Work Text:
Sunlight pouring across your skin, your shadow
flat on the wall.
The dawn was breaking the bones of your heart like twigs.
There’s something about the desert that never really leaves Kent; always lies there in the back of his mind, hot and blistering as his first August day in Vegas. It follows him on roadies, when he heads home for the summer to visit his mom and Beth. It trails after him in the dead of Canadian winter when they make their northeast road trip and he finds himself dreaming of palm trees and sidewalk so hot you could fry an egg. It clings to him in the muggy heat of the south, so thick it’s almost suffocating for their games in Florida, tangible from the moment they touch down. Kent never thought he would feel dry heat and automatically think home , he never dreamed that one day the lights and noise of the strip would relax him in anyway, rather than rile him up. He never planned to stick around, instead, figured he’d opt for a trade after what was, arguably, the most hellish hockey season any sane person had ever experienced. Jack had hardly talked to him in their last year together, choosing instead to lock himself in his room and tell his parents not to take any calls from Kent. He never had anything to say to him in practice either, only talking to him if it was absolutely necessary or if Kent’s acting out for his attention, and while their on-ice chemistry was better than any other pair in the Q, it still wasn’t anywhere near where they had been just a few months prior.
He supposes he shouldn’t have been surprised then, really, when Jack just hadn’t shown up for the draft, when his name was no longer listed among the possible first round picks, when Kent had been shoved uncomfortably in the direction of the Las Vegas Aces. It had been mortifying.
The first few months were the hardest, when he barely got along with anyone, when he was itching for Vegas to admit that he had been a mistake, they never wanted him. He lived through Coach Kiney hurling verbal abuses at him left and right from the moment his skates touched the ice on the first day of camp. He felt like he was being stretched and rolled paper thin, so think that he could tear at any moment and let everything come crashing down around him.
But he keeps it up. He goes to practice with a smile and a smirk for Coach, trying his best to be flippant whenever he says anything particularly homophobic or disgusting that day to him, skating through it like nothing can touch him even though on the inside he feels like a pilot light has gone out somewhere. There’s no warmth in his bones anymore, not even the dry heat of Vegas is enough to save him, enough to drag him from the depths that he’s found himself in.
His first Christmas break finds him laying out by the pool with Beth by his side, his mom agreeing to let him fly them out to his fancy new apartment to spend Christmas in the warmth rather than the miserable winters of upstate New York.
Privately, Kent is grateful for the artificial warmth the sunlight provides, curling itself around his skin, the backs of knees and forgotten ashy elbows. He’s grateful for Vegas, for this blissful pocket of heat that doesn’t really feel like Christmas, but doesn’t feel like the ice of the rink that has buried itself in his bones. Gradually, over the few days he has with his family, he feels the tendrils of sun that slip past his curtains and gently wake him in the morning ease the perpetual cold he has been living under for months. The constant oversized sweaters that he has been cycling through, bought online from brands he evied other boys for having in the Q because who sells sweaters in Las Vegas that a teenage boy would want to wear, and aren't something that would land him with a massive fine with the team.
It wasn’t that he didn’t get along with the team per say, it was just. They were smart guys for the most part, and they saw how much Coach clearly hated him, how much of an effort he went to every day to make Kent’s life more and more difficult and they decided their best course of action was to stay far the fuck away from him.
But after the new year, things relaxed.
Kent got a new winger, Jeff Troy, from the Seattle Schooners. Jeff was no nonsense, didn’t take anyone’s shit, especially not Kiney’s. Especially when his agent had somehow negotiated him a no-trade clause for the rest of his three years with the Aces, and Jeff had made it very clear on the ice his first morning: between him and coach? He was the one with staying power. Kent had never seen Coach turn that particular shade of red, and honestly, it felt good to not be the only one on the receiving end of all that verbal abuse for once.
He offered to take Jeff out for lunch after, to show him the better places to eat if he wanted to stick to his diet. Jeff just smiled at the offer and asked Kent which obnoxious car in the lot was his.
It was the start of a very beautiful friendship.
You had not expected this,
the bedroom gone white, the astronomical light
pummeling you in a stream of fists.
He wonders, sometimes, if it ever gets easier. If he will wake one morning without the sickly feeling of sweat cooled along his collarbones, his neck. If the stiffness in his shoulders will ever truly leave, even in his most peaceful of moments. He dares to hope for the bruises, black and blue, that line his body will fade pale with time and leave him with something closer to functioning than he’s seen from the others after their times in the league are just a fond “remember when”.
Kent spends his mornings trying to remind himself that there is a good reason to leave his bed. That there is enough of a reason to shower, to eat, to get himself to practice. Once he’s on the ice, there’s no problem there; he loves hockey, always has. It’s just. Everything else that makes it almost not worth it sometimes.
But things, he admits, have been getting easier. Jeff was the straw that broke the camel’s back and after a month of backtalk and angry gestures, management finally decided to let Kiney go and bring in some new coaching talent. Timothy Grey, insists the guys call him Tim, is closer to Kent’s age than anyone he’s ever worked with as a coach, even in his time in Pee-Wee. Saul’s just shy of 40, his hair still mostly brown, and on his very first day he has them all sit in one of the conference rooms that’s usually saved for uncomfortable pressers that no one really wants to have and lays out some “ground rules”.
Rule one, no homophobic slurs on his ice: Tim has been happily together with his partner, Jason, for ten years now and everyone on this ice was an adult and needed to start acting like one. Had a problem with that? Just fine, they were welcome to request a trade or spend their time being angry in the AHL, but not with Tim.
(Kent’s shoulders had released a fraction of the tension that had wound them stiff since he was 14 and knew what it felt like to kiss a boy.)
Rule two, while they were on the topic: no slurs period. Get more creative with your chirps or move the fuck on.
(Kent and Jeff both let out a bark of laugh at that, along with a few other guys on the team– Kent remembers the faces of the ones who don’t.)
Rule three, if they felt the need to punch the fucker that wanted to taunt them about their gay coach, for the love of god learn how to throw a punch first. And take one for that matter.
(Kent remembers days in the gym, late and bone tired, as Jeff would tell him again, again, c’mon Parser, keep your elbows in and your chin tucked until he was satisfied that Kent could throw a punch without breaking his hand. Taking a punch had been a whole other matter.)
With that, Tim dismisses them for the day. Tells them either to enjoy the cheat day, or if they felt bad about it, put in a couple of reps at the gym, but mostly gives them a day to adjust– and talk to their agents if need be.
He grabs Kent by the arm while he’s on his way out, and asks him if they can talk for a minute. Kent was fully intending to spend the afternoon kicking Jeff’s ass at NHL ‘10, but he nods Jeff ahead and settles in to a chair a little ways from the door.
“What can I help you with, Coach?” Kent asks, all easy smiles and bright blue eyes under the fluorescent lighting. He knows how he looks like here: easy to approach, charismatic and airheaded; he’s always known how to play his strengths.
Tim, for his part, just watches Kent with something like amusement in his eyes.
“I hear Kiney was particularly hard on you these past couple of months. Said some pretty nasty stuff to you in practice.” Tim says, catching Kent’s eye and trying to hold it.
Kent squirms in his seat, shifting his weight and rolling his shoulders.
“Kiney was bad on everyone.” He responds, looking away.
“But you and Jeff most of all.”
Kent shrugs. It’s no secret that Kiney had it out for them; they were both first-liners, but they hardly ever saw the ice, only when Kiney was well and truly desperate. And when they would inevitably lose because the Aces weren’t putting their best players out there, it was Kent and Jeff who would take the heat for it. There was no love lost between the two of them and their former coach, and anyone with half a brain could easily see why.
“We managed.”
Tim nods, as if considering something, before letting a small smile take over part of his face.
“Yeah, you really did.” He takes a deep breath, looking at something just past Kent’s left shoulder before turning his attention back to Kent. “That’s why we want to offer you the C, Parson.”
You raised your hand to your face as if
to hide it, the pink fingers gone gold as the light
streamed straight to the bone,
as if you were the small room closed in glass
with every speck of dust illuminated.
Kent thought double takes were something that just happened in the movies. On TV sometimes, even. Not something he himself would do in public ever .
And yet, here he was, probably making an idiot of himself, in the middle of meeting the new PR team members that the Aces had just hired, looking at probably the most attractive man he had ever seen in his life.
Jeff notices the staring and grins, shouldering Kent with a look on his face like get your shit together, man before stepping forward to introduce himself to their new head of social media. He’s blonde, which never has really been Kent’s type but, holy hell, if he isn’t re-evaluating that particular choice, with bright brown eyes and a fade cut that shows off his summer tan across the back of his neck. Freckles are scattered across the bridge of his nose, particularly highlighted against the soft blue of his shirt and corresponding bright blue tie.
“Hi, I’m Jeff, it’s nice to meet you, uh?” Jeff holds his hand out for a shake, charmingly pausing on the guy’s first name, towering over all five foot probably five of him.
“Eric, Eric Bittle.” Eric responds, taking Jeff’s hand firmly in his.
Jeff lets go and turns to include Kent in the conversation, swinging an arm around his shoulders and pulling him forward.
“And this is our illustrious captain, Kent Parson.” Jeff’s still smiling, partially at Kent’s obvious stunned expression and it takes a second for Kent’s mouth to catch up with his brain.
“H-hi, hey, hi,” he stumbles out, his hand shooting out in front of him, between him and Eric. Jeff stifles a laugh and waits for Eric to grab ahold of Kent, smiling somewhat at Kent’s awkwardness, before he subtly shoves Kent forward into Eric’s personal space.
Eric easily takes Kent’s weight, managing to balance him with a steadying hand on his arm and Kent is warm all over from where they’re touching. It must be plain as day on his face because the next thing out of Eric’s mouth is “let’s get some air” right before he steers them out the doors to the conference room and down the hallway to the nearest exit to the roof of the building.
Eric keeps a light hand on Kent’s arm the whole way, and once they’re outside he makes sure to find a place for Kent to sit.
“Sorry about that, hun, I know that going from air conditioning to Vegas summer heat isn’t ideal but,” Eric begins, starting to look nervous but Kent cuts him off.
“No, bro, you are to totally fine, I have one hundred percent, uh, acclimated, living here for so long.” Kent shrugs before nervously smiling at Eric. “Thanks for taking me out of there before I made an even bigger mess of myself though.”
Eric laughs. It’s a soft and charming thing, muffled sightly by the hand he covers it with. It makes Kent feel lighter somehow, makes the dry heat of Vegas easier on his lungs, makes it catch in his throat as Eric turns to him, eyes nothing but light, and smiles behind that hand.
“Lordy, Mr. Parson, if you think that was a mess, then working with you is going to be real easy.” Eric says, taking a seat next to him, closer than Kent might have expected. Their legs are flush and warm between dress pants and athletic shorts, burning in a way that has nothing to do with the temperature around them.
“I don’t know,” he says, turning to look at Eric, their shoulders almost brushing. “I’m not really known for being on my best behavior.”
He’s smiling now, the suave attitude he’s known for surfacing after a temporary setback of the hottest guy he’s ever seen in his life. He leans his weight back on his hands behind him, still pressed shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip with Eric, and looks up at Eric from under his lashes, coy and inviting all at once.
Eric’s breath catches– Kent can tell– and he takes a deep breath, his eyes fluttering closed. He pauses like that for a moment, just the two of them, there, on a rooftop in Vegas, almost strangers but not quite, and lets the moment simmer in the heat.
It could last a moment, or maybe even an hour, baking in the smothering heat of the city that wafts of the asphalt and makes magic fold itself in the air. There is something Kent’s fingers are dying to grasp at but isn’t quite ready yet, isn’t quite there . He closes his eyes, breathes in the scent of Eric’s cologne mixed with the smells of the city that reach them up here, and only opens them when he feels Eric stand up beside him.
Eric holds out his hand to Kent.
“Well, I suppose we’re just going to have to find out then, aren’t we, Mr. Parson?”
The light is no mystery,
the mystery is that there is something to keep the light
from passing through.