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Less than twelve hours after the worst day of his life, Kent Parson went first in the draft.
It took twenty minutes for him to turn his phone off. Everyone he knew in junior high, every family member who’d ignored his calls, every single person he’d ever remotely known was trying to get ahold of him.
He had exactly zero fucking time for it.
What he also didn’t have time for was the reporters and paparazzi, all crowding for a snapshot or a soundbyte from the Las Vegas Aces newest rookie. Everybody wanted to hear about how Bad Bob had shaped his hockey, if the living legend had passed anything on to him, how Kent’s hockey would change without Zimms on his line.
As if his hockey had ever needed Zimms.
He didn’t want to deal with this shit, not right now, not when the world was spinning so fast it felt like if he took a single step he’d fall.
If he never heard the name Zimmermann again in his life, it’d be too damn soon.
*
That whole first season everyone was waiting for Kent to fail, even though Kent played half of it on a farm team in fucking Reno of all places. But they’d seen one half of the Golden Duo fall, and they were eager for symmetry. Everybody, even people Kent knew from the Q, was just hoping and praying he’d fail so they’d get a chance to shine.
But Kent had been made for hockey, more than anything else in the world. Kent was crafted exclusively for the feeling he got during a breakaway, when it was just him, the puck, and the ice.
And so he let the Reno Knights whip him into shape, push him to go harder and faster like a jockey eggs on a racehorse. He let them yank him around, break him down into rubble and build him back up again until he was towering above the other rookies, until the Aces called him up, until he scored twice in his first game.
His name was the only word on every announcer’s lips that night, the only thing anyone could talk about.
At least it should’ve been.
But Zimmermann kept turning up like a bad penny, coloring each bit of praise.
“We expect nothing less than this from one of Zimmermann’s prodigies,” one announcer said, like Bad Bob had just collected him as another accolade, something to put up in his house next to his Cup photos and awards.
“Can’t help but wonder what Jack Zimmermann would’ve managed if he’d gone first,” another answered, like Kent hadn’t poured just as much blood, sweat, and tears into this sport as Jack had.
Well, he’d just have to pour in more.
*
That first playoff season, the first time the Aces had even made it to playoffs, Kent barely felt pain. His body sang every time he hit the ice, and no check or fall could dim it. It felt like breaking free, like the first breath of air after almost drowning, like every cell in his body was wide-awake for the first time.
It felt like it used to feel playing with Zimms.
He’d rather die than give this up again.
*
When Kent was little, he’d been… average.
Nothing special about him or his family. His dad was a deadbeat, like everyone else he knew, and his mom worked too much, like every other mom he knew. They’d lived in a shitty house, but so did everyone else in his neighborhood, Kent’s clothes were always second-hand, but it never stood out.
He was blond, blue-eyed, and had nothing special about him at all. He’d look in the mirror and just hate every bit of mediocrity he saw staring back at him.
Part of him would wish he was invisible, just so he wouldn’t have to deal with how unremarkable he was.
So he pushed himself, found something to adore and made his world spin around it. Obsession was always remarkable, and he took his obsession like a penance. Other kids got to play outside and screw around, but not Kent. Kent got up early and went for runs, and lifted weights, and practiced until his feet bled and stained his socks crimson.
Still, it wasn’t enough, not until he told his parents he was leaving for the Q, and he wasn’t coming back.
When he got on the plane, it didn’t feel like flying.
It felt like running.
It felt like what he was born for.
*
Another season, and this time the Aces were ready for the playoffs. Kent had an A emblazoned on his shoulder, and he was damn ready to lead them to victory. Maybe it was egotistical, but he really thought he could make a difference with this team. He could be what pushed them to greatness.
PR loved him, he was everything Vegas adored - all flash, no substance. He’d show up, smirk and say something part flattering part scathing, and the public ate it up. He was a product of the NHL, an absolute goddamn disaster, but fuck did he make it look good.
If downward spirals were a work of art, he’d be the fucking Louvre.
His brain felt like it was falling apart most days, hell half the time during the off-season he genuinely thought he might be dying, but right now, with the last game of the playoffs looming hours away?
A reporter asked him before the game, what he was willing to do to get the Cup.
Kent had grinned, something sharp and primal and explosive.
“I’ll do whatever it takes.”
*
Ladies and gentlemen, your Las Vegas Aces!
Nothing would ever feel this good.
This was lightning, this was fire, this was the flood, this was every force of Nature-with-a-capital-N Kent had ever heard about. This was what it felt like to matter, this is what it felt like to be alive.
Kent was here, he was alive, he was the body electric. And every synapse sang out the song.