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Kent Parson hates Jeff Troy. Has hated him for years. He forgets why exactly. Years of games and ugly chirps layer on top of each other after so much time in the league. He’d been in Q too, a year ahead in the draft and burning through records left and right, and maybe that’s where it all started, but fuck knows. The thing is: Kent Parson hates Jeff Troy.
That’s why it’s so fucking annoying when the media team keeps pairing them together for promo shit when Troy gets traded to the Aces right before the deadline. They want a whole video series about how the Aces are welcoming Troy to Vegas and Kent, the face of the stupid franchise, is expected to be in all of them.
He tolerates the so-called art contest alright - he’s not a terrible doodler and Troy absolutely has no fucking clue what the fuck a spade looks like so he wins cleanly.
It’s the go-kart race that really gets his blood boiling when fucking Jeff Troy looks over at him on the starting line with a shit-eating grin and says, “You gonna give me a run for my money, Parson?”
Oh, Kent absolutely was. He won that race handily too.
It isn’t until the zipline that Kent runs into trouble.
“You scared of heights, Parser?” Gorby, fucking traitor that he is, catches Kent’s hesitation at the end of the high platform immediately.
“Shut up,” Kent says, all too aware of the cameras and microphones catching their every word.
Troy catches the scent of blood in the water immediately and joins Gorby.
“Aw, he is,” Troy says. “You want one of us to go with you, Parser?”
What Kent wants is to shove Troy, and maybe Gorby too, off the platform but instead he screws his face up and turns back to long zipline that he’s clipped to. It’s a really, really long way to the ground and Kent’s stomach twists when he makes the mistake of looking down.
“I can push you if you need a little help getting going,” Troy says, still teasing.
Kent rolls his eyes and without another second of looking over the edge, he steps off and his heart is instantly in his throat as he falls through the air, twisting helplessly around as he whizzes past trees and empty sky. His teammates whoop and holler as he dangles in the sky. The whole thing probably only takes like thirty seconds, but Kent’s panicking the whole time until Scrappy, waiting at the bottom, pulls him the rest of way, openly laughing at him.
“Fuck you,” Kent mumbles as he gets his feet under him.
Scrappy punches him on the arm and then ruffles his hair.
“You lived,” he says unapologetically.
Troy, fucking asshole that he is, starts his descent, twirling and laughing in the air and the guys cheer him on. When he lands on the next platform, he grins at Kent, his brown eyes bright with adrenaline.
“This is great,” he says and it’s so sincere that it turns Kent’s stomach for some reason.
He doesn’t respond, just slides his eyes away and lets Scrappy pick up the slack in the conversation.
Kent knows he’s being an asshole, but he just doesn’t care.
The absolute worst part is that Troy is damn good at hockey. He’s a speed demon on skates with long, lanky legs and sharp angles all the way down. He punches Cale Walker two weeks into his stint with the Aces after Walker lands a late hit on Kent. Kent just frowns and snaps at him to quit taking dumb penalties, but it rolls off Troy’s back like everything else fucking does.
Or so Kent thinks.
That night, at the divey bar a good distance from the Strip the team always seems to congregate at after a good win, Troy slides into the empty booth across from where Kent had been sitting contemplating his martini. Kent doesn’t scowl at him, but it’s a close thing.
“I’m signing an extension here as soon as we can settle on a number,” Troy says casually.
“And I care?” Kent drains his glass and makes to get up from the booth.
“Wait,” Troy says and Kent reluctantly lowers himself back into the booth. “Whatever it is that I did to you or that you think I did, can we just talk about it and get over it? If all goes to plan, I’d like to be here a while and being on a team where the Captain openly hates my guts isn’t my idea of fun.”
“I don’t hate your guts,” Kent says automatically even though he doesn’t mean it.
Troy gives him a doubtful look. His features are over-large for his face, his mouth wide and always grinning that cheshire cat smile of his and his nose huge and sharply hooked.
“You do a little bit,” Troy says. “I just can’t put my finger on why.”
Kent does scowl now.
“I went back through old games looking for when I knocked your teeth out or something, but I don’t think I ever have.”
“Maybe I just don’t like all the dumb fucking penalties you take.”
“Hmmm,” Troy says. He taps his chin as if to think, but it’s clearly mocking. “I don’t think you have a problem with Beamer and he’s been known to throw some punches.”
“What can I say?” Kent says. “Maybe it’s just your face.”
He swipes up his empty glass and leaves the table for real this time, but instead of sidling up to the bar to get another drink like he had originally planned, he dumps his glass on another table full of empties and heads straight out the door into the muggy night air of Las Vegas.
He knows he should go back and apologize. Smooth things over. He is usually good at that. Something about Troy just really gets his hackles up and the guy seems to enjoy it.
The Aces haven’t made it past the second round in the playoffs in five years, but this year they sail through their first two matchups and Troy’s addition to the blue line, physical and fast, is a huge factor. The guys in the room like him and most of them just politely ignore whatever weirdness there is between Troy and Kent, but Kent isn’t oblivious to the looks he sometimes gets when he snaps at Troy. He’s always prided himself on being a good Captain - it was something that a lot of people hadn’t thought he could do when he was given the C at barely 19, but he had thrown himself into it.
Kent doesn’t know why he can’t drop this stupid thing with Troy.
It was just something about the guy’s stupid face.
In the short breather between series, the media team grabs Kent to do a behind-the-scenes video about a day in his life during the playoffs and it’s mostly innocuous, just following him around and asking goofy questions in hopes of some good footage. Some poor person who draws the short straw that day will have to condense his entire boring day down to seven minutes. Kent pities the poor bastard.
Mid-morning after going over some tape with one of the assistants, Kent heads to the weight room. A few other teammates are already there, scattered on bikes and other machines. The only one by the free weights is Troy, of fucking course. Kent pops his neck in irritation but he throws a smile to the cameraman who is dutifully following him.
“Looks like I’ll have some company for my morning lifts, eh?” he asks with what he knows is a winning smile.
Troy looks up from where he’s just re-racked and waves at the camera before turning around to grab more plates. Kent thinks that’s the last of it and Troy will just leave him be with the cameras, but once Troy has the additional weight plates stacks, he looks over to Kent with a wicked grin.
“You gonna try to best me today, Parser?”
Kent hates when Troy calls him that.
“Like you could keep up,” Kent says even though he knows he’s full of shit.
Troy has easily five inches on him in height and his lanky frame hides a lot of muscle. Troy snorts at Kent and throws a look to the camera as if they’re all in on the joke.
Kent scowls at him.
“It’s okay, Parser,” Troy says as he re-shoulders the barbell. “Your strengths lie elsewhere. Literally.”
Kent throws a tight look at him but then grins at the camera.
“That’s Troy being bitter that I can smoke him at laps around the rink any day.”
Troy grunts as he squats and then lifts the barbell overhead.
Kent absolutely doesn’t notice how easy it looks for him.
They win the third round in five games with a fluky goal that careens off Kent’s stick onto Troy’s skate blade in the crease and into the goal with only two minutes to go in the third period. Troy crashes into him on the ice and nearly lifts Kent off his skates.
“Holy shit!” Troy yells over the roar of the crowd, furious that the visiting team was suddenly poised to win the series on their ice. Kent laughs, not quite believing it either. The game has been scoreless and grinding for nearly 60 straight minutes. The Aeros’ bench boss indicates that he wants the goal reviewed, but as Kent watches it replay on loop on the Jumbotron, he knows it’s a good goal. The buzz of the crowd seems to indicate that they do too and when the referee finally comes on the mic to confirm it, it’s as if he stuck a pin in a balloon as the air goes out of the arena.
Accepting the Campbell Bowl on the ice after the game is a blur of handshakes and grins and Kent isn’t sure how but eventually they all end up back on the plane home the next day, hungover but elated to have a few days rest before going into the first Stanley Cup Finals that the Aces have been to since they won in Kent’s rookie year.
They all part ways at the airport but it’s only half a day before they reconvene the party out at Gorby’s house, a huge estate that sprawls out across the quiet desert that surrounds Las Vegas. Kent sits out at the pool with the rest of the guys milling around him, some paddling in the water and others playing a particularly dangerous-looking game of cornhole.
When Troy sinks into the empty lounge chair beside him, Kent can’t help but throw him a dark look. Troy frowns back, but still settles in the chair. There’s a tense silence between them for a moment before he speaks.
“What’s your problem, man?” Troy says.
“I don’t have a problem.”
“You do. You’ve had one ever since I got here.”
Kent grunts, but doesn’t try to deny it again. Instead, he gets up from the lounge chair and walks inside. Troy trails behind him even as Kent climbs the stairs and the noise from their teammates’ partying fades away.
“I need to piss,” Kent says, irritable about being followed.
“Maybe I do too,” Troy says.
“There’s a bathroom downstairs.”
“Yeah, that Collins already puked in.”
Kent shuts the bathroom door on Troy with a frown, but he doesn’t actually need to piss. He just wanted a breather. He leans against the door for a minute before turning on the sink and washing his hands slowly and methodically, staring at himself in the mirror. He’s so tired and it’s not just the alcohol running through his system, but the grueling playoff schedule catching up with him. He’s always had trouble keeping weight on during playoff runs, but this year, he’s almost gaunt. His cheeks are hollowed and dark circles look like bruises under his eyes. He knows if he lifts his shirt up, there are plenty of actual bruises, including what might be a fractured rib on his left side. He’s trying not to think about until they’re on the other side of all this.
When he can’t put it off any longer, he turns off the sink and dries his hands before opening the door. Troy is leaning against the wall outside and raises his eyebrows at Kent as he comes out.
“Thought you needed to piss too,” Kent says when Troy makes no move to get to the bathroom.
“It’s because I used to flirt with Zimms in Juniors, isn’t it?” Troy asks out of nowhere. The words knock Kent sideways and he gapes at Troy. “We never actually hooked up, you know. I just liked getting him all bothered about it.”
Troy’s sharp, knowing smile tells Kent that he still enjoys getting people ‘bothered about it’.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kent says.
“C’mon, Parser,” Troy says, wheedling now. “Just tell me that it’s because I used to flirt with your boyfriend.”
“He wasn’t my boyfriend,” Kent says. He throws a glance down the hallway, but it’s empty as ever, all the guys still outside or passed out somewhere downstairs.
“Sure about that?”
“Pretty damn sure.”
Troy hums and pushes himself off the wall with a shrug.
“My mistake, then,” Troy says.
He turns to leave and Kent can’t explain why he does it, but he grabs Troy by the front of his shirt and lunges forward to kiss him hard on the mouth. Troy doesn’t react immediately, staying perfectly still where Kent has pulled him in. Kent slowly uncurls his hand, looking at it in horror as he realizes what he’s done.
“Fuck, I shouldn’t have done that.” Kent runs a hand through his hair and steps back only to crash against the wall.
Troy’s smile is sharp around the edges, but he doesn’t move away. He cocks his head to the side and purses his lips instead, stepping into Kent’s space and crowding him up against the wall. Kent feels a bubble of panic in his chest as he looks up at Troy.
“Why not?” Troy asks.
Kent makes a noise of disgust and pushes at Troy’s chest to force him backwards so he can leave.
“If you tell anyone —”
Kent doesn’t get to finish the threat, not that it had much weight anyways, because Troy pushes him back against the wall and kisses him forcefully. Both of his huge hands hold Kent’s face in place and his mouth is bruising against Kent’s. Troy breaks away with a small breathless laugh.
“I won’t tell,” Troy says. He’s grinning that stupid fucking grin of his again. “Will you?”
“This isn’t some stupid game,” Kent says lowly, careful not to raise his voice.
Troy finally leans back, giving Kent some space to move. He’s looking at Kent with calculating eyes that are almost black in the dark of the hallway instead of their usual warm brown.
“Who says I’m playing around?” Troy asks finally with a very deliberate casualness.
“Don’t —”
Troy kisses him again and for a second Kent freezes, intent on pushing him away, but his own traitorous hands come up to pull Troy closer instead, both of their lips turning soft and exploratory as Kent melts against the wall.
“We should go,” Troy whispers.
“Where?” Kent asks. His brain feels foggy with the feeling of being kissed. He can’t even remember the last time he had been. Had it been Jack in that awful frat house? Surely not, that had been years ago. He swallows and re-focuses on Troy who’s grinning down at him as if he knows how flustered Kent is. Kent straightens up and takes his hands off Troy with a scowl.
“My place, your place,” Troy says. “Some place that isn’t Gorby’s hallway.”
Kent blinks at him. He’d honestly forgotten that they were in Gorby’s hallway.
Troy frowns like he doesn’t like what he sees on Kent’s face.
“We don’t have to do anything,” he says. “If you’re not into it. We can just…fuck, I don’t know, pretend this didn’t happen? Go back to you hating me?”
Kent takes a moment to look at the shadows playing across Troy’s face. His face is softer in this lighting - less exaggerated somehow and more sincere than Kent’s ever seen it.
Maybe Kent doesn’t hate looking at him.
“Mine,” Kent says finally.
Troy looks surprised for a brief second, but the expression is tucked away so quickly, Kent thinks he might have imagined it.
“Okay,” he says.
They go out the front door. Everyone else is too drunk to notice they’re leaving.
“This doesn’t mean we’re friends now,” Kent says quietly as they lay together in his bed, naked and still dazed from orgasm. Troy snorts, but Kent continues, “You might as well stay though. It’s late.”
It isn’t really that late, but Troy doesn’t argue. His hand, warm but rough with callouses, sides over Kent’s bruised skin and Kent shudders before moving closer to press himself into Troy’s skin.
“Didn’t take you for a cuddler, Parser.”
“Shut up before I kick you out, asshole,” Kent says, turning his back to Troy. He feels Troy get out of bed and almost turns back to look to see if he really was leaving anyways, but Troy instead returns with a wet washcloth and gently prods at Kent until Kent collapses back onto his back and allows Troy to wipe his skin clean, careful to avoid pressing down on his ribs. Troy is surprisingly thorough before releasing Kent from his attentions.
“Were you just going to sleep like that?” Troy laughs lowly. His voice is quieter now, pitched low in the dark of the bedroom.
Kent grunts and Troy laughs at him again.
“Gross, Parser.”
“M’tired.” Kent buries his face in the pillow.
“Oh yeah, did I wear you out?” Troy asks.
“I will kick you out.”
“Yeah, right.”
Lifting the cup at 26 is miles different than lifting it at 19. At 19, Kent had been cock-sure and the Cup had felt inevitable. Now, at 26, lifting his second cup, he feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders as soon as he’s able to pass the Cup to Scrappy. Scrappy yells in his face as he takes it and Kent doesn’t understand a word of it, but he’s not sure if it’s because it’s in Russian or his eardrums are blown out. He gets enveloped in hugs as he re-joins the group.
Troy eventually gets an arm around him and presses in so close that Kent feels Troy’s words against his ear as he says them.
“You know this means next year you’re going to have to fuck me all playoffs, right?” Troy says, his voice private and close.
Kent elbows him hard enough to draw a surprised exhale from Troy.
“Who says you’ll even be here?” Kent yells to be heard over the crowd but there’s no edge to his voice. He’s too blissed out on the win and the energy of the arena around them. “I haven’t seen contract news yet.”
“I’ll be here,” Troy says, confident as always.
Before Kent can say anything, Gorby pops a bottle of champagne and sprays it directly on then both.
“Stop fucking around and join the fucking party, assholes.” Gorby throws an arm around both of them, pushing them apart so he can squeeze between them, the champagne bottle still dangling dangerously from his right hand. Kent grabs it and takes a generous gulp before passing it to Troy. Gorby looks on like a proud fucking parent or something. “Look at you two. Getting along. Sharing. It’s so beautiful.”
“Fuck off, Gorby,” Kent says.
“Who says we’re getting along?” Troy says. “Parser was just telling me his plan to run me out of the city actually.”
“ Parser ,” Gorby says, listing heavily onto Kent. “We’re keeping him. We decided without you.”
“Fuck both of you,” Kent amends and extracts himself from Gorby’s arm, thrusting him back into Troy and walking into the crowd.
“I can definitely make a better omelette than this,” Kent says as he stuffs the nearly burnt eggs into his mouth.
“Yeah, right,” Troy says from the kitchen counter where he’s leaned over his own plate, still standing.
“I can,” Kent insists. “I’m a good cook.”
“You are fucking not, Parser.” Troy nearly chokes he’s laughing so hard and he pounds the countertop with a closed fist. “I’ve had your so-called cooking. You’re delusional if you think that’s good.”
Kent makes an affronted sound and goes back to shoving his face. As soon as he isn’t hungover as all hell, he’s going to make Troy the best fucking omelette of his life and Troy will eat his words.
“They’re offering me $7 million over four years,” Troy says, apropos of nothing.
Kent nearly chokes on his eggs.
“I thought you hadn’t talked contracts yet,” Kent says.
Troy shrugs.
“There’s talking and then there’s talking.”
“They should give you more than seven.”
Troy’s mouth ticks into a smile and he pushes his plate away before standing upright and walking over to the kitchen bar where Kent is sitting. He leans his hip against the bar.
“Thought you were gonna run me out of the city?” he asks.
“Yeah, well.” Kent shrugs. “That was before the Cup.”
“Was it?” Troy says. His mouth is curled in satisfaction and Kent isn’t sure if he wants to punch him or kiss him.
Troy makes the decision for him by pushing Kent’s stool away from the bar and pulling him into a kiss. The angle is bad, but that doesn’t stop either of them from getting their hands on each other, their late breakfast already forgotten.
“How much do you think I’m worth then?” Troy asks when they pull back for air.
“Fuck you,” Kent says. He gets up from the bar and takes off his shirt, throwing it behind him before heading purposefully towards his bedroom.
Troy follows, grinning the whole way.