeers from the crowd, but Kent can hardly care about them, even if they did beat the Aces out of the running. He’s waiting for one person only, and as the Falconers are being called one by one, Kent grows more impatient. 

Just get it over with, call his name already! He can’t stand the tension, the knowledge that Mashkov is right there. Kent can smell it, but still can’t see him. It’s driving him off the edge.

Then, there he is, following his name onto the ice, large and imposing but moving with that grace all skaters have. Kent is struck by how beautiful he finds Mashkov’s skating. It’s nothing like anything he’s felt for another player, even Zimms. Mashkov is lankier, still broad but less thick-set than Zimms, and Kent can’t look away. 

However, Bob catches Mashkov looking back at them and waves excitedly, then yanks on Kent’s jersey to show off Mashkov’s number on his arm, prompting Kent to turn his face away. It’s embarrassing, and Kent can’t bear to look Mashkov in the eye for that exchange. 

The moment quickly passes, and soon Zimms takes to the ice too and introductions are over. They stand for the national anthem but Kent catches Tater and Zimms together, whispering to each other. Zimms turns around for a quick glance, and Bob waves again, but Kent can see the shock of betrayal in his eyes, reminding him that he’s not supposed to be near Zimms again.

Still, once the game starts, Kent finds his gaze drawn to Mashkov the entire time. He hardly spares a glance at Zimms, nor even bothers to follow the puck. All the can do is watch his soulmate be a machine of nimble muscle working with precision and strength, irresistibly alluring. Mashkov is focused on the ice, never returning his gaze into the crowd for too long, and never into the family section. Kent desperately wants him to, though, wants Mashkov to look back at him, to see him there.

It takes all the way till the end of the second period, when Mashkov has sat back down onto the benches, before he looks over at the family section. Kent immediately captures him with his own gaze, and they enter into this world where no one else exists, just the two of them, locked onto each other with nothing else that could matter.

Mashkov breaks first, by turning away towards someone who has sat down next to him, and it’s Zimms. It’s Zimms and the world comes crashing back into Kent, the world with all it’s painful history, and he drops his head from the weight of it. 

He clasps his hands together, grabbing onto himself for lack of anyone else he can hold on to for comfort. Kent is unsure how he can ever be with Mashkov, if it means having to be around the Falconers and in close proximity to Zimms again. He knows that it will be something they have to negotiate between them eventually, and he’s afraid of what will come of it, whether he’ll lash out and hurt Zimms or Mashkov unintentionally.

But in the email, Zimms said to go after my soulmate, and he knows it’s Mashkov. Kent has been given permission to pursue Mashkov, and the realization is enough for him to pick his head back up, in time to see Zimms standing up and shuffling away from Mashkov. 

Slowly, almost glacially, Mashkov pulls himself around, leading with his torso and trailing his face behind, until finally, their eyes meet once more, and they re-enter their dance into each other’s souls.

He’s falling. Kent is falling straight into those soft brown eyes bright behind the visor, and he  learns that icy blue is not the only color that can make his heart race. Kent’s breath deepens, becomes heavier as his pounding heart demands more oxygen, and a small hint of lavender accentuated with dry sea salt tickles its way into Kent’s nose, sending his mind wheeling. It’s become almost familiar now, the unique scent of Mashkov that triggers Kent’s body awake. 

Mashkov is the first to break away again, when Ghost pulls his attention away back to the team, and Kent can’t help but feel a cold loss. Ghost waves at Kent, which he returns, but his mind is occupied with nothing but the face of his soulmate, so desirous of him and those moments that they shared. Kent learns that he wants it too, wants for this to work so much it aches in his chest, to fill the holes he gouged out of himself for Zimms, to feel whole again.

The Falconers return to the ice and resume their game, eventually winning, but for once, Kent could hardly care less. His focus has become concentrated on nothing but Mashkov, and he follows no one else as his vision tunnels down to the single person that could mean everything to his life. Kent knows he’s getting too far ahead of himself, just like he did with Zimms, when he fell in too deep too quickly and burned his way through them both, but it’s hard to hold himself back. It’s always been hard.

As the Falconers leave the ice, Mashkov doesn’t look back out onto the crowds. Kent doesn’t notice as he is led back to the physical world by Bob nudging him and announcing that they’re all going down to the locker room to meet Zimms. Bob knows that Kent isn’t supposed to be near Zimms again, he’s told Kent just the same, so it comes as a surprise. He thought Bob would only go so far as to drag him down to Providence, instead of all the way into the Falconers’ locker room. 

The group heads down into the bowels of the arena, away from the crowds. Bittle leads the way, excited to meet his soulmate. Kent’s ex-soulmate. It should hurt more, but it doesn’t. Instead, Kent is only feeling nervous about meeting Mashkov properly. Their two encounters weren’t under the best of circumstances, and their interactions since have been stilted by the tumultuous events surrounding the Aces.

So when he trails behind Bob and Alicia, he pauses right around corner turning into the corridor he knows leads to the locker room. He can hear Bittle laughing, having run into Zimms’ arms and welcomed with a low laugh from Zimms himself. Bob was right about that, Zimms does laugh for Bittle now, and Kent is actually not bitter at all, only relieved that Zimms has turned out happy.

The lavender-and-sea-salt smell has been steadily increasing in intensity as they were making their way to meet Zimms, and Kent knows that around the corner, Mashkov will be there waiting for him too. All Kent has to do it walk around the corner, and there he will be. It’s scary, and all of a sudden, all the doubts about whether Mashkov would want him come flooding back. Kent is so close to finding the answer, and he doesn’t want to drag it on any longer, so he tamps down those niggling doubts and pushes himself onward.

He steps forward around the bend, holding his eyes at his feet, afraid that he’ll meet judgmental eyes from Zimms, or worse, from Mashkov, and freezes in place again, unable to move forward.  His past is holding him in place, his promise to Zimms planting him far away so that he doesn’t hurt Zimms again. Apparently, Zimms notices, because only a few moments pass and he’s there beside him, with Bittle’s hand in his. 

Kent meets those icy blue eyes, and sees that softness he used to get, all those years ago in the Q, and knows that he’ll always love them, love Zimms deep down somewhere in his heart. He also knows it won’t kill him anymore that he can’t have Zimms.

“Be good to Tater,” is all Zimms says, and then he turns and walks away. It’s permission enough, that Kent is allowed to be around Zimms if it comes from being with Tater. Kent knows this is a generosity and kindness that he must treasure, because it would have been easy for Zimms to be cruel and deny him access to Tater. He’ll be good to Mashkov, to ensure Zimms’ magnanimity isn’t wasted on him.

Bob and Alicia follow soon and Kent gets a pat and hug from them respectively, before they head off after Zimms and Bittle to dinner together as a family. 

Then, it’s just them in the corridor, him and Mashkov. Kent’s feet are still unwilling to move, but all it takes is Mashkov to start striding forward for Kent to be pulled towards him as well, opposite poles of two magnets on their way to collide.

Mashkov stops two feet away from Kent, and he halts too. He doesn’t know what to say, how to even begin, but he doesn’t need to, because Mashkov’s voice, deep and inflected, says what Kent wants to hear.

“You want to try.”

It’s not a question. Mashkov isn’t asking, and Kent lets the spark of hope in him kindle up. Maybe Mashkov wants to try too. All the signs have pointed in that direction today.

“I do.” Kent says, and already, he hears himself say it again, when they marry, when they take their vows, he’ll say ‘I do’ again. 

Take it slow, take it slow, don’t go there. Kent has to pull himself back to the present. It’ll only make it hurt more when everything falls apart.

“You lied to me.” 

Again, Mashkov isn’t asking questions. His tone is inscrutable, the accent making it even harder to discern whether he is displeased with Kent, or disgusted, or repulsed. Kent feels like his insides have been flooded with cold water, his hope doused by Mashkov’s simple statement.

“I… I’m sorry. I know it was stupid, I was stupid. God, I’m so selfish. I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise I won’t lie to you, ever again. I swear.”

“You know as well, at first I thought my soulmate is Troy, that night at club.” Mashkov barrels on, ignoring Kent’s apology. “And then he come out, and I think I should also come out. Show support in biggest way. Say ‘I am soulmate, I will be here for you.’ Make sure Troy does not suffer alone.”

“But you’re Russian! That would have hurt you going back home wouldn’t it?” Kent knows about the difficult situation, his own Russian teammates having had a hard time coming forward to publicly support him because their families might face consequences back home. He had already felt impressed with Mashkov’s bravery supporting Swoops, but now he’s even more blown away by this man’s selflessness and protectiveness. 

Kent also finds himself wanting to be part of that circle. He has had so many years facing problems by himself, holding his troubles close to his own heart. It was exhausting. Sure, he shouldered some burdens with Swoops when it was about leading the Aces, or especially on the pressures of being gay, but Kent has longed for someone to care for him in that way only lovers can.

Only now, Kent expects Mashkov to see him as probably the worst possible human being. A liar, a traitor. Mashkov wouldn’t want anything to do with him after what he’s done. What Kent doesn’t expect is praise.

“Look at you, being so concerned about me already. So protective of strangers and friends.”

It doesn’t make sense to Kent, why Mashkov would think of him that way. He’s done nothing but hurt the people he tried to love. Before he can ask, however, Mashkov continues with his testimony.

“You are right. Russia would not be option anymore, if I come out. Not safe at all. But I thought, if I have soulmate here, build life here, would be worth more than going back. Can pay for family to fly here to see me instead anyway.”

Mashkov is willing to give up so much for his soulmate. Again, Kent feels admiration for his courage to sacrifice an easy life for love.

“Then I find out is you. Zimmboni tell me. I thought, ‘Parson lied to me. Is lying dirty rat. Is not wanting me’.” Mashkov says the last few sentences with pain palpable in his voice, and Kent knows that he’s lost his chance with Mashkov then. He’s already let down Zimms’ directive to be good to Mashkov, right from the start.

“I’m so sorry I hurt you. I… I’ll go, it’ll be better that way. I won’t hurt you anymore. There’s… I’m sure there’s someone else out there better for you than I am.” Kent turns away to leave, tears prickling at the edges of his eyes.

Before he gets to run away, however, a hand lands on his shoulder, stopping him. It’s large and warm and impossibly gentle. He wants it to never let go, to hold on to him and to hold him. To touch him and caress him, run up through his hair and everywhere down his body. God it’s been so long, and now he’s shattered any possibility he had with Mashkov. Why does he keep doing this? Has he done Zimms so wrong, so badly that he doesn’t deserve love anymore?

“That’s not what I’m saying. Not what I’m saying at all.” Mashkov’s voice is weary, and Kent just doesn’t understand. Hasn’t he just told Kent that he’s been wronged? 

Still, he stays rooted, his back to Mashkov as the hand sits on his shoulder, and he can feel Mashkov take another step closer. They’re so close now that Mashkov’s smell invades Kent’s senses and crowd out the world, drowning Kent into the all the different scents that are now clearly discernible. The musky scent off Mashkov’s neck, the wetness of his breath, the cologne that is the source of the deep lavender smell, and the crisp sea salt coming from what must be the shampoo used in his hair. All of it comes together to paint a portrait of Mashkov in Kent’s mind. 

Kent closes his eyes, but instead of blocking it out, it simply becomes stronger, seeping into his chest, setting his body afire. It takes everything in him not to start sobbing from want of what he cannot have.

“I wanted to come out to protect soulmate, but you did for Troy even when you’re not soulmates, just Captain for teammate in trouble. So much braver than me. You fight bad management, bad media, bad teams and players and fans, all this you do. When people go after Zimmboni, you also fight for him.”

Mashkov slips his hand off Kent’s shoulder, and he feels the loss so keenly a whimper escapes his throat uncontrolled. He whips around and looks up into the soft brown eyes of the tall Russian, who has suddenly stooped and become so small. 

“I’m feeling so guilty, for wanting to protect soulmate when is Troy, but for Parson I do nothing. Parson who is so strong and caring, but I hold petty grudge and stay quiet. Now is me that is rat, not deserving Parson with good heart.”

Kent did not expect guilt from Mashkov, or think that anything he’s done for Swoops and Zimms in public had much consequence to anyone else. Is this what people actually think of me? But I’m not like that, I’m not worth it.

“You didn’t have to do anything for me. It’s better anyway, you still get to go back to Russia.”

“I already said. If I get soulmate and build life together here, this become home now. In Russia, I cannot have soulmate. I want soulmate, Kent Parson.” The loud booming voice has been replaced with a low whisper, almost begging, aimed down at the floor between their feet.

“You want a soulmate?” Kent asks, the doused hope in his heart rekindling as a faint ember. He dares to reach his hands up, and tentatively hangs them off Mashkov’s shoulders, pulling their bodies closer together. He can feel the heat radiating off the larger man, their breaths getting harder as they fall into each other’s space, their intermingling scents inundating their senses.

“I want this soulmate,” Mashkov says, and then he closes the gap, pressing his lips to Kent’s.

They kiss and the dam breaks. They stop holding themselves back, stop existing as two people, and start melding onto something complete and divine. They kiss as desperately as if running out of air, like they need to breathe each other in to survive. Kent’s hands move up into the soft curls of hair on Mashkov’s head, while Mashkov’s large hands wrap around Kent’s waist to pull him almost off his feet as he presses their bodies together, not leaving an inch of space apart. Their tongues dance about, lips mashing together and teeth clacking, the sloppiness is paid no heed as they get intoxicated on each other’s mouth, body, smell.

It’s the same every time, no matter with who, Kent thinks, recalling when he and Zimms discovered that it was them —each other— that was driving them insane from proximity. With Mashkov, it’s no different. When it’s right, when the pheromones point you to your soulmate, it’s always butterflies and fireworks. Always starts exploding into supernovae. Always like life has gone right, will never go wrong, will be happily ever after.

Kent knows that’s not true. Painfully untrue. Suddenly he’s afraid again. What if he hurts Mashkov again? What if it becomes a repeat of how bad it was with Zimms? What if they implode and scar each other up? Kent can’t handle another blow like that again, the fragile pieces of his heart that he painfully glued together over all these years have never fully healed at the seams, and if this fails he might never be able to put himself back together again.

He pulls away, and is rewarded with a needy whine from Mashkov. The sound undoes him, weakens his defenses, makes him want to hold on and never let go, but he has to ask.

“I’m scared, Mashkov. I’m so scared this will fall apart. What if we’re not good for each other? I don’t want to hurt you again.”

Mashkov reaches up a hand and cups Kent’s face, running a thumb softly across his cheek, the other arm still holding him pressed to Mashkov’s body. Kent turns his head and leans into the touch, drawing tactile comfort to settle his fluttering thoughts.

“We just have to try,” comes Mashkov’s reply.

“Okay.” Kent can work with that. It’s so simple. They just have to try.

“Come stay with me.”

What? Kent’s eyes widen at the request.

“Come stay with me. Until playoffs over. Until next season. I want to see you every day. Wake up in the morning and see you next to me. Eat meals together. Go run together. Spend as much time together as possible. To make up for lost time, for not telling soulmate earlier. Please, Kent. I want you.”

“Okay. Yes, yes Mashkov, okay. Yes!” Kent throws himself up onto Mahkov, and is caught in his strong embrace. He spins Kent in a circle, right out of a romcom, and they’re both giggling and laughing. It’s all so perfect, and going to only get better.

Mashkov gingerly puts Kent down, presses their foreheads together, and says, “For you, I am Alyosha. No more Mashkov.”

“Alyosha.” Kent repeats, trying out the feel of the name on his tongue. He finds it sweet like a cherry, rolling out like a kiss. “Alyosha. Call me Kenny, Alyosha.”

“Kenny.” The name is repeated with a quick peck on his lips from Mashkov —no, Alyosha— and finally, Kent feels like he can be made completely whole again.

—XO—

Kent moves in with Alyosha for the few days they have in Providence before the Falconers have to fly off to Seattle for Game 5. Since Kent had already packed enough clothes and planned to be away for a week, the arrangement is perfect. He secretly thanks Bob for his meddling, though he doesn’t actually tell Bob for fear of inflating that man’s ego any more.

Turns out, living together with Kenny is too easy. Within the five days they have together, they settle almost seamlessly into the most comfortable existence with each other. They talk about everything and nothing, catching up into each other’s lives, discovering each other’s quirks and idiosyncrasies on top of the already numerous and outlandish hockey superstitions. The little habits and details also start to reveal themselves, like how Kenny likes to eat too much chocolate, or how he dabs on his grassy aftershave with a towel rather than just spraying it on.

As they learn each other, their interests and preferences, they find that they match up too well, sharing the same excitable personalities, taste in food, music and TV, and most importantly, compatible rankings on who has the best ass in the NHL. (It’s a certain Jack Laurent Zimmermann.)

Tater maximizes his time with Kenny, getting him to do everything together. He asks Kenny to go with him on his runs, past the parks and along the river in Providence. They work out together in the gym, grinning like idiots as they spot each other at the weights. He brings Kenny out to lunch dates and dinner dates, at all his favorite hole-in-the-wall establishments and high-end restaurants. They hold hands when they’re walking out on the streets, and all too often end up chasing each other around like teenagers. 

It’s so freeing to be able to love and be loved that Tater finally understands so many love songs. Their intense joy used feel close to exaggeration to him, but now that he’s finally felt it for himself, he realizes it really does feel like an addictive high he never wants to come down from.

Though come down he must, or at least certain specific parts of him. Tater firmly stands by the no-sex-during-playoffs rule, so it’s become a challenge trying to keep his hands off Kenny. Especially when half the time, all he wants to do is to ravish Kenny on any surface nearby. 

It doesn’t help that they make out a lot too, so when hands start roving to pull clothes off, Tater has to exert so much self-control to stop himself that at one point, he simply runs off into the bathroom and locks himself in for half an hour. That gets an incredible whine from Kenny, and when he finally emerges from his self-imprisonment having personally dealt with the “issue”, Kenny put on a pout so dangerous that Tater almost strips to offer himself up as penance. Almost. He considers it for a long time after, though.

They wake up in bed together in the mornings, and when the golden sunlight hits the soft blond hair of his man, Tater can’t help but feel like he’s captured the sun itself. 

“Solnyshko,” he murmurs, as he brushes the hair away from his soulmate’s eyes. 

“Hmm?” comes the sleepy reply. 

“Little sun, solnyshko. You are my beautiful soulmate, my bright sun. Kenny, solnyshko.” Tater kisses his solnyshko’s forehead, then breathes in his soulmate’s scent that’s starting to mingle into his sheets. Tater feels like his world cannot be more perfect.

“Solnyshko. I like that, Alyosha. I like it a lot.”

Tater gets a wild idea, then. He wants to kiss Solnyshko holding the Stanley Cup. The Falconers have lost both games at Seattle but have pulled up to tie the series by Game 4 on home ice. He keeps the idea to himself, but sets plans into motion. 

Solnyshko hanging around Providence and attending Game 4 too doesn’t go unnoticed for long, especially when they have been publicly going out together without a whit of care about who sees. People have gotten suspicious, and while they both ignore the media speculation, the other Falcs are quick to catch on. So when Ghost asks if Tater has heard the rumors about him and Solnyshko, Tater doesn’t even hesitate and takes the opportunity. He casually replies with a chuckle, “No need to hear rumors, Ghost, when Kenny is staying with me. We are soulmates.”

Just like that, just like Zimmboni had done, Tater comes out to his team. He gets a lot of chirps for it, especially from Art. “When I said it could be someone from the other side, I didn’t mean go date the Captain of the enemy. Jesus, Tater.” Still, it’s all in good fun, and they’re all supportive of him, just like they were with Zimmboni. Tater could not be happier to be part of the Falconers.

He tells George after that, and they work with PR to come up with prepared official statements for when Tater comes out in public, whether intentionally or by accident. Better safe than sorry, after all. The Falconers are not going to sit and wait until the lid blows off, especially given what they’ve learned from what happened with Solnyshko and Swoops. (Solnyshko insisted that Troy should be “Swoops”.) 

Tater promises George that he won’t officially come out until the season it over, though he knows it will probably have to be soon, given that he hasn’t bothered to be discrete with his activities with Solnyshko. He does ask George for permission to kiss Solnyshko with the Stanley Cup if the Falconers win, and she gamely replies that if they do win, she’ll let him do anything he wants and personally fight anyone who objects. Georgia Martin is a godsend.

Alyosha suggests to Kent a get-together the Falconers as his official soulmate, and Kent pales, becoming hesitant and unsure of himself. He wants to be friends with Alyosha’s friends and teammates, but being around Zimms still puts him on edge, and he isn’t ready to cross that hurdle yet. He hems and haws, not wanting to upset Alyosha, but his soulmate picks up on the hesitancy and says it’s ok, they don’t have to do it so soon. 

Kent is so grateful for Alyosha’s tenderness with him. It’s completely different from back when he was with Zimms, when it was all rough edges that Kent had to work to dull. He worked so hard to take care of Zimms, who was constantly threatening to fall apart, and whenever Zimms would reciprocate any semblance of care, it was only through indirect actions hinting at concern. They were so desperate for connection, to work out their relationship while having to keep it hidden, and it took a toll on them both.

Now, with Alyosha and Kent both out to their teams, and without needing to prove themselves worthy in the eyes of others, they get to be soft. Kent finally realizes he’s not going to miss being with Zimms anymore, when he accidentally walks into Alyosha’s coffee table and is scooped up by Alyosha to be laid down on the couch, as if he were a precious and fragile gift. He gets kisses, massages, cooing words of comfort, and Kent realizes this is what he wants for the rest of his life. This is what love can be. He tears up, and the tears are kissed away. He hugs Alyosha and doesn’t let go for a long time that night.

They separate for Game 5, when Alyosha flies off to Seattle and Kent returns to Vegas to pack for his long stay with Alyosha for the summer. They Skype while apart, and already, the distance is carving out a hollow in Kent. He doesn’t know how he’ll manage next season, when they have to return to their own teams on opposite sides of the continent. The thought that he can look forward to years together with Alyosha in the future makes Kent giddy, but the geographical problem is something he has to figure out soon.

He asks Swoops how he managed to survive being away from Nathan for so long. He gets a sour look for bringing up Nathan, but the answer is apparently lots of sexting, phone sex, and Skype sex. Swoops also introduces Kent to the wild underworld of remote-controlled dildos, and while he’s extremely embarrassed to bring it up with Alyosha, the Russian has no such inhibitions, and launches into a very impassioned discussion with Swoops on which to buy and try out. Kent can only laugh and shake his head at the unbelievable men he chooses to associate with.

The Falconers win Game 5 decisively, and Tater’s idea takes root in his mind, making him even more determined to win the Stanley Cup. When they reunite in Providence again, all propriety is abandoned as Solnyshko dashes into Tater’s embrace, clinging tightly and burying his nose into Tater’s neck. Solnyshko breathes him in, re-enacting the scene that got Swoops exposed in the first place. They hear people snapping shots of them and they absolutely do not care. Distance truly does make the heart grow fonder, and Tater cannot be bothered by others’ judgment when the love of his life is right here in his arms.

Finally, it’s Game 6, and Solnyshko is back in the arena at the family section, wearing the Mashkov jersey Bad Bob got him. The wives and girlfriends are treating him well, and Solnyshko is not unsure of himself anymore, even if he is sitting in the furthest seat possible from little B. Tater hopes he can eventually help mend whatever rift is between those two, but for now, he’s happy that Solnyshko is here with him.

The game is grueling, with the Falconers trailing 3-1 up till the 3rd period, when Zimms scores twice in quick succession to pull them up to 3-3, with precious minutes left on the clock. Kent is tense as a rock, and the whole arena is buzzing around him. He sincerely wants for the Falconers to win, both because his soulmates are on the team and because he is now very, very salty that the Schooners pushed the Aces out of the running. 

“Come on, come on. Win it for the gays.” Kent mumbles out loud to himself.

“Actually, I think Seb mentioned that Jack is bisexual.” Gabby, St. Martin’s wife, comments behind him.

“For the gays.” He repeats louder, which only elicits giggles from those around him. 

Alyosha manages to push through an assist for Zimms to finish up a hatty, and the Falcs ramp up their defense to run down the timer. As the seconds tick down, with the score still 4-3 in favor of the Falcs, the crowd becomes more and more excited, until the final buzzer sounds, and suddenly the arena explodes into a cacophony of roars.

Tater is sitting on the benches wound up tight when it happens, and he rises to his feet, hopping around overjoyed and clinging onto Fizzy next to him. They begin piling onto the ice to crowd around Snowy to hug it all out. Blue and yellow confetti rain down into the ice, and all Tater can think is “I’m gonna kiss Solnyshko, I’m gonna kiss Sonlyshko, I’m gonna kiss Solnyshko.” He breaks away from the crush and rushes up to the boards, where Solnyshko has pressed himself up to meet him.

“Solnyshko,” Tater begins, out of breath from the excitement but determined to say what he wants to say. “Solnyshko, you have been the best thing to happen to me. I’m being happiest ever in life after we are together. You are soulmate and when I wake up and see you in sunlight I think, ‘This is my solnyshko that I want to have for myself forever.’ I want to kiss you, Solnyshko, with the Cup, so that all happiest moments in my life together. Come out onto ice with me.”

Tater watches Solnyshko expectantly, knowing he has to head back to the rest of the Falcs soon so that they can start handing around the Stanley Cup for the skate around the rink. Solnyshko, for his part, only takes half a second to be stunned by the request, before scrambling towards the benches. Tater takes this as his cue and skates over to tell security to let Solnyshko through when he gets there, and then heads off to regroup with the rest of the Falconers. He enters a cloud of chirps for talking to Solnyshko before them, but he’s grinning so hard from the prospect of kissing Solnyshko soon that the chirps bounce right of him.

The Stanley Cup is handed over to the Falconers one by one, and the crowd roars whenever a new person hoists up the cup, chanting the Falcs’ Flight fight song in between. Finally, it’s Tater’s turn, and he finds Solnyskho’s name and kisses it first, gentle and slow, before hoisting it above his head and roaring along with the crowd.

He eyes that Solnyshko has slipped into the benches, but not onto the ice, and as he skates over, he can feel absolutely no regret or second thoughts on his decision. This is what he’s wanted all his life, a soulmate to share his days with, all his accomplishments and joys. He wants to live together to life’s fullest, to be the happiest they can be.

As Alyosha approaches the benches where Kent is waiting, he heart pounds with anticipation. He is led out onto the ice by the hand, and with their other free hands, they hold on to the Cup together.

Slowly, taking their time so that everyone can see, they lean over the cup, and kiss. Whatever comes next, they know that they’ll be ready for it. He and his Solnysko, he and his Alyosha, together.

—XOXO—